(Minor CW: illness and vomiting, though not overly explicit)
I get a lot of people in my shop, and every time their reaction is the same. They walk through the door all confused and immediately their gaze is drawn to the shelves that line the back wall, and to the rainbow of faintly glowing bottles that cover it, all the way up to the ceiling.
I never get tired of the wonder.
Liquid dreams; that’s what’s in the bottles. Any dream you could imagine, I’ve got it, and if it’s not in stock, I can make it. Some customers find that hard to believe, others take it at face value. Either way, I have yet to see someone walk out without one. Skeptical or not, they make their pick, and then they leave. Destination: dreamland. I don’t see them after that.
You’d think it’d get lonely or boring, but I don’t mind. There’s always something to do: dreams to mix up, shelves to organize, floors to sweep. Sometimes Brother Death even comes by for tea. And sometimes, when Brother Death comes by for tea, he’ll bring a little something with him. That’s how my little shop, which people generally tell me looks like some bar out of medieval fantasy land, came to be adorned with a few pieces of old, outdated technology.
Where was I? Oh yeah, customers. One, in particular.
When she first came into my shop it was like any other visit. I was wiping down the counter when I heard the bell on the door go off. I made sure to look up so I could catch that moment of realization. Same as any other customer: walk in, glance around, look up, mouth drops open. After that comes the questions.
“What is this place?” she asked, on cue, to no one in particular.
“I like to call it my apothecary,” I said.
She startled and turned, seemingly noticing my presence for the first time. Her jaw dropped again, and she pointed out of sheer bewilderment.
“You… You’re a fox!” she said.
“A human-sized, talking, walking fox!” she went on.
“Well, I’m sure most foxes can walk…” I said, grinning.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “On two legs! Like a person!”
I raised one paw. “Peace, Friend, I’m only pulling your leg. Now then,” I said, leaning on the counter, “what can I get you?”
Her brow furrowed. “Get me… what exactly?”
“Dreams!” I clarified with delight, sweeping my arms up and out toward the shelves behind me. “Liquid dreams! Anything and everything your heart may desire! High adventure, ancient mystery, even classic random weirdness. You know how dreams can be. Anything you want, it’s yours! I also do requests of course, if it ain’t already on the shelf. So what can I get you?”
She was quiet for a while, staring up into the soft glow of the bottles, hands tucked into her pockets. Like always, I took the silence as an opportunity to look her up and down. She was redheaded and skinny, wearing sweatpants, a well-loved striped sweater, and a purple beanie. Slightly frumpy, as if she was dressed for comfort before anything else. Now that she was calmer, she looked a little worn out.
“There’s this park my family and I used to visit when I was little,” she said at last, her voice heavy and slow with thought, “I’d like to have a picnic there, on the big hill. With family and friends.”
“Ah, a special dream,” I said with a nod. “Have a seat, my friend, put your feet up, and make yourself at home. A special dream requires a special mixture.”
She settled onto one of the bar stools as I disappeared into the back. As I added the ingredients to the pot, I watched the dream take form. I could see the grass blowing in the summer breeze. I could smell the flowers that were growing nearby. I could hear the laughter of children as they played.
When I brought out the finished dream bottle, she was supporting her head in one hand, tracing the knots in the countertop with one finger. She looked up as I approached.
“One picnic, made to order,” I said as I poured her a glass. “Bottoms up.”
She stared at the glass, the liquid within as green as the dream it contained. “Cheers,” she said with a shrug, and she drank the whole thing in one go. Then she paused, expectantly. “…Nothing’s happening.”
“It kicks in once you leave,” I said. “Wouldn’t do to have you passed out on my countertop, now would it?”
“…Ah,” she said, clearly feeling awkward. “Well, I suppose I’ll figure out if it worked in a minute, huh?”
“Ah, not so fast,” I grinned, and she paused halfway through getting up. “We haven’t even discussed payment!”
Her eyes widened and she slid back into her seat. “B-but I don’t have any money!”
I smiled and gave a dismissive wave of my paw. “Eh, no need for coin, I haven’t any use for it. But I assure you, you have everything you need. Go ahead and check those pockets again.”
She rifled through the pockets of her sweatpants until she produced a bundle of herbs and two small crystals.
She frowned. “What are these?”
“Ingredients!” I told her. “The perfect payment around here! These will make for lovely dreams.”
She handed them to me and got up to leave at last. I turned my attention to cleaning up.
“How did it taste?” I asked as she reached the door. I always ask; I’m curious.
