DreamScapes: Enchanting Escapes, #2

By R. L. Stedman

DREAMSCAPES

 

Paranormal Romance!

 

'Scott's a crazy ice diver; he makes movies in Antarctica. A lone wolf, as the saying goes. I never intended to fall for him. But now, I've developed a craving for blood…'

 

'Never make music near a fairy mound, they said. But Tomas wanted somewhere warm and dry. Turns out, he had an audience. Will Tomas' life ever be the same?'

 

In this paranormal collection, you'll find a ghostly lover and a woman with magical tattoos; a floating man, and a missing store, an ice-cold scientist, and a vengeful mother-in-law.

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Discover The Shark Bell:

My husband's rejection cost me my self-respect. So I've taken up running, and (literally) stumbled into a gorgeous surfer. He says he wants me, but can I believe him? What he says makes sense: we only live once. But with Damian, I'm not sure that's really true.

 

Read The Blessed Creature:

It's mid-morning when the Bug and I drive into Asherville. When I turn down a side street, the Bug hiccups. I pat the steering wheel and tell it not to fret, we won't be here long. But even as I say this, I have a feeling that suggests we might be here for a while. I get these feelings sometimes …

 

Dive into Swimming with Penguins:

That night, I had the strangest dream. I was racing through a dark forest, fleeing for my life. Behind me ran a monster, all golden eyes and sharp teeth. My breath came in harsh bursts; my chest felt about to explode. I bent low, arms pumping, sprinting fast, and thought I was about to get away. Then something grabbed my feet – a stick, perhaps, or a tree root. And I was tumbling, falling, and my ankle, oh how it ached. Then the thing, whatever it was, was on me, hot breath in my face, smelling of dog and bone, and I screamed …

 

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DreamScapes contains romance and lust, passion and loss. Some tales are long, while others are bite-sized. But take care, because magic is wild and dangerous, and who knows where such fables may lead?

 

DreamScapes. Stories of fantasy and romance, mixed with just a hint of magic. Read them if you dare.

 

Welcome to DreamScapes, a spell-binding story collection.

 

***WARNING: Contains adult themes***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9780473598723

Book preview

Part One

Seasonal Stories

Rose illustration

All Hallow’s Eve

Beware of playing music near a fairy mound, they said. But Tomas didn’t care; it was his music, and he would play it where he liked. And anyway, Bryn Celli Ddu was convenient, being less than a mile from his house.

Bryn Celli was a hollow hill, built thousands of years ago by long-forgotten folk. Once, it had been a burial chamber. Or perhaps a meeting place, or a temple. No-one really knew. But it was quiet and dry. And inside its empty, cave-like structure Tomas could play his music in peace, without anyone banging on the walls or yelling at him to ‘shut up that fearful racket!’

It had gotten worse since Da had lost his job. His father had always been fractious and hard to please, but now, with the drink and the darts, he was worse than ever. So Tomas would take himself and his guitar down to Bryn Celli Ddu where he could practice in peace.

At twenty-three, Tomas had one ambition in life. He wanted to be in a band like the one they’d seen in Liverpool last month – making new, exciting songs. Music like that lifted you up; took you out of yourself.

---

They’d been on a football trip to Liverpool. At the end of the last game, the team had gone for lunch to a dreary diner near Mathew Street when Charlie spotted all the folk heading into the nearby Cavern Club. On hearing the music start up, the entire team had left the diner and disappeared into the Club.

That afternoon had been brilliant! Bobbie, Charlie, and Tomas were close to the stage, so had a grand view of the musicians. The guys on the stage were younger than them, only seventeen or eighteen, perhaps. Being lunchtime, the club was filled with cigarette smoke and folk shouting loudly in thick Liverpool accents, but once the band struck up, the audience had fallen quiet. It was like the music was magic. Tomas, who had an ear for music, jotted the chords on a beer mat, and Charlie, who’d seen The Beatles before, scribbled down the lyrics.

When Tomas returned to Wales, he’d played the music again and again with his mates, until Charlie Jones found a job working on the Holyhead Ferry and moved away. Then Bobby’s uncle got him a post on the railway, and he left town too. And directly after, Da lost his job and put a stop to Tomas’ practicing.

But Tomas would not give up his dream of music. He wasn’t about to settle for a life in North Wales, not when he could play the clubs of Liverpool and London. But he had to practice, or he’d never amount to anything. He muffled himself in his coat and took himself off to nearby Bryn Celli Ddu, where no-one ever went and he could make music to his heart’s content.

