She felt a hand grasp hers. She dared not open her eyes. It was not John’s hand; it was soft and firm. She squeezed it and she felt another mind enter hers, bringing with it another warm spot. This time she not only felt anger, but she began to lose fear and to gain strength.
Another mind joined hers, then another, and another. She felt the minds of the Creators in tune with hers. She felt their powers and she knew what she had to do. She had to destroy the dam. Right now. That would keep John from converting Kafka.
She gathered as much strength as she could before it began to overwhelm her. She concentrated, and an image of the dam came into her mind, its invisible wall made visible in her mind’s eye. The strength she gathered appeared before it in the form of a hammer.
She took hold of the handle. She could feel the hands of the Creators, in her mind, also grasping the hammer. They lifted it, and swung it forward.
As one, they began smashing the death mirror with all their might. They pounded relentlessly, Nola guiding them.
The mirror first showed cracks. Colored water began seeping through. The hammer still pounded. Then as the effort increased, the dam shattered and crumbled. Beyond it, Nola could see what looked like a sewer pipe with bars blocking it. She could look only for a second.
Every Creator was jolted out of the trance as a roar filled the air. The roar of rushing water.
“No!” John shouted, suddenly aware of what had been going on in their linked minds. “No I You will fail, fail!"
Nola opened her eyes. “I have already succeeded,” she informed him. “Listen to the flow.”
Now he heard what he least wished to. The freed rushing water of the River of Thought. “AAAAAH!” he screamed.
The torrent of human dreams came flowing across the broken dam. The first surge of water captured John and he screamed again, as if the water were acid. He was swept away.
Nola suddenly felt herself choking. There was a tightness at her shirt collar. She was being lifted off the ground, her feet dangling high in the air. The ground moved beneath her as she was carried away.
Moments later she was put down on a rise. Tina and Mich were there.
It was Spirit who had carried her by her shirt to the hilltop. She looked at the swollen torrent of dreams and could see no sign of John. Neither could she see the other Creators.
They were washed away in the initial break, Spirit informed her.
Nola gasped, horrified.
No, do not worry, my dear friend, they will only be sent home. They will be fine. A spell protects them from arriving in any dangerous situation, such as deep nonmagical water.
She watched the river rise above its old banks, carrying sticks and ash along in the current. Around the edges of the water, she thought she could see grass beginning to sprout.
The relief, when it came, was total and complete. She sighed aloud and held Mich’s hand.
“Do you think it’s over?” he asked.
“I’m certain it is. For now, anyway. I wish I knew how John got here.”
“Do you think he’s a Creator?” Tina asked. “Maybe he found a bed spell.”
Nola thought about that. “I guess it could be. Where is there a rule that says a Creator has to be good? He did disappear before I came here, and I could not find him. I didn’t place the bed spells until after he got here. How do you explain that?”
I believe, Spirit thought, that he was indeed a Creator. Perhaps he is the source of the crushed dreams. He may have destroyed so many in his lifetime that he became the exact opposite of a Creator: A Destroyer. I believe that Reility simply chose to take the form of John. Now he is John. The John you knew has been taken over. I assume it was not a difficult task for Reility. Perhaps he knew your biggest fear. Reility took over John s body, knowing your fears.
Nola shook her head. “I don’t think he is dead. If he comes across another bed spell, who knows what might happen? I’ve got to go home and see if I can find the rest.”
“First,” Mich said, with a note of sadness in his voice, “will you come to the castle for dinner?”
Nola smiled weakly at him. “Of course.” She squeezed his hand. “I wish I had a dreamstone to help me conjure us there. It’ll be quite a long walk. Say, what happened to Heat?” she asked, looking around.
“He was converted, then washed away in the river,” Mich said. “I thought you knew that. He’s dead.”
“That’s awful!” Then her expression turned to a sly smile. “I know John doesn’t think he ‘d get away with that! It doesn’t matter if he was washed away. He can’t take away my dreams, no matter how hard he tries! I still believe in Heat.”
