The Weaver of Dreams

By Sofie Magnus

Joanne Averath, a young foreign correspondent, is no “Average Jo”. She is realistic and pragmatic. Certainly not someone who believes in fairy tales. But one day, she meets an elderly woman she’s never seen before, someone who tells her an unbelievable story. Not only can she enter people’s dreams, she comes from another world, a world that can be reached through a portal. In fact, there are lots of other worlds and portals, each more fantastical than the last. Worlds that have inspired many of the fairy tales we know in our world. However, a group called the Watchmen don’t want people travelling through the portals – and now Joanne knows, that makes her a target.

Thrust into a world she has no idea how to navigate, Joanne is plunged into a maelstrom of experiences that starts in the jungle of Peru and ends somewhere she’d never imagined existed. Along the way, she makes new friends, like the charming Pablo Ferres who knows about the portals from having travelled through one as a child, and discovers new worlds that both scare and thrill her in equal measure. But when Joanne finds herself on a quest to save the mysterious General, who is being held captive by the Watchmen, she places herself in the middle of a battle for her life – and all of the worlds along with it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jan 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781800468382

Sofie Magnus

Sofie Magnus has always been a dreamer and has been making up stories her entire life. The Weaver of Dreams was first published in Denmark in 2015 and Sofie has worked to get it published in English since. Being able to share her book with the world is a dream come true.

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Original Danish title:

Drømmemageren

Danish original copyright © 2015 Sofie Magnus

English translation © 2021 Sinéad Quirke Køngerskov

Cover: Art by Aage

Editing: Anne Gillion

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 978 1800468 382

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Oliver – the light of my life

Contents

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1

It was just another day for me. I was walking around Baghdad with my backpack, which was packed—as always—with my trusty camera, a toothbrush and a bikini. Yeah, I know it sounds a little silly, but it was a habit I had acquired ever since a strike at an airport had left me stranded in a hotel for three days, with only my hand luggage. My suitcase had gone—probably sent to the wrong country or still stuck at the airport. Being a foreign correspondent can be chaotic at times so, as I could neither come nor go, I decided to use it to my advantage. I bought a bikini and parked myself by the hotel pool. They were the most relaxing days of my twenty-six-year life, and since then, the bikini has followed me wherever I’ve gone.

But now, I was back at work, wearing my usual jeans, with my bright blonde hair tied up in its customary ponytail, so that it was out of the way if I had to take pictures or find cover quickly.

It was early in the day; the little shops on the street were just opening, and the sun was already warming my bare arms and casting long shadows behind me. A group of children clad in school uniforms passed by me, so I had to step out onto the road to give them room on the pavement. They were laughing and talking loudly, and I was reminded of my niece and nephew, so I smiled at them, and giggling, they waved at me.

I walked around the narrow, labyrinthine streets for some time, letting my thoughts run free. I’d given up trying to find any logic in the fighting. I’d spoken to people on both sides of the conflict, and the stories were basically the same: they missed their families, and they mourned their nearest and dearest. What surprised me most was that the soldiers also mourned the loss of civilian life, even though they ought to be enemies. Who was it exactly who decided that we have to have enemies? It was obvious that these soldiers had not chosen this themselves. A picture of a crying US soldier with a wounded Iraqi boy in his arms popped into my head.

An ear-splitting noise tore me from my reverie as a bomb suddenly exploded just a few blocks away. The bang resounded in my ears, and soon the air was full of dust and screams. Instinctively, I ducked and put my arms over my head so I could look out from under them. Women and children were running in all directions, disappearing quickly. Soldiers appeared and disappeared again in the direction of the explosion. I knew I should run over there and start shooting pictures, but I remained where I was: squatting, close to a wall, my arms over my head, unable to explain what was holding me back. I’d never been scared of my work before, but now I was glued to the spot.

