Sightless Dreaming
By Shahrezad1
Summary: Bunnymund spends most of the year gardening and taking care of the "egg plant" fields. But when the buds start dying, it's time to turn to an expert. Even if said expert is a mortal human. BunnymundXOC
Disclaimer: To assume that I own any of these characters is also to assume that I actually know what I'm doing with them. –laughs weakly- Right. Wish me luck.
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Chapter 4: Down the Rabbit Hole
"But when a young lady is to be a heroine ... [s]omething must and will happen to throw a hero in her way."
-Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
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Each of the Easter Bunny's tunnels led to a location upon the Earth, the larger passages aimed at continents and the smaller ones for islands and isolated locations. But there was one destination his pathways couldn't reach.
An isle of glittering golden sand, Sanderson Mansnoozie's tiny kingdom wasn't on any map. Formerly a shooting starship, and Sandy the pilot, it had a tendency toward meandering along with his runaway dreams.
Despite these two strikes against him, however, all Bunnymund had to do was pound the ground twice in succession and he was off. The Guardian of Hope could have gone to Tooth for help, but the Fairy Queen was busy enough with her Tooth Fairy armies without his problems to deal with. And Jack…there was no way in Spring he was going to go to that Galah. Not that the bunny had anything against him anymore, not after what Frost had done for him last Easter. But experience was needed for something this serious, and Aster had a feeling that Jack would make things worse before they got better.
Running through the depths of his magic path, the rabbit-man could feel the shift in pressure as his passageway tunneled through the ocean's base. There was a hollow, melodious kind of echo there and with an absentminded thought he was reminded of the singing mermaids which made up Sandy's entourage. There used to be more of them, all across the world, but decreased belief had started to wipe them out one by one.
Only in children's dreams did they seem to flourish these days, thus the small band of wheat-gold and auburn-haired women congregated round his old friend like refugees to a benevolent monarch.
It made sense to the Easter Bunny—they had once cared for Sanderson during his 'long sleep,' therefore he was only making good on his debt. But the kind-hearted Sandman probably didn't see things that way; they were merely his friends and companions.
With a leap Aster scrambled out the last few feet of his tunnel, sand scraping backwards the way he'd come. The hasty grab he made for purchase resulted in dreamsand getting in his fur and Bunnymund huffed in irritation at the immediate itch. It didn't help that he had an audience as he shook himself off, either, mermaids and sea creatures tittering for a few short minutes before their expressions shifted to politeness.
Then he was off at a four-legged run along the pebbled path, the sparkling grains of gold he stirred up immediately gravitating toward the greatest sandcastle ever created. Spires swirled upward like spun taffy as they pointed toward a starry sky, the Man in the Moon clearly visible. Meanwhile domes shook as they shifted to reflect Mansnoozie's dreams, bubbling out new rooms as though in anticipation of guests.
A shell theme was reflected in doorways and mosaics while endless conch shells fenced in the floating isle from any wave that dared threaten. These sentinels were more than just decoration, however, echoing with the whispered wishes and dreams of children across the world.
Aster hardly had time to marvel at his friend's abode, however, entering with little fanfare and even less concern for decorum.
Starfish sentries pointed him in the direction he needed to go, earning from him a nod of respect, and then he found himself walking speedily into what had once been a pilot's cockpit, now a bed. A giant clam provided both base and frame while a single plush red pillow became a mattress, the single bolt of color standing out amidst an entire island of blinding yellow.
Sandy blearily blinked up at him from his cushioned throne and Bunnymund was glad that he'd left when he had—resulting in catching the Sandman between shifts, either dawn or dusk depending on which side of the world he'd been visiting.
The other Guardian waved cheerily, a blurry question mark over his head. The Easter Bunny cut right to the chase.
Sliding slightly on the unstable flooring, his expression was even greyer than normal as he said flatly, "meh googies are dying."
That woke the Guardian of Dreams.
An exclamation point replaced his question as Sandy blinked sleep from his eyes, questions flashing faster than Aster could follow. Part of him relaxed at this, that at least one person (other than himself) was taking what had happened seriously, when his companion's repeated question mark and mystified expression caught his attention.
As if to say, 'what happened?'
He braced himself to explain again, starting with a mention of an unexpectedly good dream (startling the Sandman) and then moving on to the plant's illness. The lesions were described with anxious accuracy, the drooping stalks counterpointed with a description of his bruised, lifeless eggs.
