Dreamers

Dreamers see the world with their eyes closed. They are so often seen as blind, naïve. They weave their world with the threads of half-forgotten dreams, from moonlight and lullabies and fairy tales.

But nightmares are fairytales too.

Once upon a time, there was a dreamer, a young boy.

The boy was tall in the way of one unaccustomed to being tall, and nut-brown from hours in the sun. He worked with his father in the estate of a wealthy merchant and his twelve daughters. His life was one of lilies and roses and the heat of a near-eternal summer. He was a good gardener, but more often than not he found his way beneath bowers of dogwood roses with a collection of fairy tales and read the hours away until the sun had set and he could read no more.

He lay beneath the arbors or on the mossy carpets of the forest, which the owner of the estate also possessed, and dreamt of gilded castles, of lakes so still they seemed like mirrors of the night sky, of ships hoisting royal violet flags, and of a kingdom hidden in the forest, where the trees bent like an emerald canopy over their king and the leaves whispered his name in their secret language.

He often fell from his perches on tree branches while so enraptured by his dreams, and it was not uncommon for him to accumulate bruises the way a rich man accumulates broaches.

While he was a good gardener, he had few friends among the garden staff. They had long ago given up their dreams. Magic did not exist for them. Fairy tales were for children. Would dreaming keep the clematis from climbing in the windows? Would it water the herbs or sew the seeds?

Art by Abby Diamon 

Text by Lucie MacAulay