The abrupt shots of the machineguns echoed between the houses, and when a bullet ricocheted off the wall, near my head, I rushed forward, stumbling into a shop, and ended up lying sideways on the floor with my head by the counter. I gasped for breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. I kicked the door shut with a foot and edged my way forwards on my elbows, so I could hide behind the counter. I lay there, hugging my knees a little, and only when the sounds outside subsided did I lift my eyes and dare to look around. The shop was small. Dust particles danced in the sunbeams streaming in through the window, making the place surreal and dreamlike.

There were all sorts of cans and glass jars on the shelves. Boxes of washing powder next to what looked like lemonade bottles, and, in a corner, hung a leg of lamb and some sausages. Crocks with dried fruit, nuts and spices that emitted wonderful fragrances. There was also a shelf with books that looked as though they had been read by many people, and a variety of plants and herbs had been hung up to dry from the ceiling.

I noticed a movement diagonally behind me and I glanced towards the back room. There was a lady dressed all in black. She looked at me and smiled. She didn’t have many teeth left in her mouth, and those that remained were completely black, but she had nice eyes. To my great surprise, they were grey. Most people in Baghdad had really dark brown eyes. Almost black in fact. Her eyes were clear, smiling and grey as she beckoned me to her.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come.’

I stood up slowly and walked slightly bent over into the back room. I dared not stand up straight yet. Although the shots outside had almost stopped and were very distant now, it was like I was ducking from something completely different, something I couldn’t put my finger on. I’d forgotten about my duty to photograph the events out on the street and was standing completely absorbed in the shop’s back room, where the woman was making tea.

My gaze circulated around the diminutive space, which seemed to contain just as much as the shop itself, but what caught my eye and urged me further in were four long shelves that stretched all the way from one wall to the other, all filled with photographs. The woman noticed my curious look, but said nothing and left me staring. She turned her back to me and finished making the tea.

I was deeply impressed by the sight. At first, I thought they were pictures of her—in my prejudice—large extended family. But when I looked more closely at the content of the pictures, there was something that didn’t quite seem right. One of the pictures showed the woman standing with her arm around a small, dark-haired chap with round glasses and a fringe down to his eyes. He looked like Harry Potter. Not at all like the actor from the movie, but there was no doubt that it was him. He even had a little lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. It didn’t look like something from a school play either, and as far as I knew there hadn’t been a play. Mystified, I looked at the next photograph.

That one was even stranger. From my little knowledge of the woman, it looked as if she had stepped into the middle of a fashion shoot, where a very pretty—and very pale—young man was standing, looking so flabbergasted that his golden eyes were raised slightly. He was tall, his features were like chiselled marble and his copper-coloured hair was perfect. He was impeccably dressed, and even though the mysterious woman seemed slightly younger in this picture—she had more of her teeth—she was not much prettier than she was now, and it was obvious that her lipstick on his shirt collar wasn’t part of the shoot. In the background, a shy girl with dark hair and brown eyes was standing, looking at the odd couple.

I hadn’t noticed that the woman was now standing beside me, following my gaze.

‘Yes, not many would get away with kissing Edward Cullen. Not even on the shirt. Luckily, it was before Bella had transformed. Otherwise, I might not be alive today,’ she said in fluent English without the characteristic accent that flourished here, but with a dry, slightly hoarse and squeaky voice.

I think I must have stood there, staring at her with my mouth agape. Did she seriously believe that she had met the Edward Cullen? I recognised the name from my visit to my sister and brother-in-law’s in London that winter.

My nomadic way of life meant that I didn’t really have a place to call home, and often landed on their doorstep when I had any time off from work. My thirteen-year-old niece was entirely besotted with the Twilight saga, and she had told me a lot about the books, which she had read over—and over—again. There was this totally gorgeous vampire who had fallen in love with a completely ordinary schoolgirl, and there had been a whole lot of fuss in the small town, but eventually they had got married and had a child. Very romantic, but teenage fiction. I tried to picture the movie poster in my niece’s room. No, the man in the picture in front of me wasn’t the one from the poster. Just like it had not been the Harry Potter I’d remembered from the movies. What on earth was going on here?

