Dreamer (The Dream World Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Dreamer

  Camille Peters

  DREAMER

  By: Rosewood Publications

  Copyright © 2021 by Camille Peters

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Rosewood Publications

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  United States of America

  www.camillepeters.com

  Cover Design by Karri Klawiter

  To all who dream—whether at night or during the day. May all the aspirations of your heart come true.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Coming Soon

  Also by Camille Peters

  Thank You

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Dreams were easiest to spot when they were fresh. They hovered bright and shimmery in the morning air, a flickering invitation to peek inside. Occasionally, I stumbled upon an older dream, its details dimmed with time, requiring me to fill in their missing pieces like I was shading between the black outlines of a picture. I snuck out to view them at the first hint of dawn after yet another night devoid of my own night visions.

  I peered through the ruby and gold leaves of my favorite oak tree, my usual dream-watching perch. Its branches hung in a canopy over the market square, the perfect place to spy on the awakening village. Sunshine caressed the sloping rooftops and market stalls set up by yawning vendors. Even from a distance I could observe the dreams, bright bubbles floating lazily near each villager, the rainbow of colors unreflected in their gaze; as always, the surrounding dreams were invisible to them.

  Dreams came in a variety of sizes, colors, and shapes, all hints to their contents: the size indicated a dream’s length and level of detail, the color reflected a dream’s emotions, while the shape suggested its theme. Despite these tantalizing clues, the story within remained a mystery unless I viewed it. Numerous possibilities, with limited time to explore a handful before they faded.

  I meticulously scanned this morning’s offerings. Murky dreams hid midst the vibrant bulbs and slunk closely behind their viewers, whose dark circles beneath their eyes revealed a rough and restless night. I avoided these, for nightmares lingered for hours after viewing. I also dismissed the dreams whose colors had dimmed, signifying their gradual loss of detail as they slipped from the viewer’s memory. I searched amongst the dreams dipped in soft pastels, colors which promised pleasant stories. Those were my favorites.

  Alice, the baker’s daughter, emerged from the bakery, a basket of steaming bread looped through her arm. An aqua dream floated a few inches above her head, still shining with a bright luster, not even an hour old. This was the one.

  The familiar whoosh filled my stomach as I focused on it. My skin tingled as my consciousness rose outside myself and soared towards Alice, even though in reality I hadn’t moved an inch from my perch.

  The surrounding leafy branches faded into a sea of vivid pastels, brighter than the washed-away murkiness of the real world outside the dream. I now stood in a willow growing in the center of a foamy coral ocean, shrouded in ruby and marigold as if it’d been dipped in sunset. The churning waves below sprayed me with salty mist, while branches laced with purple leaves stretched towards a fern-dappled sky and blew like sails in the fruity-scented breeze.

  I barely had the chance to marvel before the dream unfolded, and I was forced to follow Alice’s chosen course from when she’d viewed it last night. Twigs tangled our hair as we explored each area of what turned out to be a marvelous tree ship and crawled along the rifts in the bark forming makeshift stairs towards each new discovery. We passed several sections imploring us to explore—in one, leaves folded and unfolded themselves in origami shapes; in another, branches twisted into instruments formed a leafy orchestra. We brushed past an inviting bough laden with mouthwatering sweets, but as usual, my efforts to veer the dream from its predetermined course were futile. I bit back a growl of frustration.

  Alice settled in a section of rose-tinted leaves, which parted like a curtain as a bough lowered to form a stage. One by one, each leaf twirled into a picture with graceful, ballet-like movements. Many of the images were colorless and distorted, their details already melted away, but a few retained their shape—lollipops Alice contentedly sampled, butterflies that fluttered around us, and the face of a boy that had an uncanny resemblance to the blacksmith’s son, Mason. The final leaf twisted into a kitten, which Alice plucked from the air and cradled in our arms, where it licked our cheek.

  A clap of thunder rumbled from the real world, instantly jerking me from the dream. Thick clouds had gathered and smothered the sun, a measurement of how long I’d been immersed within another uncompleted dream.

  Alice hovered in the doorway of the bakery, inconspicuously eying the blacksmith’s son as he bartered for eggs at a nearby stall. Her dream lingered inches above her head. Although considerably smaller and less vivid than before, there was still time.

  I pulled a small glass bottle from my bag and concentrated on my faint, familiar power. After years of practice, I easily located the internal route leading to the budding warmth within me. It began subtly, expanding from my chest and leisurely trickling down my arm through my extended palm.

