The Draper Catalogue

By Brian d'Eon

Quite by accident she thinks, Henrietta Draper (Hattie) finds herself standing on the surface of a distant planet orbiting the star HD10307 in the constellation Andromeda. Bad enough . . . but it seems the planet's inhabitants expect her, somehow, to "save the universe."

It's not all bad, of course; the landscape is tropical and pleasant and Hattie meets half a dozen quirky sentient species, all of whom seem able to speak English (one of many mysteries Hattie vows to solve.) All is not well on Entallay. Everywhere there is talk of the approaching "darkness" and Hattie has no idea how or when she'll return home.

 

The Draper Catalogue: a new adult fantasy/scifi adventure which poses some serious philosophical questions about truth and reality. 86000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Home Star Press
• Release date: Nov 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215443330

Brian d'Eon

Brian lives in the little Shangri-la of Nelson, British Columbia. Here the stars still shine brightly at night and the Milky Way is no stranger. Brian's writing has been forged largely in the fires of live theatre where, over the years, he has participated as an actor, writer and director. In recent years he has turned his attention mainly to fiction (often of the speculative variety). His novel Big Ledge, and his novellas Eta Carinae and Echoes are available from online distributors.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: Night Watch

Henrietta Draper (Hattie ) paused to wipe her glasses. You’d think for someone twenty-one years old, and a swimmer, bending over a telescope’s eyepiece would be no big deal, but it was an unnatural posture. It didn’t help being almost six feet tall. Her long dark hair—now matted and sweaty after several hours of observing—kept falling over the telescope lens. It was highly annoying.

How much longer do I have to do this, Ambrose? My back’s killing me.

Hattie’s light blouse and skirt had seemed perfectly appropriate at first, but now, with the sun long gone, she could feel goosebumps on her arms. Ambrose’s explanation about why she needed to look at these particular stars just didn’t cut it. Hattie was convinced this wasn’t the first time she had looked at them—so why did she need to do it again? Growling faintly, Hattie turned her head away from the telescope’s eyepiece. Her green eyes flashed in the dark. "You want a turn?"

I am a mere scribe, Hattie.

Ha! Hattie thought, a mere scribe—she couldn’t imagine a more inaccurate description of the young boy who sat behind her. A few hours before, when it was still dusk, Hattie remembered shaking her head as she studied Ambrose’s outfit—could you even call it an outfit? It had changed little since the first time they met: gum boots, canvass shorts, a broad-rimmed sunhat, and a long-sleeved striped shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Some days, Hattie even found him wearing gardening gloves. And once she had caught him pruning a rose bush. Topping it all off was his shocking thick red hair which matched nothing in his wardrobe.

Hattie, Ambrose continued, "It must be you who does the observing. You’ll soon understand why."

Their first night together had been much more interesting. Archaeology had always been Hattie’s thing and generally, her focus was set on objects buried in the ground, but a chance encounter that night with young Ambrose changed everything. He invited her to look through his telescope. Jupiter and its moons were just about to set behind a mountain ridge—it was spectacular, looking through Ambrose’s telescope and watching them wink out behind the silhouettes of distant hemlock trees. She returned a week later to watch the comet Shoemaker-Levy blast into Jupiter’s cloud belts. That was pretty cool.

But now? Looking at binaries, variable stars? Even her first-year linguistics lectures—delivered by a wrinkly, old man who never looked up from his notes—were more interesting.

How are you holding up, Hattie? There was no hint of sympathy in the question. It was simply informational as if the answer were destined for some database.

"I’m fine." This was one of a great number of socially acceptable lies Hattie had reluctantly learned to live with.

What was it with Ambrose? He had the demeanour of a tenured professor though, in fact, he looked no more than twelve years old. Annoyingly, he didn’t even look up from his notebook when he spoke. With the aid of his small red flashlight, he continued scribbling madly as if Hattie’s time at the telescope was of some cosmic importance. Ambrose sipped from his mug of hot chocolate between scribbles.

