The Dream

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. The canopy of the woods cast dancing shadows across the floor of mulched leaves and spider moss and ferns, though flecks of sky snuck through the leaves like rose petals. Past the thick husks of evergreen and oak and the crumbling skin of fallen trees, the leaves thinned into a blanket of moss. And beyond that, stars flickered to life among feather grass, fading and drifting onward. Vibrant, like those peering from behind patches of purple above. Tufts of dandelion seeds and spiria petals sprinkled the breeze like snowflakes before settling to the bed of juniper moss that led from the high-grassed meadow and into the woods. And all the while, the fresh fragrance of wildflowers and honeysuckle would settle across the meadow.

To the west, nature seemed to fade almost entirely from the landscape, though traces would come to life along the cracks and crevices of concrete and asphalt. Glass and steel towered over the streets in gridlines, casting steep shadows along the city streets. But the city never rested, not even at midnight; the roadways were alive with the scuffle and shuffle of feet and carts, and car horns and engines blared, stifling any serenity brought by the natural world.

Eyes fluttered open, and Wren sighed. ‘The same dream’ they mused, slender fingers pressing and rubbing against thin eyelids as they massaged their eyes. With another sigh, they wrenched the plush comforter away, legs fighting briefly against a tangle of sheets before slinging over the mattress and dangling over its side so that Wren sat upright.

“That same vision,” they murmured hoarsely.

Wren stood lazily, inhaling sharply into a noisy yawn. Eyes glimpsed their clock as fingers brushed through a tuft of sable locks; o’o’two. Midnight again, then. Every night at midnight for two weeks, Wren had awoken after the vision of the peaceful meadow; even if they weren’t a seer, they would have been able to sense the magic overflowing from it. Only a fool would deny it. There were only a handful of those enchanted forests left – the ever-growing human population had led to their demise, along with much of the magic with them.

The legends stated that the faeries had been forced to abandon their nomadic roots, instead clinging to the last remote forests and fields that still held rivers of magic. They had cloaked themselves for protection after the last World War, knowing well that their magic could be used as an even greater weapon than the atomic bomb the States dispatched to Japan. Only a select few could catch more than glimpses of these pixies – those descended from a family from original clan McQuoid. Legend said that the McQuoid clan was chosen by the matriarch of the faeries, though childless marriages and migrations of the original clans had forced the bloodline down to a trickle.

Despite not being able to see the faeries any longer, their presence was just as evident to those outside the chosen clan as it was centuries ago when they fluttered across the sky and through the treetops. From the changing of seasons, to the fertile soils of the Scottish country sides, and even in the storm clouds that settled over the night-shrouded city of Edinburgh as Wren gazed out their apartment window; it was all the faeries. Hazel eyes caught a flicker of hummingbird-like wings, and Wren gave a gentle smile. Being a seer, though sometimes a great burden, wasn’t without its perks.

After all: it was one thing to just know of the flittering creatures and their magic as one goes about the daily mundane life; but to see it, interact with it, and even commune with it was something entirely different.

Warmth pressed against a bare leg, and eyes glanced down as long fur bristled against their skin. The cat leapt gracefully onto the nearby desk, purrs for attention grumbling in its throat. Wren chuckled softly, the streetlight outside casting a bluish-white glaze over silvery tabby fur. Like full moons, amber globes gazed back at them, and fingernails brushed through the soft, down-like fur on the creature’s head.

“Alright, Luna,” Wren murmured, reaching to the string that dangled by crooked blinds, pulling it taught as they straightened and raised slightly; the blinds gave a hum as they descended, shrouding the bedroom from the luminance of the streetlight. As Wren plopped back to the mattress, legs tucked beneath still-warmed goose down and the pillow sank beneath the weight of their head. As Wren watched the ceiling, the static of color and black shuddered against the ceiling from unadjusted eyes. The mattress shifted slightly from the added weight as the well-groomed Maine Coon joined them, purrs rattled in the silence as Luna settled by their knees, and Wren sighed.

Why, every night at midnight, did they wake with visions of painted purple clouds and blushing skies?