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Two
The Weaver—two words bound to plague me for the rest of the day.
I considered drinking another cup of elixir but instinctively knew it would no longer work. He seemed to be in total control when it came to my dreams. Instead, I decided to set about my daily tasks. With the sun rising, a soft fog lingered between the trees, the dew on the ground still glistening and wet. The chirp of crickets provided an early morning soundtrack I happily busied myself to, working inside as I waited for the day to warm. Dusting my shelves and reorganizing my oils and herbs filled a good portion of my morning, though regardless of the mundane tasks, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Had he really been here? In my home? Or was it all in my head—my perfect dream man brought to life? If not, I needed answers, like how had he broken through my wards? All I could do was hope he was true to his word… that we would see each other again tonight.
I looked to my altar and considered crafting another spell. A new one. One powerful enough to give me more control. Mr. Jenkins meowed from beneath the kitchen table, and I knew he was right: None of my attempts would work against the Weaver. I needed to shift my focus to learning instead.
With the house dusted and cleaned, I dressed for the day in my favorite cornflower-blue dress, pulling my black lace-up boots into place beneath its well-worn hem. The ensemble was witchy enough to deter the people in our modern town from trying to engage with me, which was exactly how I preferred it. Though I’d lived here my entire life, I was still considered an outsider. A lesson I learned a long time ago.
Living quietly alone on the outskirts of Arcadia Forest, Mom and I had crafted a solitary life of magic and gardening that fulfilled any desire of connection either of us ever had. My dad died when I was three from a war injury even Mama’s magic couldn’t heal. But together, she and I learned to survive and grow until she passed away when I was thirteen.
Left to fend for myself, I drew on everything she taught me and continued my home education with regular visits to the local library in West Greenwich. One day—when I was feeling brave—I attempted to make friends but was starkly reminded of just how different I was. Not only did I have one blue and one green eye, but a young girl living alone in the woods caused people to talk… harshly. But thanks to my magic, no one entered our grounds uninvited.
My only friend in town remained the librarian, Keelyn. She had witnessed my awkward demise at the hands of the townies that day and ever since had been the only person I chose to talk to on a regular basis.
“Good morning, Milly. How’s the bean crop coming along?” Keelyn smiled, the delicate lines at the corners of her eyes pulling tight as she waited for my response.
I snagged one of the carts from beside the front door. “It’s good. Thank you. I’m getting ready to harvest some fresh peppers later today. I’ll save you a bag if you’d like to stop by.”
Vegetables, flowers, crystals, and creams were how I made a living. The small farmers market held in the area produced a weekly income that comfortably got me by.
“That sounds wonderful! I get off at four. Will that work?”
I thought about the timing. A few hours here for research, then home to harvest and sort… “Yes. That should be fine. I’ll put on some tea.”
Keelyn’s eyes brightened as she gave me a wink then waved me on as another patron neared her desk. She’d been the librarian here since she was a teenager, and now in her early forties, she was well-respected within the community. I was happy to call her my friend.
Ducking into the far back corner of the old redbrick schoolhouse, I settled into my usual spot. The round table offered an unobstructed view of the second-story windows on either side of the belfry but concealed me enough from the ongoings on the main floor that I wouldn’t be disturbed.
I placed my notebook and pen down beside my water bottle and wheeled the cart into the nearby stacks. Most of the books I read were located here, hidden in the shadows of the New Age section. Metaphysics, astrology, and anything regarding a “kitchen witch” had graced my reading list since a very young age. Thankfully, Keelyn never judged me for what some might find odd selections. Today’s research, however, would be even more focused.
Running my fingers along the spines, I quickly found the dream section and pulled a few new titles from the shelves. I’d studied lucid dreaming and dream symbology, as well as how to unlock the power of your dreams, but unfortunately, none of those books mentioned a Weaver. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was on the right track at all, but somehow this felt like the correct place to start.
With my selections spread out on the table, I hovered my hands above them and closed my eyes. The magical signature of each book was different, and with my intention set, I focused on finding the one giving off the strongest vibe.
Ripples of energy met my palms, and when my skin warmed, I opened my eyes.
The book was the oldest among them, with worn edges and a tattered spine. I wasn’t surprised. All true magic was documented so long ago that hardly any original texts still existed. However, with books like these—beautiful reproductions from a witch’s point of view—we could still get close to true information, even in the modern world today.
This one in particular was written by Genevieve DuWant, a pseudonym for sure, but I found the title oddly subdued for the subject matter within. Magic of the Mind didn’t exactly scream “dreamscapes” or “Weaver.”
I flipped open the cover, reading the introduction:
The mind is a wonderful thing as long as you don’t lose control of it.
Hmm… What could any of what I’d experienced have to do with losing my mind? I was suddenly unsure if this book was going to be of any help at all, but I read on.
Dreaming is a way for your mind to let go, taking you through a subconscious minefield planted by your memories and fears, your hopes and dreams. But never once were we told it could also be where you lose yourself or that it could be controlled by another.
Now we were getting somewhere.
While I cannot prove what I say is true, I can document my experiences and share them here as a warning—a warning that mind magic does exist and can be woven in and out of your dreams by the one given ultimate control.
She hadn’t mentioned the Weaver by title or name, only using the word woven instead. And while the one given ultimate control could be talking about the Weaver, it could also be a metaphor for gaining control over one’s self. I skimmed through the rest of the book, but in the end, I decided if what she had written couldn’t be proven, it wasn’t going to do me any good. I placed the tome back on the shelf and moved on to the other books in my pile.
Three hours later, I still had no additional information on my Weaver.
