09-26-2020, 09:41 PM
She made their passage a gentle thing, and deposited them on a grassy verge. Cheerful wooden steps rose behind, leading to a brightly coloured wagon. Vines twined up the wheels, and the paint curled and flaked into the smothering vegetation. Beyond that the land tilted strangely. Glassy waters spread, clearest warm blue in places, springing with flowering lotus in some, yet creeping with thick white ice in others. Mist shrouded shadows in the distance. A peek at curving subterranean walls pulled the eye in one direction, and yet others offered glimpses of cloud-streaked skies and tall mountains.
She did not spend much time in pockets, preferring the vastness of the dream for its prospect of company, but sometimes even she needed the refuge. Such a sanctuary had never quite formed to her whim like this, yet she did not question its kaleidoscope qualities. A pocket, no matter how oddly formed, would protect the child from the confusion of her own dreaming, for whilst they were here they were beholden to Nimeda alone, and she need not be vigilant of the child’s bubbling nightmares.
“Is this where you live?”
"Of course not." She laughed at the notion and pushed the girl gently from her lap. “You are safe. Mara’s pets cannot reach you here. Once you learn to ignore their growling hunger, they will not bother you at all.”
The girl blinked, confused, and took a few cautious steps out into the strange landscape. As her chin lifted to timidly take in her surroundings, Nimeda pressed her fingers to her temple, surprised to find a tender burst of pain beneath the prodding. The girl peeked over her shoulder, eyes big and worried. Behind her an easel wedged lopsided in the dirt. “Where are we then?”
“A place of memories, I think. Or imagination perhaps. I don’t suppose I really know. Who does, when dreaming?”
“Does that mean you made it?”
Their words drifted away like they were carried on a wind. Abruptly, and without warning, the world around them smeared like a hand wiped over wet paint. Queasiness gripped Nimeda’s stomach, the dizzying sensation of falling, and she grappled out for the girl’s wrist in alarm. Her fingers closed like an anchor. She yanked them inelegantly free from that whirling vortex, heart still fluttering even after everything stilled. A storm one moment, calm the next.
That had never happened before. Control rarely flushed free from its moorings. Usually the dream was like breathing.
Stones slipped under Nim’s legs as she shifted to observe their new surroundings. Her skin was shiny wet now, though the nearest water sat some distance down-slope, and a damp shirt clung to mid-thigh; a strange cage, for she never imagined such clothes. Amidst the cold trickles leaking from sodden hair was something that slithered warm and insistent as a heartbeat down her temple.
She knew where they were. But she didn’t know why she had chosen it.
She didn’t know why she’d needed to.
The girl squatted beside her, and Nimeda let go of her, afraid the grip had pinched. Her thoughts swirled like silt disturbed from the bottom of a riverbed, among the clamour of it Noctua’s last words echoing with a memory of shame for her failings. For a moment she was distant, poised for the girl to flicker away in fear. She ought to. That had been dangerous.
“Are you okay? You’re bleeding. All down the side of your face.”
“I am?” she murmured, distracted.
But bloody fingerprints indeed marred the child’s delicate wrist, and now she looked, her own hand too. Pain had flared when she lightly touched her own head before, right before the world unravelled. Nimeda did not make the same mistake twice, but Need pressed out from her in a moment of unusual panic; instinct more than intent. No one would come. So far as she knew, she was the only one who understood how to listen for such currents. Not that much could be done anyway, she realised finally, for the problem was her Other.
Fear coiled in cold waves to her core. Her palm pressed against her chest, seeking the heart of a binding buried beneath the flesh like it might offer comfort. It did not.
“It’s important to look after ourselves in this world,” she said eventually. She had expected the child to be afraid, but she only sat close now, eyes wide with thoughts she did not share. She seemed too young for that kind of silence, not that Nimeda did much more than accept the oddity. Such a solemn little thing. “And in the one where we live awake too. A good lesson, little jewel. Sadly I seldom take my own advice.”
