The Weaver of Dreams

Wizel looked around the cave. He was a small, one foot tall, wizened old man with pointy ears and scant hair which was bald on top but he had grown what little he had left long so that it fell down over his ragged clothing. It reached into his brown wood hood of his jerkin which was tied with a bit of twine over his baggy cream trousers which in turn were tucked into his brown cloth boots. He was alone. Or he thought he was. He didn’t see Rak above him, lurking in the shadows. Rak was like him, similarly skinny but dressed in black, with black hair and much, much younger. Rak’s long sinuous fingers wrapped around the rocks which allowed him to cling precariously to a nearby flat wall and stare down at the bald head of the imp with the long pointed nose and long rheumy fingers. Those fingers were knotted like old sticks and as he tried to tie up a parcel with brown string Wizel made little grunting noises as the paper and string slipped away from him.

Rak thought about helping but that would mean that Wizel would find out he was there and he didn’t want that. Wizel had something he wanted and once he was gone he would climb down and get it. He’d already looked around the room at the eclectic mix of old furniture and fascinating objects. He had no idea what they were but they were either valuable or useful, he couldn’t decide which. It wouldn’t matter, he’d find a use for them once the old one went to bed.

Time passed and Rak’s fingers began to ache and he did feel slightly dizzy from hanging almost upside down. He could hear

Wizel humming but there was something more in the sound, words he couldn’t understand woven into the humming sound. He realized too late that Wizel was casting a spell and as he fell to the ground with a thump his dulling mind thought. “Oh blast!”. That was as much as he could manage before it all went dark.

Wizel looked down at the Raksasi. It was still only a foot tall, black and scaley as the image of an imp like Wizel faded away. The magic that had created the illusion of the creature being an imp was gone, the spell broken. The creature was frozen in a hideous pose with its fingers still gripping empty air where the rocks had been before Wizel had removed them magically from his grip and frozen him.

Its skin was leathery where it wasn’t scaly, black, its wings folded under a thick carapace like a bug’s wing. Useless now of course as the creature lay frozen, its unseeing eyes still open, its mouth open in its last comment before it had slid into a forced unconsciousness.

Wizel looked down at it and poked it with his pointy boot. “Are you dead? No, you can’t be dead, I didn’t use that spell. Ok you are unconscious so you aren’t just being rude. Are you unconscious?” Rak didn’t answer.

Wizel looked down again and went to the fire and found the poker and gave the Raksasi a firm poke in what he estimated was the ribs if they had ribs. Nothing happened.

Wizel took out a gnarled old wand from the long thin leather pouch he kept it in and waved it above the prone creature and whispered ancient words. He pulled a misty stream from the creature’s head which became solid and hung in the air, a sheet of mist with words forming on it.

Wizel read the words and grunted. “So, you want to steal from me do you? Well, you will not. You will now go and never return. In fact you will never remember you were here and you will not remember what you wanted.” He waved his wand and the creature disappeared with a slight popping noise and the smell of violets. Wizel smiled, he liked the violet smell, it was his own personal addition to his magic.

He rubbed his pointy chin with his gnarly fingers. “Darn it, the Red Queen won’t like this. Raksasi in the Queendom. That is bad, that is really bad. Something bad is going on and I’m far too old to be a hero and I bet I get mixed up in all this. I bet the Queen will have something to say about all this. Perhaps one last adventure for me then before I completely retire. Although I am already supposed to be retired.” He spoke to the empty air.

He looked along his bookcase which was stuffed full of tatty paperback novels he had stolen from Earth on his visits. “Well is this how a great adventure starts? At least I didn’t have my village burnt, my family murdered and a huge chip placed firmly on my muscly shoulders.”

He fluffed himself up and looked in the mirror as a weedy reflection looked back and shattered his mental illusion. “Oh well, never mind. I will have to do.”

He went to a big dark wood chest and pulled open the bottom drawer. He reached inside and pulled out a flat black disc with a red label and a hole in the middle. “I still have it. Silly creature failed. I still hold it in my hands and now I have remembered it. I don’t know how I forget it. It was so important wasn’t it? I must be getting very, very old.”

Wizel looked down at the 78” record and smiled to himself. “Yes, I still have it.”

There was a crack of thunder and a flash of white light and Wizel and the record disappeared.

The Red Queen sat on her ebony throne. Her long red curls cascaded down over her blood red velvet dress as she looked up when Wizel appeared on the thick red carpet in front of her in her gold embellished throne room.