She smirked as she turned back to me. “You mean you don’t taste test your product?”
I smiled and wagged an accusatory finger. Pulling my leg, revenge for earlier. Well played.
With one hand on the door handle and the other thumb hooked into her pocket, she gave the most contented sigh I’d seen anyone give in a long time.
“Mom’s apple pie. Just like she always makes it.”
I nodded, almost able to taste it. “You take care now, alright? Enjoy your picnic.”
She smiled, thanked me for the drink, and turned to leave once more. The door bell jangled as she disappeared, and that was that.
When she showed up the second time, it was my turn to gape like a fish. I knew it was her immediately; the sweater and beanie stuck in my memory, as did the dream of the picnic.
“You seem just as surprised to see me as I am to be back,” she said.
“I am surprised to see you,” I told her. “Nobody comes back.”
“You’ve never seen anyone twice?”
“No one except Brother Death.”
She paled, and practically crept up to the counter to sit. “Death comes here?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Even he needs time to relax. Likes to come in for a cup of camomile tea. Nice guy, really chill.”
“And… he’s your brother?”
“Might as well be,” I said. “What is death if not brother to dream?”
She rested her chin on her crossed arms and gave a noncommittal hum.
I paused, suddenly concerned, but shook it off. Lots of people came to my counter fearing Death, whether I mentioned his patronage or not.
“Hey now,” I said, giving the wood in front of her a hopefully comforting pat. “I promise there’s no reason to fear. Assuaging fear for a while is part of my job. Now, what can I get you?”
She perked up a bit at that. She asked for a roller-coaster ride. I gave her all of the thrill and none of the terror in a glass of pink liquid. She gave me a handful of mushrooms and a small pouch of rock salt, and told me she had tasted cotton candy.
The third time I saw her, she walked in while I was attempting to fix the jukebox. It was a fickle old machine and had given me my fair share of trouble since the day Brother Death had given it to me. Kicking it in frustration, however, proved to be a poor solution to the issue. I was mid painful hop when I heard the bell.
I mixed her a horseback-riding dream; sky blue, smelling of comforting hay when I made it and which she would later tell me tasted of apples and honeysuckle. However, rather than drink and dash as she had previously, she opted to take her time, sipping her dream and chatting with me as I returned to my repairs. When I was finished at last, the machine decided to celebrate its return to function with Gary Wright’s “Dream Weaver.” The irony was lost on no one.
It’s a rarity for me to hear customers laugh, but even then, hers felt special.
Her fourth appearance coincided with a visit from Brother Death. The minute she saw him, she froze. I didn’t blame her; Death or not, who wouldn’t be intimidated by a skeletal jackal in leather gloves and a hooded black leather jacket?
Brother Death, true to form, was unbothered. “Come on in, then. I don’t bite,” he said, and punctuated his statement with a sip from his teacup. When she finally moved to sit, she opted to place one stool between herself and Brother Death.
She requested a Thanksgiving-themed dream this time. I obliged, and gave her one that was very orange and definitely going to taste of pumpkin pie.
She sat hunched over, looking like an especially anxious little mouse, and repeatedly looked sideways at Brother Death. I was pondering ways to soothe her when he tipped back the last of his tea.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said as he set his teacup back in its saucer.
My mind suddenly felt as unreliable as my jukebox. “You'll… Excuse me??”
But Brother Death just gave the counter a firm pat and raised his hood to leave. “Thanks again for the tea,” he said, calm as a reflection pool. “It was delicious, as usual.”
I wanted to say something to his retreating back, but he picked up his lantern pole from the umbrella stand and disappeared out the door before I could figure out what.
It was only when I was asked why Brother Death hadn’t given me anything as payment that I was snapped out of my stupor.
“Brother Death drinks free,” I said with a shrug, once I had collected myself. “He even brings his own leaves; I just do the brewing.”
She gave a little hum in response and turned back to her drink, her fear now replaced by fatigue. Again, I didn’t blame her. Sitting two bar stools away from Death would take a lot out of anyone.
The fifth time she showed up, I frowned. Her visits were getting closer together, and I smelled a rat.
“You haven’t been doing this on purpose, have you?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as she lay down on my counter and tucked her face into her crossed arms. I didn’t think it was possible for someone to come on command, but we were far outside the range of my knowledge at this point.
She shook her head. No, she had not somehow willed herself into coming to me, though she had certainly been hopeful.
“Because there’s a reason no one can come more than once,” I went on. “Escapism is all well and good in moderation, but easily overdone. The waking world is just as important as relief.”
