The Little Dreamer, a fairy tale novel by Anila Angin | Illustrated and Animated by Stick & Balloon http://littledreamernovel.com 28 chapters. 60 weeks. Free to read online every Sunday. Sat, 23 Apr 2011 08:52:48 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.2.1 Book Cover http://littledreamernovel.com/53/ http://littledreamernovel.com/53/#comments Tue, 11 Jan 2011 21:35:42 +0000 admin http://localhost/projects/littledreamer/dynamic/?p=53

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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/53/feed/ Prelude http://littledreamernovel.com/prelude/ http://littledreamernovel.com/prelude/#comments Mon, 10 Jan 2011 22:26:14 +0000 admin http://localhost/projects/littledreamer/dynamic/?p=59

wise woman was asked how the world could possibly be shaped from one and the same essence, when such extremes of evil and saintliness were to be found in it.

She in turn asked how it was that the colours of the rainbow, each seemingly distinct from the other, could possibly be frequencies of one and the same white light.

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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/prelude/feed/ Before the Dream Begins… Part 1 http://littledreamernovel.com/before-the-dream-begins/ http://littledreamernovel.com/before-the-dream-begins/#comments Mon, 10 Jan 2011 10:27:30 +0000 admin http://localhost/projects/littledreamer/dynamic/?p=61

egend has it that a White City in the stars exists, where everything is created from light.

In the middle of this city, there is a great White Fire that burns continuously. The fire is magical, with flames that can take any shape they wish, from roses to sylvan nymphs to grand palaces.

But because the fire is white, everything that comes from it is also white.

From this fire, the White City and all its inhabitants are constantly born and renewed like phoenixes. All the buildings that emerge from the fire are whiter and more splendid than the day, even their walls, floors, and furniture.

All the city’s people too are pale as spirits can be, each a thread of white flame that spins in a dazzling point of light, so sharp as to seem like it could cut.

With fire as their mother and nursemaid, it is no wonder the dwellers of this White City are known as the White Flames. They are most passionate about dancing and singing, of which they never seem to tire. All day, they sing and dance, driven by a fierce and secret fire within that they call their Sephyr. When they wish to rest, they retire to splendid suites in their expansive white palaces.

The White Flames are known to be powerful and fantastic beings. Whatever they desire, they have. Wherever they wish to go, they are there. Whatever they wish to know, they know just by asking.

The White City is a place where dreams come true, and where no desire goes unfulfilled. It is a city where limitations have never existed, for it is the city of infinite possibilities. In that sense, the White Flames are somewhat like djinns, but far more powerful than the most powerful djinn that ever was.

You would imagine therefore that everyone was very happy with life. And so they were, for quite a long time. With infinity as their playground, and their fields bedewed with stars, who could help but be quite content? When the White Flames were not dancing or singing, they were chortling with joy, as children do. Everyone was the best of friends, and they were perfectly pleased with life.

But one day, something unexpected happened.

It all began with the youngest of the septuplets, a family of White Flame children who lived in the White City. They were as magnificent as everyone else, and being siblings split from the same flame in their mother’s womb, were greatly attached to each other. Everything they did, they did together. Wherever anyone went, the rest followed.

That fateful day however, the youngest of the septuplets decided to do something different.

Rather than sing and dance, it conceived of the bright idea to paint a masterwork of art that would celebrate the greatness of the White City and all its magical inhabitants.

Thrilled by its scheme, it proceeded to the art studio in the septuplets’ white palace. The studio of course was white, and its walls and ceiling too were white.

The other septuplets followed, all agog.

The youngest septuplet picked up its paintbrush and paintbox. (The paintbrush was white, and the only colour in the paintbox was white.)  Carefully, it mixed the paint with water and began painting on a large piece of canvas (white obviously). The youngest septuplet was very earnest, and applied the paint in theatrical whirls and dabs to the cloth.

When it was finished, everyone stared very hard at the masterpiece and said nothing.

Finally, the eldest septuplet cleared its throat nervously. “Forgive me for saying this, but it looks the same as before. The canvas is still as white as when you first began.”

“White on white does not make for a particularly good picture,” added the second septuplet, hoping to sound like an art connoisseur.

“Isn’t this who we are though?” pleaded the youngest septuplet, slightly crushed.

“Yes, I suppose this is who we are…” the second septuplet hastened to concede, sensing that it had hurt its littlest sibling.

“It is what we are, but don’t you all agree that this is getting rather boring?” interrupted the third septuplet.

The others stared at their sibling, thunderstruck.

“White, white, white. Everywhere is white. There is too much white. We are too white. It is this: this unending sameness of white that is beginning to frustrate me so.”

“What can you possibly mean?” cried the others, alarmed by such strange talk.

“I was just wondering, if only we could be the remotest bit different from each other, our lives might just be so much more interesting.”

“But the White Fire is all that is,” countered the fourth septuplet. “From its flames, the universe was born, as was our city, and us. How can we hope to be at all different from each other? As long as we have our Sephyr, we will always know that the same fire burns in all of us.”

“And that is exactly what I mean,” said the third septuplet ruefully. “Is there life beyond this monotonous sea of white we live in? Every day, we sing, we dance, we are almighty in our power to do or be anything we desire. If you ask me, I think it’s getting tiresome.”

“Did you have another life in mind?” asked the others wonderingly.

“Well, just for larks,” it answered thoughtfully, “let’s imagine a fantasy world where we are suddenly crippled, or otherwise limited in some way. Where we can’t always have what we want when we want it. Where people are different from each other. Where we don’t always love each other all the time, like we do here. Don’t you think that would be an interesting change?”

There was a long silence after that. No one had ever thought to be dissatisfied with their lives before. But as they considered what their third sibling had said, they too began to secretly feel that life in the White City was indeed rather colourless.

The problem was that they were too powerful. And that was dull.

“I wonder if we can play a game to amuse ourselves,” suggested the fifth septuplet.

“What game?” chorused the others eagerly.

“Since our Sephyr is the source of our sameness, perhaps we could play hide-and-seek: we hide from our Sephyr, but at the same time try to find it…”

“Better yet, we could drink a magic potion of forgetting, so that we won’t remember our Sephyr at all except as a dim memory of seeking!” cried the sixth septuplet, who had a fondness for spells and elixirs.

“But who can help us?” asked the eldest, ever practical as usual.

There was a stricken silence as they looked at one another.

“Only one,” said the fourth septuplet eventually. “The Master of Illusions. He can put us into an enchanted dream where we forget who we are, but imagine that the dream was very real nonetheless. Such is the power of his magic.”

“Oh, like acting!” exclaimed the second. “Except that we will not remember it’s all an act. We will ham up our scripts, mistaking them for reality.”

They decided to see the Master of Illusions at once.

He was an enchanter who lived in the White City, and like everyone else, was also a White Flame.

The enchanter of course knew what they had come to see him for. “You have grown tired of your whiteness then?” he asked neutrally.

The septuplets looked uncomfortably at each other, but no one could deny it.

“No matter, it is to be expected of course,” he continued cheerfully. “White is the mother of all colours, a ray of light begging for rain to split it like a rainbow. It is the nature of whiteness to be always seeking to cleave into its parts, if only to experience itself. That is who you are.” He nodded sagely to himself and looked very pleased.

“Then what is black?” asked the youngest septuplet. It knew of black because it had noticed that some of the star-fields it played on were dark and empty of light.

“Ah black…” sighed the Master of Illusions fondly. “Black is the enfolding of all that has been split, back into the cradle of its bosom. Black is the womb from which you came, before even the White Fire was born. In blackness is a coming home again to oneness…”

The septuplets were greatly impressed.

“Since you say it is in our nature to split, do you know of a game we can play to help us understand our whiteness better?” asked the fifth septuplet.

The enchanter pondered a while. “There is a play world I know of where the Sephyr is so well sequestered, that the players can no longer remember their origins in the White Fire. They parade around in disguise, as in a pageant, acting their parts like the best of thespians, all the while not knowing that they are only playing…”

The septuplets cheered. “This is what we want!”

“But there is a curiosity peculiar to this play world,” cautioned the enchanter. “There, everything is dressed in the disguise of duality. As a result, the players in this world believe themselves to be separate from each other. It is a world that perceives itself, and dare I say, judges itself through its differences.”

“How lovely!” cried the third septuplet.

“What is duality?” asked the other septuplets. Duality was a stranger to them, having known only oneness and infinity all their lives.

“In the White City,” explained the enchanter, “we take many forms, but we all know that we are born of the White Fire. And so, regardless of what shape we assume here, be it a White Flame or a chair or the palace we live in, we all know ourselves to be flames from the same fire, and are therefore One.”

The septuplets nodded.

“In this play world, there are many forms too, like here in the White City. But though these forms are born of the White Fire as well (as all our play worlds are), its players do not know that. They look around and perceive a world of separation, based on the different forms they wear. They live enchanted lives of forgetfulness.”

The septuplets listened, enthralled by this curious world of division.

“Would you like to play in this dream world then?” asked the enchanter.

They chimed their enthusiasm.

“But I must warn you: to enter this world, you will need to put on a disguise. And whichever costume you choose will charm you in several ways – ”

He raised a finger. “There is firstly the spell of amnesia, so that you will neither remember who you really are, nor this White City you come from.”

He raised another finger. “Your Sephyr will also remain hidden from you while you wear the disguise, though you will feel compelled to go in search of it always while you are in the play world.”

He raised a third finger. “And finally, the costume will bestow on you the illusion of difference, so that you will never know you are really one and the same in essence.”

The septuplets assured him that they desired all these above everything else.

“Oh, but there is one more thing. When you are in disguise in the dream world, you may fail to recognise each other. Where you are the best of friends here, you may find yourselves the worst of enemies there.”

The septuplets looked at each other incredulously and laughed.

“We are the best of siblings and lovers. It is impossible that we will never recognise each other,” declared the second septuplet.

The rest nodded solemnly in agreement.

The enchanter grinned, somewhat wickedly they thought. “Very well then, don’t say I didn’t warn you! Come with me to the Hall of Mirrors. I believe there are vacancies for all of you in the game I mentioned.”