She almost smiled as Wizel found his feet, saw her and then fell over backwards as he realized where he was.

A small white rabbit, wearing a red velvet squires’ livery with the Queen’s flaming unicorn on it grabbed a bowl which held floating candles and threw the contents over Wizel who was just coming around anyway and trying to stand up. Wizel then jumped up with a squeal and glared at the unfortunate creature who cowered, muttering. “Please don’t turn me into anything else, I’ve only just got used to being a rabbit. I was just trying to help.”

Wizel stood up, the water dripping from his pointed nose and was about to speak but the Red Queen cut him off. “Wizel, you have brought it to us? I thank you. You have served us well. You will be rewarded. Now you must do what must be done, one last adventure. Like I told you all those years ago when you first brought it back. That is old magic you are holding. The magic of dreams bound into a black disc which came from the Earth place. The music has power, the song chosen to wake the dreaming one. She must now return to their world, the time is right. Take it and play it on their music box and make her wake up. It is the time.”

Wizel bowed his head and he could feel his knees knocking together. He wasn’t sure if it was the chill of the water which was running down his back and neck or pure terror at standing in front of the most scary woman he had ever met. Or perhaps the thought of crossing the realms and entering the “World of Men” was what scared him. It was indeed a truly terrifying thought even though he had done it many times before. He decided it was the Queen mostly and tried to find his courage to look up again.

The Red Queen cleared her throat. “We will be expecting you to do your duty again. You must take the black magic disc to the land of men and restore magic to their world.”

Wizel spoke without thinking and immediately bit his tongue. “Why?” In his mind they were mortals and their world without magic was their world. Many creatures would be awoken or able to return if “she” was awoken. It took a mere moment for all the thoughts of the old times where elves and pixies played in the ancient woodlands to flood through his tiny head. It took only a further moment before a dark shadow arrived to flood over his mind as he saw the mechanized glass and stone world where magic was for stories and the old fears and respects were buried. What space did mankind have for old fears of strange creatures in the horrors of the man created warlike world? Where would the mystic creatures fit in amongst a world where everything had to be scientifically explained. Where did faith fit in where people had to know, had to have everything proven and documented. Of course absolute proof takes out the element of the wondrous and infinite.

The Queen smiled to herself and drew herself up to her full height on the throne. “Would you dare to question me? You will do as you are told.”

Wizel bowed several times as low as he could and nearly fell over. Over and over again he declared. “Your wish is my command. Your wish is your command.”

The Queen smiled a cold smile. “Yes, I know.”

The rabbit had backed away and was cowering behind a chair which was one of a line of chairs set out for their official owners. They were all empty. The room was empty other than the Queen, Wizel and the hapless rabbit. He was nearly hiding himself, it took all his courage to stay standing in front of the Queen. The rabbit at that point moved from cowering to actually trying to hide under a chair. All Wizel could now see were a pair of ears which were shaking and the bob of a tail which didn’t quite fit behind the chair. It was a very small chair, made for the Queen’s court of Fey. These were of course tiny when they chose to be and huge when they wanted to be. For the sake of many thousands of chairs which were solid gold the Queen preferred them to appear as tiny.

Wizel looked around the room, looking for something he could use to change the subject and then his eyes were drawn back fearfully to the wand which lay across the Queen’s lap. He knew what that wand could do and he knew she was not afraid to use it.

Wizel shut his eyes as he saw the Red Queen raise her wand. He felt the ground shift and the softness of the carpet was replaced by a slightly deeper softness and the smell of damp loam from the woodland floor.

He opened his eyes, first one and then the other. It was dark, not pitch black, illuminated by the soft twinkling of a myriad of stars which created a canopy over his head. He could make out some of the constellations, the plough, Orion and others. He could clearly see them through the circular gap in the tree canopy. The trees were around him, not above.

He was standing in a circle of tree stumps within the circle of living trees. He felt sad seeing the severed wood but they were slices of one tree set in a circle. He could feel that the tree had died by accident and had been put to good use.

The clearing was part of a garden. There had been efforts to grow other things but the lack of light had left them as stumps or stunted. The evergreen trees which grew around the perimeter of a small garden towered over him but they towered over everyone.

To his right, between the garden and the house there was a bubbling brook which tumbled down a small waterfall. It then slipped gurgling under a bridge made of wooden half fencing posts before it rushed off into the darkness under the road below.

