Fever Dreams

"A child's dreams are precious things."

HOLFAST AND OAD PERCHED ON THE WINDOWSILL like two warts on a toad: lumpy, still, and anxious to jump at the first provocation. They watched the father inside the house put his child to sleep, and hoped the boy's fever was high enough to warrant an open window. They needed an open window and a breeze to carry them inside. The breeze was there; it dried the fine mist of sweat off their backs. Now, they just needed an open window to steal away the boy's dreams.

Oad grunted. The father was taking too long to say goodnight. Didn't he know what ailed the boy was contagious? Didn't he know it was too late once the fever set in? Oad knew. The wind carried him and Holfast in through too many open windows in town for them not to know.

The two (were they Goblins? Fairies? Fantasms?) watched and waited for their chance to enter. Still, the father doted on his dying son in the stifling room. Every minute that passed with the window shut brought them closer to losing the boy's dreams forever.

A child's dreams are precious things. They are irreplaceable, like a grandmother's fine china or a fisherman's good luck charm. They are things worth stealing, and if Holfast and Oad didn't get them first, then—

"He won't open the door in time," a voice whispered as dry and breathless as the grave. The two thieves didn't need to look to know who it was that spoke. It was their rival, if not their superior: the Shadow.

Darkness covered the windowsill as a frigid aura touched Holfast and Oad like the icy hands of a mortician. The embrace was neither threatening nor kind, just there. A natural force as neutral as the sun and rain.

Holfast and Oad often worked under the cover of the Shadow. In many ways, the three were partners in crime: they shuffled away dreams before the Shadow fleeced souls. And the dying boy brought them together for another job.

"I think we'll save these dreams yet," Oad replied.

"You'll have to work fast," breathed the Shadow, "I can feel my fingers slipping into the room."

"Our work is always fast," Holfast said. "The dreams of children are light and loosely tethered."

"Is that why I never meet you two waiting outside the windows of widows? Are the dreams of the old too large for your tiny arms?"

"The dreams of the old are spent up and used," answered Oad. "The dreams of the young are too fresh to waste."

The man inside the house stood. Holfast and Oad coiled like threatened vipers. Death’s shadow loosed its grip on the thieves, but the father did not open the window. Instead, he fetched a moist rag from a basin on the dresser. The only lamp in the room cast long shadows on the back wall above the bed.

"We might lose this one," Holfast admitted.

"No," Oad said, and then he did something that even startled Death. Oad barked like a lame street dog and pawed at the window pane with his taloned hands. The man inside set down the rag. He could not see Holfast and Oad; no mortal could, but he could hear the sounds.

"Cut it out," the man shouted. His sick son did not stir while Holfast joined in the scratching and barking.

"Rah-Rawr," Holfast growled.

"Hey!" the man charged at the window. It didn't open easily; the latch was rusty, and the frame stuck, but he did open it. The gentle breeze floated the two thieves inside like wisps of ash from a chimney. Their barking stopped right away once they landed on the boy's bed. They wasted no time in pilfering his unused aspirations.

A mercurial stream bled out the boy's ears. The dreams were, indeed, unmoored. Holfast and Oad sorted the substance. Some of the silver ribbon they let slip into the ether, some they stashed in satchels slung across their backs.

"There's the dream of riding unicorns," Holfast whispered.

"Aye, it first belonged to the little girl we met last week."

"And this one here with the frogs came from the cobbler's child?"

"The very same," Oad said with a heavy sigh. "So many recycled dreams. Too few are being minted new."

"Look at this one," Holfast said. "It's the little boy, and he's fishing for sea monsters."

"Sea monsters? Is it a nightmare?"

"No," Holfast grinned. "He's happy. He's laughing beside his father."

"Take it quick," Oad said. He saw tendrils of dark mist edge around the bedposts. The Shadow making its way.

"And this one," Oad looked and caught another new dream. "He is extinguishing flames with a water cannon."

"Sea monsters and fire! Brave dreams indeed."

"What's that?" The man at the window heard Holfast's remark and turned to his son. He rushed to the bedside. The burglars cowered despite their invisibility.

"What did you say, son?" The father’s hands were work-scarred but caressed his boy as gently as a feather duster.

"There's something on me," the boy said to everyone's astonishment. Even the Shadow seemed to halt its progress. "I think they're taking my dreams."

Oad glanced at Holfast. In all their time as thieves, detection never occurred.

"Taking your dreams?"

"What will they do with them, Papa?" The boy's voice trailed off. His eyes, which hadn’t opened, squeezed tight.

“It’s just a fever dream.” The man brushed away sweat from his son's brow, and another ribbon slipped out of the boy's left ear. It was a dream of a knight walking into a dragon's lair. The beast was unseen, and the cave mouth looked terrifying. The knight—an image of the boy in shining armor—held his sword and shield with determination. A dream worth saving, if there ever was one. Holfast grasped it by the tail and brought it down into his knapsack just before the wind blew out the lamp, the only light in the room.

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Short stories are published on a monthly basis. If you missed last month’s story THE EYES I ONCE HATED you can find it at the link below.

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