The Newer Tales

Willow Winkins and the Seven Dreams

I studied my page, intrigued by my own way of putting the colors onto the paper. I was looking at a painting that I had just finished of a woman. She was extremely tall, with skin a creamy textured, dark shade of blue. Her hair, though blue like her skin, had a metallic look to it. She had on a thin, forest-green shawl that half-covered her upper body. The other side lay exposed, a lacey covering over her small chest. At the base of the shawl lay a gorgeous tail, seemed covered in an aging fishing net. It looked as if it were woven with thread carefully, with a delicate fin at the end. The mermaid looked young; not much older than sixteen or so.

I smiled. The painting perfectly conveyed my thoughts. My dream, still lingering at the top of my head, faded away instantly.

“Just like the other six.” I mumbled. “It gives me just enough time to paint one picture, then I lose it.”

There was a crash downstairs, so I carefully covered my paints with my blankets and set the picture under my bed to dry, then I pulled on my clothes—an old, ragged, hand-me-down shirt, old, ragged, hand-me-down jeans, and long socks that were far too big but Mom said she couldn’t afford to replace them.

My Mom is a tree. In fact, she is a willow. Correction: the Willow. I, like her, was born to become the spirit of one of the trees in our Great Forest. But I never had the longing to be a certain tree that Mom had as a sapling. I just want to be me. I’m fine with who I am: a candy maker, daughter of the Shoemaker and the Willow.

I headed down the beautiful willow wood stairs and to the kitchen, where everything was made of willow wood.

Mom, in her spirit form, was cooking breakfast. I smiled and grabbed a plate of rice and beans from her. As a tree spirit, she tried not to eat animals, and since I was supposed to be a tree some day, she lovingly forced me into the diet with her. I was fine with that—meat always looked so gross raw.

“Mom, aren’t you about a hundred years old?” I asked, a forkful of rice in my mouth.

“No, Willow. I’m the age I was when I chose the Willow as my host. I am only really half alive. In sprite years, I’m far over my hundredth year, and therefore should be dead. But I will live on until this tree passes away.” She said happily.

I raised my brows. So, I’ve had seven funky dreams I couldn’t figure out or remember, I live in a tree, my Dad makes shoes for a living while I make candy, and my Mom is half-alive and it turns out, she’s the tree I’m living in.

What can I say? We live in the Great Forest; anything can happen.