Celia in Dreamland

She was awake. It was that split-second where the mind returns to consciousness before the eyes open in their instinctive reaction of curiosity. But it seemed to last longer, as though she was able to fight the natural urge or that her eyelids had congealed shut. This thought panicked her; she gasped and opened her eyes to prove to herself that she still could. It was not the view she had been expecting, not the scene she had conjured in her mind in preparation. Her surroundings were not magnolia-coloured woodchip-papered walls. A gently snuffling man did not lay by her side in the freshly dressed bed, the man she had fallen asleep alongside after a relaxing bath and a satisfying snuggle. In actual fact she was standing up. In an orchard. On a bright summer’s day.  Hastily she checked herself and breathed a sigh of relief as she was fully clothed, but was utterly perplexed by her choice of attire: an adult-sized version of the sapphire-coloured bridesmaid’s dress she wore to her step-sister’s wedding when she was seven.

“What the – ?” she muttered to herself, but her profanity was cut short by the surprise interruption of a violent sneeze. Despite her worrying that she was in the nude, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might not be alone.

“Oh, don’t worry about him, it’s that time of year. The pollen’s flying around like crazy and he’s allergic. Shame it’s his job! No, I’m up here, Celia.”

She had been trying to find the source of the voice, high-pitched and jittery as it was, and then saw that it was being emitted by a dark figure from a branch in the tree to her left.

“Who are you?” she asked, fearfully, “and…why are you calling me Celia? That’s not my name.”

The dark creature scuttled down the other side of the tree and presented itself to the baffled woman. It seemed to pause in front of her, as if to allow her time to become accustomed to its appearance. The animal stood the same height from the ground as her knee and was covered in silken looking black fur, balancing proudly on its hind legs. Each of its formidable feet sported long clever claws like fingers. In its left paw it held a gleaming opalescent acorn, while the right paw absentmindedly caressed a bouffant and luxuriant tail. It was an oversized, jet-black squirrel.

“But of course you’re Celia!” he exclaimed, then added nervously, “Unless you’re another of those imposters, though we haven’t had many recently…TELL ME!” The black squirrel shouted suddenly and she near jumped before answering, “I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not called Celia. I think you have the wrong person.”

“Hmm…convincing, convincing…I think it’s the acorns again, these damned pearly beauties…a-ha! He will know, of course he will, why didn’t I think of it before? Come, Celia, this way please!”

She was beckoned by a dangerously long claw, and hesitated momentarily until a deafening sneezing fit to her right reminded her that she wasn’t familiar with this place and there could be worse things around the corner than an exceedingly paranoid giant black squirrel. Bizarrely, although they walked in a westerly direction for a fair distance, the pair ended up exactly where they started. The squirrel looked at her expectantly, then tutted loudly and said, in a rather curt and impatient manner, “Knock on the tree!”

“Knock…on the tree?” she repeated, much to the squirrel’s chagrin.

“Yes, yes, the tree! Knock on it!”

“But how?”

“Tap it! On the trunk! Very good, very convincing…” he mumbled once more to himself, hurriedly fondling his tail and making the sparse fur fall out in one particular area.

After tentatively tapping the tree trunk, she was not prepared for the booming response.

“Is that you again Barkworm?! I told you the last time in words of one syllable what would happen if you…”

“It’s a Celia!” the squirrel squealed, now madly springing around behind her. She didn’t know what to expect – was it the tree that was alive and talking to her? A not-so-distant sneeze reminded her once more that anything seemed possible here.

“Hmm…so she is.” Suddenly hovering in front of her eyes was a minute owl that would have easily fit in the palm of her delicate hands. He adjusted his brown trilby – for he possessed both a pair of wings and arms – and inspected her further. The squirrel was now beside itself and was intermittently turning somersaults and chasing its tail like a lumbering labrador.

“Oh, for the love of…! Has he been like this the whole time, my dear?”

She nodded gormlessly, amazed as to how such a small thing could produce a voice like a double bass. He rolled his little eyes, put his paws on his sides and yelled:

“How many today?!”

“F-f—five!” The squirrel blurted out, as though no longer in control of his actions or vocal chords.

“Just calm yourself! And have another if it helps, you disgraceful creature!”

At this, the squirrel erupted into elation, half-laughing, half-crying, and began gnawing the tooth-like acorn in his trembling paws. It was powdery in texture, like sherbet and soon the squirrel was calm and his ebony shirt front was speckled with crumbs which looked curiously beautiful, like a starry night sky.

“It is far too early for this sort of behaviour…hang on a moment…” With this, he snapped a twig from a branch of the tree behind him and began to suck on one end of it, just as she used to see her father do with his cigars when she was a child.

“Would you like me to light it?” she ventured politely, even though she had no idea where she would obtain fire from, or even if that was an appropriate question.

“Thank you, my dear, but I’ve quit. This is merely a placebo. Now then! To the point in hand! Squirrel Nutcase over there” – here he paused to guffaw loudly at his own pun – “thinks you’re Celia then, does he?”

“Yes, but I’m not, you see, my name is – “

“Irrelevant! Irrelevant, my dear. Why else would you not be she?”

“Because I’m not! I’m not this Celia woman, I’ve woken up in a strange land and I don’t understand what’s going on!”

The owl seemed concerned by her frustration and changed his approach. “How rude of me. Let us take a seat in my humble dwelling.”

Any protestations she was about to make concerning her being far too large to fit into a small bird’s nest in a tree trunk were cut short as she found herself in a fireside paisley-pattered armchair opposite the owl, his small twiggy legs peering over another chair with matching upholstery. She watched him gently prod the burning embers with a remarkable jewel-encrusted golden poker, allowing the smells of smoke and sap to fill her nostrils. The mixture of aromas was so agreeable to her that the contorted expression on the decapitated head of a stag, hanging precariously over the fireplace, failed to register in her mind. He took a deep breath of the pungent fumes and began his tale, his soliloquy, in an ostentatiously thespian manner:

“It all started a long time ago, as these things often do. Since The Flood wiped out half of the queendom, we have been living in the era of Great Confusion. All of the deeds, records, prophecies and grimoires kept in the Hall of Shelves were destroyed and all knowledge of their contents eradicated when the Antiquarians drowned. Many a good and noble man lost his life in the salty, viscose dribblings of our Grand Queen. You look confused, child. I fear I have started telling the tale far too near to its close. Curl up under your blanket and allow me to give the History of this Fair Land justice.”

She found that a patchwork eiderdown of pinks and lilacs had appeared on her lap and, when unfolded, fitted her perfectly, just tucking underneath the tips of her toes.

“I should have announced myself properly, really. My name is Figfeather, after my grandfather, the Figfeather, Field Marshal Elf Owl, victor of the Strigid Wars over the Micrathene Seas. No? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t have heard of him…”

As Figfeather spoke, she found herself drifting dizzily into another world of slumber, desperately fighting the urge, for fear of where she would next wake up, but convinced that just a few moments of eye-rest wouldn’t hurt –

She stood before a tower of such enormity that it was impossible to fathom even an estimation of its size. From a distance it must have appeared to look like an undernourished ageing greying penguin flanked by two shorter bodyguards, huddling, each wearing frayed pointy witches hats. A guttural bellow that sounded like a dragon being stabbed through the heart or a pride of lions roaring in unison issued forth from a casement high up in the tower, past the clouds, like a cry from the gods themselves.

* to be continued *