Weaver of Dreams

By Jebraun Clifford

Lucy landed on the cottage roof and folded her gossamer wings. She clasped her hands together and gazed at the sliver of moon shining like a scimitar above the quiet village. Tonight was her first solo mission. After months of training, she would fight the darkness and earn her Weaver name.

Or—she shivered—the darkness would prevail, and her charges would be left cowering in terror.

Many Weavers had recently fallen—Starsplash, Silverwhistle, even the renowned Cloudlily. How could Lucy hope to succeed where others much stronger than her had failed?

Eveningflame dropped lightly by her side. “Are you ready?”

Heat rushed to Lucy’s cheeks. “I think so.” Her voice wavered, and she bit her lip. Why did she always sound like an inexperienced fool around him? Well. Despite the obvious.

The powerful warrior had fought Bagalloth’s minions for years, using his gift of fireballs to scatter the enemy. And here she was, barely out of her work in the nursery.

She’d been excited when first volunteering for the Weavers, ready to create beautiful dreams for the village inhabitants and protect them at their most vulnerable.

Now all she felt were nerves.

“Don’t worry,” Eveningflame said. “Rosemist has taught you well.”

While her mentor’s training was thorough, Lucy was still troubled. This time, she’d have to walk into battle alone. “What if I can’t find my weapon?” She’d never heard of that happening, but there was always a first time for everything.

“Don’t worry,” Eveningflame said. His wings flitted, the moon shining through them from behind. “You will.”

“But how did you know you could shoot fireballs?”

He grinned. “My palms grew hot when a minion appeared, so I blasted him.”

“That sounds too easy.”

Eveningflame laid his hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Your gift’s already there, inside you. All you have to do is reach for it. And the dreams you weave will give your charges hope, so you might not even see a minion for many nights.”

Lucy nodded, clenched her fists, and took her position.

“Until the morning light.” He saluted her, then shot to the next housetop.

“Until the morning light.” She whispered the refrain and waited for the signal.

When their leader, Quickwind, crooked her finger, Lucy shot up and dove into the thatch roof, then wriggled her way to the cottage’s interior. Glowing coals from the fireplace illuminated three sleeping figures. A man, a woman, and, curled up on a small trundle bed, a boy no older than five.

She hovered above the slumbering child. Bagalloth preferred targeting young ones. If an attack came tonight, this boy would be the most likely victim. But his dreams also had the greatest potential. Youngsters possessed such an imagination. It wouldn’t take much to weave his dreams into something fantastic.

She slipped into his dreamscape and found the boy playing with a puppy beside a river. Humming, Lucy skipped over to him. Where she trod, flowers erupted in a riot of color and surrounded him. He giggled. She snapped her fingers, and brilliant blue fish leapt from the brook. The boy jumped up, clapping his hands and laughing as the fish splashed him. Lucy tapped her chin. What else could she weave?

The boy stiffened and stared across the river.

Lucy looked up.

A squat, ugly minion crouched on the riverbank like a toad.

Lucy took a deep breath—here was the real test. “Go away,” she commanded.

The minion cowered in the reeds.

Emboldened, she flitted toward him. “And never return.”

The minion coughed a laugh. “Aren’t you full of yourself?” He unfolded, growing taller and wider until an enormous toad-monster towered over Lucy. “Well, little Weaver, what’s your name?”

Lucy gulped, her palms going slick with sweat. “Um. I’m. That is…”

“Oh, ho.” He rubbed scabby hands together. “You’ve not received your name. How will you fight me? For I am Bagalloth, King of Nightmares.”

Bagalloth? It couldn’t be. Lucy shrank back, but Bagalloth slashed at her. His claws tore into her arm, and sharp pain pierced her. She gasped as her blood welled up through her skin. He sniggered. Lucy’s flowers shriveled into stinging nettles, and the little boy cried out. Bagalloth stamped his feet, and bats circled his head.

Lucy took a step closer to the boy. She had to find her weapon. She tried to conjure a fireball, but her fingers hardly sparked. She whisked up a cloud, but Bagalloth blew it away.

“Is that all you have?” he taunted, then transformed the river’s fish into toothy serpents.

She glanced at the poor boy, his feet now mired in mud. What comfort could she bring? She flew to him and rubbed his back. “Shh, shh, you’re all right.” She recalled a lullaby she once sang in the nursery. “Don’t be afraid, child,” she sang.

“What?” roared Bagalloth.

“I am here,” she continued.

“Nooo!” Bagalloth gnashed his teeth.

“Pushing back the wild, keeping all things dear.”

Light shot from her palms, illuminating the dreamscape. The nettles, bats, and serpents disappeared. With a bang, Bagalloth exploded. The impact bowled Lucy to the ground.

“Lucy, are you okay?” A cool hand caressed her cheek.

She groaned and opened her eyes. “Eveningflame?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” He leaned over her. “You were… amazing.”

“What… happened?”

“We won.” Eveningflame scooped her into his arms and flew up the chimney. The rising sun threw a rosy glow over the valley as Eveningflame gently settled her on the rooftop. All the other Weavers crowded around her, but their hearty congratulations ceased when Quickwind landed with a flourish.

“Good morning.” Quickwind gazed at each one in turn. “We fought well last night, but one Weaver displayed unusual bravery when she challenged and defeated Bagalloth using her new-found weapon.”

Eveningflame squeezed Lucy’s hand.

Quickwind beamed at her. “You’ve single-handedly routed our enemy and made them ineffective in this area forever with your beautiful melody. I hereby decree that your Weaver name shall be Brightsong.”

Can you guess which song from the 1970's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Too short to be an elf and too tall to be a Hobbit, Jebraun Clifford lives smack-dab in the centre of New Zealand’s North Island surrounded by thermal activity, stunning lakes, and enough Redwoods to make her Californian heart swoon. She writes about discovering identity, living without fear, and enjoys creating fantastic worlds. She loves coffee, tree ferns, dark chocolate, and Jesus, and harbours a secret penchant for British spelling.

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