Sanderson Mansnoozie's immediate suggestion involved a golden rendition of Mother Earth, her facial features serenely proud and angular. He immediately shook his head in curt rejection, "naw, we can't go tae her after what we did ta Pitch. She'd bury me alive, and there's no tunnelin' outta that."
The shorter fellow's next suggestion involved various past inventions, coming to life around Sandy's head in a burst of hopeful optimism. The Yolking Glass, for one, a two-way communication mirror he'd created for Aliss of Kingsley to use when speaking with her Aunt, the White Queen. All that had resulted in was being caricaturized in Aliss's novelist friend's work. He honestly hadn't seen the girl or her mirror since the 1800's, so shook his head again.
Then there was the Shellicopter, used for searching out Pitch's Fearlings from the air. But unfortunately Nightlight had managed to crash that a long time ago.
The Eggiscope was suggested, too, a tool designed to hold the relic the Easter Bunny had been bequeathed with. It was able to search out or zoom in on anything, but Jack's last prank in the warren had resulted in the engraved metal cracking (and later exploding. Frost had been a large fan of the scientific discovery of nitroglycerin). Aster could have rebuilt the piece; he still had the blueprints and everything, but, much like the fading mosaics in his burrow, he just didn't have the time.
Becoming agitated, Sanderson's expression turned dour and proverbial 'steam' blew from his ears, a frustrated scowl demanding what the Guardian of Hope would have him do, exactly.
The rabbit's mannerisms were agitated, "look, I don't know. I went ta North in the hope he'd come up with somethin', being Ombric's apprentice and all, but all that Drongo did was blow me off with some rubbish about Jack being up to something. I figure if we worked togetha we might be able to puzzle it out."
The stopwatch which appeared above Sandy's head combined with the dramatic jab he sent toward his own bed, pointing at is unmade nature, informed Bunnymund that he just didn't have the time. Despite being the Guardian of Dreams he was allotted a surprisingly small amount of time in which to catch a few winks, the rotating of the planet keeping him constantly busy.
Then the miniature man began making suggestions yet again, jabbing Aster in the stomach as various creations, both his and North's, buzzed around his head in a burst of impatient suggestion.
All were denied with the Easter Bunny's face turning darker and darker with desperation. Until, annoyed, Sandy threw his hands up in the air in one last option.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and Aster followed dutifully to a side table, a fish tank full of golden carp swimming dreamily in their iridescent, shifting container. Then Sandy was tugging out an object the bunny hadn't seen in years.
"Crikey, is that Mr. Qwerty?" he gaped at the combination of book and glowworm, his old student Ombric's faithful library attendant now a good-sized "Book-Worm." Or a 'tome-worm,' anyway, what with the weight of it. The living volume blinked at him sleepily before smiling a dim sort of beam.
"Well, hello there Gentleman Bunnymund," the living object fluttered awake, pages overlapping like butterfly wings, "what can I help you with?"
He wanted to ask how Sandy had managed to gain possession of Katherine's storytelling book companion (particularly when her work as Mother Goose was so vital), but he didn't have the time. So with a nod of greeting the Easter Bunny went ahead.
"Right. My googie-plants are dying and I need to know why. We'd like to fossick out any visual images which match up with this…" he withdrew the damaged flower and immediately Mr. Qwerty began flipping pages, tone determined as he began humming thoughtfully, "…and who might'a done it to them?"
Having partaken of Ombric's entire magical library, the bookworm was renowned for having known everything—fiction, fact, or fiction which became fact—but now he only sounded confused.
Huffing, the book wobbled upon Sandy's nightstand as though shaking a head, "I do admit, this one has left me stumped. It seems that something is blocking me from the information I seek."
Both Guardians exchanged an anxious glance before dodging a look out Sanderson's single large window, where the Man in the Moon's gaze streamed in. But Qwerty wasn't done.
"However, it seems like some alternate information is accessible. Right about…here."
The pages were blank at first until he began reading out loud, and then etchings and words trickled down the parchment in scrolling ink-work, Ombric's hand. Seeing the words left a little bit of a pang in his heart, their old companion having long-since gone the way of the Earth. But he forged his way on, forcing himself to pay attention as a description of something called Tāngata Whenua appeared.
'People of the Land,' Aster frowned thoughtfully as the former glowworm droned on, describing how certain people across the world fit into this category. Celts, Aborigines, Hindis, Native Americans and many Pacific Islanders. Sages, spiritualists, and protectors of the Earth. But they were becoming more and more rare in a world of instant gratification and cynical materialism.
