Dream Maker

Rosie soaked in the fear of the passing strangers as a sponge soaks up spilt wine. She drank it in and smiled. She understood about fear, about pain, and she wanted to remove them from others, take them to herself. Often, what she saw in the passing faces was distaste, even disgust, but she soaked that in too, knowing fear showed itself in many forms.

She shifted in her blankets, covering herself more, even though it was warm; covering was protection from many things. She knew how she looked, she had seen herself in the great glass windows of the buildings, the shops, around her. She understood what others saw and understood the way they felt. And she smiled. They could only see so far and knew no more than they could see. She was a Chosen, and that was everything; that gave her what she needed to accept all that was thrown at her.

She was a dream spinner. She was chosen to make the dreams of others come true, to bring them a touch of joy. Nothing dramatic, no miraculous healing, not raising from the dead, no world peace. Just the simple. The small things that can bring a touch of happiness. She watched others dream and then decided which to make real. She knew her calling; she was a Chosen.

She remembered her own Dream; or perhaps was aware of it and, more than that, was aware of what it was. Her Dream was the calling - it had brought her out of what she had been into what she had become. The time of the Dream was unknown; she had watched herself being, or watched someone that she became being, she did not know which. The Dream was a period, a point, an everything, that happened then stopped happening and she had come out of it somehow beyond herself. The Dream was learning, power. A time of emptying out the old, a refilling. She remembered nothing, or almost nothing, only lights, and voices, cleanness. She had cried for help, and help was given. It was hard, and painful, as only death and resurrection might be. Now she was. She was different; that was all that mattered.

Every so often she had flashes of memory about the time before the Dream. She thought there must have been such a time. The memories moved like webs in the breeze, sometimes catching the light, but mostly invisible. A house; a man; fear; humiliation; pain. Reaching out for help, bottles, pills and finding only blackness, oblivion. Something taking her over, pulling her life, her being. Until the Dream. She had gone too far with something, done too much, and she had collapsed into nothingness but only being able to to think. She somehow felt a sadness, a wrenching of something that she had destroyed, that she was somehow responsible for. She felt that she must have been the cause of great unhappiness, which had caused her own pain, her own suffering. She deserved it. Maybe that’s why she was chosen; to redeem her past, whatever that was. Like waking from a dream, the feelings of the dream lingered even when the form was ungraspable.

She had woken in a hospital, surrounded by kind, busy faces. They had wanted her to stay, to mend, to grow strong. But she knew that she had to leave; her Task had to begin. She had crept out, sorry that they would be sorry, but happy that she would soon be making others happy.

Now, on her street, a young man walked past her spot, an office drone. He would spend the day at a desk, or behind a counter. He would be told what to do, be told how to act. He would have lunch, his day would end, and he would start again tomorrow. One day he might buy a new shiny suit. One day he might have someone he could tell what to do. But not today. Today, Rosie could see, his thoughts were fixed on Sasha. A happy dream of what could be if Sasha noticed him and smiled. Rosie could see the dream as a cobweb surrounding his hair; sometimes strands blowing freely in the wind, sparkling with the delightful pleasure that those dreams bring. Sometimes the dreams were thicker, heavier; harder to part the strands. Those were the dreams that weigh a person down. But even the lightest dream might have a few dark, heavy strands. The dream she was looking at was light; the boy was loving being in love, even enjoying the so far unrequited love, because it was love. He loved the pain, the excitement. He was happy - but his mind was fixed on possibilities and fears.

It made Rosie happy to see it. In the Dream she had learned, or she felt she learned, that happiness was not unlimited. There was only so much; a vast amount, yes, but when happiness was given to one, it was taken from another. Spread around, like jam on toast! So, when she could make someone else happy, she knew that some of her happiness would be taken away from her.

She murmured her own Words of Power, concentrating on the web around the clerk’s head, seeing Sasha smile and start talking. Rosie felt some of her happiness leave, replaced with smudgy darkness. Today that man’s dream would come true; where he took it was up to him. Rosie’s part was done.

