Dream of Me

by Quinn Loftis

  As she headed to work, she shoved the tiny voice that wanted her to give the whole Sandman some consideration into a mental box. I’m eighteen years old for goodness sake, she told herself. I don’t believe in mythical beings, especially not when I’m told about them by a kid in a dream. But what if that kid is a self-professed genius who spouts out knowledge as if she’s a scholar and uses words that no eight-year-old should comprehend? “No, Sarah Serenity,” she said firmly and this time out loud. She pulled into the parking lot of the vet clinic and took several deep breaths. “There is no Sandman; there is no eight-year-old genius, and the world will not implode on itself if you leave Yellville.” Saying it all out loud made her realize just how ridiculous it sounded. Sufficiently convinced of her sanity, she finally opened her car door and headed in for work. She didn’t allow herself to think about the Dair character at all, okay no more than a few dozen times, and she didn’t come up with bizarre scenarios for why she would need to stay in the small town—well, not more than fifteen, she was sure. And when her cell rang and she answered it knowing it was Glory on the other end, she did not immediately ask, “Do you know anything about the Sandman or an inhuman being named Brudair?” Yep, she had officially jumped off the deep end, head first, while her last shred of dignity peered down at her from the top of the cliff.

  His patience was beginning to wear thin as he watched Serenity argue back and forth with herself about the possibility of his existence and the truth behind the things Emma had told her. His need for her to believe in him irritated him.

  He had been shocked when the girl had taken over the dream. One of the things Dair was able to do when dealing with a particularly difficult human was to link others to the dream he created. This little trick had its own set of rules, however. The most important of these was that the linked individual had to be connected to the dream somehow. The subject had to somehow be involved in the decision his charge was supposed to make. He had no idea how Emma was involved with Serenity’s fate considering they didn’t even live in the same state, but he had hoped the girl would be able to sway her. Instead Emma might have done the complete opposite. She’d given birth to the concept of free will within the dream. She blatantly told Serenity that she could ignore the dream if she wanted to. He would have to have a visit with little Emma. As he thought about the talk he would have with the child, he found himself wishing that Serenity had the faith of one as young as Emma. It wasn’t unusual for children to be able to see him. Not just any children, mind you, but those who were predisposed to seeing the world as more than what was visible to the naked eye. Children weren’t hindered by the need to have facts and tangible evidence that something exists; they just believed because their faith was still innocent, unjaded by the world.

  As Serenity left her job muttering under her breath, “not real, not real, not real,” Dair decided it was time to take matters into his own hands where her belief was concerned. Tonight he would be paying Serenity’s history teacher a visit.

  As always, he followed Serenity home to ensure she arrived there safely. Dair had this need to keep her safe, to ensure that nothing would harm her. He had never felt protective of a human. Then again he had never before been so enamored with one.

  As he waited in her room while she went about her evening activities, he felt a blast of heat engulf him. Dair let out a sigh. He had known it would happen eventually. He was breaking the rules now and that would not go unnoticed.

  “Brudair,” the deep voice from the messenger angel filled the room. Dair turned from the pictures he had been examining that were stuck to a bulletin board on Serenity’s wall and looked at the formidable male. He supposed he could understand why people often freaked out when they saw angels. They were big, and the radiance that was the Creator enveloped them, going with them wherever they went. They, of course, could tamp down that glory when need be but he imagined for humans it was very difficult to be in the same vicinity when their magnificence was on display.

  “Hello, Raphael,” Dair said to his old friend.

  “You know why I’m here.”

  Dair nodded.

  “You are not going to leave, are you?” Raphael asked. He had known Dair a very, very long time, and Dair knew it would be nearly impossible to try to lie to the angel.

  “I cannot leave, not yet,” he told him.

  Raphael’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head, studying him. “You care for this human.” It wasn’t a question.

  “She’s different, unique, and I’m drawn to her.”

  The angel chuckled as he shook his head. In a very human-like manner he rubbed his forehead. “I never thought it would be you—the brooding loner who has kept to himself for centuries now—enamored with a mortal. You know it will not end well. There is a reason the Creator set up the boundaries between our kinds.”

  “I am not an angel, Raphael. Why should the rules be the same for me?” Dair asked, suddenly angry as the thought of the rules squeezed him like steel bands tightening around his chest. “Why should I not be allowed a mate, someone to care for and be cared for by? You were created to worship Him and to deliver His messages, but that was not and is not my purpose. I am simply the dream maker, the Sandman, as the humans like to call me. I have walked this earth since the beginning of time with no real home. I don’t belong in the celestial realm, nor do I belong in the human one.”

  “But you feel that you belong with her,” Raphael finished for him.

  Dair nodded as the fight was quickly drained from him like a balloon loosing air. “I have never felt as though I belong anywhere until Serenity.”

  “What if she does not accept you? What will you do then?”

  “I will leave her and let her live her life without me.” Even as he said the words he wondered if that were true. Could he leave her? Could he allow her to give her heart, body, and spirit to another?

