The Dreamweaver
Copyright © 2014 L.Lombard - All Rights Reserved
**The Dreamweaver is an attempt at a fairytale that was requested by a lovely friend and blogger, found at Fairytale Corner. The premise was that it should be 1000 words or less, and contain fairytale elements to it.
In a cottage south of the North Sea, lived an old man aged eighty-three. He called himself a Dreamweaver, although no one knew why. They suspected it had to do with the beverage he liked to make from rye. Yet dream a lot he did, almost every day and night. The most fantastic tales he told, of all manner and sorts, from dungeons and dragons to stories of summertime resorts. All the time claiming he was sharing his dreams, people came from near and far to listen to his schemes.
Now you must understand, dreaming is a gift that not all can command. Word soon spread, and with it came dread. From the depths of the forest surged the people of Morrets. Dreamless they were, these small folk from yore. Few knew of their existence, those who did warned with insistence, “Do not trust the Morrets. They be deceitful and foul. Your dreams they are after, and moreover your soul.”
The old man had a grandson of a very young age. The boy loved his Grandpa and considered him sage. Knowledge of the Morrets reached his tender ears, and begging he asked his Grandpa in tears, “Please, stop your dreaming, or at least guard your tongue. The Morrets come closer, they’ll be here before long.”
“Shush, boy. I have dreamt of the Morrets. Let them come to our home. After listening to my dreams, they will leave us alone.”
The moon rose and set in a rhythmic pattern. Night after night, the boy stood outside holding his lantern. He raised his head and muttered a prayer, “Please, whoever is out there, if need be, make me a Morret slayer.” The day finally came, when he saw them approach, each rode a mouse. Their queen rode a coach.
“Grandpa, they’re here! Should we flee to the sea? Or at least hide in the barn, please listen to me!”
“My boy, I have told you they will cause me no harm. There will be no disaster, it is the Dreamweaving they are after.”
The Morrets were dressed in furs and old leather, but the queen dressed in silks and sat under a canopy, protected from the weather. Tiny they were, with beady little eyes. The boy thought they resembled their mice.
“Old man,” the Morret captain spoke, “deep from the forest we come to listen to your dreams. We lack imagination, and you could be our salvation. In our land nothing changes, nothing stirs. All remains the same, after all these long years. We offer gold for the stories we’re told. But be warned, if your dreams do not help us, you will pay with your soul.”
Without a worry, the boy’s Grandpa started his story. Dream after dream he shared with all that listened and cared. Then came the dream of the fairy, which had been trapped on the prairie. He told of how the fairy people lamented and moaned, and to the boy’s surprise, the Morret queen glowed. The Morrets grew restless and circled their queen. They whispered enchantments, not all was what it seemed.
The queen glowed brighter until it hurt to look. With the light came power, and the ground shook. “Release me, you brutes!” came the queen’s angry voice. It was laced with sorrow and regal poise. The Morrets grew furious, and the boy trembled in fear. He tried to run, but his Grandpa held him near.
“Pay close attention to what happens next. It is not everyday we save someone from a hex.”
The boy did not understand his Grandpa’s words, but became distracted when the Morrets drew swords. They charged on their mice and to their surprise, their silver swords turned to ice. Scared and confused, they stopped in their tracks, forgetting the lady who remained at their backs. She uncovered her face from the elegant silk. Her skin was radiant and white as milk. Such was her energy that she had become light, she shone like the sun, just as warm and bright. The warriors yelped when the swords they held melted. The boy’s Grandpa chuckled as the Morrets lamented.
The old man then became somber. “I dreamt of a wrong that should go on no longer. The fairy folk grieve for the kin they cannot retrieve. This Dreamweaver is old and can no longer hold, the magic of fairies of which he’s been told. The breeze of the prairie has been gifted, instead, to my grandson—the next Dreamweaver to be bred. Kneel at his power or be warned of your death, for he will right all the wrongs with his almighty breath.”
A gentle breeze stirred the boy’s sandy hair, leaving a scent of lavender in the air. Slowly gaining force and tempo, it carried fairy voices like a distant echo. The Morrets shook with rage and fear at the trick they had been dealt, but none on the land before the boy knelt.