When she had left the hospital she had had nowhere to go; she could not even remember anywhere she had been before, anywhere she could have gone, just flashes. Not that it mattered; in her new life, she was protected. She would receive everything she needed to do the work she had been given. She had wandered alone through the city, the busy streets and empty alleys, not caring about her old life or the ways of that life. She was new. Over time, she collected a few odds and ends, blankets, a bag, a wooly hat. It was easy to find enough food which others had discarded, rummaging in the bins near the cafés and food outlets, and she learnt the safe places to sleep, the doorways and parks, often with others like her. She wondered if they were Chosen too, but never asked. Sometimes, one of them would drunkenly grope her breasts or fumble between her legs, but most were too stoned to hurt.

It could be hard seeing dreams. Many were light and happy, like the young man’s. But many were dark, and evil. They made Rosie want to scream and cry; and sometimes she did. She saw things that no person should see; she saw desires as thick oily ropes, dragging the person down, squirming and writhing like worms. She tried to switch herself off at even a hint of such things; she did not want to see what they were feeding on. Sometimes it was so bad she had to shout the Words of Power, to close down the darkness from her sight. And the passing crowds knew what she was doing. They looked at her as they heard those Words, knowing that she knew. They hurried past a little faster. Those dreams she did nothing about; they were dealt with by others, but they drained something from her.

Now on the street, in the morning sun, a girl approached, dressed for the city. The web weaved into her long hair, dancing in light. That girl dreamed of a holiday, in the sun, a beach. She wanted to see things others had spoken about. She wanted something to look back on, to know that she had lived. Rosie knew that today that girl would win enough money to take her away awhile. The girl did not know it yet, but she would soon.

Rosie had noticed that some people, just a few, did seem to have some inkling of the invisible movement in their lives. They would look at Rosie and wonder. Some would look away, feeling the knowledge of the woman on the pavement. Others would make an offering even if they didn’t know what they were giving for or who they were giving to. That girl paused, reached into her bag and tossed an offering onto Rosie’s empty coffee cup. It was enough.

The despair Rosie so often saw was the hardest thing to bear because she could do nothing about that; that was outside her Task. She could see it surrounding so many people. The burdens of life, life in the city, the pressures of home and work, the need to conform - so much for so many to carry. It was often the young people, with resolute, careless faces, who cried out for something, who could find no way of giving or receiving happiness. The dream that an illness could be cured, that a relationship be restored, a life be returned. But those things she could not do; she did not have the Words of Power for that. Their webs were like oily chains, dragging them down. She hoped there were other Chosen who could help, but she could not be sure.

Sometimes Rosie felt despair, but knew it was the cost of the happiness she gave. Her Task was to bring happiness not feel it; the more she gave, the more was taken.

She sometimes wondered if there was anyone for her, a Chosen for the Chosen who had the Words of Power for her, someone to take away her pain; somebody who might help her remember. But, maybe it was better not to.

Once, she thought, she might have met someone. Long ago, or yesterday? She didn’t know. After the Dream. She was sitting, as she did, making people happy in her despair, when someone stopped. A man. He squatted next to her. She hoped that he would not hurt her. She did not want to be hurt again. She could take the words she heard, the words of hate, but she didn’t want to be hurt. People did not get close unless they wanted to hurt. She got ready to protect her face, her body. She felt the fear. He took her hand and smiled at her and the smile went in like a knife. It just wanted her. Rosie felt everything begin to bubble, to come to light. Then he was gone. Strangely, he had no webs, light or dark; maybe he did not need to dream.

He must be a Chosen. Maybe The Chosen. Every day after that she eagerly searched the faces, searched for him; she hoped that he might finish the job. He knew her; he knew where she was. One day. She hoped.

But, for now, the Task was everything. She had to be about her work.