A Messenger from Nephelokokkygia

Epilogue: In Dreams

NOT THE END! NOT YET 

Chapter 32: Epilogue: In Dreams

"Okay, we'll keep a close eye out for the bunny girl."

--Michael Collins, American astronaut

Magic places exist in the world, even if they prove hard to spot amongst the horns, alarms, smog, and stupidity always seeming to obstruct anything that is fair and wonderful. Magic exists, period. For a person to claim otherwise is to a deny a whole third of their life. That time is spent sleeping. Much of that, in turn, is spent dreaming. You may not believe magic affects the waking world, but the Astral's existence is self-evident, regardless of whether dreamscapes can be shared.

Admittedly, the appearance of the ever-possible, never-impossible depends on a sleeper's own mind. But however thoughts and feelings vary across cultures, even across species, dreams come in the same range of pleasant to nightmarish to simply odd. Magic cannot be escaped, nor should it be tried. What a waste it would be not to go exploring while you can!

While years passed since Grace and her friends journeyed there, an acre on a shabby, isolated Kansas farm still has soil so rich and fertile, anything planted there produces a crop. The legal owners—insofar as people can "own" land millions of years older than the human race—once guarded this secret zealously. (Which in this case means "with lots of guns.") Times, thankfully, change. Beyond some corroded "Private Property: No Trespassing" signs, it is safe to visit.

A monstrous, giant spider once lived beneath, but the only sign it remains nearby is a faint noise underground which might be mistaken for a heartbeat. If you can find the plot, rest assured nobody here will tell the authorities on you. That remains a secret between you and whatever you decide to plant. But hurry! The fertile magic might just run out. Magic is fickle that way.

Not all magic needs to be so seemingly improbable. There is subtler magic, too, which cannot be touched by hands, but can easily be felt in mind. In California, there is an apartment like a million others, once rented to a very tired, but also very strong, man.

He had since moved on to better things. The apartment itself has passed through more than a few tenants since. No matter who claims residency, however, visitors always claim if you pause at a certain spot in the living room, right where a phone plugs in, a wave of crushing sadness coupled with yearning hope overwhelms you, regardless of any previous emotional state.

The spot is said to be haunted. In a way, it is. Not by a scary ghost, but a memory. Every building has memories attached, giving the place a life of its own. Walls might not speak, but they hear well enough. Without even intending to, people passing through leave trace feelings behind. Pay attention, and you can share in those leftover bits of sorrow, happiness, anger, or love. The man who called this particular apartment his house before finding a home received the worst possible news of his life there, but from the best possible person he could have met at the time.

It would be remiss—even negligent—to imply all magical places are safe. Some should be avoided by all except seasoned dream travelers. (Or those on quests by which the fate of the world hangs.) Consider a forest made colorless because the sun decided to stop shining there. Without elements to provide sustenance, the trees forgot how to behave like plants, and started acting more like animals. Ugly, greedy beasts gorging on whatever passed too close, but never making a sound if they can help it. In a nightmare, nevertheless, can still be found beauty. Apart from the Flesh-Eaters, there is a tree that digs up starlight so old it has turned solid.

If you wish to see such a crystal, it would prove significantly safer to instead duck behind a restaurant whose business never seems to slow. A cat with a white-and-black marking on her chest and a curiously split tail lounges by the cash register. Most patrons mistake her for a statue, but the sushi would not be the best in the hemisphere without her influence. There would also be less poetry. Still, what you really want to find is the market hidden beyond some trash bins.