5: Dream Snatched

Back home, neither Windslow nor Hillary had time to give the book much thought. They were busy enough helping unpack from the camping trip and getting things ready for school the next day. Trish looked at the bite on Hillary’s ankle and decided it wasn’t serious. A dab of antiseptic and a band-aid helped stop the itching and took Hillary’s mind off the small red spot. They all hoped to get extra sleep that night, knowing tomorrow would likely be a hectic day.

After Windslow’s accident, they had swapped bedrooms. Bill and Trish moved into Hillary’s bedroom in the walkout basement of their rambler. Nestled into a gentle slope, the house had a path that curved around from front yard to back. Bill paved it with bricks so Windslow could use it with his wheelchair. A wooden ramp gave him access to the front sidewalk, driveway and garage. With little effort, he could wheel himself around the yard, up the ramp and down the hall to his bedroom, just across from Hillary’s.

As night settled on the neighborhood, lamps turned off, blinking out yellow squares of light that stretched from windows onto lawns in front of each house. An occasional car drove down the street, sweeping headlights across hedges, young trees and a bicycle someone forgot to put away. Here and there a voice called out about a notebook, lunch money and other things. The voices faded. Darkness took hold, except for thin strips of hazy light that snuck past edges of drawn curtains; one of them from Windslow’s room.

He’d gone to bed long ago. The flashlight rested on his blanket, weary batteries barely giving light--light he no longer needed for the book. It lay open exposing the first page. The cream colored paper held no visible words, yet showed faint shading where four lines of text waited in its center. Windslow’s breathing was slow and regular. The book rose and fell on his chest with each breath as he stepped deeper into sleep. With each step into sleep, the lines darkened. When his dream began, graceful script with swirls and sweeping flourishes stood boldly on the page.

The story in this chance begins,

Found in pages locked within.

Open them with words of care.

What you seek is waiting there.

***

He floated downward ever so slowly, rocking first to the left and back to the right. A puff of wind gently lifted him upward. It eased away its support and down he drifted once again. Below him, finger-paint colors played a game of chase, marking multicolor paths with bright greens, blues and yellows. Above and around him clouds gave comfort; silver-gray and brilliant white, they carried him along. He played the shape game, searching out billowy forms that reminded him of animals and buildings. He couldn’t call out any names. His voice failed him but he didn’t mind.

His feather ride gained speed and the movements lost their gentle sway. He twisted wildly, dipping and rising in a carnival ride of wind. The clouds turned burnt charcoal. Grainy edges scattered into powdery dust, leaving black coal forms with pocks and deep shadows. A delicate hand stretched out toward him, but the clouds and winds sucked it away. There. Again it reached for him. Someone screamed his name. He knew the voice. Dark shapes wrapped around the arm, struggling to pull it back.

Windslow tried to cry out, “Hillary,” but the words choked in his throat. He stretched his hand toward hers. Their fingers touched.

He couldn’t grab her hand or see her, yet that small connection between them held. The wind buffeted against the stormy battle that swept them along. He enjoyed the thrill and wonder of it all. He’d had vivid dreams of traveling before. He started having them after the accident. Some had scared him but now he recognized them for what they were. Just dreams. He’d wake up soon to find his chair waiting for him.

A strand of silver brushed past his face and draped across his wrist. He laughed to himself, thinking it looked like a bit of tinsel from a Christmas tree. It wrapped itself around his wrist three times. With each turn the end tucked under and over itself, weaving in and out until the two ends formed a small clasp. They clicked together to finish the silver bracelet that hung loosely around his wrist.

His fingertips tingled and slipped away from Hillary’s. Her fingers retreated back into the boiling clouds that drifted away. The storm calmed. He thought his feather ride would return. It didn’t. Whatever held him up abruptly left.

The sensation of falling in a dream always woke him up; even faster after his real fall from the roof. This fall was short and he didn’t wake.

