Monday, June 01, 2009

Dream Seller

{Story inspired by the illustrations. Illustrations are by my friend David. Yes, I will eventually finish Diplomatic Relations.}
Dream Seller

The wagon rattled and rolled down the dusky street, its shape largely unassuming, but filled with just enough odd angles to catch the eye. The horse that pulled it was a tired, dappled grey mare that had seen better days. A tall, thin man was folded neatly into the bench on the front of the wagon and holding the reins loosely in his bony fingers. He wore a long grey coat, severely out of fashion, and a dark grey fedora pulled low on his brow. Most of his face was hidden in the shadow, but his jaw was a little squared beneath the thin slash of mouth.
Brightly colored, transparent crystal balls hung in ribbons from the roof of the wagon, bouncing and swaying as the wheels bounced across the cobblestones. Three particularly large balls were strung at the back of the wagon in a downward row. The front of the conveyance bore a sign that boldly proclaimed “Dreams for Sale.”
I regarded the sight with no small amount of skepticism. How could anyone sell a dream?

Despite myself, I gave into my curiosity. I slipped into a coat and left my house. The evening twilight was chilly, so I shoved my hands into my pockets as I hurried down the street, past rows of closed shops, after the sound of the wagon. Somehow, no matter how fast I walked, the wagon remained the same distance in front of me. Impossible, of course. I accounted it as a trick of the fading sunlight.
The streets were empty, save for myself and the strange man in the grey coat. The rest of the town were indoors by blazing fires to scare away the cold, starting supper and telling about their days. I had no one to tell my stories to, even if my days had been interesting enough to share. My supper could wait, and so I chased after a man who claimed he could sell dreams. At least it would break the monotony.
Tiring of being forever just behind, I finally broke into a run and caught up with the man just as he turned into an alleyway.
“Hold,” I pleaded, trying desperately to regain my breath. “I would speak with you.”
With slow, deliberate motion, he pulled back in the reins, bringing the mare to a halt. Then he climbed down from the wagon seat, every movement sure and precise, with no wasted effort. He faced me, and I saw he was easily a hand taller than I. Still, his face was so hidden in shadow from his hat and the dusk of the day that I could not see his eyes. His mouth was thin and tight, neither smiling nor frowning. I had the sudden urge to turn and run, but stalwartly held my ground, forcing my gaze to his shadowy face. When he spoke, his voice nearly creaked from lack of use. Like his movements, each word was measured and spoken slowly and with care.
“How may I assist you?” His request was barely louder than a whisper, and I had to step closer to hear. Standing that close gave me a chill.
“What are you selling?” I asked, wondering if he would reassert the ridiculous claim written across the side of the wagon.
“I sell Dreams.”
Those three words were spoken with such absolute conviction and the sensation of plain fact that, for a brief moment, I did not doubt them. Then my better sense prevailed and I nearly laughed. “What sort of dreams?”
“All sorts.” His tone gave no indication that he was aware of my skepticism. Each word rang with truth and finality. “Daydreams, Sweet Dreams, Grand Dreams, Impossible Dreams, Strange Dreams, and even screaming Nightmares. Whatever Dream you are looking for, I can sell you.”
“And these are the same sort of dreams that come to visit me when I sleep?” I wanted to know, looking for the catch.
“Some prefer to choose their dreams,” he said, a touch of reproof to his raspy voice, as if I were a student who had asked an unnecessary question.
Now I was more confused than disbelieving. It must have shown on my face, because he spoke again.
“Would you like a sample?”
Wordlessly, I nodded. I was curious, in spite of my better sense. If he was a con, I would summon the guards and have him run out of town. Though if he were a con man, he was the best I had ever seen. Most are fast-talking, slickly dressed, and eager to make a sale. If it were true…impossible, silly, and illogical, but a rebellious corner of my mind whispered that anything was possible.
He walked around to the back of his wagon, and I followed. He opened the door, and I could see that a small section contained a bed and supplies, but the rest was full of the same ropes of clear, colored balls that decorated the outside. Now that I was closer, I thought I could see an image flash across a surface every now and again. The poor lighting in the alley was tricking my eyes.