As soon as it was spoken, they found themselves in an immense white domed hall.

On each wall hung a full-length mirror with white gilded edges. There were too many mirrors for the septuplets to count, but it seemed to them that every empty space in the hall was crammed with a mirror.

“Each mirror is a doorway to a dream world of its own,” explained the Master of Illusions. “In each world, a different game is played, a different dream is dreamt. You can call it what you like: a game, a play, a dream, a masquerade. It is all the same. They are all games invented for the amusement of bored White Flames. And they all came out of the White Fire.” He smiled playfully at the septuplets.

“Can we play all those games?” asked the fifth septuplet.

The enchanter wagged his finger. “One game at a time, my pet. Now come along and choose your disguise.”

They were led to the centre of the hall where an enormous white wardrobe stood. Stopping dramatically in front of its massive doors, the Master of Illusions suddenly flung them open with a great flourish.

“May I present to you, my dear septuplets, the Wardrobe of Disguises!”

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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/before-the-dream-begins/feed/ 1 Before the Dream Begins… Part 2 http://littledreamernovel.com/before-the-dream-begins-2/ http://littledreamernovel.com/before-the-dream-begins-2/#comments Mon, 10 Jan 2011 02:43:04 +0000 admin http://littledreamernovel.com/?p=110

he septuplets gasped. The Wardrobe was a jewel box of colours, the likes of which they had never seen before. Where everything in the city was white, all the costumes in the wardrobe shimmered in every possible hue of colour there was. They were so unused to this shining new radiance that they could only stand and gawp for a very long time.

“These are the infinitesimal parts of who you are, the many forms and colours that make up you, my dear White Flames,” announced the Master of Illusions, waving grandly at the costumes. “If in the play world, you can recognise that no matter what colour or disguise you wear, all are simply parts of yourself, then you will have understood the true grandness of yourselves.”

“But if we slip on a disguise, will we forever be that one tiny part of ourselves, and lose the wholeness of who we are now?” asked the second septuplet cautiously.

The enchanter laughed. “My sweet, you are a great White Flame squeezing yourself into one tint of who you are, just for the fun of it. How can you ever be anything but whole and infinite? Although of course you will not remember that once you have entered the play world, for your Sephyr would be hidden from you by then… I warned you didn’t I? It is not too late to change your minds yet – do you all still wish to play this game?”

The septuplets nodded animatedly, all the more enthused by the peculiar challenges of the game.

“Very well then. Pick a costume you fancy, my dears. You want to be dressed as fabulously as possible for your first masquerade.”

“How many costumes can we choose?” asked the third septuplet, starry-eyed.

“For the purpose of this game, just one,” answered the enchanter. “It is always better to know one shade of yourself intimately, than a thousand superficially, no?”

Twittering like subdued sparrows in that sombre hall, the septuplets began to dive into the baffling array of disguises in the wardrobe. Each costume was deeply alive with its own shares of pain, drama, happiness, fears and love, all in varying degrees.

After much careful deliberation, the septuplets eventually picked out seven disguises they thought would be fun for them to play at:

The eldest septuplet chose a crimson ballgown that was a disguise for royalty with a heart of evil.

The second septuplet chose a bright orange kaftan that was a disguise for a high-ranking bureaucrat.

The third septuplet chose a mustard pinafore that was a disguise for an ugly, cantankerous chef who could cook like a dream.

The fourth septuplet chose an olive green sundress that was a disguise for a talented artist.

The fifth septuplet chose a midnight blue tunic that was a disguise for an art dealer.

The sixth septuplet chose an indigo sarong that was a disguise for a medicine woman.

The seventh and youngest septuplet chose a violet toga that was a disguise for a dreamer and changemaker.

They slipped into their costumes and giggled to themselves, as children do who are about to embark on some new prank.

Then the septuplets turned to one another.

What they saw horrified them, for in place of the siblings they loved so well, a party of perfect strangers greeted them instead. They kept very quiet, wondering what new trick the Master of Illusions had played on them.

“The disguise is complete!” declared the Master, rubbing his hands gleefully.

And then the septuplets laughed and saw each other for who they really were.

“The amnesia will set in for real only when you step through the mirror,” he added.

“Then can we leave now?” they asked eagerly.

The enchanter shook his head. “You need to write your play world scripts first.”

“Who will be the playwright?” asked the puzzled septuplets in unison.

“Why, you of course!” said the enchanter.

They groaned. “But we thought you would write our scripts for us, so that we can pop into the dream world and be pleasantly surprised!”

“My dears!” cried the Master of Illusions. “How could I possibly be so horrid as to control your game? Why, it’s your play,” he added gently.

“But where’s the fun if we write our scripts now and know exactly what is going to happen in the play?” they grumbled.

“Ah, have you forgotten that amnesia will overtake you the moment you step through the mirror?”

“If we forget, what’s the point of writing a script to begin with?” The septuplets were genuinely baffled.

The enchanter chuckled. “You will not write a script that you will be forced to act out like puppets once you enter your play world. You only need script the many possibilities, the many forks in the road in this game. The script you write is only to help you design your play lives to be as dry or as juicy as you want them to be.”

“So we are not bound by the scripts we write now?” asked the third septuplet.

The Master of Illusions smiled. “Have you not guessed? Each costume you have chosen comes with its own script already, but it is never fixed. Oh no it isn’t, and never will be.” He shook his head sagaciously.

“You direct your own play, even as you act in it. You are at once the actor and the director of your stage lives. You choose your own destiny. And in that sense, even your costumes cannot dictate how your life will be.”

He untangled a ball of yarn and showed the septuplets a movie of all the millions of scripts they could write and play with each other: of what would happen if someone met another when, or if they did not, and what would happen in each case.

“In a world of infinite possibilities, there is also an infinite number of choices you can make at each moment. Which one will you make? Which destiny will you choose? That’s the gamble. It’s what makes life in this dream world so maddening, and also so insanely beautiful,” said the enchanter.

The septuplets looked at each other, bewildered by the complexity of lives hidden in a skein of yarn.

“How confusticating,” they muttered.

But as they settled down to script the roles they could enact, they became increasingly enthusiastic.

“I’ll torture you…”

“I’ll be your wicked boss…”

“I’ll be your mother…”

“I’ll be your lover…”

“I’ll be… I’ll be…”

They chirruped feverishly as they plotted all the possible trajectories of their play lives.

When everything was decided on, the septuplets agreed that their three oldest siblings were terribly brave for consenting to play some of the most unpleasant parts to be found in the Wardrobe.

But the most courageous of all, they agreed, was their eldest sibling, whose role was so vile that no one else had dared take it. Everyone praised its heroism so much, that the first septuplet was quite embarrassed, and blushed to the same shade of crimson on its costume.

When the eldest septuplet had recovered sufficiently from its fit of bashfulness, it ventured, “I suppose this is the only way for us to understand the light we really are… by playing at what it isn’t. But my dear siblings, I must confess that I cannot bear to be so reviled for too long, and would like to play this game for the shortest time possible.”

“That is quite convenient,” broke in the Master of Illusions. “The costume you chose comes with a curse that grants you an early death in your play world.”

“What does that mean – ‘death’?” asked the septuplets curiously. Being immortal, they did not know what it meant to die.

“Death in this game is the only way for you to return home to the White City. It is a means for you to make a permanent exit from the play, to retire to the wings. If you don’t die, you remain in the game, wearing your disguise, acting your part still.”

“How quaint,” they murmured.

“I hope we remember all the strange customs of this play world,” added the second septuplet anxiously.

The enchanter laughed. “Don’t worry. You will know them like your Sephyr the moment you step through the mirror.”

But the eldest septuplet remained uneasy.

“My dearest siblings,” it began timidly, “now that we have all chosen a costume for ourselves, I promise to play my part as well as I can while we are in our game world and can no longer remember each other. But,” and here, its voice trembled a little, “wouldn’t you all hate me so much for what I will do to you?”

A thoughtful silence ensued.

“I suppose so,” said the youngest septuplet. “But if we’re just acting, it will be alright won’t it?”

“But will you promise me that no matter how horrid I may seem to all of you while in disguise, you will at least try to remember who I really am? Just the thought that any of you could possibly hate me… oh, it breaks my heart so!”

Everyone embraced their poor, brave sibling, and swore that they would try their best to remember.

“And promise me that when we finally return to the White City, we will once again be the dearest of siblings that we are now?” persisted the eldest septuplet.

They promised, then they all followed the first septuplet’s lead, and made similar vows of their own to the others, whose paths were going to cross in ways that might hurt them while in the play world.

Having sworn their eternal love to each other, they lined up reverentially in front of the mirror pointed out by the Master of Illusions as the portal to the dream world they had chosen.

“Why do we need to go through a mirror to get to this game world?” asked the fifth septuplet.

“Because a mirror shows you who you are,” replied the enchanter.

“And by playing the game, we will learn something more of who we really are…” added the youngest septuplet wisely.

“Indeed,” agreed the enchanter. “In each game world, everything you see is a mirror, even if it doesn’t look like one. Every fellow player you meet, everything you encounter is going to be a looking glass, a deep pool in which you see the essence of who you really are.”

“And then perhaps we will see our Sephyr when we look at another?”

The enchanter smiled. “It depends on how well hidden your Sephyr is.”

“Don’t tell us where you’re going to hide ours!” said the septuplets hurriedly. “We really want to forget!”

“No, I won’t tell you if you don’t wish to know,” replied the enchanter. “But remember, you are the sum of all the colours and costumes that spill out of the Wardrobe of Disguises. If at any time during your play, you encounter another you don’t like, try to remember that it is your chosen differences that make you beautiful. Honour the dream for what it is. Play well with each other, dear children. Try to remember who you really are, behind your disguises.”

They laughed and said, “But that would spoil the game, if we remember too well!”

With a last fond wave to the enchanter, the septuplets drew near the mirror, which shimmered like a wall of water as they stepped through, then vanished into the dream world. After each septuplet had gone through, the mirror turned hard and glassy again.

