Dreamwalker

Sunlight filtering through the canopy of autumnal leaves cast the forest clearing in a welcoming orange glow, warming the fair skin of the boy sat atop the rocky outcrop as he read through the notes in his faded, leatherbound journal.

A pleasant breeze washed past him, a momentary chorus of rustling leaves contending with the birdsong for dominion over the otherwise silent forest glade. It was refreshingly peaceful here, he thought to himself as he lazily tapped the heels of his boots against the face of the rock. With any luck, he’d at least get to enjoy the quiet for a while before he was forced to move on.

From amongst the nearest of the gently swaying branches, an insect roughly the size of the boy’s outstretched palm fluttered down beside him, briefly circling above his head before coming to rest on the shoulder of his coat.

A strange, ethereal mixture of both translucent and luminescent white, the fragile little creature resembled a kind of butterfly, though it bore six wings instead of four, each of which tapered off at their ends into long strands of what looked like shining, weightless gossamer.

There was no patterning on its wings, save for two bright, opposing crescent shapes that haloed its slender, dragonfly-like body. The strands that trailed behind it likewise seemed to gleam with captured light, as if each were spun of a single strand of the starry, moonlit night.

‘What do you think, then?’ Dorian asked, his bright green eyes flitting up from his notes to regard the ghostly creature perched atop his shoulder. ‘Local or tourist?’

The slender butterfly didn’t respond, instead fanning out all six of its wings to bask in the filtered midday sun.

‘Mm,’ Dorian nodded, glancing back down to his journal and making a short mark with his pen. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Probably local. Too near the City to be a tourist…’ He let out a short sigh and lifted his gaze to enjoy the idyllic scene before him.

‘Rather a shame, really,’ he added. ‘Would have made a nice place to stay the night.’ He squinted up into the sky, finding the faded daylight moon framed in a gap in the canopy and noting just how small and distant it looked.

‘The way in was pretty well hidden, though…’

The boy took a few moments, lost in his own thoughts, before glancing back down to the translucent butterfly.

‘Good point,’ he agreed, ‘survey first, rest second. Wouldn’t want to get interrupted before we can finish mapping the place out, right?’

Nodding to himself, and giving the butterfly enough warning to take flight, the boy closed his journal, tucked it under his arm, and hopped down the outcrop to the forest floor a few metres below.

Landing to a rustle of leaf litter and the pleasant, earthy scent of disturbed soil, Dorian stood up to his full height and brushed down the front of his coat before heading off into the treeline. The ghostly white butterfly made its own descent at an unhurried pace, seemingly content to flutter about in the warm air as it lazily followed in the departing boy’s wake.

Quickly stumbling upon a worn footpath through the trees, Dorian stretched out his back and inhaled deeply of the richly-scented forest air.

‘Think I’d give it either an eight or nine in terms of vividity…’ he commented aloud as he followed the path through the trees. ‘Bit of hazing in the distance, and some occlusion between major focal areas, but…’ He paused to listen to a flurry of birdsong, smiling as another warm breeze passed through his hair. ‘Yeah. Defined colours, ambient sounds, complex scents… Highly tactile.’

Before long, the foliage gave way to a well-concealed patch of gravel nestled amongst the trees that was apparently being used as a car park. There was a middle-aged couple sat astride a pair of mountain bikes talking to one another just off to Dorian’s right, and a small family stood over by one of the cars to his left.

‘Ah, perfect,’ the boy muttered to himself, pulling his journal out from under his arm and clicking his pen as he flipped it open. Frowning over at the cars in the car park, he quickly counted out five vehicles: two red, two silver, and one blue.

He closed his eyes, counted to ten in his head, and opened them again, just as the luminous white butterfly fluttered its way out of the woods behind him and touched down on the handlebar of one of the couple’s bikes.

He counted the cars again. Four vehicles, one red, two silver, one blue.

‘Not bad,’ he remarked, sparing a quick glance over to the butterfly. ‘Stability somewhere between a six and an eight… Let’s split the difference and say seven.’ He noted down his findings in his journal before taking a step over towards the couple on the bikes.

‘Out of interest,’ he asked them, ‘where are we?’ The nearest rider turned to him. She didn’t really have a face, but somehow it wasn’t especially obvious unless he paid particularly close attention.

‘Hemsted Forest,’ she answered. Dorian tilted his head back and raised his eyebrows.

‘And that’s in…?’ he asked.

‘Kent,’ the equally faceless man replied, ‘near Benenden.’

‘Right,’ Dorian nodded, ‘of course. Thanks.’ He’d never been to the South of England before, and he’d certainly never heard of Benenden, but he had to admit that he liked the scenery. Ignoring the faceless cyclists as they got back to their nondescript conversation, he cast an eye over to the small family by the car.

