Dreamsnatchers

“He can see us,” one of them squeaks.

I never believed they existed, but this one is staring right at me. It looks like one of those walking sticks you find in the woods – well, maybe not this time of year since they prefer summer. Still, Christmas Eve or not, there’s an army of walking stick insects performing some kind of science experiment on my older brother.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-scream.

Drew stirs under his covers. Like ants caught red-handed, all their motion ceases in a split second. Drew and I would’ve done the same if Mom had caught us in the pantry after midnight.

“Told you he can see us,” squeaks the one staring at me.

Six of them are propped on my brother’s pillow, holding a glass beaker near his face. The pear-shaped vial looks like something from chem lab. I have to wipe my eyes to be sure, but there’s some kind of bright, transparent goop floating in it like a dead jellyfish. I see another three stick bugs holding a syringe to Drew’s ear while a fourth pulls on a microscopic handle. I have to look past their surgical instruments to notice a platoon of them spread atop his blanket and bed covers, holding clipboards and notebooks. Another two dozen are on the wooden floor, passing messages along in an elaborate game of telephone, their line trailing off into our closet.

“What are you…?” I start to repeat.

“Shhh!” one of them protests, waving twig arms thinner than dental floss. Do I see miniature bifocals and a small puff of white beard on its face? “We dare not hurt the lad.”

I know it’s my hearing, not my sight, that’s failing me now, but I rub my eyes aggressively with closed fists anyway. As my vision comes into focus again, I see only a handful of the walking twigs with their chemistry equipment. The others must’ve scattered back into the closet.

“Dreamsnatchers are shifty critters,” Grandpa used to say. He’d share the same long-winded myth every Christmas. It’s been a couple years since he passed, but I can still see him sitting in his favorite recliner chair, the one grooved uniquely for his robust form.

“Their work is precise,” he’d say. “In and out quicker than a flash and just like that, your childhood dreams are gone. Dreamsnatchers! Thieves in the night.”

“It can’t be…” I sigh without thinking.

Drew stirs again, threatening to turn completely around.

“Cease and desist, boy,” the bearded twig begs me.

“He’s critical, Doctor,” says the twig next to him.

“Doctor?” I repeat to myself.

“We can’t have you wake the lad,” he says.

If Gandalf were a stick, I think to myself.

“Did we extract the requisite volume?” Dr. Gandalf asks.

“My estimates show eighty percent,” one replies.

“I concur, Doctor,” says another.

“Are we able to proceed without completing the procedure?” Dr. Gandalf asks again, rubbing his chin with his twig arm. The beard looks like the snow-smeared bark on the redwoods outside.

“I wouldn’t wager it,” one says from under the syringe.

“We’ve had success from ninety percent extraction, but no less,” adds another from under the jelly-filled beaker.

“It’s a risk,” contributes a third. “Not one we should take. We owe it to our people to collect as much as we can.”

Their high-pitched debate continues, but it’s Grandpa’s raspy bass that I hear, like an echo from behind a curtain I can’t see. The nostalgia puts his ghost in the corner of my bedroom. I can see his kind blue eyes hiding behind thick-rimmed glasses. I can see his Einstein hair and the white stubble on his chin and cheeks. I can smell the cigar smoke infused in his sweater.

“It happens to everyone,” Grandpa would tell us. “One day, we are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed children chasing far-fetched dreams, confident that anything is possible. The next, we’re wondering how to escape our grown-up routine. We become weighed down by the burden of adulthood. It’s not the dreams that have changed, it’s us. And why’s that, bumpkins? Because the Dreamsnatchers take them!”

Drew and I never believed Grandpa could be telling the truth! Wasn’t it just a fairy tale that grandparents told their children’s children on holidays? Some way parents could explain away their growing up? I look to Drew’s bed and see the small squad of walking twigs preparing to reinsert the syringe into his ear!

“Stop!” I cry out, careful not to be too loud.

“For heaven’s sake,” one of the Dreamsnatchers say.

“I know what you’re doing,” I say with timid accusation

Today hadn’t exactly been a textbook Christmas Eve. Drew went off to the Boy’s Academy last August, the first time we were in separate schools. Every student in the Academy chooses an emphasis, but Drew didn’t know what to focus on. Dad pressured him to choose something reliable like he had back in the day: science. But I grew up next to Drew. He never liked numbers or formulas or laws. Drew plays the fiddle better than the tavern musicians. He writes stories better than Grandpa used to tell. Drew’s an artist. He came home today, much later than everyone wanted him to – after all, the Academy’s winter recess started two weeks ago. Well, Dad found out that Drew chose creative writing. Their Christmas gifts ended up in the trash bin. Let’s just say today would be the worst day to have his dreams stolen.

“Please don’t,” I say with a shaky voice.

Dr. Gandalf peeks at his neighbor’s clipboard.

“Andrew Joseph Edmonds,” he reads aloud. “Age fifteen?”