He reached within the wagon and pulled out a single ball, much smaller than the rest. It was barely as big as the first joint of a finger. The others were easily the size of the palm of my hand. Then he turned and held out the small sphere to me.
“This is a small Daydream,” he said, as if that explained everything.
I took it gently, surprised by the weight—practically nothing—and the texture—like brittle spiderweb. Bits of color danced across the material: blues and yellows and pinks. I stared at it for a long moment, then looked back up at the man in the grey coat quizzically.
“Squeeze it between your hands,” he instructed.
I did as I was told, centering the orb between my palms and applying pressure until it exploded into specks of fine dust. I inhaled sharply, and suddenly I was standing in a green meadow dotted with flowers, next to a tall oak tree. Birds chirped overhead, and I felt the warm sun on my back. A lazy summer breeze tugged playfully at my clothes. About a hundred paces away, there was a body of water too small for a lake and too large for a pond. It gleamed and beckoned to me with its still, blue coolness.
I rubbed my eyes, and just as suddenly I was back in the dim alley on a fall evening, next to the Dream Seller. A thin layer of gritty dust coated my hands. The Dream Seller held out a flat piece of paper and I brushed the dust into it from my hands. He folded it into a neat packet and handed it to me.
“Dream Dust, mixed with tea in the evening, provides sound sleep.”
“Thank you,” I said, dazed and unsettled, and tucked the paper in my pocket.
“Would you care to look through the rest of my wares?” His voice was subtly prompting, and I had taken a step forward before I realized what I was doing.
As I drew closer, I was shocked to realize that my eyes had not been deceived: there were images flitting across the surface of each sphere. The strange man stood silently to the side, a presence at the very edge of my awareness. I circled the wagon slowly, gazing at the balls, each in turn.
A strand of spheres danced on the evening breeze, catching my attention. Purple and blue streaked across their surfaces, giving way to pictures and then swallowing them once more. I saw pleasant scenes—lakeside picnics, peaceful sunsets, calm countryside landscapes. They were straight out of my best daydreams, the visions that floated through my mind when I was bored or frustrated.
The next strand was slashed through with violent reds. Monsters snarled up at me, straining at the surfaces, trying their best to explode the spheres on their own. Horrifying, spine-chilling pictures flashed through the bloody reds, pictures that scorched me with fear, that I could not describe because I tore my eyes away. I moved from that strand quickly.
I made my way around the cart and almost bumped into the three large balls at the back, each easily larger than my head. I stared at them, amazed at the images that shimmered amongst the gold and silver threads that wound around the spheres. I saw fantastic figures there: armies mobilizing to fight noble wars, ships departing on great journeys, hidden treasures, mighty swords, great deeds, heroic quests….
I shook myself, pulling my gaze away. The images were enticing, promising riches and a place in history. I looked at the Dream Seller, who stood a few steps away.
“What sort of dreams are these?”
“Those are Grand Dreams. They can provide inspiration and direction for those who would do great things and change the world.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I do not think you would like one of those.”
I shook my head, agreeing. Great adventures and daring quests made for excellent stories, but they sounded dangerous and uncomfortable. I would leave changing the world to those braver than I. I kept walking around the wagon, looking at the alluring ribbons of spheres. Many colors flew along the strands—oranges, blues, yellows, pinks, greens, and purples. The images that were interspersed in the colors were just as varied. I saw happy, peaceful scenes; pictures of me making new friends; strange, incomprehensible images with bizarre angles and weird creatures; and visions of me surrounded by wealth and luxury beyond imagination.
Then another strand caught my eye and I gasped. I saw myself standing in a room, and in the doorway stood my little sister.
My eyes burned with tears I refused to let fall. My sister had died eight years back, when she was but sixteen. She fell from a tree while picking pears with her friends and hit her head on a rock. The memory of her limp body being carried into the house is seared permanently into my brain. Not a week goes by when I don’t think of her, even now. We were all the family we had, since our parents died of the fever. We were the best of friends….
I pointed a trembling finger at the ball, unable to tear my gaze from the sight of my sister’s smiling face, framed with pink threads. “What madness is this?” I asked in a hushed whisper.

