Short Story by Aaron Awkerman

A Shadow Cast By A Heart
By Aaron Awkerman

You’re to young to have seen it but decades ago a great spin wheel as large as the heavens and as mighty as all the powers of men stood as a sentinel. It watched over all of us in the pass and beyond that. Its windows were stained with the brightest of colors and its hardware was fashioned out of sunset gold. It loomed above all the houses, markets, and palaces and almost, almost stood above the mountains of God’s very making and yet those who walk the earth crafted it. Its foundation was carved from the mountain roots. They say an ancient giant of war assisted men at this stage by breaking away the mountain until not but the base of rock remained. Yet, no one alive today believes this myth for where is the giant and his kind now? Where are the fire steeds, fairies, and wyverns of the old stories? No, men alone have ever populated the earth.
This windmill, despite its name, was not moved or even so much as swayed by the wind. The forces that acted upon its mighty rotating arms were not those of the weather but instead those of the heart. The very dreams of men caused these hill-sized fans to turn. Not the dreams that make up ambitions for they have simply adopted the word dream. What we speak of now are the dreams of your soul while you are carried into that death like state of sleep. They are borne along, as if by the wind, from all parts of the valley toward the great white stoned dream mill. Oh how they would light up the skies at night in blues upon reds that rest within the greens of purples, what a sight to behold too when it all melds into the dawning orange shining from Sol. The dreams were guided to the windmill in great rivers of glowing, pulsing radiant lights. In rare cases the drifting dreams would bring themselves to form along with color. They would appear as dancing white butterflies in among the others or as laughing children with starry eyes-much like yourselves.
A very beautiful, no maybe she wasn’t so beautiful to most but to me she was like a finely cut opal. This girl, that wonderful girl once asked me to dream with her. It was a special thing, to dream with someone you see. It was like a bonding, a love so intimate it could not be emulated by any other method. It was a gift of spirit. I was dumbfounded, shocked even, that she would ask me. All I could think to say was-of what? Being the boy I was, I knew what I wanted to dream about if you catch my meaning that is but she answered in the most peculiar way.
How about black and white or a light and a shadow?
Her and I were always dreaming together after that, sneaking off to fall asleep under the clouds or heavens. Sometimes too we would run away just to watch the dream lights play across the countryside on their way to the windmill. Those were cozy warm days that I would trade for nothing and there is nothing that I wouldn’t trade to have them back. She was too young to know any better and I was too young to warn her, but we would never dream of simply things like cats or fire or a meal. No, we always had to try something new, something that had never been done or would never have been tried if we had not done it first in our mind’s eye. So that night, we laid our backs against the cool grass and dreamed of things black and of other things white yet there were more black things.
A day passed after our dream, the sun rose to chase the moon and the seven stars away, but when night fell again we fled to the hill that the sun runs to when its course is done. There existed a large gray oak tree on the hilltop and the surrounding lands were wide and flat- the perfect place to watch the lights move along. We talked briefly, waiting for the sun to set and the other people of the valley to go asleep. Our sister village, which was quite large, could be found just beyond the western horizon from us and we were anxious to view their many faceted lights float lazily over the grassy plains. The dream lights came as a faint glow on the horizon like a fool’s fire and etched there way ever so slowly toward the windmill and us. Unlike all other nights, the light stayed faint. Deeply disappointed, the two of us decided on another dream then relaxed and it began it’s course. We dreamed of a shadow cast by a heart.
The next day was an overcast one, hazy and uneventful, filled with unwanted and never ending chores. All those years ago the day served no purpose to us children except to delay the wonderful, loveable night. It did indeed finally come much to our delight and my friend and I slipped away but this time as close to the rising moon as possible. We wanted to greet our friend rather then chase away our foe. We chatted and gossiped until it was time for the rainbow of lights to drift in from the eastern towns. The time arrived and we hushed ourselves as hatefully as the onlookers in a theater as they see the curtains drawn. We checked our small intricate gold watches after many minutes. The time for the first lights had come and gone again, was no one in the eastern kingdom sleeping? We decided that must be the case and that we picked a horrible spot for the night but nevertheless we were still excited because of our time together.
When asked about the topic of our dream I replied with my usually stupidity-I don’t know was all I dared speak. My dearest, closest friend was also strangely unsure that night, which was as common as a mountain not knowing its place in the world. Seemingly it was impossible. However, that night the impossible came to be possible so she choose the route I myself was considering-Let’s let our hearts pick tonight.
To let your heart choose your dream is an old saying meaning precisely what it sounds like. Your heart, your seed of motivation and conviction, would pick your night’s dream rather then you yourself. It’s true, the two are different in more ways then you may think. We’ve all experienced arguments between the two entities. We may want badly, or even desperately desire to eat a cake or to kiss that girl but we withdraw. Why? The cake is unhealthy and the girl already has a love interest. Our reason beats our heart. That night the two of us gave our hearts the reigns and dreamed about monsters that walked about as men.
The following day the adults were in an uproar. No one would tell us why directly but we skipped on our small duties to play a spy game and find out what had everyone so upset. We heard a great deal about the windmill and the lights and the other towns and villages. My friend thought there must be a sleepless time ahead of us and I agreed. I was often a yes man to her. Sleepless nights were needed sometimes to repair the windmill. News found its way to our ears about something much more frightening then insomnia however. There was a great black crack in the side of the windmill.
That night it was decided without a peep from either of us that we would dream below the windmill itself like we did when we were babies. We ran here and there through the trees and between the cribs of newborns. Looking up past the tree limbs and leaves of summer we could make out the crack for ourselves. It was wicked like lightning and the extremities were gray as if the black of the crack and the white marble of the mill were mixing. We discovered a tiny pond by its base and it was there we slept for the night. There was little talk or laughing, we both thought we were there to help the windmill and that was a serious business for two youngsters. Like a bandage would help heal a wound. That night we again let our hearts pick for us and what we dreamed of was a brother killing his brother and the world torn asunder.
We awoke to a terrible thunder in the before dawn skies and there were people running around us, gathering up babes in their arms while screaming to each other to run or hide. Chunks of the great tower were falling as stone rain from the skies, bringing pain and death down with them. We ran together, hand in hand. Our legs were short and we could barely make it away before massive portions of the once beautiful monument began sliding from above like icebergs off the artic. Dust and debris was everywhere, in our eyes, our feet, our mouths, and the faint lights from nearby lamps were transformed from their normal soft white to a devilish red as if the light was filtered by smoke and not by dust. I swear it was like hell itself had moved up from the earth and sat, not in the heart of the world, but at our very doorstep. I tripped and dragged my friend down with me. I remember no more of that morning.
Today if you were to visit the spot the mill once stood you would barely be able to tell it had every existed. Once it fell, the first victim in a string of unrighteous crimes, the white oak and pale leather that had once made up its spine wheel disappeared as if washed away by falling rain. Only a large hill of white stone now marks its location and even now most dismiss it as the rubble of an old quarry and not for what it truly is-the corpse of a wonder. It was pure, white, shimmering, and young but it was not built to withstand hateful dreams. Dreams like the ones my friend and I, and many others, supplied as time moved on. It toppled because of our cold hearts and now dreams are no longer tame, no longer chosen by the dreamer, and are lost without guidance.
Of course, few alive believe such stories, for where is the windmill now and those like it? Where are the dream lights, the men of good hearts, and the chosen dreams now? No, hateful men and lost dreams alone have ever populated the earth.