The woman looked up at me and laughed, a sniggering laugh with her almost toothless grin. She reminded me of the witch from Snow White in the Disney cartoons. She wasn’t wearing a cloak, but a scarf, like many of the women in the country, and her grey hair stuck out a few places around her wrinkled cheeks.

‘I thought you’d think I was crazy,’ she croaked. ‘Come and sit down.’ The grey eyes twinkled in her wrinkled face. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you a long story. You won’t believe me, but I’ll tell you anyway.’

The woman returned to the tea and got a couple of cups ready.

I moved my attention back to the pictures on the shelves and noticed several oddities. Now that I knew it was about fictional characters, I tried to guess who the posing figures were supposed to be. She definitely had to be Little Red Riding Hood. That one must be Peter Pan, and I resisted the temptation to ask the woman about Captain Hook. I could feel a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth as I thought more and more about the insane task I had just given myself.

I recognised Frankenstein’s monster, the Snow Queen, some Hobbits, a lion with some kids that I guessed were from Narnia or perhaps the Brothers Lionheart. There were more I didn’t know, because there are so many children’s adventures, and there really were a lot of photographs. The woman eventually tugged my sleeve and led me over to the little table where she had set the tea.

I sipped my tea while I looked at the old woman across from me.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

She smiled her slightly scary smile but didn’t answer immediately. She looked at me with her grey eyes, which were still making me wonder as was her almost perfect English. Finally, her squeaky voice filled the quiet room: ‘My name is not important. You can call me Fatima. I always thought I’d write this story myself, but they’ve found me, so I have to tell you instead. I’ve chosen you because you’re made of the right stuff. Remember that.’

I smiled at her. The woman was raving mad. But she didn’t seem dangerous, and I’d found myself in worse situations before than drinking tea with an oddball. My next thought was that this could be fun. What kind of delusions did she have that they had resulted in these photos?

Her smile disappeared, exactly proportional to the arrival of mine. She stared angrily at me: ‘You have to understand that this is serious,’ she almost hissed.

I put my smile away and tried to look serious. I pulled a small notepad out of my backpack, which I’d put on the chair next to me. While I was rummaging in a pocket for a pen, the woman across the table reached towards me, took the notepad and waved it in front of her.

‘Put that away. You can’t take notes. What you don’t remember, will be lost.’

I stared at her. First, she wanted me to take her seriously, and then I was just to pretend. Now she was smiling again.

‘I can see you don’t understand. Good. I’ll make a deal with you. Today, I’ll tell you briefly what my story is about, and you come back tomorrow, and then I’ll elaborate on some of it. All right?’

I nodded dumbly. What in the name of Flaming Nora was this woman up to? I put the notepad away and leaned back into the chair with my teacup in both hands.

‘So tell me,’ I said boldly.

The woman leaned back, too.

‘I don’t come from this world,’ she began. ‘I can’t tell you the name of my country or my family. I’ve chosen to live in exile to protect those I love most. But let me tell you my story from the beginning. The story is hard enough to understand as it is.’

The woman sipped her tea and continued: ‘I was an adventurer like you. I wanted to experience something. Wanted to share what happened in places other than where I came from. Oh, I was very young when I set out. Even as a child I’d had a longing to see how others lived, and what gave them pleasure. My mother had probably long grown tired of my curiosity, for she had no objections when I proclaimed that I wanted to leave home.’

I moved uneasily in the chair. When would she tell this amazing secret that wasn’t to be written down on paper? A sigh escaped my lips, and the woman pursed her lips disapprovingly.

‘You have to hear all of it in order if you are to understand the story,’ she said curtly.

‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand,’ I lied, trying to arrange my face into an expression of patience, which was an art form I certainly hadn’t developed.

‘Well …’ continued the woman, her mouth still distorted and skewed like a petulant child’s. ‘I’d read a lot of books about my own world, but I knew there had to be more. That couldn’t be all that life had to offer, so I packed a bag with the necessities and set off. I hadn’t got far before I got a lift from an old man in horse-drawn carriage. He was going to the market to sell his corn. It may sound old-fashioned, but that’s my world.’