The Dream Seller’s voice came from just behind my shoulder, and I jumped a little. “That is a True Dream. They draw from your memories and let you relive happy times. Sometimes people see friends or family, or moments of great joy.”
“You don’t see her, then?” I still stared, transfixed by the tantalizing scene.
“The images are different for each person who looks,” was all he would say.
I reached out and stopped just short of touching the sphere. Then I turned to face the Dream Seller. Though I could not see his eyes, I still felt the intensity of his stare.
“How much for a True Dream?” I asked, any lingering doubt thoroughly dispelled by the sight of my sister.
“For a True Dream, I could take no less than your sense of adventure.”
He could not have named a more confusing price. “Then how much are the Grand Dreams?”
“The Grand Dreams are expensive indeed: they cost all memories of your family.”
I gaped at him in horror. “Who would pay that?”
“One in a thousand might consider it.”
“And a True Dream costs… what, again?”
“Your sense of adventure.” His rasping voice took on a subtle hint of coaxing. “The curiosity that gnaws at you and gets you into uncomfortable situations. Your desire to see more of the world than is within an easy walk beyond your doorstep.” His thin mouth curved into a faint smile. “You won’t miss it.”
I didn’t know what to think. I stared into the sphere, watching my sister, missing her so much my chest ached. Then I thought of all the times my curiosity had gotten me into trouble, like the time my parents feared I had been kidnapped because I had followed a traveling performing troupe out of town to see how they lived. And I thought that perhaps my sense of adventure would not be too much to pay to see my sister again.
I looked at the Dream Seller, my mind made up. “I’ll take this one,” I said.
He nodded and reached for the sphere. It came away easily from the strand and settled gently into his palm. Then he stretched out his right hand towards me. His fingers rested lightly against the side of my face. They were cold, and I shivered, but did not pull away. We stood motionless for several heartbeats. The touch of his hand made me feel very peculiar.
At last, he pulled his hand back. He offered me the sphere, and I cradled it gently in my two hands, suddenly in a hurry to get home. The Dream Seller nodded a curt farewell to me and climbed up into his wagon. I did not see him leave because I was already heading down the street, back to my house.
When I arrived, I shut and locked the door behind me, then set the dream ball gently on my bed. I stared at it for a long time, watching the colors flash along the thin threads that made the ball and gazing at the shifting images of my sister. I was having a hard time comprehending the strange encounter and the even stranger purchase I had made, but I could not deny what lay before me.
Finally, almost reluctantly, I picked it up. The fine grit of the orb rubbed against my skin as I turned it carefully. The light from the lamp by my bed illuminated the ball and splashed its color across my hands. I settled the sphere between my palms and, in an act of will, squeezed. The ball burst into a cloud of dust, coating my hands and filling the air. I breathed deeply, and waited.
Nothing happened.
I waited a few more moments, then scowled with disgust. Nothing but a con. A really well constructed con, I was forced to admit, but a con nonetheless. More disappointed than I wanted to confess, even to myself, I brushed the Dream Dust from my hands to the floor. If he had lied about the dreams, he had likely lied about the sedative properties of the Dream Dust as well, so I saw no point in saving it. Intending to go to sleep, I rose to change my clothes, then stopped short, hardly daring to breathe.
In the doorway, looking as beautiful and healthy as she had eight years ago, stood my sister. She wore a dress of patterned muslin, her favorite, and the special smile she saved for family, for me. I was vaguely aware that I was trembling, but I could do nothing except gape at her.
She laughed, a light, bubbling sound that I had thought I would never hear again this side of time. “Surely you haven’t forgotten me,” she said, her tone joyful and teasing.
I shook my head and took a hesitant step forward. Then she flew to my arms, and we stood for a long while, locked in a warm, heartfelt embrace.
“I have missed you so much,” I told her, my voice rough with emotion.
“I miss you, too,” she said with equal feeling. “But I am well. You need not worry about me.” She laughed again. “Talk with me. Tell me everything.”
And so we talked, hand in hand because I dared not let go of her. I told her of my life, dull as it was, and related what stories from town I thought would make her laugh. We stared into each other’s eyes and talked as if we had never been parted. Every now and again I would forget to answer a question for the joy of looking at her. She would laugh at me then, and I would laugh with her. I laughed more during that conversation than I had in eight years.
We reminisced about our parents and teased each other about childhood pranks. We discussed what had changed, and what hadn’t. We apologized and asked forgiveness for misdeeds and hurts we had done. And more than once we exclaimed how much we loved and missed one another.
I do not know how long we talked, but I know that all too soon my sister looked at me and said, “I must go.”
I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach and robbed me of breath. “No,” I protested, knowing it was futile but unwilling to lose her again.
She smiled sadly. “I must. My time is done.” She leaned forward and kissed the tears from my cheek. “Be brave. We will see each other again, one day.”
“But I do not want to wait for that day,” I said miserably.
She squeezed my hand. “We have had this time together, and that is more than most people will have. Be grateful.”
As she walked slowly to the door, I wryly tried to remember if my little sister had said anything so wise before.
When she reached the door, she turned, gave me one last brilliant smile, and softly said, “Goodbye.”
And then she vanished.
I blinked. I was sitting on my bed, my hands covered with Dream Dust. The light coming through the window told me that it was dawn, that I had spent all night in the True Dream with the memory of my sister.
“Goodbye,” I whispered hoarsely.
Slowly, I rose from my bed and walked to the table. I carefully spread out the folded paper the Dream Seller had given me and brushed the Dream Dust from my hands, collecting as much as I could. With deliberate movements, I stored the Dream Dust in a safe place and prepared to go about my day, thoughts of my sister always close to the front of my mind.
That night was nearer fourteen years ago than thirteen now, but I haven’t forgotten even a bit of it. I play it over and over in my mind, bordering on obsession. I learned that a sprinkle of Dream Dust in my evening tea made it more likely that I would dream naturally of my sister, but it was not the same. I did make the Dream Dust last seven years.
I have never gone looking for the Dream Seller. Just as he said, I have no desire to travel beyond an easy walk past my front door; sometimes I miss that urge, but it is gone. I spend most evenings by my open window, listening for the clatter of wagon wheels in the evening twilight and half-watching for the sign “Dreams for Sale.” I am caught between yearning for and dreading the day that the Dream Seller will return, if it ever comes. You see, I learned that the problem with dreams, as wonderful as they are, is that you must eventually wake up.

1 Comments:

Blogger EldawenEmileia said...

*sighs* Kinda sad. But good.

By the way, the concept of a seller of dreams totally made me think of this one segment of the "Emily" series, by L. M. Montgomery. D'ye know it, perchance?

10:27 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home

account login for free website hit counter code
Download a free web counter here.