“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”
Oscar Wilde
Darkmere is the realm between our world and the world of Dreams. It is where the monsters that lurk underneath our childhood beds dwell when not filling our innocent heads with their frightful visions. It is where the impish Sandman and the delicate Good Fairy meet when not making their respective rounds.
It is where beings of ethereal beauty or horrific ugliness congregate and conduct affairs that have little to do with humankind. The denizens of Darkmere view us with either passing interest or with casual disdain. They are ancient and immortal, sons and daughters of chaos-thought; we are transient, fleeting.
However, there are mortals who travel easily to Darkmere, and while not always welcomed with open arms, are allowed to wander freely. And at our own risk, for the safety of mortals is not necessarily their concern.
There are times in which the insouciant beings of Darkmere are moved to pity, especially by the plight of a tormented child. Some of those children are taken away to be raised in this place between the dream and the tangible.
My name is Phaedra Garrett. If you are a lover of urban fantasy, then you know of me. So far, I have four books to my credit, with a fifth needing only to be transcribed from a handwritten notebook. I’ve yet to join the ranks of those I consider deities in my genre, but it has been said of my tales that I infuse such realism in them that one could almost be convinced that magical beings indeed exist. I write often of Darkmere, but I give away none of its secrets.
I do not write for approbation, nor do I write for material wealth, though both have often come my way. I write to live. I write because the stories within me insist upon being told, and I obey their every command. I write in order to infuse this cold world in which I live with some semblance of magic.
Writing is as necessary to me as food or shelter. Pen and paper are my spiritual sustenance. I cannot imagine what I would do if I did not write.
How do you know when someone has visited Darkmere? Think of a song that stays with you, close to your heart, or a work of art that touches your soul. Chances are that artist somewhere in their lifetime, has been there. Children come to Darkmere all the time; for them the line between fantasy and reality does not exist.
Those of us who visit often are never the same. There's a look about us, some people call it ‘fey’, others call it ‘abnormal’. It's as if live we in a dream even when fully awake. When we return to this world, we are filled to bursting with ideas and images that simply must be expressed. We are the intense, the dramatic, the passionate, the romantic and the visionaries.
Yes, we are even the mad.
I often journey to Darkmere, not always seeking inspiration. There are times I go to renew myself, to seek solace from an increasingly hostile world.
Darkmere is easily accessible, just close your eyes, and want to be there. No road maps, no complicated directions, no incantations.
Oh yes, Darkmere is quite easy to find, but not quite as easy to leave.
And with every journey to Darkmere, a price must be paid, for a place such as this never yields its gifts without cost. Those who foolishly try to cheat this world between dreams find themselves suddenly blocked. And the inability to return is often enough to cause one to become despondent, to even take their own lives in the hopes that their soul will find its way back.
I actually enjoy the company of the myriad creatures who make their home here. Contrary to popular opinion, one need not be virgin to touch a unicorn (and I could tell you stories about their horns that would most definitely change your view of them forever). Werewolves do not always change at the light of a full moon, and there is indeed a reason why one sock always disappears in the dryer.
As is my want, I tend to be solitary by nature, and those of Darkmere respect my solitude. They find me refreshing.
I am in Darkmere tonight, sans notebook and pen, a highly unusual occurrence for any writer. This can be a dangerous place for the unwary, but I wander at will and unmolested. The winding paths and smooth cobblestone streets shift and meander, sometimes leading up to the magnificent castles of jewel-like stone that are the homes of the both the Unsidhe and the Sidhe courts; others lead to sacred hills and forests, and some of the roads go absolutely nowhere.
My own sojourn finds me in front of one of my favorite haunts—The Ash & Oak.
The Ash & Oak seems to be Darkmere's nexus. Like a fabulous bazaar of beings, whatever you seek, more than likely could be found here.
Lilting, ethereal music from a variety of instruments swirl around me, and the sounds and fragments of conversations stroke my ears as tenderly as a lovely elven shaman did with his lips once upon a moonlit night beneath Darkmere’s skies. Even duels of honor are conducted without a single voice being raised.
On one side are a group of young dwarves, obviously influenced by human adolescent fashion; baggy pants, sweatshirts and steel-toed boots. One even had a baseball cap turned backwards, and several silver rings ran up the side of one large ear.
I casually wave my hand at a shaggy lycanthrope, whom I remember was a friend of my long-ago shaman. Long canines formed a friendly, if slightly feral smile.
The space of the Ash & Oak defies every single law of physics. Outside, the building is rather small and unprepossessing, built of stone, much like pubs and inns from days gone by. Inside, it becomes an MC Escher painting, endless stairways, rooms and corridors, as complex as any labyrinth. Every time I come here, it seems as if something has been added.
I delve deeper into The Ash & Oak with a set purpose to my seemingly endless meanderings. A tankard of something brown, rich and sweet was handed to me by the diminutive pixie lad who tended the bar, his wings like stained glass.
I have come to offer payment at last, for what Darkmere has given me.
