Page 125 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“The Dreamwatch,” he whispered, “is aboutwho you know?”

“Of course it is,” Hikiri said, finally steering Painter away. “It’s the most prestigious position in the painters. It’s more appointment than it is job.” He looked regretful as he said it. Those were the eyes of a man who had seen more than one young person hurl themselves at a target that, unbeknownst to them, was behind bulletproof glass.

“Then who fights the stable nightmares?” Painter asked.

“They do,” Hikiri said. “Just with plenty of help from companions who do a lot of training.” He smiled comfortingly to Painter. “You and your friends have good jobs. Enjoy that. We’ll get around to hunting your stable nightmare soon.”

“But the army of nightmares,” Painter said. “Theyarecoming, Hikiri. I…”

Hikiri didn’t believe him. Of course he didn’t. Why would he believe something so outlandish? Painter tried to think of some proof, but they’d reached the doorway, and Hikiri firmly pushed him out of it. He nodded to Painter, then shut the door.

I never could have joined them,Painter thought, numb.No matter howskilled my painting, no matter how hard I worked, I would never have been accepted. I’m a nobody from a small town.

The others and I…we never even had achance.

There was a point in Painter’s life when this discovery would have been the biggest he’d ever made. But today, it was a pale second to the more daunting realization. That he was completely alone and would have to prevent the destruction of the city by himself.

Yumi burst fromthe wagon in her nightgown and clogs, her eyes wild. She remembered. All of it—from the moment she’d woken up with Painter in her body to the day they’d taken him away. The last thirty days were clear in her mind.

Ironically, that was the only part of her life that made any sense. What was she? Was any of it real? She could feel warm sunlight on her skin, see the twirling plants high in the sky. The air was wet from the steamwell, the smell of sulfur lingering. What, if any of this, could she trust?

She searched through the empty town. Where was everyone? Why did it feel like the empty set of a drama after the actors had gone home? Finally, she scooped up a rock and went stalking toward the place of ritual, clogs slapping stone.

It was time to try Painter’s idea. Find the machine. Hit it hard. Hope something vital broke. But when she reached the place of ritual, there was no tent. No scholars. No machine. Had that part all been fake too?

No,she thought, turning about.The machine actually did something to Painter. It was here.

Perhaps they’d carted it away. Yet in her dreams she’d heard them talking—saying they might need to use the machine on her. They’d keep it close, wouldn’t they?

She lowered her stone. Then started walking through the walls of buildings.

It worked. Those walls weren’t actually real.Shewasn’t actually real. Both were made of…well, whatever nightmares were made of. The rock she carried, however, seemed to really be a rock—at least, it resisted the first time she walked through a wall. As she tugged harder and pulled it through, the wall briefly distorted into amorphous smoke, then returned to looking like cut stones mortared with geyser mud.

Her search didn’t take long. There were only so many buildings in the town; she strode straight through them, one after another, until she found the machine hidden inside the bailiff’s home. The terrible, many-armed device continued quietly doing its work—a mere two arms stacking rocks, but the entire thing vibrating with a soft energy.

The scholars were here. Four nightmares with only the vaguest human shapes. Like shadows on a very cloudy day, indistinct, melding with the darkness in corners and beneath furniture. As she entered, they turned toward her with shocked postures, which gave her a moment to act.

She dashed forward and swung her rock at the place on the machine where she’d seen them power it on before, that day that seemed so long ago, when she and Painter had flown on a tree to escape. She smashed her rock down over and over, using both hands, breaking the latch on the front, exposing the internal mechanism. She crushed this, screaming, sweating, venting a lifetime’s worth of stress. Like steam suddenly released after nineteen years of building beneath the ground.

The machine let out a whine, almost like it was in pain. Glowing white smoke erupted from the front where she’d pounded it. Then the legs locked up, the vibrations ceased, and the lights glowing from within it extinguished.

Yumi dropped the stone and fell to her knees. It was done.

“What,” the lead scholar asked, “do you think you are doing, child?”

“Fulfilling the wishes of the spirits,” she said. “Ending this machine. Saving us.”

“You think…thatis the machine?” the scholar asked. Though he had no mouth, the shadow of his head moved and distorted as he spoke. “Child. That little thing is not what rules us. It is but a bud compared to the tree.”

Yumi slumped down. A part of her had known, after all. She’d heard them talking before, and could piece it together. There was another machine. The father machine.

“Where?” she asked.

The lead scholar didn’t reply. He stalked forward, joined by the others. Yet she realized she knew.

“It’s in Torio City, isn’t it?” Yumi asked. “The festival. Did you turn it on during the festival?”

Another of the scholars spoke up, tentatively. “One thousand seven hundred and sixty-three years. Yes…festival day. The day we would create power for our people from the spirits themselves.”

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