He could hear birds singing and the sound of sheep. Somewhere a cockerel crowed and he knew he was on Earth. He took a deep breath. Not that he had expected the Queen’s spell to fail but with magic there was always the possibility, however slight. He took a deep breath and climbed up and sat on the stump which was a little taller than him. He still held the record which was as big as he was and swiftly slipped it into a bag he had in his pocket with great care. The bag shrank to a small size so that he could carry it easily. He then began to worry about the horrible things that could happen to him if he did break it and then he spent more moments trying to forget about those thoughts

He looked around and in the shadows something moved. Something black, velvety and deadly. He knew what cats were. Previous visits to Earth had provided a few very close shaves with a furry feline and he had no intention of getting caught this time either. He saw her emerald eyes and sharp claws and wicked natural intent and he knew if she caught him it would be all over for him. He took his wand and waved it and then grimaced as he felt the pain of his whole body changing.

He sat on the stump and watched his legs grow down to meet the rich black earth. He felt his shoulders widen and his arms grow long. He smiled as the cat gave a surprised yowl and disappeared off back into the shadows.

Wizel froze as he heard a voice. It was a language he had not heard for many years, a voice he could understand. It was like a sheep bleat but not quite the same. It was a fairy sound, a fey sound. It was one that he had known from the grey mists of time and a creature who had always served his kind as a loyal mount and friend. He heard a goat.

He followed the sound and crossed the bridge. When he got to the other side of the stream he could clearly see the farmhouse which was feet away, its lights dark, its white wall barely visible in the moonlight as it was under the trees and the huge ancient fuchsia bush which was as big as a tree. The walkway down the side of it was covered in slushy leaves and the low wall kept the soil back between the walkway and the tumbling stream. Behind the house was a steep bank so he climbed it. It was difficult to start with as the soil was quite loose.

Further up the hill he could see the dark shadows of two sheds. They too were in darkness. To the right of them there was a stone building. Even his tiny feet made a noise in the layers of leaves and twigs. He dived for cover at the sound that came from this building. The hounds of hell were coming to get him. They howled as they smelt him. The sound echoing in the stillness of the night. An ancient sound that was primal and wild. He was certain they would come and get them but as they fell silent he rational thought told him that the doors were shut and he was quite safe as they were locked away. They had sensed his otherworldly presence which had obviously unnerved them.

Wizel picked himself up from the dark corner he had been hiding in, brushed the leaves off of his tattered brown wool tunic and smoothed his trousers down. He smoothed his hair and pulled it from down his collar and stood up straight, gathering his thoughts.

“Creatures of the Wolfkind, I am not of your realm. I will not hurt you if you will not hurt me.” He smiled as he felt he had soothed them and calmed them. He didn’t like harming any animal and he wondered if they were scared of him.

He jumped as one answered him back. “I am Jackeran of the Ukerajkus, Keeper of the Light. I know you for what you are and you are welcome in our lands. I and my canine friends will not harm you.”

Wizel looked surprised as an answer was not what he was expecting. He wasn’t expecting them to understand him at all and he had only spoken to them so that his voice had reassured them. He had heard of Jackeran. The wolf spirit could inhabit a wolf or dog to give itself a presence in different realms.

“Great Wolf of the North, you are here? Why are you here and how are you here?”

Jack laughed a gutteral woofy sort of a laugh. “I am tired of the politics of the races. I am here because “she” is here. I am here because I can choose where I want to be. I wish no more than to be her faithful hound, to be fed on time, to have fun and to be a loyal dog. My shapeshifting and body borrowing days are over. I would not be a man again for all the dog food in Morrisons. I can control the moon craving now. The question is why are you here and where are you going? To see the goats? You better not be intending to harm them. I would not allow that.”

Wizel shifted his weight. He was feeling increasingly less secure as he knew that the doors of the dog kennel would not hold Jackeran if he chose to break them down. “It is a secret.”

Jack growled slightly. “You carry hope in your bag. Why do you not trust me with your secret? If you wish to pass you must.”

Wizel jumped. “How do you know?

Jack spoke quietly, his voice like velvet. “Fool, I am old, the world is young and what you hold in your bag is old magic. I can smell it.”

Wizel looked surprised. He was trying to stop his legs from shaking and he put his hand on the shed to steady himself. “It is only a record, an old record and not as old as you are saying.” Jack snuffled the cage bars and thought about breaking them. He frowned then he sat down. “The magic is old. The record is young. One does not preclude the other. The goats will not help you you know. They serve the Frixian in the house and they will not let you take anything from here. Nor will the mistress and master.”