With her words, the river, at the foot of the hill, boiled and sputtered as if there were a spring beneath it about to erupt. A splendid white unisus plunged into the sky from the surging waters. It was Heat, reborn.
He flew directly to the hilltop and stood next to Mich. Mich embraced him. “I thought you had died in that river!”
As long as Nola believes in us, we can never die, Heat replied, winking his silver orb at Nola.
Tina startled Heat by grabbing a handful of his mane. She climbed aboard. “I missed you too, horsey!”
He stomped his foot, but he took the insult in stride. He knew she liked him.
Mich mounted up and so did Nola.
They reached the castle in four days. They were greeted at the gate by the king and a jumping-for-joy basilisk named Snort.
When night matured into midnight, dinner was served by a roaring fire and the joyful, reuniting conversations were changed to one that was more solemn.
“So, I suppose you must return home?” King Edward asked.
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Nola, “I have to find the other spells before he does.”
“I’ll help you,” Tina said.
Nola looked at her. “You want to return to Earth?”
“It does make sense, unfortunately. But I wish I could visit here, often and long. Maybe there’s a dream man here for me too.” Her crude language seemed to have faded.
The king looked at her appraisingly. The rigors of the campaign were over, and she was now garbed almost in the manner of a princess, her figure showing to full advantage. Dreamstones sparkled in her hair. “I suspect that your chances are good.” Then he turned to Nola. “You will be greatly missed here. I am indebted to you, for everything. Is there anything you need from me?”
“Thank you, no.” She inclined her head.
Nola suddenly remembered something. She recalled several nights before, and how she had puzzled over her decision to take Mich or Spirit to Earth and make one of them real. She suddenly remembered the thought that had made her smile that night, before she drifted away.
She stood and curtsied to the king. “We must be leaving,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a few moments with my friends, to say good-bye.” She smiled warmly.
This was the moment Mich and Spirit had been dreading. The two wanted to stay with her. How could they say good-bye?
Mich didn’t want to deal with her leaving. It hurt to even think of living without her. He wanted to share his life with her and share in hers. They had both been dreaming of finding each other. Now they had, yet their love was in jeopardy. He supposed he had no choice in the matter. Nola had to go home and keep John from finding the bed spells. Yet without her dreamstone, she could never return to Kafka. Neither could her pretty friend, Tina, despite her talk of frequent visits.
Spirit was feeling the same way. He knew that he could always see her when she dreamed, yet that was not to be compared with the joy of physical contact and of real being.
The king offered Tina his arm, and they departed the dining room, leaving the three of them alone. Nola sat down in a chair near the glowing fire, smiling all the while.
“I guess it’s time to say good-bye,” Mich began. “I don’t know what to say. I want to get on my knees and beg you to stay, yet I respect the fact that you must r
eturn home. I wish you well, Nola. You will be taking my heart and soul with you. I hope you can return them to me one day. I wish I could say I love you and have you know how I feel right now. To say I love you is nothing compared to what I feel. Good-bye, my love.”
Mich touched her cheek and wiped a tear away from his own. Nola still smiled. He wondered why.
“Is there anything you would like to tell me, Esprit?” Nola asked of Spirit.
I must say only this: I will always be here for you, and remember, we share pain as well as joy, so keep yourself happy. Good-bye, my heart-friend.
Nola still smiled. “So, that was very nice.”
Mich began to get a little annoyed. She wasn’t acting as if she would miss them at all. Had a demon gotten into her hair again? “What’s going on, Nola? Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’ve got a going-away gift for both of you that I think will ease the pain.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I found something out one night. The stones that Reility used to make himself real could perform magic, yet they were not magic themselves.”
May I ask what is your point?
“Only this. I found I could do a small additional Creation that I thought you would like.”
We would like—in your absence? Spirit inquired dubiously.
Nola looked down into her lap. Her hands rested there, clenched tightly shut. Slowly she uncurled her fingers. Inside each hand was a pair of light blue stones with stars of light on their surfaces. Just like the pair that Reility had used to become real.
