Chapter 21 - Episode 11: The dream world's seed.

The summer of 1962 shimmered over Crestwood's rural fringe, a haze of heat rising from the fields where wildflowers swayed in golden waves. Mara—then a girl of nine, her raven hair tied in a loose braid, her gray eyes wide with a curiosity too vast for her small frame—ran barefoot through the grass, her laughter trailing like a melody over the hum of bees. The farmhouse she called home loomed behind her, its weathered boards creaking in the sun, but her world was the meadow beyond—a playground where the ordinary bent and the impossible whispered.Her mother, Elora, watched from the porch, a woman of quiet strength with hair like midnight and hands calloused from weaving spells into thread. Elora was a dream walker, a gift passed through generations of women in their line, and Mara was her heir—already showing signs of the talent in her restless sleep, her murmurs of places she'd never seen. That afternoon, as the sun dipped low, Elora called her daughter to the meadow's edge, a basket of herbs at her side, her voice soft but firm."Mara, come," she said, kneeling in the grass. "It's time you learned what runs in your blood."Mara bounded over, her braid bouncing, her eyes alight. "The dream stuff?" she asked, plopping beside her mother. "The stories you see when you sleep?"Elora smiled, a flicker of pride in her storm-gray eyes—mirrors to Mara's own. "Yes, little one. The dream world—it's a place, real as this meadow, but wilder. It's where thoughts take shape, where shadows live. We walk it, shape it, but it shapes us too."Mara tilted her head, her fingers twirling a dandelion. "How?"Elora plucked a sprig of lavender from the basket, pressing it into Mara's palm. "Close your eyes," she instructed, "and breathe it in—deep, slow. Feel the pull."Mara obeyed, the lavender's scent sharp and sweet, filling her lungs as her eyelids fluttered shut. The meadow's hum faded, replaced by a tingling warmth, a sensation like falling upward. When she opened her eyes—or thought she did—she stood elsewhere: a forest of silver trees, their leaves shimmering like glass, the air thick with a mist that pulsed with color—violet, gold, indigo. A river wound through it, its waters black and starry, reflecting a sky strewn with constellations she didn't know."Where am I?" she whispered, her voice echoing oddly, as if spoken by two mouths.Elora's presence materialized beside her, not flesh but a shimmering outline, her voice a thread in the mist. "The dream world, Mara. This is its edge—a place of beauty, but it's alive, hungry. Look."Mara followed her mother's gaze to the river, where shapes moved beneath the surface—shadows with eyes, long-limbed and fluid, watching her with a curiosity that prickled her skin. She stepped closer, drawn by their gleam, but Elora's hand—ethereal but firm—held her back."They're echoes," Elora said. "Thoughts, fears, dreams left behind. Some fade, some grow—they crave life, solidity. We walk here, but we don't linger—they'll pull if you let them."Mara nodded, her heart thudding, wonder warring with fear. "How'd it start?" she asked, her child's mind grasping for origins. "Who made it?"Elora knelt, her form rippling in the mist. "No one knows—not truly. The old tales say it was born when the first mind slept, when thought slipped free and took root. It's a mirror, Mara—reflects us, feeds on us. Our kin learned to walk it centuries ago—women like us, with eyes that see beyond. We shape it with will, draw visions, mend what's broken—but it's a bargain. Every step takes a piece.""A piece?" Mara echoed, clutching the lavender tighter, its scent grounding her even here."Of you," Elora said, her voice softening. "A memory, a feeling—small at first, but it adds up. That's the rule: give to take. Stay too long, and it claims more—life, breath, everything."Mara's eyes widened, the shadows in the river shifting closer, their whispers a hum she felt in her bones. "Why do we do it, then?""For others," Elora replied, standing. "To see what's hidden—lost children, coming storms, truths buried deep. It's our gift, our burden. But you must learn the rules—control it, or it controls you."She guided Mara's hand, tracing a sigil in the air—a spiral that glowed briefly, silver and sharp. "This pulls you back," Elora said. "Focus on it, feel the meadow—home."Mara mimicked her, the sigil flaring, and the dream world dissolved, the meadow rushing back—grass, sun, her mother's solid form beside her. She gasped, the lavender falling from her hand, her pulse racing with thrill and awe."I did it," she breathed, grinning wide. "It's real—magic."Elora pulled her into a hug, her voice warm but edged with warning. "Real, yes—and dangerous. Promise me, Mara—never cross alone, not 'til you're ready.""Promise," Mara said, her child's heart alight with the wonder of it, the danger a distant shadow she couldn't yet grasp.Years unfolded, and Mara grew into the dream world's embrace, her crossings guided by Elora's steady hand. She learned its mechanics—how intent shaped its forms, bending mist into castles or beasts; how time twisted, minutes stretching to hours or shrinking to seconds; how the echoes fed on emotion, growing bolder with fear or joy. She saw its origins in fragments—visions of ancient sleepers, their dreams pooling into a realm that birthed itself, a living tapestry woven from human minds. It was primal, chaotic, a force neither good nor evil but ravenous, its hunger a law as old as thought.By sixteen, Mara crossed alone, defying her promise, her skill outpacing caution. She'd pluck visions—lovers reunited, secrets unveiled—returning with trinkets of the dream world: a glass leaf, a star-flecked stone. Each took its toll—a forgotten song, a dulled laugh—but she thrived, her mother's pride tinged with worry. The dream world welcomed her, its shadows whispering her name, and she didn't see the trap until Jonah's death decades later—her greed waking its wrath, claiming him as its price, turning Mara into Madame Lazare, a keeper of its bitter lessons.In the present, January's frost gripped Crestwood, the memory of that childhood lingering in Madame Lazare's shop as she sat alone, her opal pendant glowing faintly on the counter. The dream world's mechanics—intent, exchange, hunger—had shaped her life, and now echoed in Anne and Deon, their thread a fragile bridge she'd forged with the last of her dust. She felt its stir, a restlessness born of Elias's probing, Gary's meddling, and whispered through her sleepless nights—an awakening she couldn't stop.