The wind was too much and the boy had to gasp, it entered his lungs with the sting of a wasp. It came with a strength that had no place to go. The boy understood that he had to let go. Aiming at the Morrets, he gave a mighty blow. The Morrets panicked. Their mice they tried to ride. From the fairy’s magic wind, there was no place to hide. It reached them swift, and their souls were set adrift. With the wind came the music, for the whole land to hear. The beautiful song of the fairies was so pure and clear, that to the boy’s eyes it brought a tear.
From the coach came the light, of the fairy in flight. “For your gallant courage, wishes I grant you three.”
“The only wish I have, my lady, is for you to be free.”
“A gift I must bestow for such selfless an act. Your life, of suffering, from now on will be intact.” Fairy dust descended from the fairy’s wings with ease, and on the boy’s and old man’s head it landed, making them sneeze.
It is said than in a cottage south of the North Sea, live a Dreamweaver and his grandson, as peaceful as can be.
Now you must understand, dreaming is a gift that not all can command. Word soon spread, and with it came dread. From the depths of the forest surged the people of Morrets. Dreamless they were, these small folk from yore. Few knew of their existence, those who did warned with insistence, “Do not trust the Morrets. They be deceitful and foul. Your dreams they are after, and moreover your soul.”
The old man had a grandson of a very young age. The boy loved his Grandpa and considered him sage. Knowledge of the Morrets reached his tender ears, and begging he asked his Grandpa in tears, “Please, stop your dreaming, or at least guard your tongue. The Morrets come closer, they’ll be here before long.”
“Shush, boy. I have dreamt of the Morrets. Let them come to our home. After listening to my dreams, they will leave us alone.”
The moon rose and set in a rhythmic pattern. Night after night, the boy stood outside holding his lantern. He raised his head and muttered a prayer, “Please, whoever is out there, if need be, make me a Morret slayer.” The day finally came, when he saw them approach, each rode a mouse. Their queen rode a coach.
“Grandpa, they’re here! Should we flee to the sea? Or at least hide in the barn, please listen to me!”
“My boy, I have told you they will cause me no harm. There will be no disaster, it is the Dreamweaving they are after.”
The Morrets were dressed in furs and old leather, but the queen dressed in silks and sat under a canopy, protected from the weather. Tiny they were, with beady little eyes. The boy thought they resembled their mice.
“Old man,” the Morret captain spoke, “deep from the forest we come to listen to your dreams. We lack imagination, and you could be our salvation. In our land nothing changes, nothing stirs. All remains the same, after all these long years. We offer gold for the stories we’re told. But be warned, if your dreams do not help us, you will pay with your soul.”
Without a worry, the boy’s Grandpa started his story. Dream after dream he shared with all that listened and cared. Then came the dream of the fairy, which had been trapped on the prairie. He told of how the fairy people lamented and moaned, and to the boy’s surprise, the Morret queen glowed. The Morrets grew restless and circled their queen. They whispered enchantments, not all was what it seemed.
The queen glowed brighter until it hurt to look. With the light came power, and the ground shook. “Release me, you brutes!” came the queen’s angry voice. It was laced with sorrow and regal poise. The Morrets grew furious, and the boy trembled in fear. He tried to run, but his Grandpa held him near.
“Pay close attention to what happens next. It is not everyday we save someone from a hex.”
The boy did not understand his Grandpa’s words, but became distracted when the Morrets drew swords. They charged on their mice and to their surprise, their silver swords turned to ice. Scared and confused, they stopped in their tracks, forgetting the lady who remained at their backs. She uncovered her face from the elegant silk. Her skin was radiant and white as milk. Such was her energy that she had become light, she shone like the sun, just as warm and bright. The warriors yelped when the swords they held melted. The boy’s Grandpa chuckled as the Morrets lamented.
The old man then became somber. “I dreamt of a wrong that should go on no longer. The fairy folk grieve for the kin they cannot retrieve. This Dreamweaver is old and can no longer hold, the magic of fairies of which he’s been told. The breeze of the prairie has been gifted, instead, to my grandson—the next Dreamweaver to be bred. Kneel at his power or be warned of your death, for he will right all the wrongs with his almighty breath.”
A gentle breeze stirred the boy’s sandy hair, leaving a scent of lavender in the air. Slowly gaining force and tempo, it carried fairy voices like a distant echo. The Morrets shook with rage and fear at the trick they had been dealt, but none on the land before the boy knelt.