That didn’t surprise me at all. The woman had to be a thousand years old, and we were in Baghdad—most transport was by means of donkeys or old mopeds. It was a long way from London. Evidently satisfied with my silence, she continued: ‘I’m curious by nature and asked the old man a barrage of questions, almost even before I’d got into the wagon. He was surprised, but was able to answer a good deal more than my mother ever had. It ended up being a long afternoon because I’d had no specific goal, and the old man shared with me more knowledge than any book had managed to in my young life; so, I stuck tight to him and followed him to where he was going. We sold his corn at market and went into the shops to buy things that he needed.

‘He had travelled all over our world and farther than I could imagine. I asked and asked, and for a long time the man only answered my inquisitorial behaviour with a little indulgent smile, like you tend to do with eager children. Then I asked him what existed outside of our world, and he suddenly became very serious—What do you know about other worlds? he asked. I looked at him with my young, ignorant eyes and said: Tell me everything you know. The man looked around frantically in the twilight, pulling me over to his carriage. I’ll take you home now, was all he said.

‘But, of course, I wouldn’t go home, so I started kicking him and tried to pull my arm free of his grip. Listen, child. The world outside is not for little girls. It is harsh and dangerous. It is not a place for you, he said. I wouldn’t hear of it, and I screamed at him to let me go. People began staring at us, and finally he let go. To this day, I don’t know why he changed his mind. In any case, he sighed deeply and said: Well, come along then.’

My tea had gone cold and was standing untouched on the table because I had become interested in the little adventure that the woman in front of me had begun telling me. I could easily imagine this little, curious girl—because I saw myself in the woman’s story, and even though I hadn’t met any old men in horse-drawn carriages as a child, the desire to get out and see the world was the same. I also recognised the feeling of irritating your mother with questions and always struggling to find the answers yourself. The woman met my gaze and smiled without exposing her black teeth. Her gaze was warm and welcoming. She understood.

‘The old man took me to a forest. It was dark and I was hungry, but I wasn’t afraid. I was excited. I could sense that something significant was about to happen. We stopped in a clearing to eat, but the man had stopped talking, and I could feel that I shouldn’t push him anymore. When we were finished, he said quietly: I discovered this entrance by accident, and I’ve never told anyone else about it. I was like you once. Curious and full of life. I’ve often used the entrance to experience something other than the life we know here. But it’s dangerous there; I’m only going to show you a little bit. Then you must promise me that you’ll return to your family and live your life in this country.’

Now the woman laughed a little maliciously, her mouth open-wide, so I could see her terrible teeth, but when she looked at me again, her eyes were still warm, and her cheeks had taken on a rosy glow. I could imagine that maybe she had been pretty once. I began to reconcile myself to the fact that she probably did have a completely ordinary name like Fatima.

‘Naturally, I promised solemnly that I’d never go there again, but I crossed my fingers behind my back, because I knew I’d do it anyway. It was the most exciting thing I’d ever heard of, and I couldn’t wait to go there. The man pulled away some bushes that were standing around a huge oak tree. I couldn’t see all the way up to the treetop, and it would take a large family to reach all the way around the trunk. There was a large hollow at the tree’s roots, and it would’ve been possible for an adult to get through simply by bending over a little. I’m not that tall, and back then I could walk through it upright. Later, I named it The Portal.

‘As you can imagine, it didn’t look like a portal in that sense, but it was a gateway to another world. A completely different world. A completely different life. A completely different time. The space under the tree’s roots was larger, and I almost felt as if I was in another forest, because smaller roots formed a labyrinth-like path, which the man navigated us through.

‘After a while, the man turned and I followed silently behind him. I only noticed that I’d been holding my breath after we’d come through some other bushes and were standing in broad daylight in a meadow by a waterfall. I asked the man where night had gone, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and kept going into the meadow. The grass was high, and I struggled to keep up without stumbling. This isn’t dangerous, I said breathlessly when the man finally stood still for a moment. He spun around and looked grimly at me: You don’t know what strange creatures are hidden here, he almost shouted at me. I must have looked frightened, because he cleared his throat and looked at me with a milder glance. Listen, little girl … This is a completely different world to the one you know. Come on, we’ll go back to the carriage and I promise I’ll tell you more about this place.’

