Seeker, Wanderer, Lost Boy, Storyteller: The Many Names of the Dream King

Seek the Dreamer, my child. When you have sought every last fantasy whispered to the first stars of the night, you will find your way home once more.

#

The old king stood at the edge of the water. It wrapped icy waves around his bare feet and ankles. Each drag of water covered his curled toes with sand and pulled his heels deeper. He let the sand anchor him; for he did not stand in the ocean to look at it.

He stood in the ocean to get closer to the moon. It was high in the sky, centered over the water before him and glowed silver and yellow. Its colour leaked down toward the ocean, cutting a path against the black of the night and the rolling waves. It was this path which his gaze was fixed upon, this path which, should he take the first step, would carry him home. Or so he hoped.

He felt the hope falter as he looked at the path riding across the water. It flowed with the waves and appeared transparent. The mortals of this world had to be wrong. The moon’s light was not a solid path to the branches of the Tree. It would not carry him home. Not any more than the gold leafed pictures of their books.

He took a breath and clenched a hand tighter around his single possession. The book was thick, soft and hard at the same time. A comfort which spurred him to stepped forward. One foot, then another and another. Slowly, he moved through the water. His feet were numb and still deep in the waves, growing deeper but still he walked.

Time dragged on and he seemed no closer. He raised his head to the moon, ready to cry out, desperate and losing hope. He had fallen from his world,  long ago. He’d fallen off the branches, into the spaces between. He had fallen to this one many years ago; among hills of green pine that grew into mountains of snow. Through those pines he had walked, over those mountains he had climbed, finding golden plains and river valleys. Through those plains he had run and through those valleys he had stepped over stones. Through those wide spaces he had come to olive groves and desert shores of endless, orange sands.

There he found people, at last, caught in ordered cities of wagon-filled streets and spice markets. There he found stories. Spoken from mouth to mouth, passed from hand gesture to hand gesture and written from pen to ink to papyrus. There he found a way home. A path which took him to the edge of the world, where all that was left was water which stretched for time immemorial. Until at last, it collided with the sun’s horizon.

He stopped walking, now up to his knees in the waves and wondered; if he was to take the moon’s path, did he not need to wait until the sun rose, in order to see the end? In the night, there was no end, for everything moved into and out of a blackness. If he waited, just a little more, and a little was not much when he had wandered as long as he had, perhaps he’d be able to catch the stairs when the sun birthed shadows from its rays.

Those would light the stairs, to the moon, surely and if he ran, he’d have just long enough to reach the top.

He waited for the light and while he waited, he sang a song. It spoke of wolves which chased ravens who tried to pluck the stars from the branches of the Tree. He sang of the hero who wished to touch the stars and changed himself into a wolf. He sang as the hero ran and ran, forgetting who he’d been until a raven tricked him off the Tree. The song made the old king feel like a seed on the wind. He cut the lullaby off before the hero could find his way home.

He took two steps more but no light showed. He sighed and a tear dropped from his single eye, the other long lost in battle. Then he turned his face toward the moon once more. It sparkled; in a silver and yellow of home, fire and song. He took a third step and at last, as he did so, he spied a crack of gold within the black. The night was ending, the sun was rising. And now, there, among the water, he could see shadows forming. Shadows of stairs which glittered with the gold of the sun and the shadows beneath.

With a cry of joy he bounded forward, taking the steps two at a time. He raced up the stairs toward the moon, ready to chase his way home once more.

In his hand he held the book, full of the stories he’d walked, the stories he’d heard and the stories he’d sang for the thousand nights to keep himself warm and full of hope for the light.

ARR ~ Moony

Today’s fiction was inspired by my favourite band, Nightwish and their song, The Islander.