“One last question: what is the name of this dream world you are sending us to?” asked the youngest septuplet, who was the only one that hadn’t left yet.

“Why, I do believe – ” The Master of Illusions looked lost as he racked his memory for the name. “Why yes, I do believe it is called the planet Earth…”

But in its impatience to begin the game at once, the youngest septuplet had already disappeared through the mirror.

The enchanter shook his head, smiling wistfully as a fond parent might who has just seen the last of his children grow up and leave home.

“Well, well,” he said to himself, “I have done what I can, and now these children will forget all about me and the White City. But they will constantly be looking for their Sephyr anyway. They will search and scrabble in the dark, on mountaintops, in cities and buildings, and still they will not find it. What a pity they will keep looking outside themselves.”

He laughed ironically.

“Only a few, yes, only a few will discover at the end of their searching, that their Sephyr was all the while in them, right inside their hearts…”

And he turned back to the White City, to await other White Flames who might also have begun to feel a little bored with their perfect lives.

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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/before-the-dream-begins-2/feed/ 1. The City Under The Lake Part 1 http://littledreamernovel.com/1-the-city-under-the-lake-part/ http://littledreamernovel.com/1-the-city-under-the-lake-part/#comments Sat, 08 Jan 2011 01:53:20 +0000 admin http://littledreamernovel.com/?p=264

here is a lost city of gold and silver hidden beneath the Enchanted Lake in the middle of this island. Did you know that?” the strange woman asked the child.

“What city is this?”

“It is called the City of Dreams. If you listen carefully, you can still hear the bells of the City when you stand by the shores of the Lake at dawn and on the nights of the full moon.”

“And who are you?”

But the woman had disappeared.

The child blinked and imagined she must have fallen asleep and had a dream. But the next day, she saw the woman again, smiling at her from between the trees.

“In the City of Dreams, precious stones grow like flowers, and the juice of rubies is drunk like water. Instead of dirt, emeralds and diamonds litter the streets. As much wealth as you desire can be freely picked from trees and riverbeds.” The woman spoke as calmly as if they were continuing a conversation broken off only a minute ago.

“What kind of people live in this city?” enquired the child.

“A race of angels. They never die unless they choose, for they are immortal.”

“Are you one of them?”

Once more, the woman disappeared.

The child blinked again, but this time she was thoughtful. She knew that gold and jewels were treasured by her tribe, but she was more intrigued by the prospect of meeting an angel. She had heard of angels in the fairy tales she read, and thought how delightful it would be to meet a whole city of them.

The next day, the mysterious woman was back.

“The City of Dreams was swallowed by the earth when its citizens decided they were too far ahead for their day and age. So they went into hiding until such time when a Chosen One should find the lost city again. And then, it is prophesied that the City of Dreams will return to the surface where it truly belongs.” Once again, the woman spoke as intimately as if they had been chatting together for the last hour over tea.

“Who is the Chosen One supposed to be?”

“It might be you. It might not be. That is for you to decide.”

“But who are you?”

Again, the woman disappeared.

This time, the child decided to speak to her mother about what the strange woman had told her. Her mother was a shaman, regarded by everyone as the wisest woman in their tribe. She would surely have an answer to every puzzle in life that could bother her little one’s soul.

Her heart-shaped face set determinedly, the child made her way to the cluster of huts buried in the steaming green of the jungle. Between the trees, the Pengiri hunters flitted soundlessly like spirits, armed only with slender blowpipes in search of the day’s meal.

She had just emerged from the copse that sheltered their dwellings when she stumbled upon the Storyteller.

He was an unending sea of stories – the one who had regaled her with tale after tale from the moment she was big enough for him to dandle on his knobbly knee; and also the one who had first taught her to read, that she need not always turn to him for a fable.

Joyously, he caught the child up in his arms and beamed at her from between the pleated folds of his face. “And how’s the little shaman doing today?”

“Do you know about the City of Dreams?”

“Why yes, dear child, everyone knows about it.”

“You never told me the story,” she said, with the slightest hint of reproach in her almond eyes.

The Storyteller stroked her hair soothingly, settling her on his lap. “That’s because the stories I told you in the past were only myths. But the City of Dreams is a serious story, for it is no myth. It is completely true.” His eyes gleamed. “Would you like to hear all about it?”

The child nodded eagerly.

He smiled indulgently at her bright golden face, and began.

*

There are lands. And then, there are lands hidden within lands.

In the middle of this island that sits in the middle of an ocean, there is an Enchanted Lake.

And in the middle of the lake is yet another island on which the hermaphrodite Guardian of the Lake lives.

There is nothing particularly unusual about this, other than that an entire city lies buried beneath the Enchanted Lake.

Not the kind of dead and dust-crumbled city that archeologists are so fond of either, but a thriving, very much alive underground city.

It is the City of Dreams, and its inhabitants are thought to be a beautiful and magical race of immortals known as the Dreamers. No one who lives on the surface of this island has ever seen the City of Dreams.

Not since it disappeared underground.

Yet, if you stand on the shores of the Enchanted Lake at dawn and on the nights of the full moon, you might just catch the peal of bells from the invisible city – rising, rising from the Lake in luminous bubbles of sound that burst like tears inside the heart. The bells are the only sign of life hidden beneath water and soil.

Things were not always this way.

Twelve thousand years ago, where the Enchanted Lake now sits, the City of Dreams stood like a bright fiction. As other cities of that age did, it sunned itself on the land as a beached whale might, and each day it grew in splendour, wealth and beauty.

The City of Dreams was held to be the most beautiful city on the face of the earth, and its people the loveliest ever seen among humankind. It was a city of magicians and miracle-makers, of dreamers, poets, musicians, artists and dancers, all of whom lived in beauty, love and power.

The city was created from the stuff of dreams. By day, its walls and towers were smelted in the golden heat of the sun. By night, its art and music were spun from silver strings of moonshine.

Golden walls circled a silver city, punctuated by imposing towers that pierced the sky and bore the heavy bells that announced the dawn and festivals of the moon, when the Dreamers would come out to dance.

The water that ran in their rivers was also sweet, and said to impart longevity to the drinker. Others who heard its music swore that the river’s song could bewitch you into a state of holy madness.

It was not known how the Dreamers came into existence, or how they came to erect their city in this particular island. Some thought they first arrived from the stars in search of a home. Most revered them as gods and even feared them for their magic.

What was known for certain was that the Dreamers lived in love and walked in beauty. Whatever they did, they did perfectly because their doing was preceded by their heart’s dreaming.

Indeed, the Dreamers were beyond the perfection of humanity. They were androgynous beings who shone like the angels; immortals and shape-shifters who retained their extraordinary youth and beauty even after having lived thousands of years (not that anyone knew exactly how old they were).

The Dreamers were also masters of time and space, with the ability to become invisible at will and to reappear wherever they wished. They could make a second last an eternity, or make a year go by in a second.

But what was perhaps more unusual than all this was the fact that the City of Dreams was never built with sweat or machines. Not even the simplest of tools were used in its construction! In this world of dreamers, the city was born wholly from the dreams dreamt by the Dreamers. Whatever the Dreamers dreamt, was created instantly. Palaces, temples, astrolabes, gold, jewels, health, joy, love, beauty: the Dreamers only had to dream it to summon it into being.

The City of Dreams was therefore said to be less a city than an apparition of the enchanting dream world of the Dreamers’ hearts. To walk in the city was to wander into the lacunae of its beautiful people’s hearts.

And because the city was only the fruit of their own dreaming, the Dreamers declared themselves citizens of their hearts, rather than of the City.

To live in the City of Dreams was to be a citizen of one’s own heart.

Consequently, the Dreamers’ highest loyalty in life was to their hearts. The only altar before which they worshipped was the altar of their hearts, having no need for any other gods to bow to.

Since they considered themselves governed adequately by their hearts, the Dreamers saw no need for a ruler or a king. Such hierarchy they considered unnatural and merely superfluous. To the Dreamers, everyone was equal. They did not understand, or perhaps did not wish to understand how anyone could possibly lead another.

All this was certainly quite at odds with the thinking in other human cities of that age, and was a source of great bafflement to the rulers around the world, who relished their positions of power and influence, and relished even more so their bloodthirsty conquests of their neighbours’ lands.

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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/1-the-city-under-the-lake-part/feed/ 1. The City Under The Lake Part 2 http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-city-under-the-lake-part/ http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-city-under-the-lake-part/#comments Fri, 07 Jan 2011 20:59:10 +0000 admin http://littledreamernovel.com/?p=283 he Dreamers’ saving grace amidst such barbarity was their unbounded generosity.

Predicting (correctly) that the kings from neighbouring cities might covet their infinite wealth, the Dreamers dreamt up a money tree that stood in the middle of the City of Dreams. Where fruit and flowers bloom on ordinary trees, the money tree sprouted gold and silver coins. Visitors who came in good faith were welcome to go to the tree and pluck as much wealth as they desired from its branches.

In this way, the peaceful Dreamers managed to stave off potential conquests from greedy king-neighbours who might desire (not unnaturally) to steal and hoard the Dreamers’ wealth for themselves.

Even so, this was not enough.

At first, the kings were overjoyed when they learnt of the open welcome given by the Dreamers to their money tree. Excitedly, they made pilgrimages to the tree with armies of packhorses and mules in devoted tow.

The kings reserved for themselves the pleasure of the first pick, and it was with the frenzy of piggy children in a candy store that they plucked money off the tree. It wasn’t until their flabby arms grew sore that they found the heart to leave the money tree to the brawnier plebeians, set like slaves to continue reaping for the royal coffers.

While the kings and their subjects picked away fiercely, the Dreamers stood by smiling and nodding, benevolent as fairy godmothers. Not that the ungrateful kings or their subjects paid much attention to the Dreamers around them. They were too besotted with their harvest of money. Besides, they believed that the Dreamers were obliged to open the tree to them, since they possessed such a decidedly unfair advantage over them in the generation of wealth.

