Charles de Lint - The Moon is Drowning While I Sleep

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The Moon Is

Drowning While I

Sleep

Charles de Lint

If you keep your mind sufficiently open,

people will throw a lot of rubbish into it.

—WILLIAM A. ORTON

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS WHAT THERE

WAS, AND if nothing had happened there would be

nothing to tell. 2

IT WAS MY FATHER WHO TOLD ME THAT

DREAMS WANT to be real. When you start to wake up,

he said, they hang on and try to slip out into the waking

world when you don't notice. Very strong dreams, he

added, can almost do it; they can last for almost half a day,

but not much longer.

I asked him if any ever made it. If any of the people our

subconscious minds toss up and make real while we're

sleeping had ever actually stolen out into this world from

the dream world.

He knew of at least one that had, he said.

He had that kind of lost look in his eyes that made me

think of my mother. He always looked like that when he

talked about her, which wasn't often.

Who was it? I asked, hoping he'd dole out another little

tidbit about my mother. Is it someone I know?

But he only shook his head. Not really, he told me. It

happened a long time ago—before you were born. But I

often wondered, he added almost to himself, what did she

dream of?

That was a long time ago and I don't know if he ever

found out. If he did, he never told me. But lately I've been

wondering about it. I think maybe they don't dream. I think

that if they do, they get pulled back into the dream world.

And if we're not careful, I think they can pull us back

with them. 3

"I'VE BEEN HAVING THE STRANGEST

DREAMS," SOPHIE Etoile said, more as an observation

than a conversational opener.

She and Jilly Coppercom had been enjoying a

companionable silence while they sat on the stone river wall

in the old part of Lower Crowsea's Market. The wall is by

a small public courtyard, surrounded on three sides by old

three-story brick and stone town houses, peaked with

mansard roofs, dormer windows thrusting from the walls

like hooded eyes with heavy brows. The buildings date

back over a hundred years, leaning against each other like

old friends too tired to talk, just taking comfort from each

other's presence.

The cobblestoned streets that web out from the

courtyard are narrow, too tight a fit for a car, even the

small imported makes. They twist and turn, winding in and

around the buildings more like back alleys than

thoroughfares. If you have any sort of familiarity with the

area you can maze your way by those lanes to find still

smaller courtyards, hidden and private, and, deeper still,

secret gardens.

There are more cats in Old Market than anywhere else in

Newford and the air smells different. Though it sits just a

few blocks west of some of the city's principal

thoroughfares, you can hardly hear the traffic, and you

can't smell it at all. No exhaust, no refuse, no dead air. Old

Market always seems to smell of fresh bread baking,

cabbage soups, frying fish, roses and those tart,

sharp-tasting apples that make the best strudels.

Sophie and Jilly were bookended by stairs going down

to the Kickaha River on either side of them. The streetlamp

behind them put a glow on their hair, haloing each with a

nimbus of light. Jilly's hair was darker, all loose tangled

curls; Sophie's was soft auburn, hanging in ringlets.

In the half-dark beyond the lamp's murky light, their

small figures could almost be taken for each other, but

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Charles de Lint - The Moon is Drowning While I Sleep

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