Wizel grunted. “You know too much and you assume too much or you are trying to make me tell you. What I have to do is important. I cannot let them stop me but that is not a threat. If they know what I am doing they will want to help me surely.” Jack cocked his head to one side. “Well if it wasn’t such a secret that might be the truth. Speak your truth and you may get some help.”

Wizel looked around nervously. “I assumed that I had to do a great quest and travel many miles across dangerous terrain.”

Jack laughed which ended up as a half bark, half laugh. “Fool, you read too much. You need to play that record, see I know your secret. That is all you need to do. Are you a great warrior? I don’t think so. So the task you are set must suit what you can do. It is an old record but I know that mistress has a record player that is quite old and may well be able to play it.”

Wizel looked into the darkness. “So how do I get it played? It must be played.”

Jack nodded his big hairy German Shepherd head somewhere in the darkness of the kennel. “Indeed it must so put it in that shed you can see. There is a silver metal barrel with other records in it. Put it on top of the others and when you are finished you must go and find the Frixians who live in the house, Widget and Gadget. They will help you. You will find them under the stairs in the living room. Good luck and you will find it a lot easier if you make yourself small again after you have put the record in there as you can then get in through the cat flap.”

Wizel stood outside the dog kennel in the moonlight. The scent of Geraniums filled his senses. The loamy earth under his feet was soft and rutted with old footprints and paw prints.

He didn’t know if the humans in the house would be awake although probably not as it was the early hours of the morning and that made him cautious. He couldn’t hear anything but that didn’t mean that they weren’t awake so he walked down the hill very carefully. Step by step, his feet making very little sound as they came into contact with the soil, grass and the rock which protruded between the grass. He could see where he was going, now that he was out of the trees the moonlight lit his way. He almost relaxed before the light outside the house came on. He had been found by the sensor and the hillside lit up. Without thinking he dived sideways, away from the house and landed in a patch of stinging nettles. The tingling sensation crawled over any part of his body that wasn’t covered by clothes and he swore, knowing that he would now feel that horrible sensation for hours. He also had to lay there, waiting for the light to go out and that was torture. It didn’t take long, the light went out and he leapt up. Of course that set the light off again and he dived back into the nettles. Again the stinging sensation found all the parts of his skin that had been missed the last time and again he lay there, thinking about what had happened until he worked it out and shrank himself back to his small size. At that size he could walk through the nettles without the sensor seeing him.

The house was dark and quiet. The humans were in bed unless they were sitting in the dark. Wizel guessed that they would be sleeping upstairs so after cautiously peering in through the cat flap he climbed through it and landed on the tiled floor of what looked like a sitting room.

His little feet didn’t make much sound as he tip toed to the first step which was very steep, as tall as he was. He stood on his toes and reached up to make his climb up as easy as possible, he grabbed the metal edge strip and put his hands down flat on the edge, using it to pull himself up onto the next step. One foot, then the other and pulled himself up there. He then did the same up onto the next step, now rather out of breath. Triumphant he stood on the top of the two steps and looked around the room. It was dark, the only glow coming from electric equipment in the corner, the television and DVD player. It did light his way across the floor, past the dining table and chairs and past the dark wood kitchen. He wasn’t sure if he was going the right way but as the main part of the house was that way he hoped he was right. There didn’t seem to be a record player in the room he was in, so next door it would have to be.

More stairs. This time going down. He looked down the steps and sighed. He crouched down, put a hand on the top step, then the other and then lowered himself down. Then he did the same and then the same again.

At the bottom of the stairs he stopped and thought about where he was. The door was shut. He gave it a push and sighed with relief as the door wasn’t locked or latched and although it was heavy he managed to open it when he pushed with all his strength.

The room beyond was dark, very dark. As he stepped through the slightly open door then froze as a voice made him jump.

“What are you doing here imp?”

Wizel bowed to the three foot tall creature who stood in front of him. She was three times his height and nearly as tall as a kitchen cabinet. Her hair was long, black and curly and she looked very angry. Her pointed ears protruded from her curls. “Greetings oh guardian of the house. I have come to fulfil a task I was given by the Red Queen. Jack said you might be able to help me.”

The creature physically shuddered. “If Her Majesty wishes it then we will help. I can feel this is true, her mark is with you. So what do we have to do?

How can we help?”

