The Sleeping Reverie

Falling and flying feel the same, but they are not. Puppies seldom know the difference. My tail and ears flapped behind me. The wind rushed through my snow-white fur.

“Spread your wings!” Mom cawed, with the power of a harpy queen commanding an army. “Fly!”

I spread my wings as wide as I could, but the force of the fall was too much. My body was too heavy. My wings weren’t strong enough. I careened toward an evergreen prairie until I saw the folds in the land and waves of flower-strewn grass blowing in the wind–but I was never afraid. Cotton feather wings opened beneath me, and I landed on Mom’s back. She always caught me.

I sat on her shoulders and opened my wings again. Mom was a raptor with a sharp yellow beak. Her long vanilla hair tickled my nose. People always said I looked just like my mom when they saw us together.

“Spread your wings,” Mom said. “Fly!”

She dropped beneath me. I fell, holding my wings out as long as I could, gliding a bit until my strength gave out, but my canid body was too heavy. Then she caught me. Again and again she lifted me back up and dropping me, letting me fall until she caught me softly on her back.

“You’re going to have to learn to fly on your own one day,” she said. “You might as well start now.”

I would have to fly by myself one day, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to fly with her. I could smell frustration in her sweat. Then Mom turned and looked at me with mischief in her eyes. My heart fluttered. I grabbed hold of her shoulders. She tucked her wings, releasing her grip on the wind, and dove. The wind rushed through my ears like a gale through a tunnel. We dove through clouds. We dove between flocks of feathery critters. We dove hard. Faster and faster. Dove until I could see a forest take shape beneath us. I could see the leaves of the trees. Then we dove through the canopy.

Mom opened her wings and the forest air caught us. The leaves overhead wished as we shot past hulking tree trunks. Mom tucked her wings. I ducked, and we darted through a tree hollow. She spread her wings again and we rounded another tree trunk, and cut along the river’s winding path. Zesty air blew through my fur and kissed my nose. A stream of chills trickled down my neck and spine. The critters nesting along the riverbank twittered a song. The white water rippling over the rocks told a cautionary tale I did not care to hear.

Mom tilted her wings and tail feathers. We rocketed down river faster and faster. The realm’s song crescendoed into an explosion as the river gave way to falls and we shot into the cyan sky. The wind roared. The sun shined. I could smell the exhilaration on my own breath.

We glided across the realm to our forest-hugged valley. Our nest was at the valley’s base, its white rocks glowing like Mom’s wings. I held on, bracing myself for the only part of flying I didn’t like. The end. Mom landed and I slid down her wing and plunked on the stone balcony floor.

“Hey!” Dad said, wagging his tail and trotting out to meet us. “Did you have fun?”

Dad was a canid with shoulder-length ears and an off-white fur coat with brown patches. People always said I looked just like my Dad when they saw us together.

“Can we go again tomorrow, Mom?”

“You’re exhausting,” Mom laughed, walking into the nest. “Your sun is too warm.”

“Where’s my ball, Dad?”

“It bounced into the woods when you took off.”

I stepped over to the railing and looked out at the looming tree line. I’d never noticed how dark it was before. And there was something within the darkness. Distant weeping and screaming. Something pleading for help. My warmth disappeared.

“Are there others here?” I said.

“Of course there are,” Dad said, sitting next to me.

“But I thought this was our place.”

“Nobody owns this realm. They only visit.”

Panic stirred my guts.

“We should go in and get my ball,” I said. “Before someone steals it.”

Dad looked up at me, his expression turning serious.

“That’s not a good idea,” he said. “That’s a nightmare. We don’t have control in there.”

“Come on, we’ll be fine!” I said, waving away his concern with my hand.

“Burgeon!” Dad said. “Don’t do something stupid to get something you don’t need.”

My shoulders slumped. The glee from flying was completely gone.

“Come on,” Dad said, nudging me into the nest with his snout.

Our nest was much larger than it appeared from the outside. The ceilings were so high you’d have to fly to touch them. The fire snapped under the hearth. Rays of light shone through the skylights, spotting yellow bouquets arranged in vases on tables. Vanilla and hazelnut swaddled the senses. Plush cushions formed a circle around the hearth. Mom sat cross-legged on one of the cushions. I flopped down on her lap and she wrapped her silk-soft wings around me. Everything was perfect. I would have lived happily ever after, so long as it never ended.

Dad trotted in with a book in his mouth. He sat on the cushion across from Mom and me, set his book on the pillow, then started turning the pages with his paw.

“You know you can’t read in this realm,” Mom giggled. “Why use a book?”

“The book helps me remember, even though I can’t read the squiggles on the page.”

My attention was drawn to the skylight. Hanging over us was a moon with an angry red face. I felt as though I was in some kind of trouble. I drew Mom’s wing tighter.

“Wake up, Burgeon,” Dad said, as if from a great distance. “We’ve got work to do.”

Then Dad disappeared. Mom lifted me onto my feet and got up from her cushion. My feathers puffed as she ran her talons across my scalp.

“Will you ever be able to come back with us?” I said.

“No. But I’ll be here for you.”

“Burgeon!” Dad said. “You’ve got to wake up now.”

“Okay,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mom’s smile dimpled her cheeks. Sleeping Locus turned black and I woke up in my bed. Dad pinched the tip of my tail with his cold, hard nails. I hated it when he did that.

“Wake up,” he said through a yawn. “You’ve got to go to school.”

* * *

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Odd Creature Stories

Indianapolis Indiana

The Sleeping Reverie, The Awful Odyssey, Copyright © 2019, 

L.B. McGrimm

oddcreaturestories.com

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