They believed that the Earth was a living thing, doing their utmost to retain a connection with the planet. Just like he did.
The Easter Bunny focused hard on the word 'belief,' daring it to disappear on him. Then abruptly it did, a map of the closest real 'Tāngata Whenua,' appearing as though summoned. Although this time the illustration was in Katherine's style, the images full of fine details, mostly drawn from memory. He wouldn't have been surprised if she systematically went through the previous wizard's records periodically, updating information as it changed with the seasons.
He was glad that she had, though, for it gave him a destination.
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The sun was setting in this part of the world by the time he arrived, somewhere around eight or nine in the evening, and it took a second of orientation before he pinpointed exactly where he was. Mr. Qwerty's map had pinpointed an area somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, but while Katherine—that is, Mother Goose—had always had a talent for illustration, she'd failed to mark the exact town or city for some reason.
So Aster had had to do a little searching on his own. Taking out his own Egg-shaped relic, courtesy of the Man in the Moon, he'd urged it to act like a homing beacon, the jewels on it flickering the closer he got to his destination. When he did tunnel an exit, just outside of the 'Tāngata Whenua's immediate vicinity, he was surprised to find himself in the middle of farmland.
Actually, in the middle of a cornfield was probably more like it. But the tall vegetation certainly provided some cover, if the 'Person of the Land' could see him, as Sandy and Mr. Qwerty seemed to think (before the two of them had returned to sleep).
It looked like an Amish community at first glance, a smattering of small cabins, a barn and various fields. The individuals he did see were slowly herding others toward the entrance of the farm, women in voluminous prairie skirts and men dressed up in black. Then he saw the sign.
The Heritage Ranch and History Park
Ah. It was a…museum, then? Full of actors? For the first time he noted that the individuals being shepherded to the front were dressed in jeans and T-shirts, cameras around their necks and children skipping through the crowd. While the immediate area didn't seem all that familiar, the mountains did, as was the city beyond.
The skyline was familiar and with an immortal's affinity for time, his memory skipped away toward a sea of Egg hunts, trying to find one that matched. With unexpected swiftness Aster was reminded of a spectacularly well-planned series of Easter Events held by a local University each year, presented on the side of a long hill just outside of the campus. Little ankle-biters tumbling and giggling over one another down the long length of viridian. He normally supplied most of his own eggs, but the University students had taken to doubling the fun by providing additional treats, the green grass practically overrun with eggs.
So that no one went home empty-handed.
The thought made him grin. Bunnymund knew exactly where he was.
Passing carefully through the stalks of corn, the giant man-rabbit scanned the area while glancing at the relic in his hand. But it seemed to have suddenly shut down, power drained or perhaps proximity satisfying his request. Even the smattering of workers was slowly disappearing into vehicles, lessening his chances and yet soothing his crowd-based anxiety.
Several thousand years' worth of hermit-like living could have that effect on a bunny.
The field of corn ended as he came upon squashes and pumpkins, brows furrowed as he aimed for the house itself. Maybe he might find…
"Can I help you with something?"
The question caught him off guard, as did the garden's long planter boxes. With a gasp of pain he found his overlarge foot making abrupt and painful contact.
"Holy dooley!" the words slipped out before he could sensor them and, grasping the injured limb.
Then he was stuck staring as a bowed figure in front of him slowly straightened.
The sunset chose at that moment to pierce through the evening air, backlighting the person as they stood. It was a feminine silhouette, long-limbed and graceful, roughly the height of a female of his kind with a halo of opaque hair disfiguring any other details until the light was done shining in his eyes. And he thought…
Well, he thought many things, blinking into the sun and arrested mid-motion as her profile remained in shadow, never looking up. Yet she'd sensed his presence when no other adults, sans past acquaintances and the other Guardians themselves, could.
Something about the situation made him uneasy. He'd been eager enough for aid when it had meant calling on his mates, but this was suddenly different. Plant rot or no, he doubted his choice suddenly, particularly as a tugging of familiarity drew him forward.
And a kind of yearning tried to cut him off at the knees, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He ignored it and continued frowning, first waiting for her reaction to his appearance. After all, if this really was the 'Person of the Land,' he was looking for, then her response would tell him everything.
But she still hadn't made eye contact, hands brushing what he guessed (based by its outline) was a leafy plant.