So, on a rainy All Hallows’ Eve in 1962, there sat Tomas, with his head in the clouds and his fingers on the guitar strings. Dreaming of glory and a life on the road.

---

What is it you’re playing? asked a shy, soft voice.

Tomas stopped abruptly. There, in the shadows by the mound’s door, stood a slight figure. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.

Don’t stop. I like it. It’s nice.

He thought he knew all the local girls, but this person, outlined in light, was unfamiliar. She stepped toward him and now he could see her clearly: a slight girl with long dark hair. She wore a leather vest and skirt and her arms were bare.

Who are you? he asked. What’s your name?

She raised her eyebrows. And why should I be telling you that, when I’ve only just met you?

My name is Tomas, he said. Tomas Blackweather.

Oh, hark at you, so loose and free with your name. I wonder, are you as loose and free with other things? When she looked at him slyly, he felt his face growing hot. She laughed. Oh Tomas Blackweather, you’re blushing! Pay me no mind, sir. ’Tis fooling with you, I am. Come. Sit you back down and sing me your song.

You heard me singing?

She nodded. You woke me.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.

Tomas thought she must sleep rough – in a car, perhaps, or under a hedgerow. She smelled musty and damp, like the fields, reminding him of green and growing things.

I don’t mind. ’Twas a pleasure to be woken by such a fine song. Come, Tomas. Play for me. She stepped close to him, put a finger on his shoulder. Please, won’t you play?

I’ll sing you a song, said Tomas, greatly daring, if you give me something in return.

She clapped her hands. A bargain! And you so young, so bold! Why, what will you bargain for a song, young Tomas Blackweather?

Young? I’m the same age as you.

She laughed. I’m as old as the hills, young Tomas. I was here before the little people built this place, and I will remain long after it’s crumbled away. So, what should I give you, in return for your song?

Your name, said Tomas, and struck the strings of his guitar. Tell me your name.

The laughter died from her face. Tomas, you do not know what you ask.

Come, do you want this song? Or are you— and he strummed the lower strings, making the guitar rumble —afraid.

Afraid? Me? I fear nothing and no man, she said, drawing herself erect. It is for you, I fear, young Tomas. For a name is binding, and you will be bound to me forever and a day once you hold my name in your heart.

Your name, he said obstinately, although he felt a tiny kernel of fear at her words. Or I sing you no song.

She sighed. Very well. My name is— and she gave him her name.

Now, whenever Tomas thinks of this moment, he can never recall what she said. Try as hard as he might, her name disappears like water through sand. He thinks it was something like Clarissa or Clarinda or even Clare, but perhaps it was none of those things, none of them at all.

My lady, he said and bowed his head. What would you have me play for you?

She clapped her hands in pleasure. Oh, Tomas Blackweather, may I have ‘The Oak, The Ribbon, and The Mule’?

Now Tomas had never heard of this song, but he struck a chord in A minor. Much to his surprise, a song appeared in his head; the words crisp, the melody bright. Although overcome with wonder, he sang all five verses in a firm voice and the girl, whose name he could not remember, danced in delight.

Tomas Blackweather, what a minstrel you are! She kissed him on his cheek. There, and now you have a fairy’s favor.

Her lips were soft, and her breath was sweet, and she smelled like sunlight on a fast-running stream. Tomas was overcome with longing for the girl. So, he said, My lady, I will play for you again – if you will grant me one small favor.

What is it?

A kiss, he said, from your own fair lips.

But Tomas, I did that, just now.

He shook his head. No, my lady – I mean, a kiss on the lips. My lips, to yours. Given with passion.

Tomas Blackweather, be careful what you ask for.

A kiss, my lady. For you are my desire.

Very well, she said, and in that moment, she seemed older and sadder and infinitely more beautiful, so Tomas’s lust burned hotter than ever. Very well. But do not say I did not warn you. Tomas Blackweather, I want you to play ‘My Midsummer Garden’.

Again, the song fell into his mind, fully formed, a jaunty little melody full of teasing fun.

---

‘My garden in midsummer, oh,

Takes two to till and two to hoe,

Two to dance and two to sow,

My garden in midsummer, oh.’

---

It was a raunchy, bawdy song, sung with a swinging beat, with the garden as the metaphor for a woman’s body, and Tomas felt himself blushing as he sang.

---

‘But in wintertime,

the earth lies brown,

And snow falls softly on the ground,

Within the soil, the seed will grow,

So in the spring their green will show.’