The wind was too much and the boy had to gasp, it entered his lungs with the sting of a wasp. It came with a strength that had no place to go. The boy understood that he had to let go. Aiming at the Morrets, he gave a mighty blow. The Morrets panicked. Their mice they tried to ride. From the fairy’s magic wind, there was no place to hide. It reached them swift, and their souls were set adrift. With the wind came the music, for the whole land to hear. The beautiful song of the fairies was so pure and clear, that to the boy’s eyes it brought a tear.
From the coach came the light, of the fairy in flight. “For your gallant courage, wishes I grant you three.”
“The only wish I have, my lady, is for you to be free.”
“A gift I must bestow for such selfless an act. Your life, of suffering, from now on will be intact.” Fairy dust descended from the fairy’s wings with ease, and on the boy’s and old man’s head it landed, making them sneeze.
It is said than in a cottage south of the North Sea, live a Dreamweaver and his grandson, as peaceful as can be.
The Sacrifice
Copyright © 2013 L.Lombard - All Rights Reserved
**The Sacrifice was a finalist at Morning Rain Publishing's first Freaky Flash Competition. The rules were that it should be 1000 words or less, contain the following words: flesh, haunt, mausoleum, tarantula, potato; and be, well, freaky! I did not include all the required words, a mistake I'm not likely to make again!
“Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one.”
The girls sang the numbers as their tired legs protested from the strain of climbing the steep steps, each no wider than half their shoe size. They had found it funny at first, ascending with their bodies turned sideways in order to fit their whole foot onto the narrow space. The last thirty or so steps had consisted of a quiet scramble on all fours while chanting the numbers under their breaths.
They lay at the top of the pyramid, their backs against the warm stone, not caring about lost etiquette. Other tourists panted around them. Beads of sweat lined faces of all nationalities. Tomorrow would be the spring equinox, and people from all over had come to witness the results of perfect architecture and a deep knowledge of astrology. When the late afternoon sun hit the northwest corner, a series of triangular shadows would create the illusion of a feathered serpent “climbing” down the steps of the majestic Mayan temple. Spectators would be held back to witness the sight from a distance. Isa and her friends would not miss it for the world.
“I’m glad we climbed today,” said Christina.
“If I can ever move my legs again, I’ll say it was totally worth it,” answered Mel.
Isa closed her eyes, feeling the sun touch her face. Orange-tinted shadows danced behind her eyelids. Shapes formed in the shadows. A feeling of urgency overcame her. Isa didn’t understand why, but she knew no more time should be wasted.
Standing, she brushed her bottom and walked to the other side of the flat platform. Chichen Itza was a four-sided pyramid. Each side consisted of ninety-one steps that when added together, including the top platform as the last step, gave you a total of 365 steps. Three hundred sixty-five days. A year. A year tomorrow from when she’d had the first nightmare.
“Wow, it looks too steep from up here. I’m going to crawl down on my butt.”
Mel’s comment chased away the thoughts and made Isa laugh. “Yep, I think we all are,” she said.
Thick jungle grew for miles around the temple, yet Isa could clearly imagine the small huts where the Mayans would have lived. Huts made of adobe, with corrals that held goats and chickens. Children running up and down dirt roads. Women in white sack-like dresses attending to chores. Men in loincloths working the fields, or training as warriors. The temple at the center of the city, standing splendid and imposing. She looked down the steps and her head swam in dizzying blackness.
The chanting grew louder and louder. Isa tried to get away from the rough hands that held her firmly. She was pushed to the edge of the platform.
"Ixza! Ixza!"
The blade of the knife glinted under the unforgiving sun – her god – who also clamored for her blood. The rough hands ripped her dress, revealing her heaving chest.
“Whoa! You okay?” asked Christina, grabbing Isa by the arm and holding her steady. “You were swaying for a moment there.”
Isa blinked. Cold sweat clung to her body. The nightmares invaded her waking thoughts. It was something she didn't wish to discuss. “I’m okay. Looking down made me a little woozy,” she said.
“I think we need to get back down and find some water,” Mel said, looking at Isa with concern.
The three of them sat on the highest step and began their descent, bottoms first, with their backs against the sharp stone steps. Out of breath, they reached level ground and walked across the flat expanse that surrounded the temple. They passed tourists posing for pictures and standing in groups around guides.
“Nice ladies want tattoo of Maya symbols?”
They turned to see an old man sitting under a Kapok tree. His skin was brown and leathered, showing wrinkle upon wrinkle as he grinned. His two front teeth were missing. “Tattoo of ancient Maya symbols? Keep you safe.”