"I said, 'can I help you with something?'" she asked again, sharper this time. And as she did the sun leveled below his blinking eyelevel, leaving black spots behind, "The Heritage Park is closing, you know," the woman informed him of this blandly, her pronunciation of 'park' sounding a bit more like 'pah-k', "and the gardens are usually off limits. So you might want to bugger off before I call a plod—I mean, a policeman."
The accent was stronger now, familiar as his own backyard, and with the blinking spots gone he could finally see her. Lean legs encased in holey jeans, feet in practical Wellington boots, and a plaid navy blue button-up with sleeves rolled to the elbows. Only her arms and hands were bare, the golden amber brown of her skin a mismatch with the climate she was in. As for her hair it was a mass of black curls, hiding facial features and darker than the coal North gave out at Christmas.
Tāngata Whenua.
What in the name of the Moon was a Pacific Islander Earth-Sage doing tucked in the Rocky Mountains?
He spoke without thinking.
"By crikey, you're a fair dinkum Shaky Isles sheila," the worlds blurted out of his lips before he could think to sensor.
The woman's eyes fluttered wide before her form seemed to still, curling into itself like a stone fortress prepping for battle.
"Not for seventeen years, I haven't been," she drawled sharply, "so yeh better be taking yer Aussie ocker self off my land."
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AU:
Thank you for the very nice reviews! :D And forgive me for not replying directly or forgetting to reply. :S So I'll respond here, just in case (if I forgot to previously). :)
Galimatias: thank you very much! I hope it continues in the direction I'm aiming for. MidnightShadow07: I hope that you enjoy it, even if it's not your usual cup of tea. :) Avatar Aang: your username rocks! Also, I hope you enjoyed this new chapter. TheManyVoices: I know I already thanked you for the editing help, but thank you again! And I hope that you like that I've got planned. *smiles* Shadowcat012: your username makes me want to read X-Men fanfiction. XD Also, thank you for the lovely compliment! Guest (1): Thank you! I hope that this chapter met expectations. Guest (2): Glad you like it! And I'm definitely continuing it, no worries. *grins*
I had to cut this chapter in half. Please forgive me! It's just taking longer than I expected. :S But things should start picking up soon.
Writing the Sandman was an enjoyable challenge, supported by details from his book (aptly named, "The Sandman," by William Joyce. Lovely illustrations).
In the books Aster is quite the inventor (and more than a bit of a snob). William Joyce said that the film is 200 years after the books, so I've tried to tie in the two as much as possible.
Mr. Qwerty is a character from the books, as are Katherine (named after Joyce's daughter, Mary Katherine. She's set to later become Mother Goose) and Ombric (a wizard native to Atlantis. Bunnymund knew him when he was a boy). For those of you who don't 'get' Qwerty's name, look at the first six letters of your standard English keyboard… XD
I realize that I may be dropping too many details from the books, but there is a reason for it: when searching for information I couldn't find much. I also know that not every library carries the stories. So it's my hope that by "dropping" info other writers will be able to use it for their purposes. :)
There are a HUGE number of Pacific Islanders/Polynesians living in mainland United States, and especially the state of Utah. They are known for being incredibly open, family-oriented, and kind. :) I have a lot of friends who are Tongan, Samoan, and one or two that are New Zealander/Kiwi or Hawaiian.
"Māori often call themselves "tāngata whenua" (people of the land), placing particular importance on a lifestyle connected to land and sea. Communal living, sharing, and living off the land are strong traditional values."—Wikipedia, Maori Culture. Maori are native to New Zealand.
Most of my research regarding Pacific Islanders will be made up of personal experience, online research, and information saved from my International Culture and Literature class. If anything is incorrect, I apologize.
Galah—fool, silly person. Named after a bird with the same name because of the sounds/actions it makes.
Drongo—stupid person
Fossick—to search for something
Holy dooley!—exclamation of surprise. "Good heavens!"
Plod—local policeman
By crikey—exclamation/mild oath of surprise
Fair dinkum-genuine
Shaky Isles—New Zealand. Mild nickname used more in Australia than N.Z., referencing their frequent earthquakes.
Sheila-woman
Aussie—Australian
Ocker—(in Australian) "the archetypal uncultivated Australian male" "an unsophisticated person"(in New Zealand) "The term "ocker" is used both as a noun and adjective for an Australian who speaks and acts in an uncultured manner, using a broad Australian accent (or Strine)…Richard Neville defined ockerism as being "about conviviality: comradeship with a touch of good-hearted sexism". –Wikipedia, "Ocker."