She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair as if in habit, her fingertips just barely slipping under the edge of her beanie. “Between you and me,” she mumbled, “my waking life isn’t all that great right now.”
I watched her pause to glance at her hand, then shake it out and tuck her face deeper into the crook of her elbow. Anything I had been going to say died on my tongue as what I was looking at suddenly clicked.
When had her hair gotten so thin?
I leaned over the counter and placed both of my paws upon her crossed arms. She peered up at me. “Hey now,” I said, doing my best to swallow my own nerves. “It’s gonna be alright. I can’t do much about the waking world, but I can give you a little rest right here. Now… what can I get you?”
She told me she wanted to visit the tropics, something she had wanted since she was little. I mixed her a dream that matched the blue-green of the sea and smelled of the salt spray. She told me it tasted like pineapple.
On her seventh visit she asked to dream about love. It came out as the most romantic shade of pink I had seen in my entire existence, but she barely touched it. We spent our time together as still as possible, with my paws placed over the back of her hands as we talked; the only other forms of comfort I know how to give. She told me about her treatment, her family, her friends, and her fear. I tried to assure her that she’d be OK, that she’d pull through. I think neither of us particularly believed me.
When she finally managed to get her drink down, she couldn’t tell me what it tasted like.
“Brother Death,” I began the next time he came to visit, though not before enduring a heavily pregnant silence, “I have-”
“I am afraid not,” he said.
I paused, startled. “You…but I haven’t even-”
“I know what you’re going to ask,” he said, his voice even and firm. “And I’m telling you it cannot be. Not even at your request.”
I sputtered a little. “But… But I… But you're…”
“Mneme,” he put down his cup as he spoke, and in his voice there was only sympathy. “I did not say that I would not. I said that I cannot. It is beyond my capability to do. I do not decide when they go. I merely guide them to peace. You know this.”
I did know this. And yet, for her sake, I needed to try. I put my head in my paws and wept.
On her tenth visit she sat practically listless. She asked once again for the picnic, and I made it just as before; full of sweet grass and flowers and laughter. I spent the whole process glancing back, keeping as close an eye on her as I could. But she merely laid down and breathed.
I brought it to her, and we both smiled as she went for a sip. But no sooner had the glass touched her lips than she gagged and turned, clutching her stomach as the contents of both splattered across the floorboards.
I was at her side before I knew I had moved. Whether I had dashed around through the gate or vaulted clean over the counter was of little importance as I held her close and tight. She buried herself in my apron and fur as she cried and trembled from fear and exhaustion and shame. In the absence of words, I rubbed her head and her back, and what little remained of her hair came off in my paws.
After that, I did not see her for months, and those months were agony. My anxiety seeped into my work; I had one too many customers say that their drink tasted off. I stopped mentioning that I mixed custom dreams and attempted to rely on pre-made dreams whenever possible.
I was supporting my head in my paw, tracing knots in the wood with one claw when Brother Death entered wearing his long black cloak. Even in the midst of my grief, this struck me as odd. His work attire? He never showed up in his work attire.
Brother Death gave me a slight nod of greeting, then swept aside. And my mouth dropped open again.
This time I did feel myself move as I ran for the doorway. Same slender figure, same striped sweater… though now with a less frumpy pair of pants. And a full head of incredibly red hair.
I hugged her first and asked questions second.
“It’s you! You’re back! You came back!” Realization struck and I put some distance between us to look her and Brother Death in the eye. “But you… And your hair… And with him… Wearing that outfit…”
She placed a hand on my shoulder and I was immediately silent. “Unfortunately… yes,” she said. “My family and I have had to say goodbye. I miss them already…”
I looked at Brother Death.
“I’ve brought her here at her request,” he said. “Said she couldn’t think of a better place to spend eternity.”
My mind was once again suddenly as unreliable as my jukebox. “Oh…” I managed to say. “Well I… I’ve never had an apprentice before…”
If Brother Death had actual eyeballs to roll, they may have rolled right out of his skull.
We get a lot of people in our shop, and every time their reaction is the same. They walk through the door all confused and immediately their gaze is drawn to the shelves that line the back wall, and to the rainbow of faintly glowing bottles that cover it, all the way up to the ceiling.
The wonder still doesn’t get old.
Lethe and I, we run a tight ship. Mixing dreams isn’t always easy, but she’s a fast learner. I was torn for a while, between the sorrow of the situation that brought us together, and the joy of having her back, this time for good. But it’s been quite a while since then, and I think it’s been settled.
Because I can’t think of a better place to spend eternity either.
