In memory of my little ballerina. Dance on. This last dream is for you, sweetie.
[] (…sweet dreams…) []
Sandman loves watching the dreams of the children—his dreams. Nighttime visions of fantastic things, where dinosaurs trod the city streets and tiny, bluebell-wearing fae trill songs of a long gone age. Princesses decked in the finest pink cloth and frilly lace weave flower chains as they laugh with friends under blossoming cherry trees and clear blue skies while their strong knights in shining armor bravely lance the dragons that torment the innocent villagers of a far off town. A fencer listens for the sign to start, a wide, surprised grin crossing his face as he lands his third and final hit to claim the win. His first win.
(That one is a memory, Sandy knows, but sometimes nothing is sweeter than relieving the small victories of the day. He always peeks into their young minds to search for their hopes, wonders, memories, dreams.)
A unicorn, bold and lively as a stallion, jumps from his cloud to trot down to the island below him. As soon as it nears the homes, it breaks up into small golden streams. Small goldfish and dolphins float along, turning the night into a fairytale of sorts. A miniaturized kitten plays with a ball of yarn, kicking it up with its small golden feet as it floats along the river of sand. It doesn't last long for the ball of fur hears the beckoning of a child drifting to sleep, small ears perking up as the sweet yawns reach its ears. Yarn unwinds into little piles as the kitten chases it down to the window, passing through as if there were nothing impeding its path. Another house features a giant whale that swims happily in front of the house. Sand flies upward from its blowhole, trailing through the house in the form of little sand bubbles.
Sighing happily, he moves away as he appreciates a job well done. His personal favorite this night, he reflects as he follows dusk over one of the less densely populated continents of the world, had been a young Asian girl dreaming of a play where she graced the crowd with a final flourish of the palest white silk, tiny feet and shins laced up in ballet flats that sparkled in the sunlight. The flute accompanying her dance came to its climactic grace note the moment that her foot came back to rest on the wooden floor, and her adoring crowd moved immediately to their feet with nothing but ecstatic applause. It wasn't a memory of her's, not yet, but someday it might be. Dreams were always possible.
Even the Sandman couldn't avoid picking favorites at times, though he halfheartedly thought that it probably wasn't as selfish as North and Bunny's preferences during their own holidays. Giving a little more attention to a handful of dreams wasn't the same as leaving a specially picked present under the tree or placing carefully hand-painted eggs at just the right height to ensure their discovery. Tooth, the lover of all children and memories, had herself admitted to maybe just maybe leaving a little more for those who paid particular attention to making their fledgling molars shine the brightest. "Have you seen this boy's canine? Most kids have no idea how much plaque they can accumulate near the gum on these little teeth, but little Charles is so attentive! The girls are going to swoon over those perfect canines when he smiles, I just know it. I have to show this to the girls!" As a result, she confessed that she left sometimes three times the normal payment. "To encourage good habits!" she always insisted. That was her final argument on the matter, and no one had thus far gotten around that.
He was just approaching the end of the young paired continents, easily breezing through both of them with none of the extra speed occasionally required over Europe, parts of Asia, and the other heavily lived-in places of the so-called "Old World".
The lush forests of the southern-most continent offered exotic animals, plants and scenery that rarely required further alterations in the dreams, and their mythology was positively full of imagery, heroes and gods to pull from. Folklore was at the heart of most dreams, and the children followed the stories they offered so easily that it was child's play to spin them into a world of walking legends when memories weren't quite enough.
To the north was a more diverse environment and people. The dreams he often found them seeking were more introspective, asking for advice and reflection. He admired their spirit and wished that he could dampen down their strong feelings at times. Of course, that didn't stop him from slipping the uncertain child a vision of strength and bravery when they felt like they didn't quite live up to their fathers or older siblings. Every young one deserved to dream, to know that nothing could stop them from chasing their ideal future. Further east on this northern and as-yet-unnamed continent, his eyes wander upwards rather than down to the children tottering on the edge of unconsciousness. A light snow falls on his cloud of sand, making its way through the sky independently of his dream threads, and he takes a selfish moment to embrace himself in a dream. The young settlements were created by the will of Old World countries and companies, kings and queens and businessmen, and tonight would be a difficult one for the transplanted men, women and children. One look at the heavy, dark grey cloud cover above him has confirmed that much. On the darkening horizon, a storm was forming. Tomorrow would see brutal winds, he is almost certain, and bitterly cold temperatures too far below zero for human comfort. He dreams that they will stay indoors near their families and keep warm by the fireplaces.