Finally, he closed his notebook and walked over to his scope. He quickly and confidently slued it to a new point in the sky. Last star for tonight, he said. He stepped back and invited Hattie to resume her task. Good old HD 10307. The smugness in his voice was extremely aggravating. You’ve seen it before.

You don’t say?

Ambrose sat back in his lawn chair and sipped from his mug—slurped more than sipped. Hattie? Do you remember our conversation the other night? About whether there were other intelligences in the universe, and whether it would make any difference if there were?

The star Hattie was looking at was white, twinkling, solitary, nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, I remember.

And you insisted that it would make a tremendous difference—just to know—in spite of the fact that the speed of light would prohibit any meaningful contact. That, in fact, you would be willing to wait eight years to receive a reply from Alpha Centauri, if necessary.

Still keeping her eye glued to the eyepiece, Hattie raised her hands in exasperation. What was it with all this cross-examination? "The conversation is fresh in my memory, Ambrose. And, by the way, make sure you leave me some of that hot chocolate."

And you still feel the same way?

Why wouldn’t I? Through the dark, Hattie could feel Ambrose thinking and hear his final slurp.

Sorry, that seems to be it for the hot chocolate. I could make some more.

Hattie snorted faintly. Are we almost done here?

Not much longer.

Is HD—whatever it is—supposed to look different tonight for some reason?

You never know. There it was again—that annoying smugness.

However boring and repetitive it might be, Hattie was never one to leave a job undone. With the finishing line almost in sight, she whispered to herself: Starlight, star bright, final star I see tonight, and then cried out, Oh, my God! and began to fall a very long way.

CHAPTER 2: Where Am I?

Hattie felt as if she had just slipped on ice, caught in that frozen-in-time moment in mid-air. Now, just as then, she felt herself suspended in a medium she knew was not hers but long enough to be certain what would happen next.

Hattie grunted as she struck the ground, landing on her back. How in hell had she managed to fall while looking through a telescope? For some seconds, she couldn’t catch her breath.

A child’s voice called out, speaking gibberish.

Hattie shook her head as if trying to shake water from her ears.

The voice spoke a second time: Oh my gosh! There she is! Lord Kintu was right!

Hattie did a quick self-inventory: limbs still in one piece—that was reassuring—but her head. . . Is this what her mom’s migraines felt like?

Are you all right?

There was that voice again. Ambrose had a friend? How likely was that?

"Now you’ve done it!" another voice called out.

Great, thought Hattie, now there was a third person to witness her indignity. She turned on her side, one eye open, the other closed. She was staring at two young girls, strangely dressed. They were illuminated by a full moon high overhead. But a moment ago, there had been no moon. Where’s Ambrose?

Both girls giggled, covering their mouths. One of them managed to blurt out, Who?

Hattie sat up, and began to wipe off her skirt, which she expected to be covered with grass clippings. It was not. Ambrose Messier.

Another bout of laughing, shorter. The girl on Hattie’s right, younger even than Ambrose, walked slowly towards her. I’m so sorry. She halted and waved her friend over. Eyes bright, she continued, My name’s Totha, and this is my best friend, Nemmi.

Now that the two young girls were closer, Hattie could see that both wore dresses, flounced, somewhat reminiscent of those worn by the so-called Minoan princesses in the frescoes at Knossos. Their hairstyles were identical and plain, almost military. Totha was the taller of the two and held what looked like an antique telescope in her hand, a collapsible kind. She held it somewhat tentatively, Hattie thought.

Nemmi, who was both darker in complexion and tone, spoke next. We never thought it would actually work.

Totha picked up the story: Nemmi kept saying, ‘You just never know’, and she was right! Sometimes, the stories are actually true!

Nemmi gave her friend a little kick, then took another step closer to Hattie. "What Totha means is that you’re . . . unexpected."

"You can say that again!"