  A sparkly, lilac substance twirled from my hand and through the air. I struggled to push it towards the dream, but my control was slippery, and the magic stopped inches from its target. I pushed my power further. It crept closer until it cradled the dream in a swirling orb, but no matter how hard I pulled, the stubborn thing didn’t budge, held back by the same invisible block that constantly hindered my powers. Weariness pressed against me, and after a moment my magic slipped away, returning to the dormant recesses of my mind.

  I slumped against the trunk, panting. Alice re-entered the bakery, her dream close behind, making it impossible to steal now. Disappointment pressed against my chest at another failure. Once again I’d have to try another day.

  Thunder groaned in the churning sky. My fingers curled around the package nearly crushed in my apron pocket, its neat wrapping a mask for its mysterious contents. Mother had given it to me with firm instructions to deliver it promptly, orders I’d already failed to accomplish. I rarely entered the village except to fulfill the occasional request for the unusual plants Mother grew in her enclosed garden. Unfortunate
ly, the task of delivering them always fell upon me.

  A few drops of rain pattered my hair as I scrambled from the tree and landed clumsily on the ground. Through the latticed village gate, crowds bustled amongst the market of crammed stalls, their now nearly faded dreams following them like shadows.

  The gate’s ominous creak was lost in the swarm of haggling as I pushed it open. My heart pounded as I hovered on the threshold, trying to gather my courage. With a shaky breath, I plunged into the sea of vendors. I managed to rush past the fishmongers and the stalls laden with garden produce before the atmosphere shifted from the usual market clatter to the sharp gazes that stalked me whenever I ventured into the village.

  A trio of women hovered outside the butcher’s, watching me with narrowed eyes. A sour-faced woman leaned toward her companions. “It’s that witch girl,” she said without even the decency to lower her voice. “Just look at that hair. Only magic could result in such an unnatural color.”

  Heat seared my cheeks as I cradled the end of one of my lilac ringlets protectively.

  The other gossipers tittered. “And those eyes. I heard violet eyes are a sign of witchcraft.”

  I hurried past, but their pricking voices followed me for several more yards. “Rumor has it she grows all sorts of unnatural things in those strange gardens of hers—herbs for magical potions, flowers with unusual abilities, concoctions for spells. Dark magic, I tell you. Without question, she’s the one responsible for the fire that destroyed the barn last week.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Tears burned my eyes as I stumbled blindly through the clamoring crowd. My destination—the squashed bookshop tucked at the edge of the market—loomed ahead. A tiny bell jingled faintly as I slipped inside and closed the door, finally smothering the villagers’ jeers.

  Pale lantern light cast long, flickering shadows across the line of towering shelves, and dozens of footprints marred the dusty floor like imprints in the snow. The carpet of dust muffled my footsteps as I followed the tracks through the maze of shelves and up the winding staircase to the living quarters above. The owner’s widow, an ancient woman so hunched and wrinkled she appeared half-dead, sat buried beneath a layer of moth-eaten shawls. Instinctively, I searched the air around her, but none of her dreams lingered, already forgotten.

  She looked up at my entrance. “It’s about time you got here. My poor back couldn't handle any more delay. Have you got my remedy, girlie? Give it here.”

  I shuffled forward and handed her Mother's package, which she opened with shaky fingers. Triangular black herbs glistened within the faded wrapping. The old lady nodded, satisfied.

  “Stew them in hot water and drink three times a day.” I recited the usual instructions in a monotone.

  “Hurry and make me up a cup so I can drink it straightaway.” She gestured towards a kettle warming on top of a squat stove. “I’m in too much pain to wait for Charlotte to return from her errand.”

  This was nothing unusual; Charlotte had an uncanny knowledge of when I’d drop by with her grandmother’s “medicine” and always made it a point to be anywhere else.

  “Have her bring the payment by tomorrow night.” I dropped a spoonful of Mother’s herbs into the cleanest spotted cup I could find and poured the boiling water over them. An earthy smell rose with the steam as I handed her the cup. She shakily grabbed hold, causing some of the remedy to slosh over the rim and splatter her threadbare shawl.

  My task completed, I ached to leave, but as usual she couldn't resist a listening ear, however unwilling the victim of her rambles was. “People keep urging me to stop buying from you, tell me to purchase from the apothecary instead where the herbs are untouched by magic.” She sipped the grainy liquid, now a putrid green. “They call you a witch and say you do magic.”

  I gritted my teeth as I glanced at my unassuming hands. In the shadowy light they appeared entirely ordinary, with no remaining traces of the magic they’d recently performed.

  “But I always tell them—magic or not, nothing soothes my aches and pains like that witch's herbs.” She grinned toothlessly.

