“What’s the use for the sand and the tears?”
“When the urns are full of water, the water spills over, seeps into the earth and helps the corn grow,” Cerené said.
“And the grit in their eyes—I mean the sand,” Shew inquired.
Cerené grabbed a fistful of grit in the urn and showed it to Shew, “this no ordinary sand. It’s the third ingredient of the Heart element,” she poured a big amount of it in her glass urn. “The element of the Heart has been completed.”
“This seems very strange, Cerené,” Shew said. “I mean the Field of Dreams, the girls, and the sand from their eyes.”
“It’s not strange. It’s beautiful,” Cerené said. “This sand belongs to the Sandman himself. He owns this field.”
“You told me about that.”
“You know the Sandman who came into our rooms when we were just kids and poured sand in our eyes while we slept so we could dream? Where do you think he gets his sand? Here, from the Field of Dreams.”
“Is the Sandman around now?“ Shew whispered curiously. “I mean I’d like to see him.”
“Grow up, Joy,” Cerené said. “He is the Sandman. We can’t see him. It would spoil the point of his existence.”
Shew thought the story was promising considering she lived in a world where Snow White was a vampire and traveling between dreams was possible, however, she didn’t remember hearing anything like that when she was a child. The idea that the Sandman saved the girls her mother slaughtered seemed noble, but she thought feeding the field for a hundred years was a long price to pay.
Think of it, Shew. The girls will be given a second life. They wouldn’t mind sleeping for a hundred years.
She decided the Sleepers weren’t her priority. Cerené was. What worried her most was how Cerené knew about evil Rapunzel plants, the Fields of Dreams, and the Sandman.
“Listen to me, Cerené,” Shew held her by the shoulders. “I have never met someone who knew about these things. I need to ask you how you know all this.”
“I told you I read a lot of books in the school’s library,” Cerené answered casually. “Did you know its real name is Bedtime Stoories?” she snickered. “The two ‘o’ letters in the middle represent the secret pair of eyes that stare back at you from the bookshelves. They belong to a blind man called the Skeliman.”
“I am sorry, Cerené, but I don’t believe you learned this from Bedtime Stoories,” Shew said, not paying attention to any of the fluffy details mentioned. She wanted to know how Cerené got her precious knowledge. “If the secrets you know were so easy to find, I am sure I’d have met someone in my family who knew about them. I’m the Princess of Sorrow, remember? My family created this kingdom. I am sorry but I dare call you a liar because I am sure you didn’t learn any of this from the books in the library.”
Cerené rubbed the rim of her urn while avoiding Shew’s eyes. Shew lifted her chin gently to face her.
“All right,” Cerené sighed. “I learned all this from Bianca,” she said with an undertone that implied shame, as if Bianca was bad.
“Who is Bianca?” Shew needed to confirm her suspicions.
“My mother,” Cerené titled her head and her lips twitched again.
Be careful when her lips twitch, Shew, or she will lose it again.
“I thought you were an orphan.”
“I am,” Cerené said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I will understand. All you have to do is trust me like I trusted you in passing the Wall of Thorns,” Shew didn’t comment on the fact that she shouldn’t have trusted her, but she knew that Cerené had meant no harm.
“My mother is dead!” Cerené stood up, sparkles of anger floating in her eyes again.
“So she taught you all of this when you were younger?” Shew stood up. She had to pressure her to learn more about her.
“No,” Cerené stomped her feet. “I told you that you wouldn’t understand. Bianca died a long time ago, when I was about three years old.”
“This doesn’t make any sense, Cerené.”
Cerené said nothing.
“If Bianca died that long ago, how did she tell you all of this?”
“In my dreams,” Cerené said, her back still facing Shew.
“I see,” Shew nodded, although this wasn’t a satisfying conclusion at all. Was her mother a ghost, another Dreamhunter, maybe? “Do you have an idea what Bianca’s last name is, or what she did for a living?”
“She…” Cerené started shuddering. “She…”
Shew knew she had pressed her too much, but she wouldn’t stop now.
“People said she was some kind of a witch!” Cerené turned back, on the verge of exploding. The ghostly breeze chilled the cornfield and lightning struck somewhere in the distance, illuminating the ashes hanging in the air. “Are you satisfied? She burned things, many things. She even burned towns. They burned her back by the stake! They way they had burned a humiliated so many witches. Burn! Burn! Burn!” Cerené, hugging her urn, ran away toward the Wall of Thorns, her red dress fluttering over the yellow corn and beneath the ashes.
“Great job, Shew,” Snow White mumbled, angry with herself. She shouldn’t have pressed her that hard. She should have been careful since Cerené had run away last time when She asked too many questions.
Watching Cerené run, crying, shattered her heart.
Frozen in place, Shew watched her disappear behind the gap in the Field of Thorns. There was no point in running after her this time. Cerené was hurt and she doubted she could help her.
The ghostly wind spiraled again around her feet, and she felt unsafe, alone in the field among the sleeping beauties. With Cerené gone, Shew had the feeling she was being watched. Something other than the girls hid in the cornfield, maybe in the Wall of Thorns itself. Shew began walking slowly toward the gap, wondering if it was Bianca.
Each of her steps echoed in a dreamy sort of way. She dared not look back but was sure someone was following her. She swallowed hard.
Her steps quickened.
Who’s behind me?
She began running, the footsteps behind her following her.
Shew stumbled over one of the sleeping beauties. In that moment it occurred to her that whoever was behind her wasn’t chasing her, they were following her.
On her feet, she turned around to face whoever it was.
Remember you’re the Dhampir. You shouldn’t be scared.
Shew saw nothing but yellow corn, ashen skies, and blurry thorn bushes afar.
“Loki!” Shew screamed from the top of her lungs, thinking he was the one after her, “what are you waiting for? I’m here!”
Nothing.
No one called back, no evil Huntsman. Shew let out a sigh and turned around. She walked slowly toward the gap in the Wall of Thorns.
She could hear the steps behind her again.
Running, she passed through the gap in the Wall of Thorns—the gab was large and the nearest thorns weren’t close enough to slash at her. It occurred to her that she could have passed through the wall if she’d ran through with a fast horse.
Finally, Shew entered the Black Forest. She managed to look back briefly and finally saw someone in a black cloak in the distance. Whoever it was, they were not riding a unicorn, but followed her on foot and stopped once she looked back. From such a distance, recognizing this mysterious person was impossible.
Silently, they stood watching, expecting and waiting. Their silence crept across Shew’s skin, giving her Goosebumps.
She turned and ran as fast as she could, hoping she could remember the way back to the Schloss.
Fifty strides later, she tripped over a log, bumped her head and fell unconscious. Her pursuer approached.