When their coffers were stuffed to overflowing, the kings spent the first few weeks squatting admiringly in the middle of their treasuries, atop a mountain of gold coins. There, they began to chuckle to themselves as they played with the coins, running them through their fingers like rain. The less inhibited kings grunted happily as they wallowed round and round in the money till their bodies became quite pink and wet from the exercise.

After some time engaged in such meaningful occupation, the kings began to feel rather bored. So they decided to take a drive in their plush carriages to survey the extent of their kingdoms. Their intention of course was to see how much more land they could purchase, so as to add to their already vast dominions. Money, they thought, would save them the trouble of going to war.

As the kings drove around, they noticed that a new sheen of prosperity seemed to varnish the land and its people. Their subjects, once so cracked and lean from working in the sun, now boasted shiny new clothes that wrapped around their ample bodies and round faces.

Intrigued by this overnight transformation, they peered into the humble cottages strewn by the roads like dirt. They gasped. The peasants were sucking at fat juicy steaks instead of the pale, watery soups that used to be their staple!

The kings saw happiness fly out of their carriage windows. Gloom tiptoed in. They had forgotten that the money tree was open not just to the kings, but to every pleb who cared to visit the City of Dreams.

This was intolerable to the kings. It made a mockery of their power, for it only now occurred to them that anyone, even the earth-scraping serfs, could be as rich as the kings themselves if they so chose.

And then, an uncomfortable thought crept into their minds – what was the use in having so much money if everyone else was just as rich?

Slowly, they convinced themselves that the chief reason they felt so happy in the possession of wealth was the certain knowledge that others had less than them. If not all others, then most others.

The kings began to brood. A way must be found to control the money tree so that its wealth would only go to one king, or perhaps to just a few kings if diplomacy necessitated it.

The kings were strangely unconcerned about the possibility that their subjects might stop working if they felt they had enough money. And then, who would produce their food or clothes, or build their houses?

But such concerns were immaterial to the kings. Instead, they brooded on the sudden loss of the brief happiness they had felt when they had all the money in the world.

The happiness that comes from wealth, they surmised, could be theirs only in a world of difference, where some were rich and others poor. How else could the rich enjoy their wealth if they knew that everyone else was just as prosperous as themselves?

It was the unforgivable sameness of wealth that irked them; the smug equality and plump prosperity all around – it made them no better or more powerful than the lowliest serf on their land. The new kingdoms of plenty over which they reigned were a source of grief to Their Majesties. They began to curse the money tree and dreamt again of the days when gold was scarce and they had controlled vast treasuries while the peasants skinned their bones on the slices of earth they tended.

Jealous viziers, thieving off their masters’ apparent dissatisfaction, hastened to the kings’ sides like flies to turds, and whispered poisonous counsel into their ears. They cunningly muttered that the Dreamers possessed other types of wealth they did not have. Happiness was one of them, and what of beauty, love, and health? The Dreamers had an abundance of all this, which were perhaps even more important than money in helping them enjoy their lives. Perhaps the Dreamers had stashed away other trees of happiness, love, health and beauty in their City, and were too selfish to share them?

Besides, why didn’t the Dreamers have a ruler? It was time for a great King to seize the City of Dreams and unite everyone under the same government. Just think, Your Majesty, you will then have sole control of not just the money tree, but also of all the other secret trees of beauty, love, joy and health. You will be the richest, strongest, most powerful and handsomest man in the world. We could build empires overseas, conquer yet more lands, who knows, perhaps conquer the world? You will go down in history, o King, as the almighty conqueror who vanquished his unworthy foes and united the world under a single great ruler.

The viziers’ flattery scored with the foolish kings, and their royal minds wondered why they hadn’t thought of sacking the City of Dreams right from the start. Seize the City of Dreams and say goodbye to misery for eternity! The solution was so simple, it made them laugh. And as they laughed, they actually began to feel a little happier.

They did not foresee that there could be any resistance from the Dreamers. Those ninnies and milksops hadn’t the sense to keep any soldiers of their own for defence after all. They were that naively trusting. Or perhaps just foolishly pacifist.

The kings sniggered as they went through their battle plans with their army chiefs, ignorant of the other kings’ similar designs as they sat in their isolated castles in their separate kingdoms.

Unknown to the scheming kings and viziers, the Dreamers had already felt the mounting envy of their neighbours cloud their city like black news. In their childlike innocence, the Dreamers were saddened that their neighbours should desire to harm them, but also glad that they had managed to survive a hundred years unscathed on the island before anyone should desire to go to war with them. That was in itself an achievement, they thought.

But now, with the impending attacks by the neighbouring kings, they realised that their lovely city was but a monolithic misfit in a world that wasn’t yet ready for them. Perhaps they were a little too far ahead of their time.

When the Dreamers next gathered for their moon dance, a collective plan was born. A plan that would keep them safe until such time when their fellow humans might become more enlightened and be able to accept them again, and perhaps even learn the secrets of their ways.

They were patient. They could afford to wait, even if it took thousands of years. After all, they were immortal weren’t they?

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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-city-under-the-lake-part/feed/ 1. The City Under The Lake Part 3 http://littledreamernovel.com/1-the-city-under-the-lake-part-3/ http://littledreamernovel.com/1-the-city-under-the-lake-part-3/#comments Thu, 06 Jan 2011 18:45:05 +0000 admin http://littledreamernovel.com/?p=325

n the appointed day, when the warring kings came with all their troops, they were both disgruntled and mortified to find that other kings had come to seize the City of Dreams as well. They thought they were being made fools of by their viziers.

The kings fumed and sputtered till they resembled a patch of purple cabbages. But when pressed to confess, the terrified viziers pled ignorance of the other kings’ plans.

The kings eventually got over their embarrassment. Since there was no help for it, they agreed to a joint attack on the City of Dreams, with the spoils to be split equally among them.

Just as the kings were preparing to make their charge, they were startled by the solemn and steady tolling of the City’s bells. Soon after, walls of water began shooting from the ground around the city.

The kings were surprised but assumed that this was some fanciful new fountain created by the Dreamers. They spurred their horses forward, eager for a quick victory. But the horses reared and neighed anxiously, and no amount of kicking, whipping and cursing could induce the poor beasts to move. They stood their ground resolutely, obeying some silent warning that only animals can sense.

Then, right before the eyes of the horrified kings and their assembled armies, the earth appeared to part its lips, and the City of Dreams slipped down its throat. Slowly and gently, they watched the city descend into the belly of the earth, like a precious child wound down a windlass.

After the City had disappeared, the ground shut itself up again with a satisfied boom, and in the great empty bowl of land where the city had been, water was rapidly taking its place.

That was how the Enchanted Lake came to fill the space left by the City of Dreams.

The warring kings, deeply frightened and shaken by the magic of the Dreamers, nervously rubbed their eyes and tried to make a joke of the whole thing.

“What a queer dream I’ve had,” said one of the kings, “I actually dreamt of a City in which a money tree grew, and I thought I was coming here with my troops to seize it!”

“I wonder what wicked enchantment this was that made me think there was a golden city here,” said another.

Yet another king whose ego was much bruised for not acting sooner, suggested that the Dreamers were selfish cowards who had gone into hiding with their City so that they might hoard their great wealth for themselves.

The others murmured in protest and insisted that it was all a nightmare.

Relieved that they had come to a common conclusion, the kings persuaded themselves that the City of Dreams had never existed except in their dreams. It is human nature to explain the unexplainable by pretending it is a dream.

One after another, the warring kings slunk back home defeated. But being men of war, they occupied themselves later by going to battle with each other. It was the only thing they could think of at that time to amuse themselves.

However, for all the talk about the City of Dreams being a wild fantasy, it was discovered that the Dreamers had left behind a prophecy inscribed on a massive rock by the shores of the Enchanted Lake.

It read:

The City of Dreams lies buried at hand,
Till the Chosen One comes twelve millennia hence.
Then what treasure was hidden shall be revealed,
That which sleeps will find new sense,
      and the City of Dreams once more will breathe on land.

The One who finds the City shall be pure in soul,
And on foot will journey from its dwelling place.
On the waters of the Enchanted Lake the One must walk
To the island at its heart where the Guardian holds space,
      else shall at water’s bottom forever lie cold.


The prophecy later acquired such a degree of notoriety and significance, that the rock on which it was written got to be known reverently as just The Rock.

Many years later, a hot-blooded king, plagued by fevered dreams of treasure buried beneath the Enchanted Lake, ordered the waters of the Lake to be dredged and its bottom excavated until the City of Dreams was found.

But no sooner did anyone come close to the lake’s waters, then they were washed into it and drowned. Enraged, the king ordered fresh reinforcements of slaves to the Lake, but not one of them returned alive. Only after the foolish king lost half his army did he think to desist.

Since then, all attempts to find the City of Dreams have been in vain, and while most people have come to regard the story as a legend, others await the coming of the Chosen One of the prophecy who will find the lost city and restore it again to its former glory – on the surface of this island.

 

      The Storyteller ceased to speak and stared thoughtfully into the distance, as though trying to remember something of great importance.

Beside them, the river burned gold-bright in the last flames of the sun’s cremation. The cicadas too had begun their shrill, insistent hum.

“I don’t understand some things about the prophecy. Who is the Guardian? And why is the lake enchanted?” asked the child, her bright voice cutting into the descending gloom like a wand wielded by a woodland sprite.

The Storyteller started. “What’s that? Oh yes, the Guardian.” From the knowing look on his face, the child could tell that another story was coming, this time with regard to that curious personage.

“As you know,” he began, “while there are Guardians for everything – the clouds, the trees, the sky, the earth and its waters, even people and animals – this particular Guardian is well known to all the inhabitants of our island because of the legends that have sprung up around her and the Enchanted Lake that is her home.

“Now, even as I call the Guardian a ‘her,’ no one has ever been able to determine whether the Guardian is really a him or a her. Not that it matters very much of course. The Guardian is like the Great Dreamer who created all of life, in that they are genderless, and it would be rude of us to try to label them as either one or the other.