  Raphael was obviously thinking the same thing. “We do not feel as humans do, Dair. Our emotions run much, much deeper and stronger. It is one of the reasons the Creator has forbidden relationships with humans. They are finicky and impulsive, while we are steadfast and determined in our choices. They do not mate for life, or at least the vast majority of them do not. The longer you stay, the more difficult it will be for you to let go. She will never be able to feel the kind of love that you will feel for her; she is not capable of something that pure. If she ever tired of you and decided she did not love you, as they so often do, I do not think you would be able to let her leave you, not even for her own happiness.”

  Dair knew the things he said were true, except for one thing. “I don’t believe that she is not capable of loving as I do. She is different, Raphael; her spirit is different.”

  “Perhaps, but are you so sure that you are willing to risk destroying her if that is not the case? Because your need of her―, your need to protect, to love, to possess, and to touch―will only smother her if what she wants is to be free of you.”

  Dair didn’t want to hear anymore. He didn’t want to think about Serenity rejecting him, though he didn’t know when he had decided to try and win her heart. But he had. He wanted a chance to know her, to see if she could feel for him what he did for her. “I cannot leave just yet,” he said again, when what he really wanted to do was roar at his friend that he knew that he and Serenity might not be able to overcome their differences. But he wasn’t ready to admit that out loud.

  Raphael nodded. “You know the Creator might send others.”

  “I know.”

  “So be it. Take care my friend,” Raphael told him and then was gone, taking all of the heat with him and leaving Dair wrapped in the cold arms of uncertainty and despair.

  “Good night, Aunt Darla.” He heard Serenity’s voice just before her bedroom door opened and, just like that, the feelings fled and were replaced with his need of her. He was so lost in watching her that it was nearly too late when he realized she was about to be undressed as she began changing into her night cl
othes. He turned around quickly just as she began to lift her shirt, feeling even more like a creepy stalker. He had to reveal himself to her. He couldn’t just keep following her around and listening to her conversations without her knowledge. It was beginning to feel like a betrayal of her trust. When he no longer heard the rustling of clothes, he slowly turned his head back, prepared to quickly look away if she was still not dressed. But she was fully clothed and sitting on her bed. Her notebook, where all her notes on her dream were written, was sitting in her lap and she was thumbing through the pages. He figured now was as good a time as any to leave her for a short while and go have a chat with Mr. Sweeney, her history teacher. Of course, Mr. Sweeney would never be aware that it happened.

  Dair stood staring at the middle age man who lay sleeping in his bed. What he was about to do was completely against the rules, but then he seemed to have decided to throw the rulebook out the window when it came to a certain lovely brunette. He began to weave a dream in his mind and push it into the mind of the human before him. When Mr. Sweeney woke up in the morning, he would suddenly have the urge to teach about folklore stemming from central and northern Europe with a particular focus on the legend of the Sandman. Perhaps, that would get Serenity’s attention.

  When he arrived back in her room, she was sound asleep. Her face was so peaceful and she looked so relaxed, he decided to forgo the dream that night. He would let her rest, but tomorrow all bets were off. He was going to stop being a spectator in her life. The time had come to find out if fighting the rules for her was worthwhile. And the only way he could answer that question was to find out if she was even capable of feeling something for him.

  As he bent down over her and pressed a kiss to her temple, he whispered against her skin, “Tomorrow I will begin to make you mine, Sara Serenity.”

  “Tell me more about this dream,” Glory said as she sat across from Serenity in one of the booths at the fire pit. She had called early that morning, demanding to have breakfast because she wanted to know more about the whole Sandman thing. Serenity hadn’t meant to spill the beans, but her mind had been dwelling on it so much that it had just come pouring out of her. And she probably needed to talk with someone about it other than an eight-year-old girl who was actually in the dream. So she had forced herself from the warmth of her bed and met Glory before time for school. The only bonus was that she got an awesome breakfast out of the deal.

  “I already told you the entire thing the other night,” Serenity said. “I think I dreamed it because even though I want to leave this little town, I’m also scared to venture out into the wide world, and I must subconsciously be trying to find an excuse to stay.”

  “What about this Dair character? What’s he all about?” Glory asked, ignoring what she had just said.

  Serenity rolled her eyes and set her fork down on her plate. It was obvious that Glory wasn’t going to give up. “The girl, Emma, said he is the basis of the myth about the Sandman,” Serenity explained again to Glory everything the girl had said about Dair.

  “He sounds mysterious,” her best friend crooned.

  “Give me a break, Glory. For all we know he’s a short, fat, bald man like in the movie The Rise of the Guardians.”

  Glory shook her head. “No, I’m not getting that vibe from your story. This guy sounds powerful in an I’m so hot I scorch the ground when I walk sort-of way.”

  Serenity choked on the drink of orange juice she had been taking. “Sometimes, you really worry me, Glory Day.”

  “You’re the one having dreams supposedly sent by a mythical being that have to be explained to you by an eight year old genius.”

  “Good point,” Serenity conceded. She glanced down at her phone and noticed that she had fifteen minutes to get to class. “I’ve got to go now, so you’ll have to table any other questions you have.”

