NOT THE END! 

Chapter 32: Epilogue: In Dreams

“Okay, we’ll keep a close eye out for the bunny girl.”

--Michael Collins, American astronaut

Magic places exist in the world, even if they prove hard to spot amongst the horns, alarms, smog, and stupidity always seeming to obstruct anything that is fair and wonderful. Magic exists, period. For a person to claim otherwise is to a deny a whole third of their life. That time is spent sleeping. Much of that, in turn, is spent dreaming. You may not believe magic affects the waking world, but the Astral’s existence is self-evident, regardless of whether dreamscapes can be shared.

Admittedly, the appearance of the ever-possible, never-impossible depends on a sleeper’s own mind. But however thoughts and feelings vary across cultures, even across species, dreams come in the same range of pleasant to nightmarish to simply odd. Magic cannot be escaped, nor should it be tried. What a waste it would be not to go exploring while you can!  

While years passed since Grace and her friends journeyed there, an acre on a shabby, isolated Kansas farm still has soil so rich and fertile, anything planted there produces a crop. The legal owners—insofar as people can “own” land millions of years older than the human race—once guarded this secret zealously. (Which in this case means “with lots of guns.”) Times, thankfully, change. Beyond some corroded “Private Property: No Trespassing” signs, it is safe to visit.

A monstrous, giant spider once lived beneath, but the only sign it remains nearby is a faint noise underground which might be mistaken for a heartbeat. If you can find the plot, rest assured nobody here will tell the authorities on you. That remains a secret between you and whatever you decide to plant. But hurry! The fertile magic might just run out. Magic is fickle that way.

Not all magic needs to be so seemingly improbable. There is subtler magic, too, which cannot be touched by hands, but can easily be felt in mind. In California, there is an apartment like a million others, once rented to a very tired, but also very strong, man.

He had since moved on to better things. The apartment itself has passed through more than a few tenants since. No matter who claims residency, however, visitors always claim if you pause at a certain spot in the living room, right where a phone plugs in, a wave of crushing sadness coupled with yearning hope overwhelms you, regardless of any previous emotional state.

The spot is said to be haunted. In a way, it is. Not by a scary ghost, but a memory. Every building has memories attached, giving the place a life of its own. Walls might not speak, but they hear well enough. Without even intending to, people passing through leave trace feelings behind. Pay attention, and you can share in those leftover bits of sorrow, happiness, anger, or love. The man who called this particular apartment his house before finding a home received the worst possible news of his life there, but from the best possible person he could have met at the time.

It would be remiss—even negligent—to imply all magical places are safe. Some should be avoided by all except seasoned dream travelers. (Or those on quests by which the fate of the world hangs.) Consider a forest made colorless because the sun decided to stop shining there. Without elements to provide sustenance, the trees forgot how to behave like plants, and started acting more like animals. Ugly, greedy beasts gorging on whatever passed too close, but never making a sound if they can help it. In a nightmare, nevertheless, can still be found beauty. Apart from the Flesh-Eaters, there is a tree that digs up starlight so old it has turned solid.

If you wish to see such a crystal, it would prove significantly safer to instead duck behind a restaurant whose business never seems to slow. A cat with a white-and-black marking on her chest and a curiously split tail lounges by the cash register. Most patrons mistake her for a statue, but the sushi would not be the best in the hemisphere without her influence. There would also be less poetry. Still, what you really want to find is the market hidden beyond some trash bins.

You can buy just about anything in this market, including the services of a creature looking like a cross between an elephant and a tiger, who sucks away bad dreams in his trunk before gnashing them between his fangs. A mob of ravens and crows, their different species working together like never before in history, set prices, making sure every exchange is fair as possible. The only vacant building is a tall, eight-sided cage once used as a martial arts Dojo. Now, it is a museum free to the public, proudly displaying countless priceless artifacts, the centerpiece being a star crystal. The whereabouts of the Dojo’s former owner remains unknown.