Wizel smiled. Relief flowed through him and he relaxed. “I came with a record that has been kept for many years. It must be played now. It is a song which was recorded by a human called Nat King Cole many years ago but there is something in the words and music which will wake up the Weaver of Dreams. She is important as mankind needs to dream, if mankind can dream again of the old magic then magic and magical creatures will return to the world. The darkness of the Goblians and other wicked creatures have grown strong here. We hope that having good magical dreams will help to fight them off.”

Widget looked as confused as a material faced puppet could look, she tilted her head to the side. “So, who are you? Tell me what we need to do next?”

Wizel bowed again. “I am sorry, I am forgetting all my manners in my haste. I am Wizel, currently in the service of the Red Queen and formerly of the Purple Watch and various other honorary and other more robust titles that I will not bore you with. May I ask who you are?”

Widget curtseyed gracefully, or rather as gracefully as a stuffed puppet can. “I am Stellastar Widget, Daughter of the Frixian Realm and Custodian and Guardian of the TAVERN.”

Wizel had heard of the TAVERNS. They had long been the transport of the Peacekeepers and the Truth Masters but he knew from his history and rumours that they had been lost for many years. He had no reason to doubt her, she looked sincere.

Widget looked sad. “How will playing the record and bringing dreams back help? Mankind is selfish and opinionated and disbelieves what is true just because they can. They are more interested in owning the latest Audi from the catalogue than caring about their world unless it suits them to make them feel good or to balance the bad that they do. It may seem a lost cause now but they will learn. You never know I suppose, bringing back dreams may bring a change.”

Wizel coughed. “So you don’t like mankind much?”

Widget smiled slightly. “I don’t like what mankind has done to such and beautiful and magical world. I don’t like the chains and bindings of the mundane that keep us hiding in the shadows. I don’t like it that mankind no longer fears the dark or respects nature’s ability to fight back. I think you get the message.”

Wizel smiled to himself, a sympathetic smile. “So if the music is played and magic returns to this realm then all the Old Ways will return too. Magic will be real again and no amount of using group disbelief will banish it again.”

Widget smiled a wistful smile. “We must play the record then.” In the darkness someone woke, the mistress of the house. She looked around the darkened room and felt something she had not felt for a very long time. She could smell blackcurrants and there was a strange light in the room as three tall white people walked through the wall beside her bed and stepped towards her.

She smiled, memories flooding back of her childhood when they had visited her before. “Am I dreaming?” She whispered. They bowed their heads and the first of them spoke. She was very feminine with long white hair, her long diaphanous gown swaying gently as she raised her hands reassuringly. “Are you sleeping?”

The woman looked up into the visitor’s face. There was a gentle light in her visitor’s eyes as she felt reassured. “I was.

Am I sleeping? Am I dreaming?”

All three smiled. The woman. The man with a long beard and matching robes who stood beside her and the older man who stood behind them. Then the younger man spoke. “Do you remember us?”

The woman nodded her head. “It has been years. Was I dreaming then? Am I dreaming now?”

The younger man smiled kindly. “In this world there is a boundary between dream, illusion and reality. We cannot be physical but we need to speak to you. So although we are not what you would call real, we exist, and we are, so in a way we are a dream. This is important. We need you to do something for the world and it is a very simple something. We need you to go to your shed and open your parents’ record tin and bring the top record back to the house. We would then like you to play the record. It is important. Tomorrow we need you to do something else. We would like you to go to your small barn, the one you made into the TAVERN tomorrow and pick up the key that your father used to own, the big old fashioned one and put it back on its hook. We must go now but please do these things for us.”

The woman sat on the side of her bed. Her bare feet touched the cold wood beneath her feet. She slipped her feet into her slippers and slipped on her silken gown before walking to the door in the moonlight. To get to the stairs she had to walk through the walk in wardrobe so she stepped into there, shut the door and put the light on so that she didn’t wake her husband. The stairs creaked slightly as she walked down. The narrow stairway as always commanding concentration as there had been a couple of times that she had missed a step and nearly fallen. When she was on the bottom step she pushed the door open at the bottom and stepped down onto the stone multi coloured floor of the room below.

Wizel and Widget ran into the back kitchen when they heard footsteps so by the time the woman got to the door they were long gone. They watched from the back kitchen, through the serving hatch and saw her open the front door, slip on some boots and go outside, leaving the internal door open.