“As if,” muttered Christina. “You’ll die from anything he inks you with. ‘Sides, there’s probably some kind of Mayan peyote in it.”
The old man shook his head. “No, no ink. Henna.”
Isa laughed. “Really? Henna?” she asked, approaching the man. His eyes twinkled as he opened a woven sack and produced a tattered notebook. Pictographs of jaguars, snakes, of men, women, warriors, birds, suns… all drawn with a sure hand upon pages and pages of yellowed paper. “Did you draw these?” she asked, admiring them.
“Me Mayan scribe,” he said, grinning his toothless grin. “For you, eagle. Eagle fix bad dreams.”
Isa drew a sharp breath. She handed back the notebook and stepped away. “How do you…? Never mind. Let’s go,” she said, tugging at her friends.
“Chiwol say you no can go,” said the old man.
Isa looked back to see a huge tarantula climbing on the man’s shoulder. She gasped and he shook with silent laughter. “Eagle tattoo for you.” His voice lured her. Mel pulled her back and the man’s head snapped up, his eyes piercing into Mel’s. She stood at an odd pose next to Christina, both with shoulders and heads bent low, their eyes locked on the ground beneath them.
The tarantula raised its front legs. “Chiwol want you,” said the man. He produced a vial with brown liquid and a stick with fine hairs tied around the tip. Unable to move away, Isa watched as he painted the eagle glyph on the inside of her wrist. As soon as he was done, the tarantula leapt and sank its fangs into her flesh, straight through the eagle's eyes. Isa screamed. The man was gone.
The painted eagle spread its wings and traveled over her skin to rest over her heart, making it take flight. "Ixza," whispered a voice she was sure to be Chiwol's, "tomorrow as the feathered snake descends, your blood will spill to feed me."
The eagle’s eyes bled, staining her blouse red.
Rivers of blood ran down the temple’s steps.
The girls sang the numbers as their tired legs protested from the strain of climbing the steep steps, each no wider than half their shoe size. They had found it funny at first, ascending with their bodies turned sideways in order to fit their whole foot onto the narrow space. The last thirty or so steps had consisted of a quiet scramble on all fours while chanting the numbers under their breaths.
They lay at the top of the pyramid, their backs against the warm stone, not caring about lost etiquette. Other tourists panted around them. Beads of sweat lined faces of all nationalities. Tomorrow would be the spring equinox, and people from all over had come to witness the results of perfect architecture and a deep knowledge of astrology. When the late afternoon sun hit the northwest corner, a series of triangular shadows would create the illusion of a feathered serpent “climbing” down the steps of the majestic Mayan temple. Spectators would be held back to witness the sight from a distance. Isa and her friends would not miss it for the world.
“I’m glad we climbed today,” said Christina.
“If I can ever move my legs again, I’ll say it was totally worth it,” answered Mel.
Isa closed her eyes, feeling the sun touch her face. Orange-tinted shadows danced behind her eyelids. Shapes formed in the shadows. A feeling of urgency overcame her. Isa didn’t understand why, but she knew no more time should be wasted.
Standing, she brushed her bottom and walked to the other side of the flat platform. Chichen Itza was a four-sided pyramid. Each side consisted of ninety-one steps that when added together, including the top platform as the last step, gave you a total of 365 steps. Three hundred sixty-five days. A year. A year tomorrow from when she’d had the first nightmare.
“Wow, it looks too steep from up here. I’m going to crawl down on my butt.”
Mel’s comment chased away the thoughts and made Isa laugh. “Yep, I think we all are,” she said.
Thick jungle grew for miles around the temple, yet Isa could clearly imagine the small huts where the Mayans would have lived. Huts made of adobe, with corrals that held goats and chickens. Children running up and down dirt roads. Women in white sack-like dresses attending to chores. Men in loincloths working the fields, or training as warriors. The temple at the center of the city, standing splendid and imposing. She looked down the steps and her head swam in dizzying blackness.
The chanting grew louder and louder. Isa tried to get away from the rough hands that held her firmly. She was pushed to the edge of the platform.
"Ixza! Ixza!"
The blade of the knife glinted under the unforgiving sun – her god – who also clamored for her blood. The rough hands ripped her dress, revealing her heaving chest.
“Whoa! You okay?” asked Christina, grabbing Isa by the arm and holding her steady. “You were swaying for a moment there.”