“Yeah, but I’m fourteen,” I call back. “Take mine instead. Drew needs his still.”

“Gregory Stewart Edmonds?” Dr. Gandalf asks.

“That’s me,” I say, nodding.

“You aren’t due for extraction yet. Not for another twelve months, at minimum.”

“So what?” I can feel my heartbeat quicken. These Dreamsnatchers may be small, but the sight of them terrifies me. And even more than how they look, it’s what they do that sends a chill down my back. “Drew needs them, please don’t steal them.”

“We’re not thieves!” cries the one who caught me staring.

I can tell now that it’s a female, and a lot younger than Dr. Gandalf. A few of them dart to my bedside with remarkable speed.

“Take it back!” she yells at me, pointing a twig arm so close to my nose, I can almost feel its prick.

“Nurse Gwen,” Dr. Gandalf says, trying to calm her down. He turns to me, poking his bifocals further up his twig nose. “Take care not to accuse too hastily, Gregory. Despite what you’ve heard, we don’t take dreams from children.”

“But Grandpa told me…” I start.

The wise Dreamsnatcher raises his arms to silence me.

“I know very well what he told you, but it wasn’t the whole truth. We don’t take dreams away, we rescue them.”

It takes a second for the big reveal to sink in. Even so, I still can’t grasp what Dr. Gandalf is trying to say.

“Human beings are the greatest wasters of dreams in the known universe,” Dr. Gandalf shares. “Most adult humans choose a path of security, wasting the limitless potential they had as children. Every child inherently understands the inspiration of what surrounds them, the magic of what it means to be alive and to live while you’re alive. Somewhere along the way, life chips away at that raw childlike awe. Then, there comes a pivotal moment of no return. The dreams don’t come back after that.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Drew’s chasing his dreams. He just declared an emphasis at the Academy. He’s going to be a writer!”

“Is that so?” Nurse Gwen shoots back.

“I’m afraid that’s not altogether accurate,” Dr. Gandalf says. “The note folded in his journal will confirm that he elected medical science. Andrew will be a doctor, and a good one, too.”

“How can that be?” I wonder.

As if talking to walking sticks isn’t already hard enough to accept, I have a harder time believing that my brother and best friend chose to follow Dad’s footsteps. I tip-toe gingerly across the room to find the journal buried in his book bag. When I remove the folded paper from inside the front cover, what I read confirms Dr. Gandalf’s statement. Drew probably lied about his emphasis today because he was lashing out. Maybe, he resented Dad for forcing him into something that wasn’t his dream.

“But he wants to be a writer…” I mutter.

“So did your father.”

I turn around, wide-eyed. Only Dr. Gandalf and Nurse Gwen remain on my pillow, the other Dreamsnatchers and their surgical tools gone from sight.

“My father wanted to be a writer?” I ask, thinking I may have heard wrong.

“He would’ve been one, too,” Dr. Gandalf explained. “But when his mother passed – your grandmother – he forewent his heart’s desire to learn more about the sickness that took her life. A noble choice indeed. After that, I ordered the extraction of his dreams myself. Our people use this dream energy for wonderful things. It is our lifeblood. We only extract them if and when the adult foregoes them of their own choice. Andrew, like your father, made his choice.”

“But, but, but…” I struggle to find words.

“This is the natural course of life, Gregory,” Dr. Gandalf explains. “Human beings grow up. They pass their wisdom and knowledge to their children, who eventually grow up themselves. There is beauty in that.”

“But Drew doesn’t want to be a doctor,” I say. “He just wants to make Dad proud. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

Dr. Gandalf stops to consider my request.

“Are you thinking…?” Gwen asks in her high-pitched squeal.

“Hush, Gwendolyn. Perhaps, an experiment is in order.”

The wise twig pricks my nose so quickly that I barely see his arms move. I don’t even feel the needlepoint pierce my skin before everything goes dark.

* * * * *

It’s a bit harder to open my eyes than it usually is on Christmas morning. With gifts ripe for the picking, I’m usually sitting by the large pine before the sun rises. But after that strange dream pulled me another level into sleep, it takes extra effort to get out of bed. Drew’s bed is empty, but what do I see poking out from under the frame? It’s an envelope. I have to squint to see the writing on it:

We couldn’t undo our work on Drew, but you had plenty of dreams to spare. Don’t fret, we only took what little they needed. Merry Christmas. – Dr. Q.

I walk through the hallway, wondering how small that pencil must have been, when I hear a sound that had become foreign in these walls. Is Dad laughing? When the Christmas tree comes into view, I see Dad sitting on the couch with Drew on the ground in front of him.

“Not bad,” Dad says, waving a small pamplet in his hand. I'd recognize Drew's composition notebook anywhere.

“Really?” Drew says. “I didn’t know if you’d like it. Sorry I overreacted last night.”

I half expect Dad to begin one of his preachy sermons, but there’s almost a reciprocal apology in his face. Then, he says something I never thought I’d hear in a million years.

“Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a writer once?”