The woman stepped out into the chilled moonlight night which bathed her face in a mystical glow. Her black hair a stark contrast to her pale skin, her hazel eyes reflecting a slight golden tint. She looked around, sensing the magic that was in the air and smelling the night air. She took a deep breath, breathing it deep into her lungs so that she could feel the chill. She walked slowly and carefully as if she was in a dream, trying to work out if she was awake or not. It was hard to tell as the whole place looked mystical. She walked across the stone balcony outside the house. The basic grey concrete seemed to sparkle. The ivy and bushes had overgrown and the slightly rusty gate took a little effort to open. She lifted the latch and opened the metal gate which was partially overgrown with ivy. She had often looked down at the ball shaped stones which protruded from the concrete and wondered why. They didn’t make it less slippery, on the contrary she had often wondered if they made it worse but there they were embedded in concrete, a slab which ended with a definite step out on to the grass which fortunately wasn’t that muddy and then she stepped out onto the grass. In contrast it was soft and springy underfoot and she kept to the sides where it grew undamaged by the quad bike and walked slowly up the hill. The night was chilled, cloudless and the moon bright enough for her not to need a torch as she was very used to the hill in the evening. The dim light was enough.

She followed the small hedge on top of a mound on her left hand side until it opened up between the two posts which had long since had their gate removed. Beyond this it opened up into an odd shape created by previous plans by previous owners where trees and shrubs had been planted which had grown beyond their original size and at least one path which had been steps up the side of the hill went nowhere. To her right the metal shed where the food was stored was silhouetted by the moon beyond. It was most of the way across the sky so she knew that the hour was late. She had mastered knowing the time during the day by the sun but she hadn’t quite worked out the night movements of the moon. The trees beyond the shed clung to the hill and seemed skeletal at that time of the year. The young beech was yet to sprout and the leaves were conspicuously missing leaving the whole area vulnerable to wind. It was mere steps to the slightly chopped up area in front of the dog kennel and as soon as she got close all of the dogs barked. Jack started it, questioning who was outside but they fell silent when they detected the comforting and recognizable scent of their owner. Jack thought about it and wondered what was going on. He stood on his back legs, his front legs high up the metal dog cage inside the door but it was futile, he couldn’t see out of the front of the kennel, he could only guess what was happening.

He heard his mistress go to the shed. He heard the door open. He heard the tin open and he sensed the movement of magic as she picked up the record.

The woman carried the record back to the house. She was careful and bemused as she went back into the main house and locked the door behind her.

Widget put a hand up to stop Wizel as he leant so far forwards from their hiding place that he nearly fell out into the room. He stepped back with a slight sound on the stone floor. The woman looked up. “Hello there Widget. I’m glad to see you as I have absolutely no idea what is going on. I am not sure if I’m doing the right thing at all.”

Widget saw the record in her hand and smiled. “Yes, you are. We need to play that record.”

The woman walked slowly across the room. Half of the room was on the same level as the front door. The other half was raised slightly. The lower level was next to the kitchen diner, the higher level led to the guest room and had been put in to allow wheelchair access from the guest room which at the time had been the owner’s room when she needed it. On the upper level there was a long old fashioned 1970s style stereo gram which was a long wooden piece of furniture. “You have seen this before Widget haven’t you? But you haven’t seen it played. It used to belong to my parents and mum used to play it a fair bit. She has a great collection of records. It does thankfully play 78s. I just have to hope that it still plays.” Widget thought about it. “It is old, much older than your mother would have known. Or the magic tied to it is. Go on, give it a go.”

She lifted the lid and turned the “on” knob. The machine leapt into life. The light came on for the radio and Radio One filled the concentrated silence. There was a loud electronic thunk as it turned on. There as a crackle as the power ran through it. The room was illuminated by it as 78 was selected by moving the black plastic bar on the record deck and 33rpm. The record slipped onto the central bar and sat on the stack bar. A quick pinch with a finger and it slipped down over the bar and landed gently on the turntable. Another flip of a switch and the turntable started to rotate.

Widget was holding what would have been a breath if she could actually breathe. The woman was also. Widget was facing the other way with his hands over his head waiting for something dramatic and possibly dangerous to happen.

The turntable revolved as the arm of the stereogram picked up, the arm swung across to the record and gently settled the needle into the groove.

Music filled the air, the room and the world. It touched every part, every dark cave, every nook and cranny, searching. Every place where magic lay hidden and buried it touched and woke up the creatures, entities and sources of magic which had been imprisoned or had slept for so many years. It raised to a crescendo and filled with world with its magic.

A Weaver of Dreams by Nat King Cole filled the air. It filled the senses of all who had senses to fill and at that moment everything changed but to those who could not see nothing changed at all. The world was still the same, people were still the same, or they thought they were.