“Paint and blood,” the girl said quietly, touching Nimeda’s hand. The warning apparently flowed like water from feathers, though Nimeda did not mind; she was hardly a teacher. There was something of wonder in the murmuring, like a secret shared with herself. “You are like a story my mama tells.”
She did not spend much time in pockets, preferring the vastness of the dream for its prospect of company, but sometimes even she needed the refuge. Such a sanctuary had never quite formed to her whim like this, yet she did not question its kaleidoscope qualities. A pocket, no matter how oddly formed, would protect the child from the confusion of her own dreaming, for whilst they were here they were beholden to Nimeda alone, and she need not be vigilant of the child’s bubbling nightmares.
“Is this where you live?”
"Of course not." She laughed at the notion and pushed the girl gently from her lap. “You are safe. Mara’s pets cannot reach you here. Once you learn to ignore their growling hunger, they will not bother you at all.”
The girl blinked, confused, and took a few cautious steps out into the strange landscape. As her chin lifted to timidly take in her surroundings, Nimeda pressed her fingers to her temple, surprised to find a tender burst of pain beneath the prodding. The girl peeked over her shoulder, eyes big and worried. Behind her an easel wedged lopsided in the dirt. “Where are we then?”
“A place of memories, I think. Or imagination perhaps. I don’t suppose I really know. Who does, when dreaming?”
“Does that mean you made it?”
Their words drifted away like they were carried on a wind. Abruptly, and without warning, the world around them smeared like a hand wiped over wet paint. Queasiness gripped Nimeda’s stomach, the dizzying sensation of falling, and she grappled out for the girl’s wrist in alarm. Her fingers closed like an anchor. She yanked them inelegantly free from that whirling vortex, heart still fluttering even after everything stilled. A storm one moment, calm the next.
That had never happened before. Control rarely flushed free from its moorings. Usually the dream was like breathing.
Stones slipped under Nim’s legs as she shifted to observe their new surroundings. Her skin was shiny wet now, though the nearest water sat some distance down-slope, and a damp shirt clung to mid-thigh; a strange cage, for she never imagined such clothes. Amidst the cold trickles leaking from sodden hair was something that slithered warm and insistent as a heartbeat down her temple.
She knew where they were. But she didn’t know why she had chosen it.
She didn’t know why she’d needed to.
The girl squatted beside her, and Nimeda let go of her, afraid the grip had pinched. Her thoughts swirled like silt disturbed from the bottom of a riverbed, among the clamour of it Noctua’s last words echoing with a memory of shame for her failings. For a moment she was distant, poised for the girl to flicker away in fear. She ought to. That had been dangerous.
“Are you okay? You’re bleeding. All down the side of your face.”
“I am?” she murmured, distracted.
But bloody fingerprints indeed marred the child’s delicate wrist, and now she looked, her own hand too. Pain had flared when she lightly touched her own head before, right before the world unravelled. Nimeda did not make the same mistake twice, but Need pressed out from her in a moment of unusual panic; instinct more than intent. No one would come. So far as she knew, she was the only one who understood how to listen for such currents. Not that much could be done anyway, she realised finally, for the problem was her Other.
Fear coiled in cold waves to her core. Her palm pressed against her chest, seeking the heart of a binding buried beneath the flesh like it might offer comfort. It did not.
“It’s important to look after ourselves in this world,” she said eventually. She had expected the child to be afraid, but she only sat close now, eyes wide with thoughts she did not share. She seemed too young for that kind of silence, not that Nimeda did much more than accept the oddity. Such a solemn little thing. “And in the one where we live awake too. A good lesson, little jewel. Sadly I seldom take my own advice.”
“Paint and blood,” the girl said quietly, touching Nimeda’s hand. The warning apparently flowed like water from feathers, though Nimeda did not mind; she was hardly a teacher. There was something of wonder in the murmuring, like a secret shared with herself. “You are like a story my mama tells.”
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