“You may well wonder how the lake in which the Guardian lives came to be known as ‘enchanted.’ The Lake is enchanted for many reasons, not least because the water has special qualities that make it very popular with some people.

“For one thing, the water in the Enchanted Lake is said to heal the soul of anyone who bathes in it. And indeed, because I have tried it myself, I can say that the water makes you come alive in a most marvellous way. It is as though the real you becomes so much more animated, until it jumps out from wherever it was hidden inside, and becomes who you are on the outside as well.

“All of us”, he continued, gazing intently at his young listener, “have an invisible orchestra in our hearts that plays a song most people do not reveal. Until that is, they step into the waters of the Enchanted Lake. Then the song becomes your life, and no longer remains hidden. It cannot remain hidden, in fact! The water brings out who you really are, and magnifies the form inside you that is most alive, that has been growing in you all this while.

“This can be a good thing for people who are full of good inside, because then the good is magnified and you become so much better. But for those who are rotting away inside, all the badness of that rot is also magnified. So the water does not really make you better or worse. It just helps people become more aware of what is in them, of the essence of who they are.

“If this isn’t enough, the waters of the Lake are also enchanted because of the extraordinary effects they have on the Guardian herself.

“You must know that one of the peculiarities of the Guardian is her ability to change her gender at will, and even her form, just by submerging herself in the waters of the tide pools that feed her island. She wears her form the way we wear our clothes, and she changes her clothes according to her moods.

“Sometimes, she appears as a lithe, striking boy; sometimes as a beautiful young woman who charms the fishermen who fish in the lake. Yet at other times, she appears as a great serpentine dragon. There are possibly many other forms she takes that I am not aware of. The Guardian is known by many names therefore, but they all refer to the same person.

“The form most favoured by the Guardian though, or at least, the form she is most often seen in, is that of an astonishingly lovely woman graced with an otherworldly beauty, whose face sets men dreaming and leaves them witless for the rest of their days as they stumble through life, her name on their tongues even as they draw their last breath.

“Many foolish men have set out for the Lake hoping for a glimpse of the perilously beautiful Guardian, seduced by her beauty even before they have seen her.

“But the Guardian was not born to decorate a vain man’s arm like a prize trophy, nor to satisfy anyone’s desires. Oh no, not the Guardian,” and here, the Storyteller chuckled wickedly. “The Guardian has a much higher purpose in life, and that is to guard the Enchanted Lake, and beyond that, the City of Dreams which lies beneath it, still as alive today as it was so many thousands of years ago, when the waters of the Lake first took it under.”

“And what is the meaning of the prophecy on The Rock you spoke about earlier? How is the City of Dreams to be found again?” asked the child, her golden skin flushed with unusual radiance.

“The prophecy says that a Chosen One – some of our elders have said it will be a child of pure heart – will need to walk from its dwelling place to the Enchanted Lake, and then must find a way to walk on the waters of the Lake itself, if he or she is to reach the Guardian’s island.

“Presumably, there is a secret doorway on that island to the City of Dreams. What’s more,” he added, his voice now hushed with reverence, “the Chosen One who successfully gains entry to the City of Dreams will cause the earth under the lake to open up, and the City of Dreams to rise again to the surface of the earth…”

The child’s blood jumped. She thought about what the mysterious woman had said to her about the Chosen One. Could she be the one the prophecy spoke of? She dared not hope so, yet hoped very much that it might be her.

“Has anyone tried to walk on the water, or to reach the secret doorway in the Guardian’s island by boat?” she asked. There was a barely perceptible quiver in her voice.

“Yes, indeed! There have been many in the past who have tried to reach the Guardian’s island, lured either by the beauty of the Guardian, or by the promise of gold in the City of Dreams. But no one succeeded,” he announced darkly.

“Those who tried to walk on the water found their feet sinking to the bottom of the lake like everyone else. They either drowned or were rescued from the water very nearly drowned.

“As for trying to reach the Guardian’s island by boat, don’t even think of it! The Enchanted Lake is as temperamental as a skittish lady – she can behave like an ocean in a tempest when she wishes to, especially when anyone draws near the Guardian’s island. We believe the Lake is in a conspiracy with the Guardian to prevent anyone from reaching her island uninvited.” He paused, his eyes flickering warning in the light of the newly lit fires.

The child shuddered involuntarily.

“The Guardian is careful with her duties, as I said before, a very good gatekeeper for the City of Dreams indeed. Anyone who tries to land on her island will find themselves engulfed in tidal waves that roll suddenly from the shores and threaten to capsize any boat that tries to draw near.

“Some of those who survived to tell the tale say they saw a beautiful goddess looking grimly at them from between the waves. And we can be sure that was the Guardian herself, guarding her island until the right person comes along who will be allowed to enter the City of Dreams.”

The child fell into a glum silence as she agonised over the seeming impossibility of finding the City of Dreams, an idea that had been festering in her heart like a wound that wouldn’t heal, ever since the mysterious woman had appeared to her.

“Come now, why so gloomy, Zayoni?” asked the Storyteller.

Even if she risked being told she was mad, something in his kind, grave eyes persuaded the child to confide in him about the strange woman who had spoken to her over the last three days.

To her surprise, the Storyteller looked at her with a sort of awe new to her.

“There was something I forgot to tell you about,” he said slowly and with great deliberation.

“At this moment, we are only three months away from the twelve thousandth anniversary of the City’s first disappearance into the earth.” He paused and looked meaningfully at the child.

“The prophecy states that the Chosen One will come twelve millennia hence.” He paused again, checking to see that the child understood the significance of the timing.

She did, and her heart trembled violently.

A huge smile cracked his face and he embraced the child tightly.

“Perhaps you, little shaman, are the Chosen One, come to deliver the City of Dreams,” he breathed. “If so, we have been waiting a very long time for this to happen…”

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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/1-the-city-under-the-lake-part-3/feed/ 2. The Shaman Part 1 http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-shaman-part-1/ http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-shaman-part-1/#comments Thu, 06 Jan 2011 15:35:19 +0000 admin http://littledreamernovel.com/?p=406

he river that flowed past the child’s home in the jungle brought fish, shrimp and crabs for the tribe’s meals.

Sometimes, the river also brought men from other villages and tribes who came to trade with the Pengiris. They paddled upstream in their long flatboats, bringing bright fruit, textiles, books and the latest contraptions from the cities. In return, her tribe gave them herbs, wild honey and medicinal roots harvested from the jungle.

Today, the river brought hope to the child, for now she knew that her beloved river flowed on and on to the centre of her island country, feeding the waters of a lake that hid a lost City of Dreams like a secret in its womb.

Dreamily, the child let her almond eyes follow the curve of the river until she could see it no more, silver-skinned and shining like a snake in the sun. Without knowing she was doing so, she began to pray. A prayer that she would find the City of Dreams, a prayer she sent into the water, begging it to carry her desires to the Guardian of the Enchanted Lake.

It was a simple prayer from a child’s heart to the river goddess to take as a message to the Guardian. The formidable Guardian of not just the Enchanted Lake, but also the City of Dreams.

The City of Dreams.

The name itself quivered on the tongue of her imagination like a leaf in the wind. If only the Guardian would hear her! The Guardian, the gatekeeper to her dreams, the beautiful one who could grant her entry to her desires. Or close them forever on her.

It was this latter thought, the persistent niggling thought that she might fail, which held the child back a little. The fear of failure daunted her. Daunted her small child’s body with its too-large spirit, like a genie caught in the golden jar of her figure.

She walked through the jungle she knew as home, and thought about everything that was dear to her: her tribe, her mother, the land, and more than anything else, a tree, her birth tree, which she had planted even when she could barely walk. It might have seemed strange to plant trees in a jungle as pristine as the one she lived in, but it was a tribal custom for every new child to plant a tree, and so give life to another in gratitude for their own life.

This birth tree of the child’s had always been her faithful playmate as they grew up together. Every morning, she would rush to watch its leaves unfurl in the morning light, and its soft buds unfasten their petals to greet the sun. Then, when her tree had fully woken up, they would spend the greater part of the day talking together. They knew each other’s greatest dreams and deepest sorrows.

All this was such a marvel to her, like the tender unfolding of love from the heart, that she knew her tree’s beauty would forever be deeply engraved in her.

A wind stirred, moving the grass and her soul. The child sighed as she thought about her many loves and loyalties to her tree and her tribe. The land and everything that lived on it had adopted her, and she belonged to it as much as it belonged to her. She wondered if she could ever find the heart to leave them for the sake of a dream.

She went to find her mother.

Her mama, the shaman of the tribe, was just emerging from her healing hut, which meant that she had recently finished a session for an afflicted someone or other.

Her mother’s methods of healing were a matter of great curiosity to everybody. Whenever anyone was ailing with something, the shaman would retreat alone to her hut for about an hour or less. When she emerged, the person concerned would have been healed, or their problem mysteriously resolved.

Her abilities gained her many admirers (mainly from her own tribe), but also many detractors (mainly from the big cities).

When asked what exactly it was she did: which chants, herbs or spells she had used for example, the shaman would simply say, “I breathed love and acceptance into myself.”

Most people refused to believe her. As she once explained to her child, people rarely believe the truth, because the truth is always simple.

Nonetheless, no one could really doubt her, because those who had seen the inside of her healing hut could tell that it was completely bare.

The shaman frequently felt sorry for her devoted skeptics who made the pilgrimage to her humble shack from their distant cities, barging in on her sessions with the hope of surprising her with the expected tools of her trade.

But when they found no hidden spell books, charms, or amulets gracing the empty hut, they left with chagrin seeping through their fat faces and pampered hands.

The shaman saw her child coming, and her face softened at once with love. She felt a tender protectiveness toward her only child, who sometimes seemed to her like a bewildered frog with wide dreams to explore the world around her.

Yet, for all her bewildered frogginess, the shaman also knew, with a fond mother’s pride, that her child had the heart of a lion, an old head on young shoulders, and feet nimble as a goat’s to support her.

She extended her arms exuberantly to the approaching doll-like figure with its mop of unruly curls, bleached sand-brown by the sun, and skin the colour of melted gold.

