The Seventh Direction

AWAKEN to the DREAM

Copyright © 2021 W.E. Heasman         . . . a Seventh Direction Series

                               All rights reserved

                       (((((((Finished, but upgrading. )))))))

                                     BOOK ONE:

                           AWAKEN to the DREAM

. . . an adventure dedicated to the growing child in everyone—by Andrea (Aces) Atcheson and friends.

Main Characters:

Wyllen (pronounced Willen) — a 16 year-old, in a coma. Poor boy.

Dorothy — a 90 year-old, dying woman, dreaming herself young again. Name's Alaya when Old Dorothy dreams.

Andrea (Aces): that's me — special nurse to both Dorothy and Wyllen. Also co-author of this adventure.

Master J' (Jay) — Angel / Spirit-guide / elder brother. Pick. Also bluebird.

Lady El — Master J's partner. Also Grandmother. Also hawk.

The Voice — perhaps the only non-fictional character in the story.

Notables:

Doe — a deer.

Wolf — a wolf.

Toadz — a toadstool.

Baby Toadz — son (or daughter) of Toadz.

Gertrude Crabtree — "Tree"

Edgar Friznak . . . mm-hmm.

And my mom (sigh) — just like a mom, she loves telling me what to do.

                                 PART ONE: THE FLOW

                                         Episode 1

___Enter Mom:

"Andrea, you should get a nice pair of cross-country skis . . ." That's what my mom said, just before I left. "It's all year-round way up there," she'd said. Yeah. WRONG. There's no snow up here at this time of year. I figured that much out at this time of year last year. Jeez, Mom, it's not all year round.

Still, the nights were getting colder now, way up here in God's Country. Only mid-August and already old Jack Frost was messing with the evening dew, the grass crunching beneath my feet as I ran around the barn trying careful not to slip. But I did slip, fell and hit my head hard on the ground (damn!)—split the seam, stem to stern: blew the seat right out of the skirt-style jogging shorts Mom sent me. "You should be wearing more girl-type stuff," she was always saying—and, as I was picking myself up off the ground, brushing off, out from the busted barndoor comes Hawk again. Whoooooooosh! And there she goes again.

. . . I wonder?

Hawk flew low toward the old Manor House. You'd have thought she knew my route. I followed her, jogging less vigorously (my foot hurts), round the side to the front of the house, and heard a rustling of leaves high up in the Elm tree. It wasn't the wind. There was no wind. I couldn't see Hawk way up there, but I could feel her . . .

A real, LIVE Elm tree. How cool is that? And massive. I hugged her everyday, but couldn't get my arms around her. Two of me couldn't get my arms around her . . . that's how massive. I hugged her for a lot longer today—my head hurts, my foot, my bum—snuggled right in there, got comfy, and tried not to think about the pain. I let my thoughts run free. Thought: Hawk, way up there in the tree. She wouldn't would she? Well, she might. Better not look up, just in case. I should have worn a hat. Chances are, though, even if she did let loose, it would never find its way all the way down, not through all those leaves! So: How come Hawks and trees and old ambulances are always "she" or her? Old Doc Thorpe got me an old ambulance when it came time for me to be gone. To get outta' town. To flee. (Skedaddle!) A really old one. Drove the last three hundred miles here in second gear—transmission going, alternator gone (two batteries, though), up the drive—and when I got back out to close the gate behind me the old beast up and died! Yeah! Still, I learned something new that day: If your alternator goes, try not to use the brakes, they're gonna drain the battery. Well, I got back in and tried to restart him. Him. You see! Him doesn't work! I tried to re-start "her!" And that didn't work either. And she's been dead ever since. I think I twisted my ankle.