Remaining away from the village had been the one unspoken rule defining my early childhood; Mother possessed a strange aversion to the place and maintained a firm resolve to avoid it at all costs. As a child, I’d often lain awake during my usual restless nights nearly void of sleep and stared at the dark buildings in the distance, still beneath their blanket of moonlight, a forbidden playground full of unknown wonders and mysteries just waiting to be explored.
One morning near daybreak ten years ago, shortly after my seventh birthday, as I stared at the village with my face pressed against the dirty glass, I’d spotted them: tiny pinpricks of multi-hued lights different from the flickering lanterns lighting the streets, glimmers which popped into existence one by one within the village walls. Hypnotized, I watched them for several minutes before deciding to steal a closer look. I quietly slipped out of bed, crept through the house—careful not to alert Mother, who I knew was always awake inside her bedroom—and tiptoed outside.
I found my way easily, led by my glowing guides. When I arrived, I clung to the iron bars and peered through the gate. Herds of people bustled amongst the cramped vendor stalls, a different colored light bobbing near each villager’s head. None took any notice of them, but I couldn’t look away, entranced by their unique shapes and bright hues, until one in particular caught my attention. There, hovering above the produce in a nearby stall, a soft tangerine swirl floated near a droopy-eyed toddler. I squinted curiously, and the moment I locked my focus on it, it happened.
My consciousness transported to a world of inverse colors and flying horses, each detail as vivid as if I were experiencing it for myself—the warmth of the horse’s body pulsing beneath mine, the wind tousling my hair as it carried me through a cloud-filled sky, the glimmer of sunbeams caressing my face, and the scent of rosebuds tickling my nose from the wreath crowning the horse’s neck.
I suddenly jerked from the dream and found myself back outside the village gate as if nothing had happened, my memory the only evidence of the experience that had danced across my senses, as if I’d just stumbled inside a storybook. I eagerly concentrated on one floating light after another, each a fantastic vision as unique as a painting done by a different artist. Up until then I’d never experienced these adventures on my own, but after much reading I’d discovered these imaginative journeys—which seemed to be viewed by people of all ages while they slept—were called dreams.
And I’d been watching and recording them ever since.
I lifted a loose floorboard beneath my bed of pillows, where I kept all of my dream journals safely tucked away. I pulled one out, already filled with dozens of dreams jotted in my untidy scrawl, and curled in bed to record Alice’s dream in every detail I could remember—the mysterious tree with its labyrinth of rooms, the gentle caress of each leaf dipped in surreal colors, the kiss of the sun and sea breeze, the smell of the surrounding ocean…
“Eden?” Mother’s shrill voice echoed off the beams of the ceiling. “Get down here this instant. I’m waiting.”
“Coming.” Yet I didn’t move, torn between pleasing Mother and incurring more of her disapproval. After a moment of internal struggle, I settled more comfortably against my pillows to reread the dream, a more pleasant alternative to whatever awaited me downstairs.
It almost felt as if I were re-experiencing it myself. I thumbed through previous entries, revisiting each like an old friend. So many different varieties, each with a unique flavor. What I wouldn’t give to have a dream of my very own, just one, but my nights were long and empty.
My heart jolted as Mother’s footsteps pounded up the ladder. I scrambled to lift the floorboard and shoved the journal inside just as Mother appeared, hands pressed against her hips.
“What are you doing? I told you we need to bake bread.” She frowned at my opened bottle of ink and my smudged fingertips. Her forehead puckered. “Writing again? What is it you’re always writing?”
My heartbeat escalated. I recognized the suspicious glint in Mother’s eyes, the look she got when her motherly instinct suspected I was up to something.
Please don’t find my journals, I silently prayed. She couldn’t discover the secrets I’d so carefully kept hidden over the years out of fear that if she knew them, she’d despise me like the rest of the villagers. Her eyes narrowed at my silence, and I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation.
But to my surprise, Mother dropped the issue without argument. That was unusual. She glanced out the window, brow furrowed. “Come downstairs.” Her tone warned me against disobeying again.
Five minutes later we stood together in the kitchen, our fingers burrowed in the soft loaves. Normally, Mother pounded the dough into submission with an aggressive fervor, but today that intensity was missing, her mouth tight as her gaze repeatedly drifted to the misty garden outside. Distraction replaced her usual mechanical movements, normally as precise as clockwork—she’d almost added an extra cup of flour and nearly forgot the yeast altogether.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked the fifth time she paused in her kneading to once more search outside.
“Hmm?” She brushed some of her aquamarine hair out of her eyes, leaving a trail of flour along her brow. “Of course not. You know I never entertain visitors.” Even as she said it, she startled beside me, knocking over a container and sending a cloud of flour over us.
I coughed and rubbed the stinging powder from my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer, her gaze riveted to the window. I glanced out, too. No one was there.
The tight lines creasing