The old woman laughed her cackling laugh again and I almost wanted to reach across the table and shake her so she would tell me the story without pausing. She must have sensed my impatience, for she immediately continued: ‘When we came back to the carriage, I wasn’t tired at all. I was too anxious to hear more about the world we’d just come from. It’d been bright and green and full of flowers. There couldn’t possibly be anything dangerous there, but the man’s facial expression made it yet clear to me that there was a good story to come. Now we’ve come to the part where you will question my sanity.’

2

Fatima looked at me fixedly. I did what I could so as not to smile, and met her gaze. She didn’t need to know that I had been doubting her sanity since the moment I saw her photographs here in the back room. She got up and got a couple of lemonades. I wasn’t so crazy about the sugary-stuff, but this was a real child’s birthday party with a fairy tale, so why not just go along with it. A smile escaped my strict control, and I glanced up, but Fatima just smiled back and sat down across from me again

‘The old man told me the fairy tale you know as Snow White. He had experienced the story first-hand. He’d gone to a land full of meadows and waterfalls; an evil queen ruled there, and he’d helped in the fight against her. Just think, he fought on Snow White’s side. At that time, I’d never heard such stories, and I couldn’t wait to experience it for myself.’ Fatima interrupted herself and grimaced sullenly again.

‘I know it sounds completely crazy,’ she said. ‘But imagine a young girl, who has never heard a fairy tale before, being served a first-hand story about a battle between good and evil.’

I had a pretty hard time trying to imagine a girl of twelve or fourteen who had never heard a fairy tale. My childhood had been full of tales about dragons and princes, witches and trolls. My sister had believed all that nonsense, but my grasp on reality had been slightly greater. I suppose that was also why I’d become a journalist. Truth, truth, truth.

The old woman sighed, as if she could read my mind, and said: ‘I know you feel more at home in this common reality here. That’s why I chose you. Because this is my reality and you must share it with others.’

I shrugged. What was I supposed to say to her? That she suffered from delusions and should be hospitalised? It was my experience that crazy people did not exactly become more amenable when threatened with hospitalisation.

I looked at her as seriously as I could and asked her to continue the story. It seemed most logical to stay here, chatting with her until I could get out of the shop and to a safe distance. Fatima looked at me, persistent, with her brow furrowed, as if she suspected me of … well, of doing exactly what I was doing: paying her lip service. Fortunately, she seemed to be convinced by my innocent expression and continued to tell her story, while I silently exhaled and relaxed my shoulders. Four years’ experience of finding myself in war-torn areas had evidently paved the way for half-crazy old women who believed fairy tales were real.

‘The version of Snow White, which the man told me, was obviously not the same as the latest cinema version or the Disney version that you no doubt heard when you were a child. But the main elements are as they have been for the last hundred years in your world. It’s partly my fault that the story has spread so much, but we’ll get to that. As a young girl, I’d become fascinated with the man’s story and wanted to experience it for myself. So, when he fell asleep, I sneaked through the portal again. I made my way through the root’s labyrinth from what I’d remembered of the way the man had gone.

‘After a while, I came to an opening just like the one that the man and I’d gone through earlier, but when I went through it, it wasn’t the same place. The colours were quite different, and there was no meadow. It was foggy, and the ground was soft, with shiny grey-blue and pink hues. I walked on for a while, but the landscape didn’t change, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find my way back if I went too far. I sat down to rest before going back, and thought of the fairy tale the old man had told me. As there was still no change in the unusual landscape, I set off back towards the tree. After the disappointing experience, I tried to find the right door in the maze and quickly came upon a glowing green exit. There was a meadow there, but it still wasn’t the right place.’

I suppressed a yawn and tried to continue to look interested. What a load of nonsense. She believed that I was going to tell this story to other people? She obviously hadn’t known any journalists particularly well. Fatima looked at me.