Hattie had to laugh. Hands down, this was the most elaborate dream she had ever had, complete with detailed allusions to Minoan culture—or maybe that little rascal, Ambrose, had slipped something into her hot drink—some time-released potion that only now was doing its work. She wouldn’t put it past him.

No one seemed to know what to say next, till finally, Hattie could hear her mother’s voice reminding her—no matter what the circumstance—always to make a good first impression. Speaking with exaggerated clarity, Hattie introduced herself.

More giggles followed as the girls—with only partial success— tried to reproduce the sounds. Hattie smiled.

Attie?

Hattie.

Nemmi was insistent. "That’s what we said—Attie."

To Hattie’s astonishment, she noticed that Nemmi’s eyes—Totha’s too—were faintly glowing with a soft blue luminescence. This only added to Hattie’s conviction that she was in the middle of some magnificent hallucination. Oh—and an interesting development—her headache, much to her surprise, had now completely disappeared. In fact, Hattie felt uncommonly refreshed. She inhaled deeply, savouring the sensation.

The young girls held hands. Again, Totha spoke: Of course, the truth is—no matter how it happened—we’re absolutely thrilled you’re here! Aren’t we, Nemmi?

I suppose.

Reconciled with being Attie in this quite entertaining alternate reality, Hattie rose to her feet and looked around her. This was not Ambrose’s backyard. "Where is here?"

Totha laughed. "Why here’s here, silly."

Nemmi frowned. Where else would you expect it to be?

Just go with the flow, Hattie said to herself, imagining that very soon she would be waking up on Ambrose’s lawn chair, slightly disoriented. Dumb question. Sorry.

"And the best thing! Totha added. She squeezed Nemmi’s hand. Now you can help us find our widgel!"

Excuse me?

Our goat!

What was that word you first said?

Both girls looked at each other. Goat? Totha offered.

"That’s not what you said."

Nemmi continued, "You do know what a goat is?"

Totha stomped her bare foot on the ground and narrowed her eyes. Please help us get him back!

Please! Nemmi pleaded, her eyes suddenly glowing brighter. You’re our last hope!

Their last hope? So, what did this make Hattie? Luke Skywalker?

CHAPTER 3: Lucid Dream

Hattie had begun walking at ten months and had hardly stopped since. It was her default mode, and therefore entirely natural that she follow her two young companions—figments of her imagination though they might be—as they slowly meandered through this hilly, moonlit landscape.

The illusion was breathtaking. Every few seconds, she could hear a kind of bleating or braying—half goat, half donkey, maybe a touch of crow. Mixed in with this was the distant tinkle of bells. The sounds seemed to come from random directions. Sometimes, Hattie would catch glimpses of moonlight reflected off the coats of these apparently numerous, yet elusive, creatures.

Is that your goat?

Where?

Hattie pointed.

No! both girls would answer together.

But how do you know?

Again, the girls giggled.

They continued wandering through the hills, slowly descending. Hattie began to hear a faint whooshing.

Skipping as she spoke, Totha turned her head: It’s so wonderful you’re here to help us, Attie. Otherwise . . .

Nemmi quickly shushed her friend, then turned back to Hattie. You’re sure you have no bruises? Nothing broken? Because one would almost expect that sort of thing.

On the contrary, Hattie explained. If anything, she felt a certain lightness in her step.

Nemmi spoke again—to her friend this time. "I know what it is; she thinks it’s all just a dream." The girls exchanged whispers. Then, spotting a nearby rock, they sat on it. With arms crossed, they motioned for Hattie to sit on a rock opposite.

Totha began: We’ve decided you may ask us questions.

Hattie played along—why wouldn’t she? It really doesn’t matter, does it?

What doesn’t?

What I ask or what you answer.

"Because, Nemmi explained to her friend, she thinks this is just a dream."

Giddiness crept into Hattie’s voice. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not talking about an every-day run-of-the-mill dream.

Again, the girls broke into laughter. It was as though the whole concept of idioms was foreign to them. Hattie continued: "Wait a sec; I remember now—it’s called lucid dreaming."

