Dream Catcher, Heart Listener - Page 3

“Michaela, love, get up; today’s the day we get fabric for your gown for the Autumn Festival.”
 
She yawned and stretched, smiling sleepily. “Coming, Mama.”
 
Then, as she sat up and dressed for the day, she smiled wider still. Ever since the Festival had drawn near, one wonderment had echoed in the forefront of her mind: might he be there? Might he pick such an occasion to make himself known to her? True, such a dream might be just that, a dream. Yet...
 
“Coming, Mama,” she said, more loudly, with a hint of excitement in her voice, and, as she could now imagine, in her indigo eyes as well.
 
She slipped the silky dress over her head; its neckline was low, its bodice high, its sleeves draping off the shoulders and trailing in long, billowing bells. The Swicians loved simple lives yet were skilled in creating elaborate things; such talents came natural to them, and so their common gowns might’ve seemed to most as those that should be reserved for princesses or dames at the least.
 
She then brushed her long, silky hair, pausing to run the tips of her fingers over her smooth cheeks, her nose, her delicate ears. She wondered if it might be possible for him to someday come to her in a daydream and show her what her daytime human appearance looked like.
 
Finished with her minimal primping, she pulled back the flap to step into the front of the large tent, and then pulled back the second flap, following her nose outside to the scent of bacon as it roasted over the fire upon the soft turf.
 
“Good morning, mother,” she said, sitting on the favorite log, feeling its rough texture and smiling. Trees, brown.
 
“Morning, love,” her mother greeted, setting the plate steaming with bacon upon her daughter’s lap. “Sleep well?”
 
“Mm, very,” Michaela replied, savoring the bacon, savoring the morning sounds of the ocean waves lapping against the beach in the not so far distance.
 
Water, blue. She heard also the clatterings and chatterings of other breakfasts of other families as they joined together outside their tents.
 
“So,” her mother said, “have you thought about what kind of dress you want? Silk, satin, perhaps with those velvet-textured beads you love so, or even the princess cut rubies or emeralds or -”
 
“Indigo,” she said, chewing then swallowing decisively. “I want the dress to be satin and silk made of indigo. Sleeveless, perhaps with a bit of embroidery. But all indigo, with light and dark shades.”
 
“Indigo?” her mother echoed; Michaela imagined her mother’s eyebrows arching curiously; she smiled at the thought that she could imagine what such a small detail looked like, but then she quickly shook the thought aside as she replied, “Yes, indigo. A friend once told me I look good in indigo.”
 
“Well, then, indigo it shall be, for it is indeed true that my daughter looks stunning in indigo; after all, it matches her eyes.”
 
She imagined her mother smiling now and smiled too.
 
They finished breakfast, and, setting the dishes aside to wash in the stream later on, they made their way through the camp to Claire’s Tent, where several other young ladies were gathered already with ideas of dresses floating in their minds. Michaela’s mother brought to her all the different shades of indigo fabrics she could find so that she could feel each one. Her mother described the shades as she always did to her daughter whenever they bought material.
 
She would always say something like “this one is yellow like the sun,” or “this one is red like roses,” because, though Michaela had never known the colors, she knew whether she liked suns and flowers and what such things made her think of and what kinds of moods such things invoked in her, and, of course, she could imagine well enough the meanings of light and dark shades. So she could understand why her mother would be caught off guard by the fact she’d actually asked for a specific color, especially one her mother had never mentioned to her. But now, as her mother described each shade, she pictured the dark, yet rich and vibrant hue of her eyes, as well as their varying shades of light-colored specks. She concentrated hard with both mind and fingers until she’d selected a smooth, dark satin for her gown, a dainty, light silk for an overlay, and indigo threads of shades in-between to embroider the tiny flowers.
 
The shopping completed, they met up with Salome and Geranel and Lililu and several other of the girls and women and their mothers in the camp and headed for one of the grassy outcrops overlooking the sea; several such familiar sewing circles had joined together in similar fashions already; Michaela could hear their laughter echoing between the low cliffs. For a moment, she listened intently for him, listened towards the ocean, wondering if he was amongst the fishermen who were catching the final fish for tonight’s celebration. But then Salome said, “Your satin is lovely! It matches your eyes perfectly.”
She allowed the compliment to break into her thoughts of him—perhaps because it didn’t really break away that train of thought at all—thanked Salome, ran her fingers across her friend’s own fabric which was a smooth velvet and a rougher, gauzy texture, and then she set to sewing.
 
While the Festival was that night, none of the ladies fretted over finishing their gowns in plenty of time. Both Monku races were able to use powers of the mind to get things done more quickly, though all but the simplest of such skills were long forgotten because of most mind powers being looked down upon and forbidden. Several ladies could focus the power of their commands into their own fingers, making them weave the needles more deftly, swiftly, accurately, while others could concentrate so that both cloth, thread, and needles hovered in mid-air, working on their own. As for measurements, there was no need to take any; such minute details were perfectly inscribed in their minds.