‘I see you’ve lost interest, so I’ll be brief. You can come back tomorrow and ask questions.’

It was the best thing I’d heard all day, and I immediately felt more energised. As soon as I got the chance, I was getting miles away from this crazy woman.

‘A large part of the fairy tales that you know really happened somewhere else. They’re experiences I’ve been told or experienced for myself. I noticed that you recognised some of the people I’ve been photographed with. Tell me what you want to know about one of them.’

‘Listen, Fatima …’ I began. ‘Maybe we should just call it a day, and I can ask you questions tomorrow like we agreed.’ Fatima frowned again, and I fought hard to look innocent.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘But let me just add one last thing. I seek out people in dreams and tell them these stories. Sometimes I’ve only given small details and got wonderful fairy tales in return. You people have a wonderful gift, and I’ve really liked sharing my adventures with you.’ I glared at her. Would she ever shut up?

‘Why stop?’ I asked, cursing myself at once for adding more fuel to the chat-fire.

‘I’ve been discovered. I’m not allowed to tell these stories. No one must know that such places exist. The more stories I’ve told people in your world, the greater the risk that they’ll find the portal one day. People don’t have a good reputation with them. I’ve been hiding for a while, but I’m not thriving here and I’ll try to find a way home—or perhaps find a fairy tale to end it all with. I had to talk to you. I would have been discovered if I’d entered your dreams.’

I really didn’t like the idea of my dreams being invaded by anyone, and certainly not this woman. I closed my backpack and stood up stiffly after sitting in the uncomfortable chair for so long. Fatima grabbed me by the arm and got up. She was much smaller than me, but her penetrating facial expression and crooked fingers frightened me.

 ‘Listen, Joanne. This is important. It’ll help you tell my story. You’re not the average person.’ I nodded, pulling my arm free.

‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’

I forced myself to walk out the door and down the street at my normal pace. Only when I turned the street corner and was out of sight of the shop’s windows, did I rush off blindly as fast as my legs could carry me until my lungs hurt and my legs were heavy from being overworked. Maybe I needed to think about doing some exercise? I leaned against a wall, resting my hands on my knees as I tried to get my breath back. I waited until the whistling sound had left my breath before I hailed a taxi and headed back to my small, lousy room, which I had rented from the owner of the restaurant downstairs.

After a long shower, I made myself a cup of instant coffee and pulled a chair up to the window, and while I was watching the sun go down behind the high-rise buildings, I thought of my day in the strange woman’s company. There was no doubt that she was mad.

She was convinced she had invented Snow White and who knows how many other fairy tales. I thought of the pictures in the back room. I wondered how she had taken all those pictures. She hadn’t struck me as a computer geek who manipulated photos in her spare time. I went through a short version of her tale in my head. Remembered how she looked when she told me about her homeland, and her pink cheeks that testified to her humanity under the brittle surface. Of course, she hadn’t invented all sorts of fairy tales. It couldn’t be done.

‘I seek out people in dreams,’ I said out loud with a shrill voice, making fun of the crazy woman and hoping it would ease some of the anxiety that I hadn’t been able to shake off. It was as if there was something I had forgotten.

Such nonsense.

‘Listen, Joanne,’ I cackled on and immediately felt ice cold all over. That was what I had forgotten. I hadn’t told her my name. How had she known? And she had said that I was not the average person. Was it a coincidence, or did she somehow know that I hated that word? Who was she? And why did she believe she had any influence over the good stories?

I took out my laptop and searched for information about Harry Potter’s origins. The author J. K. Rowling had got the idea for the book during a train ride, where she saw a scene like in a dream or daydream, it said. That stopped me in my tracks. A dream! I started a new search on Twilight. The author Stephenie Meyer had got the idea for the book from something she had dreamed. Now I was seriously panicking. I closed the computer without logging off and stood up. I paced back and forth in my little room, while the thoughts whirled in my head. I stopped when I saw myself in the mirror next to the window. I was pale and my eyes were large. And I had been biting my nails. With a disapproving expression, I removed my fingers from my mouth and went back to the computer.