The term seemed to mean nothing to the girls.

Patricia, my first-year roommate, she was into that kind of stuff. You know, Carlos Castaneda and all that.

Slowly, Totha nodded her head, repeating the words: Lucid dreaming . . .

It’s a kind of dreaming much more intense than usual, where everything seems almost super-real. Hattie leaned forward, growing more relaxed and daring to smile—why not be friendly with her imaginary friends? "And the great kicker is: a lucid dreamer can learn to control her dreams."

Totha frowned. How do you mean?

Hattie should have paid more attention—too late to ask Patricia now. For example . . . I could say I want there to be a door. . . . Hattie looked to her right. Right over there. Moonlight filled a gap between two nearby hills. A door with two Ionian columns.

Out of pure curiosity it seemed, Totha asked, Why don’t you then?

What?

Wish for a door with your two . . .

Ionian columns.

Totha nodded. She retrieved the telescope from her bag and aimed it at the spot in question.

Hattie squeezed shut her eyes and concentrated, imagining the door. But maybe this was the wrong technique. Maybe what was needed was the opposite: total relaxation and just letting things unfold—Desiderata and all that.

Hattie opened her eyes. "A person can’t just do it—on the first try—it takes practice. The two girls continued to stare. Just because I can’t make a door appear doesn’t mean I’m not in the middle of a lucid dream."

But maybe a door was too ordinary. Maybe she needed to invest more into the vision. What if she were to imagine Hugh Grant walking towards her? But no, she could do better than that—Socrates! Let Socrates, complete with toga and cup of hemlock, be walking over that grassy hummock. Make it so! Or, thought Hattie, her enthusiasm rising, perhaps Jean-Luc Picard! As far as she knew, lucid dreams carried no prohibitions against fictional characters.

Hattie turned her head slowly uphill, thinking speed might be the critical element in this experiment.

Nemmi remarked, Does anyone see a door? She placed her hands on her hips. And anyway, why would you want a door in the middle of nowhere?

Totha put away her telescope. You really think Nemmi and I are just part of your dream?

"Not just you, the whole landscape. That moon up there that’s just a little too small and . . . slightly blue, I think. And those stars . . . Hattie looked up. It was like her first night in Australia—that year she had taken off from university. They’re just not right somehow."

Totha continued. But isn’t there some test?

To prove if I’m really dreaming?

Totha nodded.

Actually, that’s one of the marks of lucid dreaming; the dreamer is entirely aware that she’s dreaming.

The girls glared, their eyes growing brighter.

"There is one traditional test. You’re supposed to pinch yourself."

A small stone suddenly struck Hattie in the left leg. What did you do that for?

Nemmi shrugged. I thought I saw our goat.

And your first reaction is to throw a stone at it?

They won’t listen to you if you don’t.

Totha returned to the main question. "So, you did feel that?"

Yes! Hattie rubbed her leg. And frankly, I’m a little put out. I look nothing like a goat!

The girls laughed. After a moment, Hattie joined them.

From a bag she had been carrying, Totha pulled out what looked like a head of cabbage, only it was pink-coloured. This was interesting; Hattie did indeed have the sensation of feeling very hungry. Could you be very hungry in a lucid dream?

Try some? Totha asked.

After several ravenous chews, Hattie remembered: there was one sure-fire way to test your lucid dreaming. Attempt to perform some action, something you had no hope of completing in the waking world but that, when you tried it in your dream world, was suddenly successful. Hattie thought back to earlier in the day when she had taken her baby sister, Emily, out for a walk. She remembered lifting her out of the stroller, then raising her up as high as her shoulders, making her laugh. She was too heavy to literally throw into the sky, but how wonderful that would have been: to throw her sister high up into the air and catch her as she fell. How thrilling to toss her up like a balloon, then let her bounce safely in her arms. It made her think of an animated cartoon or a dim memory of her own father doing such a thing to her when she was very little.