While the children of the various tribes scattered across the mostly-"wild" continent could tuck under layers of furs by a warm fire with a full stomach and only wonder at the clean sheet of white forming just outside their modest homes, the settlements' young ones shivered, jumping into bed with their parents as the family only hoped they would all wake come morning, much less manage to find food in the upcoming days of hardship. North would be stopping by the small dots of displaced settlers in a little less than a month. Sandy knows that he intends to leave extra blankets, warm food and even coal for both the good and naughty children on his list this year, alongside small toys that can survive the terrain. For all children deserve to live in comfort and wonder, and their Guardian of Wonder intends to keep that innocence burning in their hearts as long as he can.
And so Sandy sends dreams of a mild summer to the cold children of the harsh, winter-bound east coast, of picking wildflowers with healthy friends, splashing through warm waters, and kissing that cute girl whose bright eyes shone of endless sapphire skies not littered by snow or chill.
Abruptly he starts, letting the dream sand slip through his fingers to join its fellows in a Spanish colony further south. Golden tendrils wiped from the eyes of waking children in Asia flit around his head to rejoin him, but he barely notices. A small dream horse stands sadly in front of him, nickering and snorting golden dust from his nose as it requests his attention with the dip of its head. This dream won't be accepted—a child is refusing to sleep.
This event was all-too-common when another Guardian's duties crossed paths with his own. The nights before Christmas and Easter, he worked just as tight a shift as North and Aster. He had to physically fight off the hope and wonder emanating from their little bodies and battle their spirits down just enough that they could enjoy the approaching day more. More than once his dreams hadn't been enough to push the children's eyelids down. In those instances, a face-to-face contact and ball of dream dust to the face were inevitable. When a tooth was tucked beneath their pillow, many children couldn't resist staying up to see the exchange. The fairies sometimes had difficult situations when they beat him to a house, zipping around the window until his dream sand made it to the bedroom.
Today, however, is not one of those days. Christmas isn't quite close enough to start interfering, and Tooth keeps a close eye on Mother Nature's flight plans; her delicate fairies will be stopping by after the brunt of the storm sweeps through for the ones that haven't been grabbed early.
Huffs of sand drag him back to the issue at hand. His dream is visibly distraught, strong teeth attempting to drag him forcibly by his sleeve to the child resisting its soothing embrace. He pats the sandy horse on its flank, silently asking it to guide the way as he is much too short to jump on its back. It leaps into action, shooting forward into the ever-darkening night. Clouds cluster in quickly and Sandy is glad that the Atlantic is so large, standing between him and his next major destination: Europe. Several stingrays are left to swim through the snowy skies towards the southern continent to deliver dreams while he is occupied by an obstruction in his job as the Guardian of Dreams.
Streaming dream sand in its wake like a living plane, his horse leads him quickly to a nearly-frozen peninsula that breaks up the largely land-bound northern continent. While the east coast has been hit hard by the terrible conditions that come from life along the Atlantic's northwestern boundaries, this peninsula's transplanted colonists have seen the brunt of it this winter. Sandy scans the terrain for the sleepless child, and for a moment he cannot find him.
Then, all too suddenly, he realizes where the child is and why his horse cannot reach him.
He plops to the ground in the middle of a village, a small cloud of sand billowing behind him before he gets it back under control. The village is quiet despite the many lean-to houses created by men who hadn't been taught to build with wood. The candles are unlit despite the dark creeping up on them, approaching as quickly as the coming storm. Fires do not burn inside the homes or in the large fire pit dug outside despite the cold that encroaches on the circle of houses. Only ashes remain.
And only ashes move in this village of the dead, swaying on a wind that cries in sorrow as it whistles between the snow laden trees.
