The Trouble with Dreams
Chapter 4 of To Those Who Hear the Call
I’m Lydia Woodward and I write fantasy stories about redemption and forgiveness. To learn more, you can read my bio here or the about page here.
Welcome back to my serialized novel! I’ve been plotting during my absence and decided to rename The Finders and the Keepers. The new title is To Those Who Hear the Call. I hope you enjoy this update! Please like, comment, and share to let me know what you like. 😊
If you haven’t read Chapter 1 yet, you can find it here:
If there is an upside to getting selected as a mark for the daymares, it is the absolute silence that follows me into my sleeping hours. There are many stories that tell of the havoc that this goblin magic can wreak on one's sanity, but they never mention that there is a limit to how much the mind can be swayed by their power. It turns out that being hounded by daymares makes an unlikely remedy for insomnia.
There was a time when I feared the dreamweavers. I prolonged my waking hours in dread of the visions they would play behind my eyelids once my consciousness gave into the slumber. In the light of the daylight rings, I could tell myself that what I was doing was necessary, important even. But there was no reasoning with the darkness, no pleas I could form when their hungry energy wrestled their way in.
Now the dark is silent and empty. Apart from the rare occasion where Milpho felt the need to involve himself to teach me a lesson, the dreamweavers lost their terrible hold over my nights. The nightmares receded until I would fall into uninterrupted sleep. Complete exhaustion from fighting them off during the day, made me shut down completely during the night.
But tonight is different. Tonight I feel a warm glow, emanating from my chest to my head. It's a strange, yet not unwelcome sensation, like something unfurling in the depths, opening itself up to be reborn. There's a familiar, comforting sensation that washes over my senses before realization catches up.
This is goblin magic.
My whole body tenses with the truth of it, my mind struggling to yank myself back out of this in-between place of dreaming and waking. But the blackness doesn't change. There are no sharp claws or swirling shreds of maddening colors. Nothing echoes in the stillness around me. I'm not alone. And yet, somehow, I can feel myself relaxing. This presence isn't angry or vicious, if anything it seems almost unconscious of my presence. For the first time in my life, I turn about in this ink-colored sphere with the hushed caution of tiptoeing around a sleeping child. The thought occurs to me, strange and foreign, like a shimmer of oil dripping somewhere in the depths of obsidian pools: what if I am the intruder here?
There were stories. Once, when I was little, I stumbled across a strange tale of a fairy trapped in a dragon queen's consciousness, but surely that required some trick? Nothing comes forward as a possible explanation so I step forward in the dark. One step after another for what feels like an endless loop. Walking forever in search of this person in my thoughts. Or perhaps I am in theirs.
Colors spring to life in front of me, twirling up like the sparks of a fire and dancing around my head. The darkness seems to stretch and open outward in front of me, streams of memories slipping into place like a curtain. It billows, waving close and then falling back as if moved by a breeze I can't feel. Something causes me to stop in place, my right hand stretched toward the fluttering colors just out of my reach. It is then that I hear the voices. Lilting tones drift from the space beyond the curtain, playing like an uncertain melody I can't discern the words of. One word detaches, echoing around me until I feel it reverberating in my skull.
This is it. The name of the mind beyond the curtain. Dreamweavers are supposed to train for years before tapping into the fabric of the dream sphere. One of the first things they're to learn is to close the door behind them, so no one can trace their steps back into the mind of the weaver themself.
It seems my mental hitchhiker has little grasp of the basics. I have her name, and names are dangerous things indeed.
***
The rays of daylight steam through the fluttering gap between the gray curtains. Somewhere in the waking day, a bird is chirping out his greeting to the welcome warmth it brings. My satchel has been packed for hours and the polished edge of Vigilant’s blade reflects blinding spots of white across the ceiling when I tilt him from side to side, looking for any excuse to grab out the ragged scrap of red cloth one more time.
A sharp knock is all the warning I get before Eevo swings the door wide open, a tray balanced on one hip. “I see you’ve all but left already.” She scans the room, her gaze ending on my satchel. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“I have everything I need.”
“Hmm,” she sets the tray on the bedside table. “Something seems different about you today, and I imagine my stew wasn’t nearly that impressive.” She gestures over me, her eyes questioning.
I smile in an attempt to shrug off the rest of her questions. “A parting gift from Milpho.”
“That would be a mighty gift coming from most anyone else.” She huffs, her long fingers fidgeting with the creases of her skirt, before she sits down beside me, the motion so sudden I have to fight the instinctual urge to flinch away. Her cold, wiry hands wrap around my own and I turn to look at her, surprised to see the dark red rims of her irises expanding with the intensity of her stare, like embers flickering to life. “Listen to me, Eraneshu, and listen to me well. This may be the last time you see me, or the last time anyone tries to tell you what I’m about to say.” Her grip squeezes close, painfully tight around my knuckles.
I nod.
“Milpho is not to be trusted. There are no gifts, no prizes, just curses and chains. He’s a mean man, all cunning and hate and greed. You’ve seen it. You know it’s true, I know. But you don’t understand, not really.” She lets go, my hands aching with relief. “My son,” her voice cracks, and she falters, her hands wrapping around a pendant I never noticed around her neck before. “My son was a good man. You are a good man too.”
“Eevo…” I hesitate, a thousand excuses clogging my throat. “Are you in trouble?”
She chuckles. “Don’t worry about me, dear boy. I’m much too old for these things.” A heavy sigh seems to rattle her frame like her strength has been carved out. “You need to run. Don’t question it. If you see an opening, no matter how small, you run and you don’t look back.” Eevo pulls a strange flask from her skirt pocket and places it in my hands. The glass is smooth and curled in on itself, like a large seashell. “Try not to drink it all in one go. It’s best if you save it for necessities.” Just like that, she’s up and out of the room, the door shutting behind her with a gentle thud.
What a weird lady.
The thought echoes in my mind, unbidden and unfamiliar, and I’m on my feet in an instant, looking about the room to be sure there’s no one around.
I wonder what he’s doing now? This time the voice seems almost annoyed.
If you know what’s good for you, I concentrate, projecting the thought as loud as I can, you’ll get back into your own mind before I follow you there. Not that it would be a pleasant experience, but I imagine I’ve had more than my share of meddling dreamweavers to worry about without a novice poking around for amusement. The silence stretches for a moment too long, tension building in the back of my mind like a taut thread about to snap.
You… you spoke to me…
Rubbing my temples, I bite back the frustration. Now is not the time to waste on something so unimportant. Look, kid, the sooner you get out the better. I have work to get to.
This isn’t real. Dreams don’t talk back.
“What?” Colors blur together for a nauseating second while a daymare tries to wiggle its way into my vision. I shake it away, a horrible feeling sinking into my gut. Steadying myself against the bed, I feel an odd probing sensation, like clumsy fingers wriggling inside my head. Whatever that is, stop it. Stop. Explain to me what you said. What did you mean about dreams?
You’re… not supposed to talk back. This is - this is just a dream.
The memory of billowing curtains and strange sparks hit me all at once. And that word, the name that kept repeating from the other side. I pause, the cruel irony of it seeming too great to actualize by saying it aloud. Sinking back onto the edge of the bed, I tap the Vigilant’s hilt for reassurance, steadying myself for the inevitable. “Ehn, uh, Enaj?” The word feels clunky and foreign, but the stillness that follows is enough confirmation that I managed it well enough.
How do you know my name?
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