“I know why you have come to look for me,” said the shaman.

“You do?” The child stared at her incredulously.

“Yes, my Chosen One, I do.”

Her mother’s joy and pride burst through in a wide, embracing smile. Then, seeing that her child still looked puzzled, she pointed in the direction of the Storyteller’s hut. “No news is ever secret in our tribe.”

Her mama’s enthusiasm infected her. For a while, the child forgot her worries and doubts.

“Isn’t the City of Dreams the most amazing place, mama?” she cried ingenuously.

Her mother’s eyes were in a misty, faraway place. “Yes, how much better the world would be, the day the City of Dreams comes back to this island.” She paused, choked with feeling. “Our tribe has long awaited the return of our lost utopia…”

The child was not unmoved by her mother’s reaction. She felt a strange thrill of anticipation now that she knew her heart’s desire was for the good of not just her tribe, but also the world at large. The idea overwhelmed her.

“And to imagine that my own little Zayoni, my dearest golden child, could be the Chosen One!” She looked affectionately at her child. “If you are to find the City of Dreams, you must acquaint yourself with your heart: court it like a lover, follow the path it sets, be guided by it always.”

The child nodded.

The shaman looked seriously at the child. “So the Guardian herself has spoken to you?”

The child was startled. “I don’t know if she was the Guardian. She disappeared whenever I asked her who she was.”

“Most probably the Guardian then,” said her mother, nodding knowingly. “Or if not the Guardian, then a Dreamer. Do you remember what she looked like?”

“Actually, she reminded me of you, mama. She was beautiful like you.”

The shaman flushed with pleasure at her child’s praise. She knelt before her and placed her hands on her child’s strong shoulders.

“Your heart knows its desires long before your mind does. And it was a measure of your desire for the City of Dreams that drew the Dreamer to contact you. Your heart has chosen this path for you, my child. The Chosen One chooses, rather than is chosen…”

The child was secretly dismayed by her mother’s suggestion that she hadn’t been born to the high destiny of the Chosen One, but rather, had chosen it in some arcane way unknown to her.

Suddenly remembering the dangers of the Enchanted Lake, she frowned, creasing her small, heart-shaped face.

“But mama, I don’t know how to walk on water! How am I going to reach the island to meet the Guardian? What if I drown while trying to walk on the Lake? Doubtless, people will say I deserved to die for my foolishness in daring to defy the order of nature…”

“If you can dream it, you can make it so,” answered the shaman quietly. She ran her fingers comfortingly through the mop of curls. “My child, listen to your heart’s guidance. The only thing that can stand between you and your dream is the fear of death or failure. Do not worry about the answers before the problem presents itself. Miracles happen, and if you listen to your heart, you will be led to the answers.”

“But how do I listen to my heart, mama? I hear voices in me speaking all the time, but cannot tell which comes from my heart, and which from my head.”

The shaman smiled indulgently at her child. “Dearest, the heart speaks the language of images, while the head speaks the language of words and logic. But when your heart and your mind are aligned, you will find that they speak the same language, for the head serves the heart, and carries out its desires…”

Seeing that her child still looked doubtful and worried, the shaman continued, “No dream can ever be too big that you cannot achieve it. It is because most people persist in dreaming dreams that are too small to inspire them, that they never pursue their dreams.”

Around them, the crickets kept up their deafening chorus of whirring and chirping. The shaman smiled encouragingly at her little one.

“Never fear the space between your dreams and reality. You only need to know the desires of your heart and boldly pursue them, unafraid of failure or rejection.”

The child remained silent, struggling with her deep inner world of disquiet.

The shaman watched her sympathetically. “Do you know what the purpose of life is?”

The child shook her head.

“It is to paint the greatest expression of your soul. To do that, we must live our dreams and passions unceasingly, with no care for the result but the love, the undying love for the journey. The only thing we ever need do is to fall in love relentlessly with life.”

The child looked wonderingly at her mother. “Mama, what has been your life’s purpose then?”

To her alarm, the shaman became very quiet and looked sad.

“Do you know how your father died?” she said eventually.

The child did not know.

The shaman regarded her a long while before she began to speak again. When she did, the child was surprised that her mother wasn’t talking about her father.

“I always knew, since I was a child, that I wanted to be a healer. Nothing excited me more than the work of a shaman; nothing could ever take its place in my heart.

“As a young woman however, I was interested only in acquiring the knowledge of the mind in healing: learning what herbs were for what illness, which chants to invoke for which curse, and so on. I felt like I needed to prove myself as a medicine woman, to deserve the respect accorded to one of my position. I didn’t want to make life easy for myself, you understand. I felt that only hard work could justify my standing.

“So I sought out the most renowned herbalists and scholars and studied with the greatest medicine men in the world. I sought as much knowledge as my brain could cram. I was hungry for fame, for power. I wanted to be known as the one who had a cure for everything, the one who was the sum of all the world’s greatest healers. You could ask me anything, and I would know the answer.

“But then, I also became too confident, too proud of myself and my worldly knowledge, so that even simple illnesses began to require complicated treatments.

“I was in love with acquiring knowledge for the sake of the knowledge, just to prove to myself and to other people how clever I was, how complex medicine was. I was enamoured with the symbols, the rituals, the chants. I had forgotten that the true power lay within me, and that everyone had the power to heal themselves. In short, I was suffering from a terrible disease that I myself was not aware of at the time.”

“What was it?”

“It was the hubris of the healer,” declared the shaman solemnly, as if pronouncing the name of some mercifully extinct beast. “When I looked around me, I saw disease, decay and problems that needed to be ‘fixed.’ In my pride, I went around expecting to cure and heal everyone of their problems, when all I needed to do was to see everything as already perfect, to realise that nothing needed to be fixed.

“Instead, I was looking outside for the answers, the methods of healing. I had forgotten that the answers were within me. And that everyone too had the same access to the answers within them. What I had forgotten, in my foolish conceit, was that my role was not to heal anyone, but to simply hold a space where everyone could heal themselves.”

She shook her head at the memory. “And then, something happened one day to change all that.”

-
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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-shaman-part-1/feed/ 2. The Shaman Part 2 http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-shaman-part-2/ http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-shaman-part-2/#comments Wed, 05 Jan 2011 22:49:24 +0000 admin http://littledreamernovel.com/?p=427 apa died?” asked the child with admittedly morbid eagerness. She hardly recalled her father, who had passed on when she was still an infant.

The shaman nodded. “He suffered a heart attack while boating on the river. It was a disease of the heart. Not even I, the famously learned shaman of the Pengiri tribe, knew that there was anything wrong with his heart before it was too late. Nothing I had learnt from books and from other medical sages could save him.” Her voice was bitter as medicine.

The child placed a warm consoling paw in her mother’s lap.

“On that terrible day, your father was out buying mangoes from a fruit seller who had come by boat from another village, when his heart suddenly failed him. In the confusion, he overturned his own boat and also the mango seller’s boat.

“By the time the peddler dredged your father’s body out, he was dead. If not from the heart attack, then from drowning. His body was found floating under a blanket of bright yellow mangoes.”

“What happened to the mango seller after that? And the mangoes?”

“Oh, him? He never sold any more mangoes. Someone said they saw him selling watermelons in Algondiz months later. But he never returned again to where our tribe lives. It is understandable of course.”

“What about the mangoes? What became of them?” persisted the child.

The shaman did not lose her patience, knowing that children ask for details only to furnish the vivid pictures in their minds.

“We buried them with your father, since he died with them.”

The child tried to imagine her poor father’s death: his limp, waterlogged body floating lifelessly under its shroud of mangoes.

So her papa had gone to his watery grave with only mangoes for company! She tried to think of his death in bleak tones, but the cheerful shades of yellow-red fruit insisted on dominating her mental picture.

She thought she ought to be sombre, but before she could help herself, an infectious giggle had broken from her lips.

At first, her mother was shocked.

But soon, she too began to laugh. They laughed so hard that the tears sprang to their eyes, and they looked guiltily at each other like naughty schoolgirls caught doing wrong. With an effort, they controlled themselves, but their eyes met, and they burst again into helpless laughter.

“Sometimes, it is a gift to be able to laugh at the greatest tragedies in life,” commented the shaman when they eventually succeeded in composing themselves.

“Your father’s death shocked me at the time,” she continued, “but it was only later that I realised he had died in order for me to return to my heart. It was my heart that was diseased, because I had failed to listen to it.

“I realised that I had soared too high, had forgotten that the knowledge I sought was already in me, and in every man, woman and child. In my vanity, I thought I possessed more knowledge than others. That is, until I discovered my heart, and found it to be a better teacher than any I ever had in this world.

“From then on, I unlearnt the language of the mind, and began to learn the language of my heart. And that was when I discovered how to heal: from the space within my heart.”

“And the heart speaks to us in images?” asked the wide-eyed child.

The shaman nodded.

“And the soul? What language does it speak?”

“The soul? Ah, the soul speaks the language of energy.” Gently brushing the soil off some herbs she had picked earlier, the shaman continued, “These are some of the ways the Great Dreamer speaks to us – through our hearts, our souls… But call it what you like, there is really only one language with which we communicate with all of Life.”

“What is it?” The child was all eagerness.

“It is the language of dreams.”

“Dreams?”

“Yes, dreams. After your father died, I finally saw that it isn’t what we know that matters, but how we dream. Life teaches us everything we need to know. Look at the clouds, the lake, the mountains, the way the young shoots push through the soil – everything you need to know in life, you can learn from them, for they carry the dreams of the Great Dreamer…

“Remember Zayoni, it is not from the books of human knowledge that true knowing and understanding come, but from the book of your heart. Be sure to study the book of your heart well, for all that the Great Dreamer ever dreamt is written there…”

The child looked at her mother thoughtfully. “But how did the Great Dreamer come to write everything in our hearts?”

The shaman smiled. “Shall I tell you a secret?”

The child leaned forward, resting her bright, earnest face on her palms.