There stands a bridge typically frequented by the homeless, and before them, by proud, wandering hobos with a language of written signs to rival Egypt’s hieroglyphs. A kind of contract is written out of these signs, tucked away in a cranny or nook not far from indentations shaped like claw marks. It outlines a mission to search as many worlds as possible, collecting only the most magical of geological artifacts. Some stones left behind were apparently not good enough to qualify. Last time it was surveyed, they included a scattering of kidney stones, a rock shaped like a donut allegedly able to see through illusions, and a great black diamond. What is more, every winter or so, a stranger rides by, complaining “Where is that nanny-goat with my griffin egg?”

Off a highway that becomes a gravel road that becomes a dirt path rests the fractured skeleton of a mental hospital, designed from the Kirkbride model and built of wood, stone, and hope. Some wood and stone can still be found. A wish for health and wellness failed to buoy architecture simply too huge in proportions to remain stable. The asylum started many stories high, but all have fallen to the same level, even lower than a basement.

A heart continues beating inside the shattered ribs, however. A tall, ornate clock built by a former inmate. It keeps perfect time. Its face has 24 dials instead of the typical 12. When an hour sounds, an automated cuckoo bird pops out. One would hardly notice that piece had once been broken off. Before roof hit basement, the timekeeper was surrounded by books, but those have since been moved to a place more willing to care for them. Inside the clock, among vexingly elaborate gears and pendulums, you can find the last remaining volume.

It concerns the “Fearsome Critters of America.” The inside front cover has a naughty limerick, whose first line “There once was a spider named ’Nance.” By contrast, on the end pages of the slim tome is an epic ballad about loneliness, sorrow, fear, but also love and friendship. It ends, enigmatically, with an ellipsis…

Reports that anyone approaching the institute’s burial plot on certain foggy mornings will see three misty figures shaped like girls remain, sadly, unconfirmed. 

Then, there is the moon. While you must have noticed it at some point, you will probably never walk its surface. Not in person. But on a certain day taking place in summer (by Earth reckoning, that is) a human stepped onto the lunar surface for the first time. At least, he thought he was the first. Another man followed, apparently having lost a coin flip in zero gravity. 

History remembers both their names, but there was also a third astronaut who actually piloted the spacecraft, there and back. His name was Michael Collins, and while he did not seek the public’s attention like the others, you can be sure he had his own perspective on the Apollo 11 mission. You can also be sure what comes to you now—on good authority—is what Mr. Collins thought at the time.

Neil, as usual, hogged the credit. He went on with this “One small step” jazz Mike refused to believe hadn’t been planned out during the long ride up. Soon as he gets down the ladder, he starts going on about his old neighbor Goresky, which is something Mike can believe came spontaneously. Buzz followed—he always took second place, so acted tough to make up for it. Lot of good it did him putting up the American flag wrong. Totally botched. For one thing, he left it all wrinkled, not creased out and pretty like ol’ Betsy Ross intended. Even without any atmosphere, their ship’s jets would knock it over immediately when this cold, dull experience finally finished. Sputnik was small potatoes, and Laika could go chase Sirius for all Mike cared.

The blockheads went about their business down there while Mike left the engine running, so to speak. He observed from orbit. There were meant to be science experiments, but really, what did they know about space? One thing Mike could agree with: the Earth seemed so impossibly, endlessly large when you’re on it, but here, it looked much smaller. Still big, obviously. But almost manageable. If you went far enough out, he reasoned, you could see Earth as the size of a marble. Even further, a single pinprick of blue-green light. After that…nothing.

Mike shivered, though whether from spooking himself or some odd breed of adventurousness…well, just chalk it up to the cold outside. It didn’t feel all that warm under tinfoil long johns. Neil and Buzz—that’s how they’ll be known, not Buzz and Neil, anymore than ‘Clark and Lewis’—mostly took pictures. Collected rocks. Not exactly the sort of thing you need multiple degrees for. Then the two stooges were back in the shuttle, and Mike had to do the actual work of getting everyone back safely. Being a pilot was a thankless job. You only got famous when you crashed, but then how could you enjoy the recognition?