Hattie walked over to Totha. May I try something?

Nemmi stepped between them. Don’t worry, Totha; she may be big, but I can handle her.

I just need to lift Totha.

Why?

Just a little experiment.

Totha’s eyes were very bright. To prove I’m not real?

"I’m just going to lift you. Hattie offered up her best I’m-completely-harmless smile. Maybe toss you up in the air a little—it’ll be fun."

Nemmi’s eyebrows narrowed, and her eyes grew brighter. You want me to throw another stone at her?

No stones, Nemmi. Totha then raised her arms, giving Hattie free access to her slender waist. Lift away, Attie.

Hattie tried, then tried again. Each try was more difficult and made her surprisingly sleepy. What are you made of? I can barely lift you!

CHAPTER 4: Goat Tracker

Hattie could hear bleating , and there was an unusual (but pleasant) scent riding on a warm wind. It was spicy, suggestive of nutmeg.

Wake up, sleepy head!

Time to get up, Attie!

Hattie found her glasses and, in a moment, was able to make out shapes, recognizing the same young girls as before. One was holding a goat in her arms. She was just as Hattie remembered, a mini-Minoan, only more vivid now, barefooted, with the morning light bouncing off her flounced and brightly patterned skirt.

Hattie’s mouth hung open. You’re still here!

Nemmi had her hands on her hips. How much sleep do people like you need?

Although Hattie knew she had been dreaming, she could not recall falling asleep. And how very strange it was to be waking up within that same dream. . . .

Oh my God, Hattie muttered, sitting up, struck anew by the super-reality of her surroundings. She looked behind her. A depressed mat of ferns and mosses was evidence that she had indeed slept here. Looking more widely, she could see the landscape was forested, but not thickly. A patchwork of luxuriant greens and pinks formed an undergrowth. And instead of the firs and cedars of home, she saw palms and what looked like giant ferns—cycads were they called? She’d seen similar trees in Queensland, Australia.

One part of Hattie felt that now would be an appropriate moment to break into a fit of weeping. Thankfully, another part of her won the day; she turned to the girls and smiled. You found your goat.

Totha answered warmly but not with a smile. What was going on here? Not once, had Hattie seen either girl smile—laugh, yes, but never smile. Was Totha’s facial musculature different than hers?

"It’s not my goat, Attie, and he wasn’t really lost, just naughty." Hattie watched closely as Totha’s eyes brightened. Yes, Hattie suddenly realized! Here in her dream world, brightening eyes must be an analogue for smiling! At any rate, that would be Hattie’s working theory. . . .

In Totha’s arms, the goat fussed like an infant until, at last, Nemmi took the animal back. Then she tilted her head, indicating some distant location. "Totha’s goat is being a real poop-head."

Hattie had to laugh.

You know that word?

I know that word.

Totha nodded sadly. Every time we get close, he runs away. And now he’s over there . . . During breaks in the wind, they could hear the far-off bleating of the delinquent goat. Laughing at us.

Following Nemmi’s finger, Hattie discovered the source of last night’s whooshing sound. The seashore lay only a hundred metres down a gentle slope.

You see? Nemmi continued. He’s gone over to that little island. And now we’re stuck here, waiting for him.

The island was not more than fifty metres across and separated from the mainland by less than that.

Why don’t you just go get him?

Nemmi seemed unable to find the words to express how ludicrous an idea this was; she settled for a snort.

Totha too seemed distressed. "We can’t just go over. . . . Maybe during Tintash."

There were a hundred puzzles Hattie had yet to sort out about this strange new world, but getting over to a nearby island separated by a short expanse of water was not one of them.

"You want me to get him?"

Nemmi’s goat again began wriggling in her arms, intent on escape. Oh no, you don’t, Nemmi said. She grabbed the goat by its collar, then tied the animal to a nearby cycad with a coil of rope Totha handed to her.

Hattie’s attention turned back to the sea.

"What are you doing, Attie?"