“Some years ago, I was meditating alone in my hut. It was night, and very dark, but I chose not to light a fire. I do not recall how long I had been meditating for, when suddenly I felt myself being sucked headlong into an invisible tunnel in the universe.

“I was spinning, whirling through the tunnel, and when I finally came to rest at the centre, it was as though a door had been ripped open in the fabric of the cosmos, and all its mysteries revealed to me.

“It was then that I saw a woman standing at the centre of the universe. She was the axis around which the whole universe spun, and yet she held the universe like a ball in her hand. Intrigued, I drew closer to look at the woman, that I might memorise her features and so be able to tell everyone later that I had looked upon the face of the Great Dreamer.

“I drew nearer therefore, but at once sprang back in shock. For the woman at the centre of the universe was none other than myself.”

The child’s mouth had fallen open. “You don’t mean to say…”

“Yes I do,” answered the shaman, a trifle smugly.

“You are the centre of the universe, mama? You are the Great Dreamer?”

“Indeed I am,” smiled the shaman, looking very pleased with herself. Then suddenly, she sat up and looked serious. “But so are you. And so is every other life form that has ever been created.”

“But how?” The child’s mouth was hanging open again, so widely that a gap at the back of her mouth could just be seen, where a baby tooth had fallen out a week ago.

“Because we are each of us the centre of the universe.”

“But how?” repeated the child.

“Because your heart, small as it may seem to the human eye, contains the entire universe: the stars, the planets, fire, water, and all that lives within. Your heart, my child, contains the Great Dreamer itself! The One whom nothing can contain, can be found within the small space of your heart.”

The child would have found this incredible, if not for the miraculous feats of healing the shaman had performed after she rediscovered her heart. A mad man had regained his sanity. A woman on her deathbed was capering on her feet again after a few minutes. An abusive husband had metamorphosed into a kind and loving man, and so on. The stories of her mother’s miracles abounded.

“Life is a dream, and one day, we will wake up from this dream and realise that it is so,” continued the shaman. “When you understand that your life is a dream, you will be able to rewrite it any time. And then, the earth itself will change, for we are the Life that runs through the Dream and dreams it as we live. We are the dreamers dreamt by the Great Dreamer, dreaming our own dreams.”

The child rubbed her chin meditatively. “So that is how you heal? By rewriting the dream?”

To her surprise, her mother burst into merry laughter, as though she had said something particularly funny.

“Dear child, a healer never heals. We can only love, and love, and love a person back to health. When we breathe love, love begins to breathe us. And then only can we make deep contact with a thing or a life that asks for healing, and become one with it. That is when we can rewrite the dream of unbalance, just by changing it in ourselves. Any dream can be changed when we remember who we really are: the universe that resides in the small space in our hearts…”

The child listened awestruck. “I aspire to be like you, mama,” she said humbly.

The shaman remained silent. Only her hands, with their long, slender fingers, moved busily over a pot of sago she was boiling for their lunch.

“You enjoy being a disciple don’t you?” said the shaman after a while, but with a soft, tender smile that showed she wasn’t reproaching her.

“My darling, no one should ever aspire to be like another, no matter how much you admire them. Because when you do that, you will not be walking your own path but another’s path, living another’s dreams.

“Let me tell you something: once you have found your heart’s dreams, pursue that and only that, because your heart always knows the most beautiful path for you… Do you know why this is so?”

The child shook her head.

“Because you are the most powerful figure in your own life, the only creator and dreamer. Walk your own path always.”

The child’s golden face clouded over suddenly as she remembered her earlier conflicts regarding the City of Dreams.

“Mama,” she ventured hesitantly, “what if you know your heart’s greatest desire, but cannot bear to pursue it because of other things in life that are dear to you, that will break your heart if you were to leave them behind?”

“I would still follow my heart, knowing that every step in my journey brings me back faster to the ones I love,” said the shaman firmly. She paused and studied the child intently. “You do not wish to leave your tree behind if you seek the City of Dreams?”

“I would take my tree with me if I could!” cried the child. She looked distractedly into the jungle, then turned to look again at her mother.

“And then, there is you. What would I do without you, mama?”

The shaman took the child in her arms and held her close. There were many things she wanted to say to her golden-skinned child. She wanted to say that she was a strong and independent child for her age; that she believed in her; that she knew she could undertake the journey alone; that there was no parting from her, because they would always carry each other in their hearts. She wanted to say all this, and more, but she didn’t. It was one of those moments when their souls could hear each other without the need for words.

When the child finally looked up, her sweet face was stained with tears. It made her mother’s heart ache with love for her child. She took the curly brown head in her hands.

“Throughout my life, I have constantly asked myself, Have I lived my questions? And if not, I look within to hear the music in my heart, to find out what it is I must do next. Perhaps you too, my child, might wish to ask yourself the same questions: What is the music in my heart? What is the rhythm of my dreams? Where is it leading me?”

The child looked uncertainly at her mother. “Would you prefer that I stay mama, or leave and follow my dreams?”

The shaman caressed the child’s forehead. “I can never have any demands or expectations of you, dearest, other than for you to do what you love, and what brings you joy.”

She paused to test if the sago was ready to eat yet. It wasn’t.

Half talking to herself, the shaman went on, “I suppose I could always ask you to stay and learn the secrets of the shamans. I could ask you to follow in my footsteps, become a shaman like me when you grow up.

“Or I could ask you to move to the city and cram your head with book learning, get a well-padded job lawyering or doctoring or what not when you grow up.

“But I can’t!” she cried, suddenly passionate. “I can’t ever do that to you, my dearest! That would be as good as cold-blooded murder.”

The shaman stirred away at her pot.

Softly, she continued, “I may be your mother, but what I want for you is not important. What is important is that you want what you want, that you live up to your own desires and follow your own heart. If you cannot do something from your heart, there is no point in doing it at all…”

The child looked at her mother with grave almond eyes. “So what will happen if I don’t go in search of the City of Dreams?”

The shaman stroked her child’s face gently.

“Nothing. You will continue to live here peacefully and become wiser still in the ways of our tribe. But as you grow older and realise the City of Dreams is out of your reach already, perhaps even lost forever, not just to this island but to this world, you will ask yourself, Have I lived my question? The sense of regret can be profound, and your heart will never rest because of one unanswered question: of what could have been if you had gone.”

The shaman looked at the child with deep compassion. “Go and talk to your tree now, and when you have made your decision, come back again to find me.”

The child left silently, and with a heavy heart.

-

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]]> http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-shaman-part-2/feed/ 2. The Shaman Part 3 http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-shaman-part-3/ http://littledreamernovel.com/2-the-shaman-part-3/#comments Tue, 04 Jan 2011 23:00:35 +0000 admin http://littledreamernovel.com/?p=433

he tree saw the child before she did. Immediately, there was a quickening of life in its veins, as there was in hers each time they met.

When they were together, no other tree, shrub or flower existed in the entire jungle for the child, and no other human existed for the tree. In their world, there were only two people: them and them alone.

The child went up to her tree and flung her arms tightly around its slender trunk.

“You are upset today, dear one,” said the tree with gentle concern.

The child made no answer and began to sob.

The tree reached into the child’s mind and read her desire for the City of Dreams; her excitement about the adventures that awaited her; her dreams of being the Chosen One to bring back a lost paradise.

But the tree also felt the child’s fear of the long uncertain journey, and above all else, her deep sadness at the thought of leaving her tree, her mother and her tribe behind.

All these things the tree saw at once without the need for words. And then, its heart grew heavy as well.

“You wish to seek the City of Dreams?” asked the tree.

“I do, I do! But I also wish you could come with me! There is no one else I would like better than you to make this journey with me,” cried the child.

She unburied her face from the tree’s trunk.

“But you cannot walk,” she added sadly, “and you will die if I bring you along…”

The tree sighed heavily. “You must follow your dreams, sweet friend.”

The tree reflected further, then added a little reluctantly, “Besides, there are other trees like me everywhere… You will not miss me so much perhaps.”

“No!” protested the child fiercely.

She ran her fingers lightly down its silvery bole. “Once you have looked deep into the soul of another, cared for it and watered it with your hopes, your tears and your dreams, no one else can ever take its place, though they look the same. I love you because I have cared for you, and you are mine, and mine only, in a way that is unique to us.”

She gazed at her tree and added laughingly, “Shall I tell you why I love you?”

“One loves, but doesn’t need reasons to love,” chided the tree.

The child wagged her finger playfully at the tree.

“I will tell you anyway!”

She paused to run the reasons through her head.

“I love you for the way you hold the music of the wind in your leaves when you shake yourself, just so – ” The child imitated the graceful manner in which the tree trembled in the wind.

“I love the way you hold my face against your smooth skin when I am sad. I love the way you say my name, because it makes me feel safer than with anyone else.”

She stopped and looked intently at her tree.

“And more than anything else, I love you because you are so beautiful, and beauty makes us good. I am a better person because of you.”

The tree was overcome with emotion and could say nothing for a long while.

“You are very kind, and you know there is no one else in this world I love more than you,” it said eventually. “But in loving you, I have also learnt that the only way to truly remember and love another is to carry the one we love in our hearts.

“When we do that, there can be no more farewells, no matter how far we travel from each other. Even when you do not see me, even when I remain invisible, I will always be a part of you, and you a part of me, for our souls have become one…”

The child was silent as she pondered what her tree had said.

“Then… I should go and seek the City of Dreams?” she asked.

The tree nodded, but its heart was full, and it couldn’t speak.

“I will remember to look for you always in my heart,” promised the child solemnly.

Her tree did not speak still.

“I will go and find my mama then, and let her know. I will come back again to say goodbye, my dearest tree.”

She embraced her tree once more as if she could never bear to let it go. Then she disappeared into the shadows, as silently as she had come.

When the shaman saw her child again, she perceived, from the firmness of her tread and the way she held her head, that the child had made her decision already.

“I will go,” she said simply. “The dream has spoken. It is the same language that my heart speaks. I must follow my dreams, or go mad.”

The shaman smiled. “So what does your heart say?”

“It speaks of a joy so great, I feel as though I have grown suddenly.”