  “I don't grow them,” I said, my heart in my throat. “It’s my mother who—”

  Her raspy cackle pierced the dusty air. “Ah, the phantom mother no one has ever seen. Poor orphan girl.”

  She patted my arm and I recoiled from her bony fingers. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from retorting.

  "There are such rumors swirling around about you. Can you really do magic, girlie?”

  My stomach jolted and I was sure even her near-deaf ears could hear my pounding heart. “Magic doesn't exist.”

  “Humph, just as I thought, everyone is getting their apron strings in a twist over nothing. You can’t go anywhere without encountering superstitious nonsense. In my day, folks paid no heed to such gibberish. Even Charlotte’s head is full of gossipy rubbish. Why, just the other day she went on about a ridiculous story involving you and a fire you supposedly caused…”

  Only half listening, I sidled to her nearest bookshelf, packed to the brim with the “superstitious nonsense” she claimed to abhor. Whenever forced to come here, I always tried to sneak a peek at the village’s largest selection of books on legends in hopes of discovering more information about my abnormality. Caught up in her story, the old lady didn’t notice as I started searching.

  “I told Charlotte she’s been hoodwinked by such rumors,” she continued, her speech slurring. “Herbs from your imaginary mother’s garden are the only remedies for my aching back; whether or not they’re magical doesn’t concern me. After all, the legends claim magic is responsible for many wonderful things—the changing of seasons, our crops, healing…”

  Supernatural legends had always been part of my village. All dealt with magic in one form or another—tales of enchantresses and wizards, fables which explained the workings of nature, even stories about beings who resided in the sky and created our dreams.

  The tiresome rambling blessedly paused, and soon soft, nasally snores punctuated the silence. Finally, the old bitty was asleep.

  I’d yearned for a closer look at these books from the moment the old lady became Mother’s only devoted customer for her frequent ailments. I’d spent hours perusing the shelves in the bookshop downstairs for any legends on magic. The small tidbits of information I’d gleaned over the years were all vague, secondhand accounts pieced together by those without the remotest comprehension of the art of magic. But this private collection still remained mostly unexplored.

  The drapes were drawn, so I borrowed the lantern resting on the end table and lifted it to better see the faded titles. These volumes appeared different than the ones I’d already browsed countless times. Many were written in foreign languages, some so ancient they hadn’t been spoken for hundreds of years. I pulled a few out whose crumbling spines rendered their titles unreadable, but a quick glance at their contents revealed none were what I needed.

  Time slipped away as I rummaged amongst the shelves, but nothing new had materialized since last week’s visit. Perhaps no magic guide existed; surely anything of that nature had long since been destroyed during the witch hunt two centuries ago. I was just about to give up ever finding anything that would help me unlock the mysteries of my powers when I spotted a volume blending into the shadowy shelf, as if hiding from prying eyes. I leaned closer to make out the title.

  The Study of Magic Use Within Legends. I grinned. Perfect. I soundlessly slid the book from the shelf and cracked it open, but my heart quickly sank as I thumbed through the yellowing pages.

  The first section was a recorded history of magical use in the surrounding villages, particularly of witches who had been captured. A chapter on how to discern witches followed—purple eyes and lilac hair were not listed, but its absence did little to alleviate my constant fear concerning my abnormal appearance. The next section provided a list of foolproof safety measures villagers could use to protect themselves from curses, all of which were ridiculous,
particularly the habitual carrying of a stone—plucked from a river flowing east during a full moon—in the right pocket.

  I continued skimming. Surely something in here would prove useful. Was I really the only possessor of magic who’d ever lived in this town? Didn’t they have a section on how a witch used their powers? But there was nothing—no “how to” sections, no interviews with a witch prior to her execution, no discovered letters written from a witch to an apprentice, no observations from witnesses who’d caught a witch performing magic. This was nothing more than a useless tome compiled by people with a magic phobia.

  Just as I was about to return the book to its shelf, a sentence in Chapter Seven: “Witches’ Wiles and Ways” leapt off the page: It is believed all witches possess a magical source, which they draw upon to perform their spells. I flipped to the next page in hopes of elaboration, but that was it. I gnawed my lip. Magical source? What did that mean? And how could I get one?

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. I froze, my heartbeat quickening. Murmurs drifted from the stairwell. I stuffed the book into my bag just as the intruders reached the landing.

  Charlotte had returned, accompanied by Alice. Their cheerful conversation immediately ceased when they noticed me hovering near the old lady’s shelves.

  “What are you doing here?” Charlotte shakily demanded. “Why are you rummaging through our books?”