Sandy can't look in the windows. His horse of dream sand doesn't so much as look at them because the only children to find in these windows are the ones frozen beside their parents, hands entwined like cold stone and blue lips silently whispering final prayers for a summer that is months away. Other bedrooms will be empty, their children resting in shallow graves because the winter came with disease and not enough food, and the hard, icy ground resisted their attempts to be displaced from the realm of the living. He can't look in those windows because he has to dream that there is one last family, one last child, to bring hopes of Christmas and summer and Easter to that Aster may be able to build upon in later months that the rest of the village will never see.
He passes many of these windows, these cold empty dark dead dreamless windows. If the horse had not pulled him ever forward, he would never have known to look for a child in this necropolis.
It is not a family he is led to, to his dismay and horror. Small golden hands rush up to cover his mouth as he finds the child determined not to sleep out in a steadily building bank of snow outside a small home. He can't be older than fourteen, but his eyes are simultaneously dying and determined. Sandy suspects that there is no fire burning in his home because it has long gone out, taking with it the strength in the shaking fingers clenched tightly under his armpits. His brown hair is the same color as the bright chocolate eyes, but in the snow that clings to it the hair appears to be turning white as the snowflakes fall faster and faster. The clothes covering his frame aren't enough to stave off the cold. Not nearly enough. He has no shoes, no gloves, and his pants don't even reach his ankles after months of heavy use. His shirt has sleeves, but it isn't as thick as it should be for this weather. Even the shepherd's crook clasped to his chest is beginning to submit to the frost winding along its base.
As Sandy beckons his dream closer, the eyes meet his. Shock overcomes him as a shaky laugh escapes the child and the breathy, whispered word "Sandman" escapes his bluing lips. A believer. This is one of his believers. The Sandman is among the few who can operate even without believers, because he doesn't deliver dreams only to those who know him by name. He can send his streams of sand to any child who is willing to battle through their fears to dream of tomorrow. But this child is one of the few who truly believes, not only in what he stands for but him. Suddenly it becomes a more urgent matter as the child is wracked with shivers, his eyes showing the glaze that he least wants to see in one so young and still dreaming of summer days. He rests a hand on the frosty head, wishing for once that he weren't the dusty remains of a wishing star. This boy needs dreams, but he needs a warm human touch even more.
A look into the house that the boy sits outside of makes him regret looking. The house is inhabited by the boy's family, but they can offer no warmth either. A woman not yet midway through life with long, warm brown hair has her eyes closed and palms together beneath her chin in prayer. In front of her is a worn Bible, words faded but still clear. She appears peaceful, even in death, but her body faces the other cold figure taken by the harsh winter, a young girl, younger even than the boy struggling to resist the golden horse nickering soothingly at his elbow. She is curled up in front of what had likely been a fire, and her position suggests that she had been accompanied in her position by another presence. A man's cloak, traced by intricate, frosty designs along the edges, covers her thin, lifeless form like a shroud of death.
It has been a long time since Sandy has cried, but it has been even longer since he has had to resist the sorrow for the sake of a child in such desperate need of a companion. His attention returns to the one lifting a trembling hand to push away the horse. He knows what giving in would mean and he intends to make things difficult regardless.
Winds keen the storm's arrival in the distance, not too far from their position, and Sandy moves to put his body between it and the boy. A quick movement dislodges some of the snow, returning much needed color to the child. "Sandman," comes the whisper again and he nods, his heart warming at the sound. "I can't go to s-sleep yet," he says hoarsely. "M-momma says we c-can't sleep until morning." Shudders return for a moment before the boy can bring them back under control, dragging his knees up further against his chest and the staff in an instinctual effort to stay warm. "I have to take…out to the…to skate to-tomorrow." Sandy struggles to hear his words as they grow fainter, only to strengthen once again. "S-she doesn't know h-how t-to skate, but I'll t-t-teach her and Joey a-and Phillipa. A-and th-the'll be warm a-again…" His voice breaks off entirely as tears come to his eyes, and Sandy knows that the boy witnessed the winter take his mother and sister, as well as others in the village. He lives only for the memory of them now.
At the boy's side, the dream-made horse nickers fearfully to him. While the Sandman has a thin tie to the children, his dreams are more in sync with their feelings and, in this case, their lives. This boy's life is coming to a close, and so is his dream.