Foof… Pa-toof. He landed like he’d flopped into a beanbag chair, but this wasn’t like the one Hillary had in her bedroom. It was wood with no arms and a high back, just like the ones in the dining room that he and Hillary weren’t supposed to rock back in. And, it was pink; the brightest pink he had ever seen.

***

“Too bad for you. Wakie up now.”

Hillary rubbed her eyes. It couldn’t be time for school yet. She felt like she had just gone to sleep.

“Why you here?”

What was that voice? she asked herself, as her sleep haze gave way and she opened her eyes. She blinked and stared, wondering if she should pinch herself like she heard people on TV say when they couldn't believe what they saw. She was in a cell; a cell with iron bars and in a dungeon too. Cold stone formed the cell’s back wall. On each side, rows of metal bars thrust forward to separate her small space from others on either side of her. Rods set just wide enough to reach a hand through stood sentinel across the front, their even pattern barely broken by the doorframe of each cell. Old straw littered the floor and the place smelled like a dog kennel that needed a good wash by a fire hose.

“He get you here. Dream snatchie, betcha.”

Hillary turned her head, almost afraid to look where the voice came from. In a corner of the cell next to her huddled a girl, about the same age as Hillary and a little shorter. The girl sat like Hillary, in a corner with her legs pulled up against her chest. She stared back with big round gerbil eyes and smiled.

Hillary took a quick glance at herself. She was wearing her pajamas; the pale yellow cotton ones with the tiny monarch butterfly print. The girl in the next cell wore a plain brown dress that stopped at her knees where blue big polka dot socks continued down and tucked into soft brown boots. Her eyes and hair almost called out a silent command to ignore her clothes and look at her face. Black bristly hair, sticking out in a neatly trimmed circle reminded Hillary of a chimney sweep’s brush.

“Hi. I Molly Folly Sallyforth. Who you?”

“I… I’m Hillary. Hillary Windgate-Summerfield. Where are we? How’d I get here?”

“Fistlock’s place,” the slender girl said as she scooted over to the bars separating their cells. “Told you. Dream snatchie. Woodo voodoo.” Molly thrust her arms between the bars and wiggled her fingers. “Magic stuff.”

Hillary stayed in her corner. “Who is Fistlock and you didn’t tell me where we are.”

“Big baddie. Big trouble. He big boss of everything. We here,” Molly said and tapped her finger on the stone floor. “Dungeon. Not bad place. Better place than there,” she said, pointing upward. “Fistlock up there.”

Hillary hoped the strange fast talking girl didn’t notice when Hillary slipped an arm down and pinched herself.

“What you make face for? Cause you gonna die? Don’t worry. I help you out. Help you escape for ear thing.” Molly tugged at her ear and smiled.

“What? You mean my earring?” Hillary asked and touched one of the earrings she wore. It was the only pair she had; tiny diamond studs, so small you could hardly see the stone, but Hillary loved them. Mothers were strange. Trish wouldn’t let Hillary wear makeup but had been the one who urged Hillary to get her ears pierced. Hillary saw this as a small battle won in the struggle to convince her mother to give in about the makeup. She wouldn’t part with them for both reasons, and besides, this whole thing, this place... That was it. This place, she thought. This is just a dream; just a dream because of that stupid book. “Sorry, Molly. I’m keeping them. I think this is all just a dream.”

“Was dream,” Molly said. “Not now. Now real, but maybe you safe a bit. Maybe he not kill you before you sleep. Then gone, bye bye. But you be back again. Next dream. You see,” she said nodding her head as she spoke. “Where other friend?”

 “What friend?”

“Lookie your fingers.”

Hillary looked at the back of her hand then turned it over to check her palm. Her fingertips were smudged with silver, as if she had wiped them across glittery eye shadow.

“See. You gotta mark. You come with somebody. He boy. Got boyfriend?”

Hillary curled her fingers into a fist and put her hand behind her back. “What makes you think that?”