Hattie was already halfway to the beach, disrobing as she went. It was, after all, just a dream. A clothing-optional beach, she muttered to herself. She grinned and thought of her time in Australia and the beach south of Adelaide which Stacy had insisted they check out. Mostly it was inhabited by naked, hairy, middle-aged men. Old goats, Stacy had called them.

Totha ran towards her, soon catching up. You’re not thinking of going in the water?

Great way to start the day! Hattie held out her bra, glasses, and blouse. Grim-faced, Totha accepted them but then yelled, Don’t step there!

Hattie froze. Where?

There!

Hattie had reached a distinct border where the vegetation suddenly ceased. Though blurry to her eyes, she could see that all that lay between her and the water was bare, grey rock. If there were some distinction between the rock types, it was too subtle for Hattie. Slowly, she took another step.

Not there, Attie!

"Not where?"

Step to your right a little. Don’t step on anything bright.

What do you mean, ‘bright’?

Stay away from the blue rocks!

What blue rocks? What’s she talking about?

For a moment, Totha didn’t answer, and Nemmi simply shook her head in a gesture that seemed one part disbelief and one part disgust.

Totha continued: The rocks all look the same to you?

Hattie wanted to scream. Pretty much.

Totha lowered her head. Oh. . . .

You see, Nemmi piped up, gesturing with an open palm and tilted head which must be the universal gesture for you see how useless she is.

Hattie sighed and studied both girls, looking for any sign of a joke or deception. She scanned them from head to toe, and noticed, for the first time, that each girl had six digits on their feet. But then again, Hattie didn’t have her glasses on. . . . She squinted and counted a second time.

Just follow my directions, Attie. Go slowly. . . .

Okay to step here?

Yes, Attie.

And here?

Good, Attie. Keep going. I’m right behind you. No, wait. Let me go in front. Then you can just follow.

Brilliant idea.

And Nemmi, you can follow behind us—all right? Then to Hattie—You’re sure you can’t see the bright ones?

Hattie growled. Just show me where to step next.

Totha spent some moments examining the distance between them and the water. Just follow my steps exactly and you’ll be safe.

Safe from what?

The three of them began to zigzag in a mostly forward direction, altogether taking probably less than a minute to reach the beach. Hattie felt genuine relief—though from what, she was not sure. She gazed happily at the water. A familiar place. Hopefully, with no brightness issues. She began to remove her skirt.

Nemmi stuttered as she spoke: Now, what are you doing?

Prudishness was the last thing Hattie had expected. "No sense in keeping just half my clothes dry." She folded her skirt and panties neatly and added them both to the pile in Totha’s arms. Hattie watched with amusement the shocked and confused look on the faces of her two young friends.

Nemmi’s face showed outright alarm. Did Totha tell you how deep the water is?

Sometimes, in her dreams, Hattie would wake herself up from laughing. Maybe she was on the verge of a dream-laugh at this very moment. It sort of felt like that. . . . She turned to Nemmi. "Your goat seems to have managed it. And I can swim, you know."

By now, Hattie had convinced herself that everything she said was somehow being translated into another language and that the occasional pauses she heard were largely a matter of a translating mechanism coping with unfamiliar concepts.

"You can really swim?" Totha asked, a tremor in her voice.

Nemmi seemed even more aghast. In deep water?

Yes! Hattie answered.

Totha covered her eyes I can’t look!

Be quick! Nemmi added.

Hattie was determined to remember every detail. This place, wherever it was, even if its origins were in some remote corner of her frontal cortex, was unquestionably the most beautiful landscape she had ever seen—and the level of detail was striking. The human imagination was a remarkable thing. The hills, the sea, everything; it was vaguely familiar, yet distinctly alien too. Clearly tropical. Behind her were tall distant mountains, their slopes, in most cases, lushly forested. By contrast, the small island directly in front of her was relatively flat and seemed covered only in ferns and mosses, no trees. Behind it was another island: larger, forested and with a good-sized