A Dream Come True

Huh, where am I? What's happening? Everything's pitch black...

Ugh, now it's too bright!

He instinctively raises his hands to shield his eyes from the bright light and in doing so he notices something peculiar. His hands are tiny.

What is this? Are these my hands? What's going on here? Also where am I? Last thing I remember I was about to get hit by a police car.

He sees hands come in from above to grab him. He feels himself being lifted. Am I being picked up? 

Judging by the fact that I have tiny hands and someone just picked me up, Am I a baby? Ah, this makes sense, It's that reincarnation thing. I must have gotten hit by that police car and died.

How does this work though? I wasn't particularly religious in my previous life, so does everybody get reincarnated? Am I supposed to remember my previous life?

While the newborn baby thinks to himself, he looks up at the woman who just picked him up. Her slightly creased face holds a serious expression as she examines him. A white coif, tightly wrapped around her head, hides all but a few strands of brown hair. Cradling him in one arm, she uses her teeth to quickly roll the sleeves of her white chemise over her dark gray kirtle dress.

Who is she? Some kind of maid, she's dressed like one... Also, where am I? Some sort of log cabin? There's no drywall. The baby looks around the bedroom to see that the floor, walls, and ceiling are all made of wood.

As his eyes wander around the room, they stop on a bed— a rather fancy one, topped with a canopy. Whoa, those beds with the roofs on them are for rich people right? Does that mean I'm rich?

The baby's vision trails down from the canopy to the bed, a woman covered in sweat and heavily breathing lies there. Her fair skin is complemented by long, dirty blond hair haphazardly strewn across the pillow. Her reddish-brown eyes, although half hidden by a pained squint, are strikingly beautiful.

A man with an air of stoicism kneels next to her. His short black hair, streaked with strands of gray, stern black eyes, and a scar on his cheek suggest a weathered past. Yet his harsh exterior is contrasted by a look of concern on his face and very a gentle hold on the woman's hand. The sleeves of his worn, faded deep-blue tunic are rolled up thoughtfully so as not to touch the bed, and the frayed hem hangs low to the floor over his rich brown breeches as he switches the leg he kneels on.

The woman lying on the bed must be my mother. The one next to her could be my dad, But he seems a little older than her.

Hey, wait a minute, I just realized I can't understand what these people are saying. The maid, who looks somewhat distraught, speaks in a language unfamiliar to the infant. I don't recognize this language, it kind of reminds me of middle English. I remember hearing how it sounds in some of my history classes. Maybe this is some really thick Irish or Scottish accent that I can't understand?

The woman holding the baby wraps him in cloth and then begins to rub his chest with some vigor.

What is she doing? Why is she rubbing me like that? Is this supposed to be CPR or something? Wait, I do remember that It's bad for an infant to not cry after birth. Should I give them a convincing cry?

The baby lets out a Flimsy and halfhearted wail. The woman holding the baby lets out a sigh of relief. She says something to the two at the bed and brings the baby over, handing him to the woman lying down.

Eh, I tried. The maid lady seemed to calm down though. I guess that cry worked.

I still have to wonder where exactly I am? Maybe out in the country somewhere? I guess the first thing I must do is learn the language they're speaking.

***

The woman with dirty blonde hair, now braided and draped over her left shoulder, sits in a chair next to a cradle. A dribble of milk rolls down her bosom and onto her brown kirtle as she breastfeeds the baby. A sudden squirt sound comes from his bottom.

"Oh no my sweet, did you soil yourself again?" The woman sets him down in the cradle.

"I'll be right back to clean you up."

I can't believe I'm having accidents like this as a twenty-seven-year-old man. I should be able to control my bowels. How humiliating.

The woman reenters the room carrying a wooden bucket full of water and a few cloths. She wipes his bottom thoroughly, then tightly swaddles him in a fresh cloth before exiting the room.

I get that my parents are part of a weird traditional community that doesn't believe in modern clothes or electricity, but does that mean no running water too? I'd really like a bath right now- I'm still itchy down there. I need to do something to get my mind off it.

"Morn-ing Ca-ta-li-na." He slowly sounds out the words making sure to practice the pronunciation.

"Go-od day Ran-dolf, Edi-" He stops. His vocal are exercises interrupted by his now mother standing in the doorway.

With a shocked expression, she drops the clothes she was holding, rushes to the cradle, picks him up, and bolts out the door toward the stairs.

"Randolf! Randolf! Osric said our names!" She runs down the stairs, yelling as she moves through the house.

She swings open the front door and finds Randolf in the front yard, playing with three children who brandish wooden swords.

"Catalina, dear? What's wrong? Are you alright?" Randolf rushes over to Catalina as she falls to her knees.

"Osric... said our names," she says between gasps for air.

"Were you running? Edith said to rest!" Randolf helps Catalina back to her feet.

"Randolf! He said our names!" Catalina pouts at Randolf, looking for reassurance.

"I believe you dear, just calm down."

The three boys stop playing and come rushing over, curiously gazing at Osric.

“Who’s the baby?” one boy asks.

“Look at his shiny blonde hair.” another boys says.

"Look at his red eyes." the third boy says. The three of them now crowding Catalina.

"Listen boys, give them some space." Randolf put his arm out, barring the boys.

"This is your soon to be training partner, Osric." The boys ignore Randolf, fixated on Osric.

Osric, uninterested in the conversation unfolding before him, has his eyes set on something in the distance: a peculiar looking man unloading boxes out of a horse-drawn wagon.

Thick off-white fur covers his whole body. His head has pointed ears on top and a snout protruding from his face. A thick metal collar is around his neck. The single chain link on the front jingles as he moves. His hands, gripping a wooden box as he lifts it, more closely resemble paws. Between his ragged tunic and drawers a tail pokes out.

I can't believe what I'm seeing right now. Is that a man in a furry costume, or is it a humanoid wolf? Let me think about this rationally... Would that man be wearing such a stuffy costume out in the hot sun? I don't know what season it is, but it's certainly warm. I don't see why anyone would wear a costume like that if they were doing manual labor.

If this truly is a humanoid wolf, then that changes everything. This would mean I'm no longer on earth. It would answer all my questions: Why we live in a wooden house, why I don't understand the language, why there is no plumbing, why there is no electricity, why the clothing is so weird...

Could I be in a fantasy world?

This is like a dream come true!

Does this mean there are cat girls too? What about magic, monsters, and adventurers? Could I become a wizard?

I have to grow up fast!