“That double dream snatchie mark. Girls gold, boys silver. Girls prettier.”

“Windslow,” Harriet said softly. She moved over to the bars and held out her hand. “Here, take my earring. We need to have a long talk.”

“Not now,” Molly said and snatched the earring. “Somebody come.”

***

“This dream is so cool,” Windslow said and looked at the three small men dressed in funny clothes standing in front of him. Each man stared and pointed a long, skinny, bark-less twig at him.

“No dream, boy,” One of the funny men said. “Hand it over.”

“Hand what over?” Windslow answered and looked around, ignoring them. This was the best dream he’d had in a long time and he didn’t want to miss anything. Usually his dreams didn’t have detailed backgrounds. “This place is great,” he said, not really talking to the men as he looked around the old room. Odd shaped beakers sat on wall shelves and dried plants dangled from bits of twine tied to the rafters.

“Give it up or …. Or we’ll do something you won’t like.”

“Sure, sure,” Windslow said, still ignoring them, hoping they’d just fade away. He tried to see around them to look for a kitchen. He must have gone to bed hungry because the smell of cinnamon floated to him in-between scents of licorice and root beer. He wondered if the smells might be coming from vapors that floated up from tiny brass pots on the table behind the three misfits from a matinee movie.

“All right, we’re going to take it. No funny moves now.”

Windslow looked down. The Book of Second Chances lay in his lap. “Whoa, what’s this doing in my dream?” He gave the book a shove. It slipped off his pajamas, bounced off his toe and slapped to the wood floor. “Owe!” he yelled. He didn’t jerk his leg up but it did move. He saw it. He felt it twitch from the pain throbbing in his big toe. For the first time he looked closely at the three old men. They backed away and stood shoulder to shoulder, still pointing their sticks at him.

He’d never been hurt in a dream before and nothing ever happened below his waist in a dream since his fall. He glanced around the room again; realizing things looked too real, smelled too real, felt too real. “I am dreaming?” he asked, this time speaking directly to the three men.

“You were, but not now,” the one with the long beard answered. “You dream traveled. Larkstone cast a spell bracelet to intercept you. It’s on your wrist. Fistlock has a charm on that book. You’re lucky he didn’t get you. Now hand it over.”

“I didn’t know it belonged to anyone,” Windslow said and tried to reach the book. He leaned over and stopped; afraid he’d fall out of the chair. “I can’t. I’m… I’m paralyzed.”

“Check him, Larkstone.”

The odd fellow wearing a robe embroidered with fish and seashell shapes took a step forward. Windslow felt a slight tingling sensation move down his body as Larkstone moved his stick in a large oval. Both of Windslow’s legs quivered for a second when the tingling reached them. “Could be a lie. Then again, could be the truth. I can’t tell,” the old fellow said.

“How about this,” the third man said. He thrust his stick out at Windslow.

It felt like the time Windslow had been trying to fix his stereo and had touched that red wire. He jerked upright, stood, teetered for a few seconds and fell to the floor.

“Humph. Thought so,” the man said. “It’s not that he couldn’t use his legs, he just doesn’t. Something is injured in his back but he could overcome it.

Windslow twisted to his side, grabbed the book and gave it a hard shove. It slid across the floor to the three men. “Take it,” he said, fighting back tears. “Just let me go home. I want to wake up.”

“I told you,” the one with the beard said as he squatted down and put one hand on the book. “You’re not dreaming and you won’t go home until you fall asleep.” He kept his stick pointed at Windslow. “You’ll dream-slip back to where you came from. Now that we have the book, you won’t be back.”

“Look,” the one named Larkstone said. “It’s unlatched.”

The bearded man moved his stare from Windslow to the book. He flipped open the front cover. “He knows how to use it,” he said to his companions. “There’s already writing on the first page. Now what?”

“It was blank when I fell asleep,” Windslow said. “I don’t know how to use it or what it’s for. It’s just a dumb old book. Can I go home now?”