Free Dreamseeker by C.S. Friedman

flood my soul: I made it!
    But to where?
    Thick grey fog surrounds us, so I can’t see much of anything. While I struggle to get my bearings the girl breaks away from me and gets to her feet. I see a flash of fear in her eyes; clearly she didn’t think I could follow her here. Then she’s running again, full speed this time, and by the time I can get to my feet the fog has swallowed her whole.
    I look up at the shadows looming over me, tall and thin, their crowns spreading into a dark mass overhead. Trees? Am I in some kind of forest? There are long black streamers trailing down from unseen branches, and I fervently hope they’re just some kind of hanging moss. The ground beneath me is soft and damp, and it takes impressions well; I realize that I can see her footprints clearly.
    I start to follow her. The fog changes as I do, shifting in color from bluish gray to a dull green, then to brownish mauve. It’s still thick enough to hide her from my sight, so I’m forced to run blind. The trees are also changing, shrinking in bothgirth and height, and there is less and less of the black stuff hanging from their branches. All in all the place doesn’t look as threatening as before, but I’m not reassured. I’m chasing a girl who invaded my dreams. The rest of this is just window dressing.
    Finally the fog thins out, and I see that the last of the trees are gone. There’s an open plain ahead, and my quarry is visible in the distance. She must sense my approach, because she glances back nervously over her shoulder to see where I am. Too close for her comfort, apparently. She starts running even faster, and I sense desperation in the effort. This time I’m hard-pressed to keep up. But all of that only increases my determination: I’m not going to let this strange creature get away from me until I find out how—and why—she’s invaded my dreamscape.
    Now the entire world is changing around me, far more dramatically than before. First I’m running on a field of plain dirt, then it’s a field of grass, then it’s poppies stretching out as far as the eye can see. Overhead the sun is yellow, then white, then red and swollen, filling half the sky. Then yellow again. Whatever dream world we’ve entered, it appears to be totally unstable.
    There’s a wide hill ahead of us, and she’s starting up its slope. It’s not very high, but once she goes over the top I won’t be able to see her any more. I try to run even faster, but I’m already going at top speed, and my legs are starting to get tired. How long have I been chasing her? I thought it was only a few minutes, but now it feels like an eternity. Dream time.
    But if this is a dream, then I can control it, right? Thus far I’ve been too busy running to think about strategy, but surely I can leverage that to my advantage. As I continue running I try to detach my mind from the pounding rhythm of the chase, focusing my attention on the hill itself, trying to unmake it. God knows, this dream is volatile enough that doing so shouldbe easy, but to my surprise the alien landscape rejects my efforts. I try to make other changes, but nothing responds to me. I can’t make a single poppy wilt or a butterfly leave its perch, much less flatten a multi-ton mound of soil.
    She’s nearing the summit now. I’m getting tired. Any minute now I’ll lose sight of her, perhaps for good. And all the answers she might provide will be lost.
    I can’t let that happen.
    I try again to alter the dreamscape, drawing upon the force of my frustration as a kind of fuel. And after what seems like an eternity the dreamscape finally responds. I see a tiny bit of soil come loose from the top of the hill and roll down the slope, breaking up as it does so, and I know that I caused that. But it’s all I can do. Part of me is elated to have managed even that much, but part of me wants to scream in