  Glory stood up with her and walked her to the door. “Do not worry. I will be sure to make a list.”

  Serenity shook her head with a small laugh. “You do that,” she told her as she headed out to her car.

  The muttering of words coming from Serenity’s second period class caught her attention as she neared the door. It wasn’t just the voices that had grabbed her attention, it was the subject matter. She had distinctly heard the word Sandman spoken by several different classmates. Her breath grew heavy in her chest as she entered her history class and read the notes on the board.

  Topic for Friday, December 13, 2014. Central and Northern Europe folklore. Who was the Sandman, really? What are the origins of the myth?

  Serenity was pretty sure her stomach no longer resided in her abdomen, but had somehow relocated itself somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. Meanwhile her heart had decided to take a trip up to her throat. Her mind was reeling. This could not be a coincidence. But how on earth could it be related to her dream? She stood dumbfounded with Emma’s words echoing in her mind. Yep, he’s as real as me. But he isn’t human.

  “Ms. Tillman are you planning on joining us today?” Mr. Sweeney’s voice pulled her back from her slight panic attack.

  “Oh. . .um. . .yes, sorry, I’ll just.” She pointed in the direction of her chair while heading that way. As she took her seat and looked up to the front of the room, she tried to calm her jittery nerves so she could listen―really listen to what Mr. Sweeney was about to teach. If it was only about the folklore that had always been told, regarding the Sandman giving children good dreams, then she was going to blow it off as coincidence. But if there was any information remotely different, then she would consider the possibility that this, Dair―Emma had spoken of―might actually be real. And maybe he could control things. What else could explain the change of subject matter—they were supposed to be studying The Black Plague this week.

  “I know that the topic for today might seem a little off the wall,” Mr. Sweeney began. “But I’ve learned through the years that when I get inspiration to teach something, then I should follow through. I woke up this morning after having a vivid dream last night, and the Sandman was a part of it. It made me curious to learn how this mythical figure came about and to see if there were any factual underpinnings to the story, much like with St. Nicholas and his relationship to Santa Clause. I did some quick research in the library this morning and found some interesting things.” He sifted through a pile of books that were on his desk and finally chose one that was filled with sticky notes protruding from the pages. He flipped to a certain page and ran his finger down the page until he found what he was looking for. “Okay, here we are. Listen to this.”

  Serenity listened as Mr. Sweeny recited the legend that she, and everyone else, already knew. The Sandman sprinkled dust over children while they slept and gave them pleasant dreams―blah, blah, blah. No new information there, she thought. But then Mr. Sweeny paused as if gathering himself and said the magic word: BUT. That three letter word often was the catalyst into a change in direction of the information. Desperate for more information, she leaned forward in her desk as she focused on her history teacher.

  “But, that is not the only published information we have about the Sandman. After much digging, I actually came across another story about him in a very, very old book. It actually seems strange that our library would have such a treasure, but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. This book is a study on ancient texts written between the third and fifth centuries. Most of it was written by a tribe of people from Persia that studied the mystical and spiritual happenings in the world at that time. They took note of everything and anything they heard that seemed unnatural. They were so opened minded that they even listened when children spoke of things that couldn’t be explained by anything other than the supernatural. They studied the supernatural, no matter the form—Jewish God, Greek gods, Egyptian gods, it didn’t matter. This tribe recorded it all. Since they did not practice any particular form of worship, they simply were spectating, observing things that many chose to ignore. I’m going to read a particular entry from during th
eir travels near Syria. We have had several accounts from the children in this region. They say no one will believe them, but their stories are remarkably similar, despite the fact that the children all live miles and miles apart and would have no way to collaborate their stories. They each speak of a man who has come to them in the night after everyone else in the house is sleeping. Each child reports being awake when they meet this man. He calls himself the dream weaver. The children are not scared of him. Each of them says that the man told them that he was there to guide them to their fate. He told each of them that they were special and that not every child got to meet him. He said he only comes to those who would change the course of history. My companions and I have decided to test the story. We have written down the name of one of the children and, should we live long enough to see her grow into adulthood, we will see if she does indeed play such a vital role in the world. It might not give irrefutable evidence of this dream weaver’s existence, but it would certainly give his apologists a strong argument. The name is as follows: Julia Aurelia Zenobia.

  “It is noted several pages later that Julia Aurelia Zenobia became the Queen of the Palmyrene Empire,” Mr. Sweeny continued. “She led a famous revolt against the Roman Empire that prevented them from taking Palmyrene as part of their conquests. So it was apparent that this Julia truly was important in history.

  Now, I ask you,” he questioned, his eyes roaming the classroom, “Does that mean the Sandman, or Dream Weaver as he’s apparently sometimes called, really exists? Perhaps, or perhaps not.” Mr. Sweeney closed the book and held it in his lap as he took a seat on the end of his desk. “This is a great lesson in digging deeper. Oftentimes in history we have a tendency to accept secondhand accounts at face value, instead of seeking out the source. So though he wasn’t called the Sandman during that time, it is obvious that these children were describing the same mythical figure the Europeans later spoke of.”