All around the world people began to dream. They dreamed good dreams of hope and creativity. They dreamed of people lost to them now and the advice they had given when they were able. They awoke with pride in themselves and in what they could achieve as they had seen what they wanted in a dream. They awoke with the hope of another world, a better world, one which could be changed.

In the morning those who had dreamed stepped out into a world that felt different.

Widget felt the magic as did Wizel. A tear rolled down Wizel’s face. He really wanted to step out into the room and share the moment. He was so tempted but he knew that he shouldn’t be seen by any mortal. They weren’t ready to see what was really out there yet. It did make him feel lonely though.

Widget stuck her head around the corner and waved him to join them.

He looked sad. “I can’t Widget, she can’t see me.”

Widget smiled. “Don’t worry, she isn’t mortal. She will be fine. We can’t speak to her as we are not of her realm but she can hear what we say in her head and you can hear what she says. Come and share this moment with us. It is special.” Wizel smiled and walked around the corner. He was greeted by a kind smile from the woman.

“Don’t worry” she whispered “everyone is welcome here. You have done a brave thing. I am sure that you are miles from home or am I assuming all the wrong things?”

Wizel was surprised but pleased. “Thank you. Yes, many miles and dimensions from home. Well if you can call it home.”

Widget hesitated. “What is wrong with your home?”

Wizel jumped. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with home.”

Widget thought for a moment. “Stay here and help us. Why don’t you? The battle is bound to get worse and more helpers would make it a lot easier. You could live in the TAVERN and help us on adventures. We are bound to have a few before the world is safe from Goblians.”

Somewhere in a cave in North Wales, under Dynas Emrys, something stirred.

Something woke up.

In a cavern a woman lay on a table in a glass coffin. The coffin was surrounded by eternally living red roses which grew out of the stonework around the cave. Her face was young, though that was unrealistic for the years she had existed. Her lips were as red as the roses. Her pale skin reflected light from the ever burning candles that had been set around her coffin. Her deep red dress was plain with lacing up the bodice and hand embroidered lace decoration around the neck. It was meticulously laid out with each fold neatly placed. Her eyes were shut until the sound of the music filled the cavern.

She opened her eyes and reached up and pushed the lid off of the coffin.

It was hinged and opened easily.

She sat up and looked around the room, her eyes blinking as the candles filled the darkness that she had felt for so many years with light that made her eyes sting. She pulled herself up. Her muscles lazy from little use. She got to her feet, wobbling slightly, and stepped over the side of the coffin and jumped down onto the dusty floor. Her tiny red satin ballet shoes becoming instantly covered in dust.

Sleepily she stretched her long white arms, her fingers reaching into the air and she rubbed her eyes. Music filled the air and she had to listen. It filled her very soul and reminded her of who she had been before her enforced long, long sleep.

She took a step forwards, staggering slightly as her legs were weak from her long sleep. Then she remembered it all. The thoughts and memories bursting through her sleep soaked mind. She was the Weaver of Dreams. ***That was her job, her life and all that she had been, was and ever would be and she had been denied this for far too long. She sighed, holding her hands together in a silent prayer and vow that it would never happen again.

She whispered even though she knew there was nobody there to overhear and silence her. “I am the Weaver of Dreams. I call on my dream mares and stallions. Come and take dreams to those who need them. Nightmares, come and take dreams to those who need to know the fear of the night and the dark things in life. Come my children, we have work to do.”

Silence, a moment when she wondered if things had changed so much while she slumbered in the arms of Morpheus. Were they all trapped as she had been? Were they dead, killed by mankind’s neutrality or despair? A cold chill ran through her and in panic she looked around the confines of her cave which had been her prison for so many years. What if? The thought gnawed at her. There was nothing she could hold onto. Her faith and hope were leaves on the wind now that she had been trapped for so many years. Her confident complacency of the previous time evaporated into the ether. Was she standing alone in a cave beneath the ancient place where once Dragon Kings had met or was this the beginning of the return of dreams where her dream horses would gallop majestically to answer her call? Her self doubt was debilitating, it was silencing her call and drowning out her inner voice with a cacophony of other unwanted voices. She knew that to do anything her call must be pure, her intent definite and the sound would then vibrate through the ether can call them, if they were indeed still there.