‘Highly detailed environment,’ he said, jerking his head for the butterfly to follow him as he set off across the car park, which it did. ‘Grounded location, active and intelligible constructs… Kind of unusual for a local. Maybe this one just naturally doesn’t draw much attention for some reason? It was pretty awkward to get here…’ He let out a short, satisfied hum. ‘This… actually might have been a really good find…’

He got within a few metres of the family before coming to a stop and leaning up against a nearby car to observe. A mother, a father, and a young boy, probably somewhere between five and seven. All three had normal appearances with no hint of ambiguity, marking them out by contrast as central to the world around them.

The butterfly fluttered past the side of Dorian’s face and did a few circles around the youngest family member’s head before coming to rest atop his messy thatch of golden hair.

‘The little boy?’ Dorian asked, folding his arms. ‘Really? Huh. How unusual.’

He watched the small family for a while before deciding he might as well enjoy the peace and quiet now that he’d finished his notes. Pushing away from the car and unfolding his arms again, he was about to leave when the young boy’s sparkling blue eyes met his with an excited grin.

‘You sure are one lucky kid,’ Dorian told him with a bittersweet half-smile, ‘you know that?’

‘Just come with us, then!’ the boy answered, ‘Dad said fishing’s not only for boys, you know!’

Dorian chuckled to himself at the naturally self-absorbed response, making it about three steps away back towards the forest before frowning and coming to a stop. That… was more than just self-absorbed: Dorian was quite clearly male. He turned back to the boy and examined him just a little more carefully.

‘You’re… a construct,’ he realised, quickly glancing between the parents, and immediately dismissing the father in favour of the only female entity nearby with a clearly defined set of facial features.

‘Then I guess…’ he said, addressing the mother, ‘you’re one lucky lady. Sorry.’ He gave the butterfly a quick frown, uncertain as to why it had taken an interest in a mere construct. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he added, ‘have fun fishing.’

The woman turned to regard him and chuckled softly.

‘Of course I’m lucky, sweetie,’ she replied, ‘getting to spend the day with my favourite little girl in all the world!’ She gave Dorian a quizzical smile. ‘Why would I go fishing with the boys when I could go see all the trees and the pretty birds with you?’

Dorian reflexively opened his mouth to respond, but found himself unsure of what to say. He quickly checked behind himself to see if there was anyone else nearby that he’d missed, but found nothing besides a secluded car park with somewhere between four or five cars.

‘You’re… all constructs…?’ he asked, more rhetorically than anything else. ‘Then… where’s the dreamer?’

This car park was the epicentre, he was sure of it. But if the host of the dream wasn’t here, then… where on Earth were they…?

The idea that he might have inadvertently stumbled into some kind of elaborate trap made its way to the forefront of Dorian’s mind. He felt himself reaching back over his shoulder for the handle of a familiar weapon that he had just decided had been there all along.

‘Where’s your daughter?’ he asked the woman construct, dropping the flexible, easygoing demeanour that helped him blend in amongst the subconscious realms of strangers. His eyes flitted cautiously about the car park as he awaited her response, his grasping fingers meeting with leather-wrapped steel.

‘Oh…’ the construct replied, faltering as it suddenly realised Dorian was a foreign entity that it hadn’t been designed to interface with. ‘But… She was just here… Where did she go…?’

Dorian’s mouth ran dry as he braced himself for what could only have been an impending ambush. If those… things could hijack live dreams from their hosts, then he was going to have to be a lot more careful going forward. Just as soon as he made his way out of here, that was.

‘Kit, honey,’ the woman asked, ‘where’s your sister?’

Dorian’s wary gaze fell briefly on the small boy, the snowy ethereal wings of the butterfly perched atop his hair framing his head like a crown. The child pointed towards the trees in front of the car, away from the footpath.

‘She went in there, Mummy,’ the boy answered, the butterfly fluttering up and along his arm to land atop his outstretched finger.

‘Thanks, kid,’ Dorian muttered through gritted teeth, sparing one last look around the car park for potential assailants before setting off at a cautious jog for the amber-leafed trees, fingers still clutching the handle over his shoulder.

Fighting through the foliage and undergrowth, he quickly beat a path through the untamed section of the woods in search of the missing dreamer. Although his immediate instinct was to flee before he fully sprang whatever this strange trap might be, there was a large part of him that was morbidly curious as to how exactly it had been set in the first place.

It wasn’t more than a few metres from the treeline that he rounded a storm-stricken trunk and found himself staring through an impossible twist of geometry. On the other side of a threshold marked by a pair of conifers was an all-too-familiar nighttime scene.

Dark buildings on either side of a street framed an island across a tidal bridge, besieged by crashing waves and supporting a lighthouse silhouetted against an ever-watchful moon.

‘Oh God…’ Dorian whispered, realising where the missing dreamer must have gone and quickly finding his selfish fear replaced with concern for another.

Frozen for a moment, considering the implications, the boy was brought back to reality as he felt tiny legs touch down on the hand he still had held above his shoulder.

Acknowledging the butterfly with a gentle flex of his fingers, he glanced down to the base of the threshold, took a deep breath, and stepped forward into the cool night air beyond.