My fingers danced across the keyboard while I tried to find material about the origins of various fairy tales and adventure stories: Snow White, Red Riding Hood, the Brothers Lionheart, Narnia and all sorts of others that the pictures in the back room might have come from. There wasn’t much to go on. Most of the really old tales were of unknown origin, or else there was no mention of how the writer had found inspiration for their story. I researched long into the night, only interrupted by a quick trip down the stairs for a kebab—or gauss—with my landlord. We exchanged a few polite phrases in English, before I slipped back upstairs. Nothing. I found absolutely nothing that could either underpin or undermine the strange woman’s claim. Nothing that could explain how these stories had been created and how she had known my name. Eventually, I fell into bed, exhausted.

I woke up as a sunbeam was creeping in through the shutters and poking me in the face. I blinked sleepily and smacked my lips a little while I scratched my head. Then I came to think of the events in the little shop the day before. Suddenly, I was wide awake. I was fully aware that it really had happened. It was by no means a dream, and I hadn’t found anything to quash the strange woman’s story. I could feel the panic starting to spread itself again. I stared angrily at my reflection in the mirror on the wall, and commanded myself to pull myself together. Out in the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and tried to think rationally. There had to be a logical explanation somewhere.

I sat down at the computer and researched further, though still with no result. I cursed myself because I hadn’t had the presence of mind to notice the name of the shop as I’d fled from there at a gallop. I would have to go back. I simply had to have an explanation from the old woman in the shop. I stood up decisively, quickly packed my trusty backpack and put on my usual work clothes. I pulled my hair up into a ponytail as I ran down the stairs, and once out on the road, I waved to my landlord who looked at me, surprised. Normally, I couldn’t overtake a tortoise before my morning coffee, so maybe my little jump over the low fence in front of the restaurant was a tad exaggerated, but I couldn’t resist. Without my realising it, the last few months had perhaps become too monotonous for me. This story had given me wings.

I hailed a taxi and found the street I had been on the day before. First, I walked along the middle of the street, trying to see both sides of the road at once. I think I have mentioned my lack of patience before. Then I tried walking on the pavement and looking in through the windows as I passed the shops. But all without finding the peculiar business with the mysterious woman who may or may not have been called Fatima. Bugger.

Was I even on the right street? I started over from one end of the street, but had actually already stopped paying attention to what I was looking for.

My brain was working hard, trying to find a logical explanation for it all: the photographs, the strange lady, the books that had begun in dreams, how she had known my name, and everything else that forced its way in there. And where the hell had the shop gone? I saw my reflection in a shop window. The big-eyed nail-biter had returned, which certainly didn’t enhance my already dull exterior. Grumbling, I put my hand down, and stamped the ground.

‘Argh, the stupid shop! It’s just too much!’ I yelled, kicking out angrily at a piece of paper on the pavement in front of me. The paper didn’t budge an inch. Rubbish.

I leaned forward and stuck out my tongue at the paper—oh, so mature—when I realised that it was a photograph. I bent down and picked it up, and a shiver suddenly ran through me. It was one of the pictures from the back room. I hadn’t paid enough attention the day before, because I had been so engrossed in guessing which book it was from, but I knew it had been on the shelf among the more recognisable fairy-tale characters. Fatima was standing with some small, black-haired boys, smiling. One of the boys was pointing to something dark in the background wilderness. I scrutinised the photo, so that my nose was almost touching it, but I couldn’t make out what he was pointing at. I studied the photo some more, though without finding anything useful in it. I tried to come up with an explanation again, as my eyes looked around the street, searching for the shop. I was sure I was near it now. So, where the hell had that damn grocery shop gone?

I fanned the photograph while I walked thoughtfully around in a circle, letting my eyes scan the area for more clues. Nothing. With renewed energy, I walked down the pavement once again as I searched for a shop that could be Fatima’s little shop, but now selling different goods—to hide any association to a raving woman’s business. Twice—one on each side of the road—I went fully into a shop to make sure that it wasn’t the same place that I had found myself in the day before. They weren’t.