Isa blinked. Cold sweat clung to her body. The nightmares invaded her waking thoughts. It was something she didn't wish to discuss. “I’m okay. Looking down made me a little woozy,” she said.
“I think we need to get back down and find some water,” Mel said, looking at Isa with concern.
The three of them sat on the highest step and began their descent, bottoms first, with their backs against the sharp stone steps. Out of breath, they reached level ground and walked across the flat expanse that surrounded the temple. They passed tourists posing for pictures and standing in groups around guides.
“Nice ladies want tattoo of Maya symbols?”
They turned to see an old man sitting under a Kapok tree. His skin was brown and leathered, showing wrinkle upon wrinkle as he grinned. His two front teeth were missing. “Tattoo of ancient Maya symbols? Keep you safe.”
“As if,” muttered Christina. “You’ll die from anything he inks you with. ‘Sides, there’s probably some kind of Mayan peyote in it.”
The old man shook his head. “No, no ink. Henna.”
Isa laughed. “Really? Henna?” she asked, approaching the man. His eyes twinkled as he opened a woven sack and produced a tattered notebook. Pictographs of jaguars, snakes, of men, women, warriors, birds, suns… all drawn with a sure hand upon pages and pages of yellowed paper. “Did you draw these?” she asked, admiring them.
“Me Mayan scribe,” he said, grinning his toothless grin. “For you, eagle. Eagle fix bad dreams.”
Isa drew a sharp breath. She handed back the notebook and stepped away. “How do you…? Never mind. Let’s go,” she said, tugging at her friends.
“Chiwol say you no can go,” said the old man.
Isa looked back to see a huge tarantula climbing on the man’s shoulder. She gasped and he shook with silent laughter. “Eagle tattoo for you.” His voice lured her. Mel pulled her back and the man’s head snapped up, his eyes piercing into Mel’s. She stood at an odd pose next to Christina, both with shoulders and heads bent low, their eyes locked on the ground beneath them.
The tarantula raised its front legs. “Chiwol want you,” said the man. He produced a vial with brown liquid and a stick with fine hairs tied around the tip. Unable to move away, Isa watched as he painted the eagle glyph on the inside of her wrist. As soon as he was done, the tarantula leapt and sank its fangs into her flesh, straight through the eagle's eyes. Isa screamed. The man was gone.
The painted eagle spread its wings and traveled over her skin to rest over her heart, making it take flight. "Ixza," whispered a voice she was sure to be Chiwol's, "tomorrow as the feathered snake descends, your blood will spill to feed me."
The eagle’s eyes bled, staining her blouse red.
Rivers of blood ran down the temple’s steps.
Counting by Twos
Copyright © 2014 L.Lombard - All Rights Reserved
**Counting by Twos is the result of a request made by my publishers at Morning Rain Publishing to try my hand at poetry in celebration of National Poetry Month.
Shining, blinked two tiny lights.
We were awed with wild surprise.
It was enlightening to realize,
Not one, but two, would fill our lives.
Two of everything became our style.
Because of you there’s twice the smiles.
The dreams, the sighs,
The extra miles.
Two pairs of arms we’ve wished to have,
Twice the time to catch your falls.
Two hands for each of you to hold,
Twice the strength to let you go.
By twos we count your steps, your goals.
Twice we ache to see you try.
By two, the need for you to know,
Twice our hearts soar as you fly.
Twice the miracles, the pride, the love,
Two of everything you brought along.
And as we listen through the years,
Your hopes and dreams become our song.
We see you now, so strong and sure,
Ready to leave your mark in the world.
Two sets of tracks you’ll leave behind,
Two paths back home you’ll always find.
We were awed with wild surprise.
It was enlightening to realize,
Not one, but two, would fill our lives.
Two of everything became our style.
Because of you there’s twice the smiles.
The dreams, the sighs,
The extra miles.
Two pairs of arms we’ve wished to have,
Twice the time to catch your falls.
Two hands for each of you to hold,
Twice the strength to let you go.
By twos we count your steps, your goals.
Twice we ache to see you try.
By two, the need for you to know,
Twice our hearts soar as you fly.
Twice the miracles, the pride, the love,
Two of everything you brought along.
And as we listen through the years,
Your hopes and dreams become our song.
We see you now, so strong and sure,
Ready to leave your mark in the world.
Two sets of tracks you’ll leave behind,
Two paths back home you’ll always find.