Dream Catcher, Heart Listener

He took her hand and whispered in her ear, “Hold out your tongue.”

She slipped her tongue over her teeth, between her lips, and stood, waiting anxiously. Then the cool drops began to slide gently over the plush fur of her arms, legs, head, and then, suddenly, several drops alighted upon her outstretched tongue and she zapped it back inside, laughing as she exclaimed, “Lemonade! It tastes like lemonade!”

He laughed too and said, “Now, open your eyes.”

She took in a deep breath as her heart raced familiarly, and then she opened her eyes.

She could see.

The colors were so crisp, so vivid, that though she had seen them only a few times before, she was certain they could not be this wonderful, this real, even in her real world. The symphony of rich smells overtook her as well, the same as in her real world, and yet each enhanced, enriched just for her, to help her remember the colors, the precious, lively colors.

The lemonade rain glistened as it softly cascaded about them, lighting on the trees whose thick chocolate and peppermint trunks and limbs spiraled up and up, their browns rich, their whites and reds vibrant; several pastel pink, green, and blue cotton candy leaves fluttered around them with the rain. Beneath their feet, the soft fluff of green cotton candy stretched on and on, and beneath that, warm, brown dirt. He bent over and scooped some onto one finger, offering it to her. She licked it off his finger, smiled, and laughing delightfully, exclaimed, “Caramel!”

“Yes,” he said, his voice smiling, “caramel.”

Still holding her hand, he began to lead her through this new and brilliant world he’d fathomed for her, for them, reminding her of old colors, teaching her new, both of them sampling familiar and new flavors as they explored. Red was the peppermint bark of a twisting tree. Yellow was the scent of lemons; lemons were not just yellow, not just a color, but the sparkle, glitter. She wanted to remember glitter very much, imprinted it to her vast-growing memory as the rain glistened all about them. Blue and purple and pink and orange were the petals of the gum drop blossoms and the sweet tart roses as they melted upon their tongues, while all shades of green were represented in the scents of many different strands of taffy strung about the trees in tangles of vines. Olive green was the taste of olives, and lime green the taste of limes, and grass green the scent of fresh, spring fields, and evergreen the smell of a Christmas tree.

“Are you ready for the surprise?” he asked at last.
 
She laughed again. “You haven’t shown me the surprise already?”
 
“Hm,” he mused, “no, all the candy was just a ploy to get you all hyped up on sugar for the real surprise. Come on.”
 
Squeezing her hand more firmly in his, he led her through the trees and down a gently sloping hill, at the bottom of which they came to a lake that shone with a pale golden hue, a calming yellow tint, from the lemon rain.
 
“It’s gorgeous,” she breathed.
 
“It’s yours,” he said, “let’s take a drink.”
 
They knelt together by the lake. She cupped her hands and scooped up the liquid which was cool and refreshing on her hands, yet as she lifted those hands, the lemonade pooled within them, she paused, staring down, gasping, shaking her head in wonder. Then she let the lemonade slip beneath her fingers to look down into the pool to see if it was really there, if she’d really seen it, or if she’d only just imagined it in the cup of her palms.
 
But there it was, a young Monku lady’s face staring dumbfounded right at her upon the lake’s surface. Lush, pure white fur, elegantly curved cheeks with high cheekbones and small, crisply pointed ears, because, of course, the Monkus were a people who appeared human by day, but at night became cat-people, still very human-like but covered with fur and bearing cat-like faces as well as tails. And hers was the most elegant tail as it flicked behind her gently. Then there were her black button nose and eyes that were a color she could not quite place. Blue was the smell of the ocean; it was not blue. Purple was the smell of the lilacs he’d given her once. It was not purple.
 
She reached up to touch her cheek. So did the girl staring at her upon the lake’s surface.
 
“Your reflection,” he said quietly, placing an arm around her. “I promised you I’d show it to you if I could. And now, I’ve finally figured it out.”
Her reflection. She watched her brows rise. She watched as the tears filled her eyes. She watched as her hand trembled against her cheek, all for the first time.
 
“My...my eyes?” she asked.
 
“Indigo,” he said, placing both arms around her, “beautiful indigo.”
 
Indigo. Indigo, the color of her eyes, seen upon the first sight of her own reflection. She did not need a scent or a taste or a sound to remember indigo.
She turned to smile up at him. She’d grown accustomed to not being able to really see him. The outline of his body was there, but it was a blank, white canvas, shimmering with a white light, like a hidden angel. Neither face nor fur nor clothes could be distinguished, as though he was made of light itself. At first, not being able to really see him had unnerved her, but now, now she could tell by his touch, by his voice, when he was happy or sad, what he was feeling, and now she burrowed close to his chest and whispered, “Thank you, so much. I love you.”
“I love you too, Michaela Hania...”