She calmed herself. Instinctively she visualized herself as a tree, her roots growing down into the earth. The red energy of Mother Earth flowed like a river up through her filling her from her feet to her head. The doubt faded away as the red energy cleansed her and her voice sounded like a bell, calling the dream horses from their rest, from their prisons, from all the places that the darkness had sought to hide or imprison them.

Her call was answered by a thunderous sound of hooves even though the mares would have no solid hoof to hit a solid ground to make such a noise. Horses appeared everywhere. They came through the walls, leaping down from heights and through the ceiling and the floor. Manes and tails flowed free in the non existent wind. They came to stand in lines then as one their reared up and let out a neigh that echoed through the ether. Some were emaciated, some bore scars, some bore deep cuts where they had been bound. Their manes lacked luster and their coats were patchy from years of entrapment by the Goblians. Every horse on Planet Earth heard their cry of freedom and answered and many horse owners were left wondering what had happened.

Woken from their slumber many horse owners ran to their horses’ aid only to find their horses calm and content. Social media hummed with the discussions and questions but despite a myriad of theories nobody knew why but they wrote it in their diaries and it was recorded for all time.

A white mare stood before the Weaver of Dreams. Her body and stance the mirror of the white Lipizzaner horses of the Spanish Riding School of Vienna. The Weaver had always thought that. The black Nightmares the mirror of the glorious black Friesian horses. It had always bemused her that the black Nightmares had long flowing feathers around their hooves, the white Dreammares having none.

The white mare bowed her head and then shook it. The horses waited, stallion and mare standing shoulder to shoulder so that they could fit in the cave. Some were not quite inside as there was no room for them despite the cave being at least a hundred feet long. They stood half in the cave, half in the wall. As one their backs sprouted feathered wings, their hooves sprouting smaller wings as they stamped and pranced in an equine tattoo before they stood silent, waiting, wings furled awaiting their Mistresses’ command. Injuries healed, scars faded and bodies filled out until they stood, as one, majestic and glorious.

The Weaver smiled as elation flowed through every sinew of her body. She looked down the lines of majestic horses who towered above her and couldn’t help being slightly daunted by them. “My friends, I have been asleep a long time. I am sure you all have had experiences, good or bad which are tales to be told and which should be told. Take your time to be who you are again. The problem is that I can’t remember what to do?”

She really couldn’t. She reached into her memory but she couldn’t remember how to make dreams. She had been asleep in a void of nothingness, steeped in the mundanity of the mortal world, for too long.

The head mare bowed down so that her nose was level with the Weaver, she reached forwards and put her head over the

Weaver’s shoulder. All was silence, all the Weaver could hear was the drip, drop of water on its eternal journey from the surface to the underground aquifer which flowed to the sea. In her head the Weaver heard a voice. “You will remember.”

The Weaver looked around the cavern. It was bare other than the horses and the coffin that had been her prison. Then she spotted something. There was an alcove in the far wall, a small one and in the alcove there was a wooden goblet bound with metal. It looked old, very old and as she noticed it she could feel the power coming from it.

The Dream Weaver walked towards it. Her legs were weak and she almost fell as the horses parted to make a path for her. The head mare stepped beside her so that the Weaver could hold her mane to walk, aided by the mare’s solid frame, to the alcove. She climbed up onto the rocks in front of the alcove and reached up. Her fingers could barely touch it. But, by climbing on the mare’s back she was able to reach it and she lifted it from its rest and climbed down. There was nothing in it. She had expected something inside or something to happen but nothing did.

The horses parted and the dripping water began to coalesce into a rivulet and the rivulet increased into a stream which flowed across the floor of the cavern, growing deeper and deeper.

Some of the horses were startled by this and backed away but, after recovering their composure, they managed to fall back into line, leaving what was now a deep stream flowing across the cave.

The Weaver thought about it. “Well I suppose I should put the water into the goblet.”

The water was cave chilled icy cold. It sparkled as the fresh spring water filled the goblet and it seemed to glow. It was then that the Weaver thought about how she was managing to see anything at all in the cave which should have been dark. It enticed her and she knew what the right thing to do was. She took a deep breath and then took a long drink from the goblet. The chilled water ran over her tongue, filling her mouth and she swallowed it.

Then she remembered.

She opened her hand and touched each of the horses as they came to her, one by one, before galloping off through the walls. Through the morning they galloped which was night for some, finding all those who were still asleep. The rest circled the world, waiting for night to fall and for the rest to go to sleep.

That night everyone dreamed. The night air was full of it and by the morning creativity flowed as the dreams were written about, spoken about and thoughts turned to what all the dreams meant.