---

As the song continued, he felt strangely aroused. Glancing at the girl, so free, so fair, he noticed her full breasts outlined against the soft leather of her bodice. She swayed in time with the rhythm, moving her hips enticingly, as she nibbled the top of a finger, and gazed at him with black, black eyes.

Outside the barrow, the sun was setting. Birds called from the hedgerows, and the wind was growing chill. But Tomas barely noticed, for the girl was too entrancing.

Oh Tomas, she moaned, Oh Tomas.

She moved closer and closer until she stood, pressed against him.

A kiss, my lady, he said thickly, when the song ended. A kiss.

My Tomas, she said, you’ll get more than a kiss.

She pulled his head down to hers and kissed him long and hard, touching his tongue gently, exploring his mouth with hers. He dropped his guitar and his trousers, and his hands crept down her body. The kiss went on and on until he thought he would burst. Then, in one movement, she pulled him down on the ground and pushed him onto his back on the cold, damp earth. She kissed him swiftly: one, two, three. Outside, the moon was full.

Ready, Tomas? Are you ready?

She stood above him, removed her skirts, unlaced her bodice. He nodded, breathless.

Then get ready, she said, for I’m taking you on the ride of your life.

She sat on his hips, straddling him, and it felt wonderful and exciting and terrifying at the same time. In the moonlight, her skin seemed to shine. She was beautiful. As he stared at her, watching her move, Tomas Blackweather felt as though he stood on the cusp of a great wave.

She smiled at him. Oh, my Tomas, yes, yes, yes—

And the wave broke, and broke again, and he drowned in it, in her, and for a moment he, Tomas Blackweather, spun with the stars.

---

After they finished, she kissed him once, kissed him twice, and smiled. Have I paid my debt?

He nodded, still panting.

Then, she said, and clambered off him, standing in the moonlight fair, I am free to go.

No! He propped himself on an elbow. Please, my lady, do not leave.

Tomas, my Tomas. Bending down, she pressed a finger to his lips. You have given me two songs, Tomas, and in return, I grant you a gift. Music will always rise for you, just as you rose for me this night, and from your heart, melody will ever spring. Think of me kindly, Tomas, when you return to the world.

She tucked her bodice into position and pulled her skirt back on, while Tomas sat up and cried hot tears, because he knew he would never see her again.

---

As the sun rose in the east, the sky turned pink, and she kissed her hand to him and faded away, like mist: like dew. Tomas got up slowly, all his body aching. With a heavy heart, he picked up his guitar and stepped from the barrow into the morning. When he glanced back, he thought he heard her whisper: Fare-thee-well, my Tomas.

---

Tomas Blackweather returned home, but his house had disappeared and in its place was an enormous store. He stood outside, guitar in hand, watching in amazement as its doors opened and closed all by themselves.

Oi! Mister! You gonna sing a song? a small girl asked.

Tomas blinked down at her. Excuse me?

I said, you gonna sing a song? You got a guitar and all.

Oh, Tomas said, and picked up the guitar. I guess. What song would you like?

The child thought for a moment. Jingle Bells.

Tomas tuned the guitar quickly. The instrument sounded different to how he remembered it: the tone was mellower, richer. The child sang with him, jigging delightedly to the music as a crowd gathered. When he stopped, people clapped. Some cheered.

The little girl commanded: Put your hat down. On the ground.

My hat? Why?

She looked at him like he was stupid. So I can put my money in it.

Money? he asked blankly.

I gotta give you money, she said. You played for me.

Okay, he said, taking the hat from his head and setting it upturned, like a cup, on the pavement. Much to his surprise, people lined up to place money into it.

Do you know ‘The Shape of You’? a middle-aged housewife asked.

I think so, Tomas said, and struck E Major.

Next came a flurry of requests. It didn’t matter that he’d not heard any of the songs –as in the fairy mound, melody and words flowed easily and Tomas played on in ecstasy. All this music, just for the wishing!

---

Coins tumbled their way into the case, and he performed request after request until finally he had to call a halt. He was exhausted and hungry and needed to pee. The audience murmured in protest.

One more, he said, as a compromise.

An old man in a wheelchair and thick black glasses called out, ‘Eleanor Rigby’.

Some in the crowd nodded. Wonderful choice.

Tomas struck the first chord, C major, and the words flowed. The audience, including the old man, sang along with him. Most couldn’t remember all the lyrics, but the gentleman was word perfect. Tomas reached the end with a flourish.

Thank you, he said, and bent to pick up