Squatting in front of the child, Sandy places a hand on his chin to raise the eyes back up to meet his. The tears are freezing on his cheeks and he wipes them away. Pulling his hand back, he points to himself and creates a small image of a little golden man sprinkling sand over a sleeping child in the air above his palms. Then he points to the boy before creating a question mark from the sand. A small smile forms on the boy's face as he says, "I'm Jackson Overland, b-but everyone c-c-calls me J-Jack Frost because I-I can skate better t-than any of 'em and b-b-beat 'em all at s-snowb-ball fights." Sandy knows that he is in denial, telling himself that his sister and friends are all just asleep in their warm beds, but it is a dream worth living and he won't say otherwise. It takes all he can to push the tears back again as his throat clenches.
Instead, he takes a stream of sand and rests it in the air just in front of Jack. He gestures at the little stream and, though he shoots it a wary look at first, the boy nudges it with a trembling finger. The pool of gold erupts into life, swirling into an image not of summer but of a day not too different from this. An icy pond forms beneath two smiling figures skating hand in hand. The girl wobbles on her feet only to have the taller boy lift her up in his own arms to twirl the girl around with a silent shriek, his unfrosted cloak cutting through the air behind him as they burst into soundless laughter. Jack leans back against the wood behind him, his smile returning full force accompanied by a wheezy chuckle as he watches the golden dream, and Sandy wishes that he could have seen that smile in happier times when it was undiminished by hardship and sadness.
A tear of hardened sand slips past his watch as he reaches into the horse to respin the dream into something more comfortable. Jack looks up from his dream when the dream-woven cloak is placed around his shoulders, taking him by surprise as the warmth beckons him slowly down into slumber. He isn't desperate to push the sleep away this time, instead grabbing Sandy's hand with his own, the nails and fingertips taken by frostbite. "J-just for a m-m-minute," he insists. "And d-don't t-t-tell M-momma, o-okay?" Sandy nods, a second and third tear falling as Jack's eyelids finally flutter closed, his dream self still giggling silently with his immortally preserved sister as golden snowflakes fall about them.
Sandy prepares himself for a moment, readying his heart and building his sand before he does what he does best. He gives the boy a pretty dream—of a life after death, and days of endless fun. Fear seeps in to turn some of the dusty granules dark, so he erases the past from the dream. Jack doesn't need to reflect on the friends and family he is leaving behind in his last moments. He dreams of an evil to defeat, of children to protect, and snowball fights to win. He teaches adults to have fun, as he likely had during the hard times in his village. And when fear returns, the boy sensing the cold hand of death squeezing around his small heart, Sandy realizes that he needs those memories to be at peace, that the boy has always craved acknowledgement and loneliness is a fate worse than death to him. Jack takes them back with a smile, not the tears he had expected. He fights back the fear gripping his heart and when a breath shorter than any before it escapes him, the shivering coming to an abrupt halt and his toes can no longer grip the cold ground as his strength gives out, the Sandman gives him the happiest of happy endings. It is all he can do, but it is enough as a content smile etches itself permanently on the child's face.
The golden cloak that Jack had been unconsciously burrowing into dissolves to stardust, returning not to Sandy but to the soul of a fearless, ever-smirking boy whose dream stubbornly refuses to die even as he does. His shepherd's hook briefly sparks as frost twists into its worn grooves from the crooked tip to the solid base. A parody of life continues to dance about before him—a grinning teenager dangling upside down from an oak tree to make faces at his more grounded little sister—before it too becomes a film of stardust that burrows its way into a heart too big to live without the children he had watched over.
And as he pats the boy's hand, Manny smiles down on the two of them, moonbeams momentarily turning brown hair white again. The child, both of them think, was indeed a Guardian in the short time he lived. He kept his village alive in a time when death and fear were constantly at their heels. Sandy had been too worried upon his arrival to notice the snowmen standing guard at every doorway, the evidence of snowballs along every dirt path, and the final smiles that would have met him at every child's window if he had been brave enough to inspect them, each one still thinking of that day's fun and the joy that would meet them with tomorrow's dawn. In his short time, he had been this village's much-needed Guardian of Fun.
Fun has to die (but it lives on in our dreams).