As he was getting ready, Buzz came up and started bugging Mike. Wanting to show him some important “discovery.”  

Mike rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, Buzz. You got a rock.”

“No, Mike!” Buzz started yelling, then whispered. “It’s something…well, it’s weird.” He took out a yellow feather. Wait, on second thought, it looked more gold.

“C’mon Buzz, you accidentally brought that up—breaking quarantine protocols or whatever—and now you’ve noticed the error, you want to test my gullibility. Experiments are over, man.” 

From the other side of the module, Neil asked “Does anyone else smell cheese? Like, melted nachos?”

“You’re just hungry.” Mike cracked his knuckles before grabbing the wheel. 

“No, I’m serious. And it was probably a mirage, but I thought I saw a bamboo forest over that way!” Neil pointed wildly.

“Wait,” said Buzz, “you too? Did you see these huge dog footprints, I mean like, bigger than a bear’s?”

“No.” Neil shook his head. “But I found three footprints together. Webbed, like a duck or frog. Martians, y’think? Gremlins? The Great Galactic Ghoul?”

“Guys!” Michael slapped both palms against his forehead. “Nobody at NASA’s going to want to hear this. If you don’t intend to become laughingstocks, I suggest keeping all these mirages and funky smells to yourselves. I mean, seriously? Gremlins are made up.”

Buzz stuck out his tongue.  “I’m keeping the yellow feather, though.”

***

Magic can be denied, but is a just plain bad idea. The videos made by Apollo took time to travel the distance of space. Among the millions on Earth who watched the astronaut mission on household devices that would have been considered witchcraft centuries before, was a girl who sometimes had trouble talking to humans, but showed no such delays when conversing with birds.

A very sleepy griffin curled beside her in front of the television, along with the girl’s parents. The family never owned a television, but borrowed one for this (seemingly) unprecedented occasion. The parents could not see the griffin directly, but felt his presence, as when plates of food spontaneously emptied themselves. Their daughter’s explanation that magical creatures existed was preferrable to the idea they were both going insane in the exact same way.

“Why would I want to watch this?” grumbled the griffin. “I was there, and didn’t like it much the first time. Except the edible parts.”

“Yes,” the girl agreed. “We were there. But only in dreams.” Instead of listening, the griffin had already gone to sleep, and would not be moved from her lap.

One final place demands recognition. Though magic has sadly been drained from the park where a messenger from the city of birds crashed, an apartment nearby keeps the wild spirit alive. How else to explain the turnaround in the surrounding buildings, which are no longer in disrepair?

The city this complex resides in cannot be revealed at this time. So, it is possible—however slight—you have already visited there. It is also possible you might find it in the future.

If you happened to go up its flights of stairs, each with sixteen steps, (no one ever bothered to install an elevator) to the fourth floor, and knocked on the door to a specific apartment, you will surely find…

Well, telling now would only ruin the surprise if you truly managed to get there. Based on clues let slipped, you should recognize the apartment if you find it. If you should decide to pay a call there, please tell the woman still living there “Hello.” From the both of us.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 

Seems like the time of year to state what I'm thankful for. So, I'd like to thank anyone who's followed my story all the way through since I started updating way back in --whew!-- April. 

I'd previously sent this baby off to many lit agents, and only ever got the EXACT same form rejection letter. That really hurts. You're pouring all your blood, sweat, tears, bile, thoughts, and passion into a story to the point it's a distillation of yourself, and no one cares. 

I didn't want this brainchild to grow moldy in a trunk somewhere, where it can't be enjoyed by anyone, which is why I started posting chapters online. Money's nice-ish, but it's not the #1 reason any dedicated writer (should) make stories. If you've read Messenger on this free forum, and it stirred some kind of deep emotion in you, whether laughter, joy, terror, righteous indignation, sorrow, empathy, or love, I'm thankful. 

See you, sky cowboy! 

And dream on.