In a VooDoo Dream . . .

VooDoo Dream - FictionPad2


In A VooDoo Dream . . .

My Kingdom Come, Thy Will Be Done


The little girl slipped between the pillars and quickly threw herself into the hole. It should’ve been dark, yet lamps that had lay absent of oil for centuries welcomed her with a soft wash of light, beckoning her little bare feet along their way. Ancient Celtic glyphs and runes twined all along the path, climbing the walls of what once was a mighty city, yet now lay in little more than a pile of rocks. Still, she scurried along the soft and grassy path. It was the only place the grass grew. She knew he’d grown it for her. Grown it to protect her delicate little toes from broken pieces of pottery, and the thick dust clinging to broken bones until she could reach the daunting stairs.

The staircase rose at least fifty feet. Fifty steps she always counted, one by one by one as she climbed to the soaring chamber. She could always hear the ocean there. Hear it pounding on the rocks outside. That soft, calling rhythm that promised she was safe. Still, she never looked down. Never once dared look at the cobwebbed golden eggs that marched in their neat little rows into the darkness. They weren’t why she came. Not why she followed the soft beckoning sounds of the dripping water.

She’d found the pieces on only her second visit. The shattered, broken pieces of wood scattered all over the ground. She’d been so angry when she’d tucked her little feet under her and sat down. So very disappointed that they would abandon something so beautiful and just leave it for the spiders to take as their home. That first night, she’d simply sat. Sat and listened to the water drip – but then the water always talked to her when they were alone. Always did exactly as she pleased. She could stand in the midst of a storm and never get touched by a single drop. Tell the creek to let loose the butterfly who fell in, then dance with it before she chased it away. It was their little secret, the one Nana promised to never tell. That’s why the old house sat so deep in the swamps. Witches needed room to do their work, needed a safe place to cast their spells. Only, she never told Nana she could do far more than just play with the water.

Skipping past the giant gears that stood round the dais, she went straight past the secret room. Sometimes she’d gone in to watch the candles flick against the rubies, but there was no time for that tonight. Month after month she’d been coming here. Walking right through her dreams to walk right through this city, wandering the empty walls night after night since she’d tasted that single tear. Stamping her little foot, she broke into a run, wild curls as black as the night bouncing down her back as she raced for her precious little puddle. No one ever stopped to think that when they cried, it came back to the land. That no matter where the water came from, it would always find a way to go back round and round and round. That’s how the tear had found her – one perfect crystal drop falling onto her brown little fingers when she held up that giant fat frog.

Not ten minutes into her nap, her feet had been sinking in the softest green grass; the sun happy on her skin as the crisp ocean air came whipping across the cliffs, sweeping the ancient path clean so she’d be able to find her way in. Giant boulders loomed till they blocked the sun from the sky, yet her tiny body fit right through the crack, same as she now dashed through the very last door, puckering her face into a frown as she followed the grass to its end, then stopped to study the very last piece of her puzzle.

It had taken nearly three weeks to move the pieces here. To gather up every last speck of dust until it all lay in the raised oval cache setting directly beneath the natural spring. Water fell a hundred feet from the ceiling, skipping across diamonds and sapphires as it meandered its way to the bottom, dancing and twirling through the wall of sacred runes. The lamps in this room never went out. Not since she’d brought the first piece and gently laid it in the water, following the call of its steady little drip, drip, drip. The water here was as clear as crystal with lilies grown thick around the edge; wide pretty pink flowers she’d simply told the puddle she wanted to see. The water always did what she asked, whispering its drips in her ear when the old dry puzzle pieces flatly refused to fit. A sharp corner had cut her chubby finger, her blood dripping right into the palm of his hand – and a tear falling right along with it. Her tear traded for his tear. Softening the dust of a broken soul until she finally understood how to fit it back together.

Now, that hand lay over his heart, and he lay there in her water. Water she’d commanded to swirl and twirl and boil itself into every tiny crack until they mended back together as solid as the day when they were one. Her tiny fingers knew every dimple in the clothes that he wore. Each long, delicate strand of hair that turned to fire on its end. He had no voice to command she finish his puzzle. None to say she could not go. Yet tonight, as a wild Celtic spring continued to drip in memory of a warrior’s tomb long forgotten throughout the ages, she waded into the water to sit with him one last time. The final piece was in her hand. The edges of her faded strawberry dress stirring the delicate scent from the lilies as she sank to her knees, a vibrant little sliver of life that had dared walk through the dreams of a lost city to return the final fragment of what once was a blood red sash.

It silently snapped into place. The water instantly stopped dripping.

Her dirty little fingers traced the delicate scars that framed his nose and temples. Gently touched the pointed tip of his ears. High above her, the spring roared out to the ocean, demanding its maker release a thing that needed to be free . . . then somewhere an angel’s tear fell. The water burst out of the rocks, dancing under all of the stars as a pair of glittering amber eyes slowly opened, as bright and alive as the sun burning down in their depths.

“Child, child, you must come in!” her Nana called. “The rain is on the air.”

Jumping up from beside the creek, the little girl quickly dropped her daily catch of frogs, wrapping her muddy little fingers tight around her doll as they went dashing through the woods. She ran as fast as she could to the secret hole tucked deep in the tree, then stopped to glance back over her shoulder, watching as clouds as black as her hair began to boil out over the horizon. Her grandmother, the witch, was right. A storm did hang on the air, only somehow she knew it would be like none they had ever seen before. Still, she took a moment to gently straighten the yellow straw hair of the tiny voodoo doll before she shoved it inside.

“I saved you,” she whispered as she carefully tucked him in tight. “Now it’s your turn to come and save me.”

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