The Dream Hunter

As night fell, the Dream Hunter prepared to go to work.

She knelt down on the ground next to her bed, brushed her gray hair out of her eyes, and began writing out the spells that would guard her during her journey into the Dream. Her wrinkled hands moved with precision and grace honed by six decades of practice, and despite her trembling fingers, the eight Nightscript characters each flowed from her chalk just as she imagined them. She drew them in a circle around the bed, one for each hour of the night she would spend in the dream.

In the flickering candlelight that lit her room, the symbols seemed to melt into the wooden planks, as if they were already a part of the fluid reality she was about to enter. She drew eight symbols on the ground in a circle around her bed, one for each hour of the night, and then stepped back to check her work.

Everything looked correct. She was lucky that the script was so forgiving. No amount of trembling in her hands would mess up the spell; her intention and effort were all the symbols needed. Her mind had been focused this time, sharp and clear, and so no unexpected symbols had appeared in the circle.

With the first part of the spell finished, she sat down cross-legged on her bed and closed her eyes, pressing her hands together in front of her. Then she began to whisper. Her voice, like the crinkle of crumpled paper, echoed in the small room of her house, carrying far more weight than such a quiet whisper should have carried.

One by one, the candles lighting her bedroom winked out of their own accord to make room for the darkness of night.

She laid down and closed her eyes.

---

She awoke in the Dream, floating in a sea of endless blackness that stretched out into infinity all around her. Pinprick stars twinkled in the void. They reminded the Dream Hunter of the paper stars she’d hung from the ceiling over her daughter’s crib so long ago. 

Each of the stars was a soul, a world, a heart. Each one pulsed with the lifeblood of hopes and happiness and heartache and history. Every sleeping man and woman glittered somewhere in the phantom galaxy that filled the void of the Dream.

They seemed so small from so far away. They always did.

As she stared into that sea of stars and shadows, she focused her mind on what she’d been told about the man she’d been asked to heal— a man named Arthur who had been comatose for two weeks now.

The Nightmare Plague had come for him, and if the Dream Hunter didn't act quickly, he would never awaken.

As she focused her mind on what she knew about Arthur, she felt herself moving through the void, floating towards a distant point of light that grew larger and larger until it filled her whole horizon.

Up close, the star was anything but the serene speck she’d seen from a distance. It was a sphere ablaze, seething with cold, silent, white fire. The Dream Hunter could see the silhouettes of ghostly objects taking shape in the flames— trees, flowers, homes, faces— that formed in an instant and then vanished just as quickly. The fleeting images left faint impressions on her eyes, as if she had been staring at the sun for too long.

The Dream Hunter drifted down to the surface of the star and pressed her hand into the halo of shifting shapes. She whispered a spell beneath her breath, feeling the words crackle on her tongue as they warped the fabric of the Dream around her.

The wall of fire surging beneath her fingers pulsed once, then began to pull open, leaving a gaping hole in the star. Inside was only blackness.

The Dream Hunter took a deep breath and walked forward into the dark.

Wooden boards creaked beneath her feet as she stepped into Arthur’s dream. 

Immediately, the portal snapped shut behind her with a rush of air. The Dream Hunter ignored it and surveyed her surroundings.

She stood in a child’s bedroom, with sunlight streaming in through a window on her right. She could see green grass waving in the wind outside, spotted with wildflowers and clovers. There was a crib beneath the window, empty except for a pile of neatly folded blankets. A wooden rocking horse sat next to the crib, and a doll made from burlap cloth rested against one of the horse’s legs. On the far side of the room was a single door that seemed to lead outside. The walls were colored with faded yellow wallpaper and she could see motes of dust drifting in the sunbeams. The whole room was dead silent.

The Hunter walked over to the crib, trying to ignore the creak of her boots, and ran her hand along the bars. Her fingers left a streak on the wood where they’d picked up the dust. 

This is a quaint setting for a Nightmare, she thought.

Seeing nothing else that could be useful, the Hunter strode over to the door and swung it open to walk into the field.
There was no field on the other side of the door, however. There was just a copy of the bedroom, this time with two more doors on the walls, each one also opened just a crack. There was one window with the same field outside.

She blinked, then walked up to another door and opened it. Another copy of the same room. Same table. Same crib. Its wallpaper was red instead of yellow.

She moved through room after room, checking door after door. Behind each one was an empty crib. Over and over. Each time, the room changed slightly. Some copies had one door while others had several, most had a new color or pattern of wallpaper, and some had no table. But the crib never changed. Neither did the doll or the horse. And there was always at least one door and one window revealing a field that she couldn’t seem to reach.

She felt a chill as she walked through room after room, all empty. Where was Arthur? There seemed to be no sign of him in this labyrinth.

The Dream Hunter stopped and turned towards the table in her current room, and turned to glance out of the window next to her as she did so.

She froze.

Standing atop a distant hill was a pitch-black figure on horseback. It stood with its back to the sun, with a black cloak rippling in the wind, a cutting contrast to the bright sky and the grassy field outside. She couldn’t make out many details at this distance. But even from afar, she could see two piercing white eyes that seemed to stare right through her.

She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, the figure had disappeared.

The Nightmare. It had found her.

Well, then. She didn’t have as much time as she had thought she would.

The Dream Hunter drew her lips into a line and then up the doll, turning it over and taking in its shape— the button eyes, the stitchwork smile, the dishcloth dress that covered its burlap skin. Then she laid it back on the table and stretched both hands out in front of her.

The eight symbols she’d drawn around her bed appeared in a ring around her, hovering in the air. They shifted and glowed in the sunlight, changing by the second, flowing from word to word faster than she could read. The Nightscript was at home here.

She plucked one of the symbols from the air and cupped it in her hands. The light shone through the gaps in her wrinkled fingers, and she smiled as she watched it moving. It was like she had captured a little fairy.

“Find life in this dream, little one. Find the dreamer,” she whispered. The symbol stopped moving, taking the form of one she knew very well. Roughly translated— everything that had to do with the Dream could only be translated roughly— it meant “Seeker of Life.”

She pressed it into the doll's forehead, and the light in her fingers went out.

The doll twitched. Then, very slowly, it stood to its feet, wobbling slightly.

“Welcome to this world, little one,” said the Dream Hunter. She spoke softly and quickly. If the Nightmare had already noticed that she was here…  “I have a job for you. Will you help me?”

The doll nodded enthusiastically.

“Wonderful!” The Dream Hunter leaned in close. “There is a man somewhere in this dream with me. He sleeps in anguish, never waking, and his wife grieves in the waking world. I need you to find him for me. You will know where to go. Will you help me with this?”

The doll nodded again, then turned and walked to the edge of the table. It glanced down at the ground— it was a long fall for such a little construct— it leapt to the floor and slipped through the crack in the door.

The Dream Hunter watched it as it left. Then she swiped her hand to the side, and her symbols vanished into the air. 

Only seven spells left tonight— one for each of her remaining Nightscript marks.

She would have to use them carefully. She would need them when the time came to kill the Nightmare infesting Arthur’s dreams. 

Her eyes darted back to the window, but there was nothing outside but sky and sunshine and shimmering fields. Then she sat down cross legged on the floor and settled in to wait for the doll’s return.

End Part 1