Symbiosis

The moon slowly rose above the horizon, revealing a dark shape slinking through the trees toward the dreaming village. Not all would see the dark shape, only a very few gifted with special faculties of vision. The shape was flat and very large, like some giant Oriental rug undulating slowly and lazily through the air a few feet above the ground, except it was not exactly rectangular in outline. It slid right through the elms and beeches, the oaks and firs, as though they were not there.

A most unusual creature the Weaver is. To those who could discern its form it would appear as a giant living carpet, its surface lined with the most finely and intricately detailed patterns and hues, which changed and shifted constantly, slowly at times and fast at others. Flaming serpentine dragons of vermillion arranged around an arcane insignia would lace themselves into an endless web of intertwining stems bursting with jeweled leaves and lapis lazuli blossoms, then into a magnificent golden mosaic of geometrical abstractions framing what would appear a mystic gate into some celestial realm, and so on. Indeed it had been claimed of the carpets of the East that in truth they were no less than portraits of those curious creatures.

At length the Weaver arrived at the slumbering hamlet, sliding through and among the numerous thatched cottages in which farmers, woodsmen and their spouses and children were retiring for the night after a warm dinner by the hearth. There had been a heavy downpour earlier, and in the crisp, clear air all seemed frosted over with silver under the moonlight. At times a cloud would glide nonchalantly over the disk of the full moon, as if she had drawn a silken veil across her face. The streets with their glistening, rain-drenched cobblestones were now empty; horses and cattle dozed off quietly in the farms amid the drone of a thousand frogs and insects. None of them were aware of the presence of a special guest.

The Weaver had come to feed. Feed on the dreams of the villagers.

As we dream, our brains become scintillating galaxies of energy, which few again are endowed with the means of perceiving. Entire storms of violet lightning or constellations of phosphorescent emerald globes would coruscate and pirouette over and around our brows. That is how we release the excessive, unwanted energies locked away in our minds during the day — our longings, our frustrated desires. Normally the emanations would merely fade and disperse, but to Weavers they were an invaluable source of nourishment.

Not any form of dream-energy would do for a Weaver, though. It was essential that the dream be of a very specific nature. It had to be a dream of beauty, beauty tinged ideally with a sense of mystery, whereupon the energy would issue forth gently from the dreamer’s brain in the guise of indigo-colored waves upon which a Weaver could then sate its hunger. The intensity of the indigo varied to the same degree as the sense of mystery, which for a Weaver would enhance the flavor of the dream-energy the same way herbs and spices would flavor for us an otherwise bland and tasteless dish. If anger were the primary emotion of the dream, the dream-energy would assume the form of countless tiny crimson darts hissing through the air which would sting and injure a Weaver. Fear would manifest itself as a great sphere of smoking blackness around the head, blackness which upon contact would drain a Weaver, leaving it severely ailed and weakened.

Not that Weavers could do naught save wait with patience for that valued dream of beauty, for they are gifted with a most unique power — the power to shape the dreams of humans.

As a resting human in whom a Weaver took interest commenced on her nocturnal descent into the dark oblivion which comes before a dream, a great central medallion would take shape on the Weaver’s surface amidst the endlessly morphing arabesque of colors and forms. Tree-patterns with luxuriant foliages would grow forth in all directions from this central disk, their boughs reaching out further and further until they extended beyond the boundary of the Weaver’s form into long, shimmering tendrils of light which would work their way to the sleeper’s head. The sleeper would feel nothing; unbeknownst to her the energies in her brain would be carefully kneaded this way and that, as clay by a skilled potter, by the many delicate filaments of light caressing the crown of her head. In this way thoughts and impressions of the most felicitous nature would hopefully proliferate in the dreams she dreamt, and the nourishing energies emitted from her brain as a result would be milked by the Weaver through the threads of light which served equally as conduits of energy.

The attempt to shape the dreams of a sleeping human did not always end in success. The chance of success depended on the skill and power of the Weaver, as well as how soft and pliant the mental energies of the human in question were. Not surprisingly, human habitations where culture and the arts flourished were also the abodes of the mightiest Weavers, while small, emaciated Weavers would be found in sparse numbers where people cared for naught save to add to their coffers, hardened as they were perhaps by the stark realities of life…

What lay in store, then, for the Weaver in the village? Would this night yield a bountiful harvest of fruit-laden dreams? As one by one the weary villagers took to their beds, the Weaver situated itself in the central square of the village and a great golden sign took shape in the centre of its form. Six trees of silver emerged from the sign, their branches spreading ever outwards into scores of long, slender tentacles which extended into every household in the village, extended to the heads of the sleeping villagers and proceeded to work on their dreams. This was a Weaver of average power; the strongest Weavers could manage twelve trees at a time, an exceptionally weak Weaver a mere two.

The alchemy of dreams began to work. First were the children; in their dreams they boarded a giant schooner which sailed across the star-studded firmaments, pulled by dozens of snow-white Pegasi. Aboard the ship they sang and played together, and plucked the stars from the firmaments and held them in their hands. A fisherman came next as in his dream he sounded the crystalline depths of the neighboring lake and beheld a veritable Atlantis replete with flashing spires and citadels all fashioned from precious metals, ringed by a verdant forest of variegated waterweeds waving in the underwater currents. The pious pastor of the village chapel found himself approaching a great archway after ascending a high mountain, stepping through the portal into an angelic realm where wondrous music from an unseen chorus rang through the aureate heavens, the landscape an endless expense of rolling clouds over which floated cities of light…

The feeble rivulets of indigo coursing in through the conduits now swelled into raging torrents. Its appetite thoroughly whetted, the Weaver worked ever harder on its human hosts. Then came to its attention a dairymaid who wandered about in her dream in a boundless and brightly colored paradise garden with murmuring fountains and luscious groves of honeysuckle, lilies, roses and violets, among which flitted finches, cardinals, larks and Monarch butterflies beneath the shady canopies of apple and orange trees laden with fruit. The dream would have suited the Weaver’s purpose just fine, except a strange figure now appeared in it.

It turned out this figure, a young man, was the dairymaid’s long-lost lover, now manifested in her dream. She had always been suspicious: had he abandoned her in pursuit of another? The dream-energies emitted from her began to develop a hard edge that troubled the Weaver, who now sought to wean her dream away from its increasing ugliness.

Then a second figure appeared in the girl’s dream. It was another girl, who smiled at the young man. He smiled back.

At that moment a flood of angry scarlet seared through the threads linking the Weaver to the dairymaid. The panicking Weaver intended to disconnect itself, but it was too late! The filaments of light became incandescent, then snapped, and the Weaver let out a piercing shriek of extreme pain. All the villagers and farm animals awoke, sensing a strange and sudden change in the air. The tendrils of light were all swiftly withdrawn, the patterns on the Weaver’s surface momentarily replaced with what appeared as large bloodstains against a background of bruised flesh.

A limping gait of sorts now discernable in its movement, the poor Weaver slowly slinked back to the trees. Perhaps it should not have been so greedy. In time it would recover. Truly, unpredictable are the ways of humans.

Meanwhile, back in the hamlet, the villagers went back to sleep.