“Then you are following the rhythm of your destiny, dear child. May the Great Dreamer watch over your dreams.”

The child hesitated.

The shaman saw the look on her face and her fine brows arched like question marks.

“Mama, you have powers. Surely you can see into the future and let me know what the outcome of my journey will be…?”

The shaman smiled gently at her child. Her insecure, slightly fearful child. Her child, wandering like a small lost frog in a world of questions whose answers she would have to learn to find in her heart.

“Zayoni,” she urged gently, “the guidance must come from your own heart. I can sometimes be the signpost in your life, but never the answer.”

“But why not the answers, mama?”

“Because I would be robbing you of your own power if I gave you the answers,” she said sadly.

She laid out their lunch on banana leaves.

“Do you see blind Kolran over there?” she continued. “Despite his blindness, he is able to walk on his own. He knows where everything is. You will never find him tripping over a log or stone. It is as if he has the full use of his eyes. And do you know why he sees today?”

“I never asked him, mama.”

“When he first went blind as a child, he often cried and ran to his mother for help. But his mother, in her infinite wisdom, knew that one day her small son would need to learn to see for himself because she could not follow him forever to be his eyes.

“So she gently asked him to find his own way around until he finally learnt to see by himself. She had to be unkind in order to be kind to him. Do you understand now why I cannot give you all the answers?”

The child nodded her head sagely. Her old head on young shoulders. “Yes, because my heart will tell me everything I need to know. And because my future is mine to dream, mine to create…”

Her mother felt a sudden pang of love for her small child. She knew that she would miss her greatly if she were to leave.

“And so it is, my precious,” said the shaman.

They rolled the sago into balls and ate it with fresh herbs and lumps of fire-blackened boar, newly caught that morning.

Musingly, the shaman went on, “It cannot be helped of course. It is part of the strangeness of human nature to be always looking outside ourselves for answers. Did you know, after the City of Dreams was swallowed by the earth, people began to live differently.

“You will notice that it is the habit of most of us to look for different things to worship: idols, gods, goddesses, even other people. We elevate the priests, shamans, gurus, kings and queens. Nothing pleases us more than to bow before someone we deem better, holier, richer or cleverer than ourselves.

“I suppose,” she said a little distractedly, “that some might say it is proof of the human’s desire for perfection, that we are always so eager to worship, to esteem something that embodies that perfection for us.

“But the worst thing that happened after the City of Dreams disappeared was when we began to believe that the gods and beings we bowed before were so perfect, we could never, not even in our wildest dreams, ever aspire to be like them. We believed the lie that we are unworthy mortals, and so behaved like sheep in want of a shepherd. We are only too happy to give away our power to the things we worship.

“And more than that, we are always eager to take the opinions of others as the touchstone for our own ideas about things. If someone is declared to be a genius, we will smile and nod and clap and try our very best to see his brilliance, even if he is the world’s greatest fool. We are quick to embrace the world’s opinion, without looking into our hearts to see if it shares the same sentiments.”

The shaman stopped short and looked sternly at the child.

“Let this be a warning to you then: beware the opinions of the world, and seek only your own truths. For what is true for another may not be true for you. The truth is always unique to your heart… No doubt, you will remember all this when you journey to the Enchanted Lake.”

She looked somberly at her child, as though upset by a new thought that had just occurred to her. Then she began to run her hands gently through the child’s hair.

“Forgive me if I am being too harsh, sweet child. You know I am only telling you this because I was once like that – chasing after the world’s knowledge and opinions, without any regard for my heart’s truths… Do not make the same mistakes I did.”

The child nodded carefully as the sounds of the jungle persisted unbroken around them.

The shaman sighed. “You know, I tell this to everyone who comes to see me: that they too have the same powers I have. That they can be their own healers and witch doctors. That the power is really within them to heal themselves.

“Illness is always a sign of imbalance within, and when everyone learns how to balance themselves, there will be no more need for the shaman or the healer. No one need revere me any longer for my abilities.”

She looked dreamily into the distance. “My dream is for everyone to one day learn to access the same powers that I have, to recognise that it is in them. Then, I will feel my duty here is done.”

The child listened diligently to her mother as she ate. She thought of her own heart’s desire and asked, “I wonder if finding the City of Dreams will help fulfill your dreams, mama?”

The shaman looked affectionately at her child. “Yes it will. When you fulfill your own dreams, you help others fulfill theirs as well.”

The child reflected deeply. “But mama, why did we begin to look outside ourselves for answers after the City of Dreams was gone?”

“Because we forgot who we really are,” said the shaman gravely. Then suddenly, she laughed. “Who am I to judge anyway? We take this game of life so seriously, that we have mostly forgotten we are here only to play. We are like actors and actresses who give so much meaning to our scripts, that we have come to believe we are the roles we play. But really, we are only acting…”

“What do you mean, mama?” cried the child, her curiosity piqued.

The shaman winked at her child. “Life on earth is one great masquerade at a children’s fancy dress party. Before we came into this world, we determined to forget who we really were, and so assumed the disguise of our earthly names, identities, and so on. We decided to live our lives like the characters we play. Not many can look past the costume and see our soul for what it really is: the essence of the Great Dreamer itself…

“It is the perfect cosmic joke of course,” she continued. “For how else is the Great Dreamer to experience itself, except through the eyes of the Dreamers in their many disguises?

“Unfortunately, we mostly do not remember this. Instead, we carry on with our pageantry, just as we meant it to be. We wear our lives like a disguise. We have forgotten who we really are, behind the garb of our human bodies. For we are angels, dear child. Angels in human clothing.”

The child gazed at her mother with bright eyes.

“So who exactly is the real face behind the masks we wear, you might ask? Keep asking yourself that question whenever you meet anyone! For we are all here in disguise, and some, more than others, remember that truth better, and then are less attached to the roles we play.

“Remember Zayoni, to always see the face behind the mask, and the person behind the fancy costume, no matter who you meet during your journey to the Enchanted Lake…”

The child promised that she would remember.

“Come now, it grows late. Go and say goodbye to your tree one more time, then come to me tomorrow morning before you set off. I will tell you which road you must journey on.”

The child went to say goodbye to the rest of her tribe first. Then she returned to her tree, thinking about what her mother had said about seeing the soul of a person. To her, it had always been easy to see the real face of her tree, for she had never doubted for one moment that her tree was anything but a dryad and an angel. An angel in the guise of a tree.

Silently, she hugged her tree, feeling the life that pulsed continuously in its veins under the delicate covering of bark and leaf. Stepping back, she stared at her tree for a long time, that she might memorise every curve, notch and kink on its shapely stem.

“So this is it,” sighed the child. “You are beloved to me because I grew you, and you grew me. And because of that, we live in each other, you and I. We will always be together as one, no matter how far away I travel.”

The tree shook gently, though there was no breeze.

“I will always carry you in my heart, and think fondly of the earth that holds me, knowing that somewhere, it holds you too, and carries you closer each day to your heart’s desire,” it answered.

“And when the wind shakes my leaves, I will think of how it blows your brown curls and lights up your sweet, dear face. And when I see the sun in the morning, it will make me glad because it will remind me of you, my golden friend.”

“And the jungle, already dear to me, will be even dearer to me from now on, because I know that somewhere in its midst, you are there,” said the child.

“Perhaps what makes a land so beautiful, is knowing that the one we love lives on it…” said the tree softly and a little sadly.

The child gazed quietly at the tree. “Your beauty will live forever in my heart,” she said, her voice beginning to quiver. “And when I think of your beauty, it will remind me to look for the same beauty in everyone I meet.”

“As will I, my dearest friend,” said the tree. “You have let me into your soul, and because of that, I will always be looking for the beauty of your soul in everyone else…”

They fell silent and could say no more, for they had both begun to weep.

They spent the rest of the night together: the child curled up under her tree, clutching it to her as though tomorrow would never come.

Tomorrow arrived, as it always did, blood-orange in the forgiving early light. The child went to her mother, who presented her with a small bundle of her few possessions.

The shaman led her out to the Big Road that ran outside their jungle, alongside the river.

The child was familiar with this road, though she had never journeyed on it. Sometimes, she would see travellers passing, often bearing goods they wanted to trade with her tribe.

At other times, these travellers came to see her mother, drawn by her fame. They mostly hailed from other villages on the island, but sometimes, they came from the main city of Algondiz, where the King and Queen ruled.

Often in the past, the child had yearned to explore that road, to see where those travellers came from, to see how they lived in their treeless plains, to taste their cuisines, their sorrows, their joys.

Today, that moment had finally arrived.

The shaman smiled at her child’s excitement, though her heart was sad.

“Do you see the Big Road in front of us? It is the main road that runs through this island, and it will lead you straight to the Enchanted Lake. Sometimes the road will be wide. Sometimes it will narrow and wind through crooked streets, uphill and downhill. But whatever shape it takes, follow the Big Road only and you will never be lost.

“On the way, you will pass several villages, towns and the main city of Algondiz where the palace is. The journey should not take more than a month, unless you happen to be delayed along the way.”

The shaman paused thoughtfully, as though a new possibility of hidden danger had just been presented to her.

“There is also something you must know if you are to find the City of Dreams.”

The child listened attentively.

“The secret to traveling anywhere is to begin by feeling that you have already arrived. You only need to take the first step, and the path will reveal itself to you.”

“Thank you mama. I will miss you.”

The shaman scooped her child into her arms for a final embrace.

“Farewell, my darling. Remember: walk only your heart’s path, and be that which you seek.”

The shaman set the child down. She wept because something told her that her child would not return in two months. And also because she was ultimately a woman and a mother, and her only child was setting off on a journey all by herself.

The child left, tracing her heart’s path by the slant of the river. A no longer so bewildered frog setting off to make the impossible possible, with only her heart as her map. She carried a bundle on her back, and an old head on her young shoulders.

What few could see was the heart she stored like treasure in her chest, which carried her dreams, and the beauty of a beloved tree.

She turned one last time to wave to her mother. Then she set off into the honey-yellow landscape, a golden child walking in a golden land.

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