PIERS ANTHONY
You may have read before about the collection of young folk, mostly female, I named Ligeia. They have inhabited my Author’s Notes since the first Ligeia in 1986, in Wielding a Red Sword. As I heard from more of them, typically (but by no means limited to) fourteen-year-old girls, I made a composite character for the Mode series, calling her Colene. I have not knowingly met any of the ones I corresponded with, but I feel I know them. I am not of that persuasion myself, but that gives me a notion of what they suffer. As I like to put it, it is as if I stand at the verge of Hell, while they stand somewhat closer to the fire, and there is so little I can do.
Now one of those Ligeias is speaking for herself, in the form of this novel: Julie. She was mentioned by name in the Author’s Note for If I Pay Three Not in Gold, and her decoration of the envelope for a letter inspired the three mermaids in Harpy Thyme. Now you have seen her fantasy, Dream a Little Dream. She sent me her emotionally precious Clechée cross, and I kept it as long as I was in doubt about her condition, but by the time this novel is published she should be wearing it again. An aspect of her mundane existence is in Nola, just as her dream existence is in Kafka.
Julie has the talent of lucid dreaming—that is, knowing and controlling one’s dreams. This story took form gradually as she recorded those dreams. When it was ready, I took it over and reworked it into a formal novel. As with all of these collaborations, the story is the collaborator’s; I merely do what is necessary to make it presentable, somewhat in the manner a stonecutter facets and polishes a raw gemstone.
But one thing is all hers: the illustration on the facing page that she drew for this volume. Seldom is the author allowed to show directly what the main characters look like: Nola and Spirit.
Now Julie’s dreams are yours.
JULIE BRADY
This being my first author’s note, I’m unsure what to say. I suppose I should start out saying something about myself. I’m twenty-seven years old at the time of this page being typed. I was born in Fort Ord, California, into a military family and spent most of my life moving from one place to another. Currently, I live in Maryland in a rural area, surrounded by cows and open fields—a big change from being surrounded by drug addicts and rapists in cities.
I’m sure that many of you loyal Piers Anthony fans saw this book and wondered who I was. Well, I’m no one of consequence, just a newcomer to the writer’s world. I enjoyed writing this book, which, incidentally, was taken from a serial dream of mine over the course of a year or so. I used the serial dreams I had to escape the horrors of my life. In the middle of this book’s making, Piers interrupted my normal dream pattern to inform me that I was going about writing the book the wrong way. In the dream he pointed out my mistakes and told me how to correct them. I sent the corrected version to him and was surprised to hear that it agreed with his dream-self!
At first, the idea of publishing my journal seemed crazy. I don’t consider myself a writer nor could I ever hope to achieve what Piers has.
The main thing that appealed to me was to share what I had seen in my sleep with you. The idea of my dreams living in print thrills me no end and is as close as I may ever get to an achievement I could be proud of.
Since this is my first book and I lack a large amount of friends, I didn’t get much help or advice. I don’t have a long list of people to thank (unlike the lists you often see at the end of Piers’s Xanth novels), but I do have a few.
First and most important, I’d like to thank Piers for his unconditional support and encouragement, without which I would not have been here to dream anything worth writing about. I’d also like to thank a friend who taught me most of what I needed to know to become a good person inside: thanks Mike Norvelle—I wish you the best in life! Next, I’d like to thank a coworker, Alfreda Jenkins, who came up with the name “Curbie” when I was stuck for a character’s name. I should also give credit to the real people from whom I borrowed names or part-names for use in this novel: Wilma Roberts, Leona Joy Cooper and Lori Fox.
I’d like to thank my parents for constantly trying to get me to stop daydreaming and doodling during school. (Thankfully, reverse psychology was working against them!) Though I didn’t have the best upbringing, I love them both very much. We all make mistakes that need forgiving.
Lastly, I’d like to thank everyone who bought a copy of this book. Hopefully, if you didn’t love it, you at least hated it. In either case I feel proud to have raised an emotion in you, good or bad.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999 by Piers Anthony Jacob and Julie Brady
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5735-9
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Dream a Little Dream: A Tale of Myth and Moonshine Page 27
