What Dreams are Made Of_Part Two: The Moon's Maiden

On the way back down there were weeds and brambles and gravel-slides to contend with. Not to mention going down took nearly two hours; had coming up taken as long? He wasn’t sure, just tired. He began to doubt. Wasn’t all this too much? Could it even be done? And if so, what made him the one to do it?

The nerve had been ground out of him as a child; he’d gone through the mill and come out cracked. For a long time he'd been fragile, laced with fissures invisible to the naked eye. Still he pressed on. Hope and reason were tied to creating worlds of words and pictures. It was both an escape from and an expression of his condition.

Back in his room, he began to put away his hope and ready himself for bed. A long day had passed. The magic of the Moon was nearly forgotten. Perhaps the notion of improving the present or having the future he’d long desired was best not pursued. Perhaps he’d sleep without vision or memory and put off this nonsense, until it was finally forgotten. At least he’d had the satisfaction of dabbling in his dreams.

When the lights went out, he was hidden safely beneath the blanket of a listless slumber. The minutes added up to hours and passed indifferently. The room was quiet. Even the katydids stopped their endless humming and turned a chitinous ear to the muted stars.

How he came to stand by the window with eyes wide and breathing slowed to a crawl, he was unaware. She was coming toward him, her white dress billowing in the twilight breeze. Her skin was pale and glowed like the Moon. She smiled and spoke delicately in a voice that was lost behind the window pane. He leaned forward as if to read her lips…that’s when he awoke.

To be continued