Chapter 54
Chapter
Fifty-Four
The Girl from the Village
Miya
When Miya opened her eyes, she was standing alone in front of the willow. The Dreamwalker was nowhere to be seen.
Miya almost missed her presence in the eerie silence of the dreamscape.
She looked up at the majestic tree, wondering just how ancient it was. She heard the red gate’s voice whisper to her from somewhere within:
“Cut the seams of reality, and chaos is bound to spill out.”
And Miya had spilled out along with it. She’d fallen into the part of the dreamscape where the willow tree resided—where its memories overflowed to all those who encountered it.
It wanted to tell her something.
After having stood guard in the forest for so long, watching the ebb and flow of time in complete silence, the willow’s memories spanned centuries and realms far outside the framework of even the most unhinged mind. But there was one memory the willow was particularly fond of, one that it wanted to share with Miya: a memory of the distant past—her past. It was a fable drawn from the hearts of ancient spirits:
Long ago, there was a girl from a village who one day wandered into the woods. After becoming lost, she stumbled upon a majestic willow tree nestled deep in the labyrinth of the forest.
There, resting under its long, protective limbs, she found a black wolf. He lay injured and dying, his will to live having long left him. Taking pity on the poor beast, she fed him what little food she had and nursed him back to health as best she could. With this small kindness, the wolf recovered. He thanked the girl by helping her find her way out of the forest so that she could return to her village. Then he disappeared back into the woods from whence he came.
Time went by, and every day, the wolf would sit under the willow, waiting to see if the girl would return. And every night when the moon would rise, he would howl as if calling to her, hoping that it would somehow guide her back. But autumn soon passed, and as snow blanketed the land, no humans entered the forest. It wasn’t until the warmth of spring had thawed away the bitter winter ice that the girl wandered back into the woods in search of her old friend.
After circling through the maze many times, she finally came across the familiar glade. Only this time, there was no wolf.
There, sitting under the willow in place of the black wolf, was a man.
This memory, the willow told Miya, was its most cherished, but Miya could no longer tell if the story was being told to her, or if she was living the story herself. Gradually, she was pulled into the fable.
Miya was standing in the girl’s place. Or perhaps, she was the girl. She and the girl were one and the same—the original spirit—united as Miya walked in her own footsteps at long last. And as she did, she finally began to understand: a Dreamwalker was someone who could walk through other realms. But not every girl murdered by her family and community was a Dreamwalker, nor were any of them spirited away by her. They were just innocent women who happened to wander too far from home.
The only person who was ever spirited away by the Dreamwalker was the Dreamwalker herself, fighting to awaken.
Rousing from an eternal slumber, Miya finally remembered...
She chose to leave; she wanted to be lost in these woods, and now she was finally home.
She won the devil’s wager. She beat the First at his own game, and she’d finally broken the cycle.
She looked up and saw a raven perched on the crooked limb of a white oak.
“Am I dead, Kafka?”
The raven swooped towards the ground and erupted into dark, effervescent swirls that gradually dissipated to reveal a boy with hair like crows’ feathers and eyes black as ink—the boy from her dreams.
“No,” said Kafka-the-boy as he plucked a stray feather from his cloak. “Dreams are not death.” He reached into the shroud, fishing around before placing in her hand a bright, iridescent stone that shimmered with deep purples, meadow greens, and sunset golds. It appeared to be broken, but beautiful nonetheless. “You are simply home.”
Miya smiled at her feathered friend—a silent thanks. She could feel the stone’s familiar power humming against her hand as she clutched it tightly.
Kafka moved out of the way, bowing as he cleared her path towards the willow. Miya continued on her way, confident they would see more of each other soon.
As she approached the willow, a gentle wind parted the swaying branches, revealing a man’s figure. He was sitting still as stone, leaning back against the imposing trunk. Miya knew he was waiting for her.
As she passed under the willow’s canopy, she was finally able to meet his gaze. He smiled at her, the moonlight catching his mahogany eyes and illuminating that haunting red tint she knew so well. Slowly, he reached out to her, and this time, she reached back without hesitation, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her in. Miya fell as she’d never fallen before—without caution or restraint. She was exactly where she wanted to be, cocooned in familiar warmth as he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled. He began to speak—a language she’d never heard before—and yet she understood every word.
“You’ve strayed too far from the flock again, Lambchop.”
Triumph tugged at Miya’s lips, and she smiled as the words echoed through her spirit, and far into the ages. People are, after all, creatures of habit.