Lion in a Dreaming Forest

A Story by Ido richardson

There is a forest growing in a sleeping child’s bedroom, and a shadow has gotten in.

It is not obvious, at first, that the slithering shadow is out of place in the slow back and forth of the forest’s darkness. The forest is brimming with the whispers of darting critters, their eyes flashing green before malting into dark corners. The ceiling of the room is just barely visible through the dense foliage. A yellow lightbulb that could have been a moon is obscured every so often by the passing of a sinuous beast. The shadow that walks through the forest pauses to glance up at the beast moving its body lithely from branch to branch. The rustle of its silver fur melds with the quiver of leaves. Before a moment has passed, the beast is gone. The shadow lifts a hand after the fleeting creature, reaching after it and gasping wordlessly. The aching behind the shadow’s eyes makes the forest heave a sigh. The forest had known its own share of loss and yearning. The empathetic shift in the lay of the trees is unnoticeable, and yet the shadow notices. It nods its head to the forest in gratitude, setting off along a newly cleared path to continue its search.

There is a lion walking down a path in a forest. The lion is black as shadow, and there is pain and loss in its ancient eyes. The forest is quieter now, it is listening. One might think the forest stretches out into infinity, covering hills and valleys with the endless twilight of the dreaming trees. Another may claim it stops only a mere few paces from the trail, boxed in by the walls of a child’s bedroom. None of them would be completely wrong. The lion that was a shadow sinks paw after silent paw in the thick bed of leaves on the ground, its head lowered. It knows it must keep looking, though what for, it is not always certain.

After a time - for all spans of time are equal in the lands of the forest - the lion stops. The ivory orbs that gleam in his eyes regard the clearing that had opened in front of him. The forest has bared its heart before him. A bed stands at the center of the clearing, and a child is bundled in blankets in the middle of the bed. The child is sleeping, of course, for he must be doing so to be dreaming. And dreaming he is, if the forest and all the life within it may attest to the churning of the child’s mind. The lion takes a hesitant step forward. He remembers visiting this place some time in the past. He had not been so small then, that is, he was more of himself. Or so it seemed. At times, it is difficult to know such things for certain. What was, and what might have been, what must never again come to pass.

The prowling lion is now an old man, leaning heavily on a tall staff of white ash. The man’s face is just as gnarled as the twisted wood of his staff, though he is much older than it is. Slowly, silently, he huddles closer to the sleeping child. As he reaches the side of the bed and raises a hand to touch the soft covers, the forest snarls at him. The forest’s snarl is a collection of sounds, an amalgamation. Leaves rustle, and the wind shrieks through the naked limbs of the trees. A bird is chirping on a nearby branch and a creature that could have been mistaken for a deer is stomping a cloven hoof. In that intake of breath and hiss of noise, the forest cautions the old man in his dark cloak. The man pauses. He is not afraid of the forest. He has long ago forsaken such feelings. Still, even though he has lost much of who and what he was, he retains enough of himself that he does not wish to give offense. Not here.

The man blinks and is a lion once more. The star-studded darkness of the lion’s mane shifts as he looks back to the forest, waiting. The forest relaxes somewhat. It lets out a low hum, the distant gurgle of a cold creek filling the night with a hesitant calm. A lion, is would seem, is not quite as frightening as an old man. Not in the eyes of the dreaming forest. Nodding its large head at the soothed forest, the lion hops onto the bed. Four black paws settle into the soft covers, not sinking quite low enough to account for the beast’s supposed weight. The sleeping child does not stir. The lion makes a circuit around the bed, lowering his head to sniff at the child’s face, touching a wet nose to his slightly wrinkled brow. The child will not wake this night. In fact, the child will not wake anytime soon. He has chosen this dream not very long ago, and it will be a while before it must come to an end. In time, of course, the dream will reach its inevitable conclusion. The forest will be no more, and neither will the serpentine beast continue to slither through the treetops. But for now, the child dreams on. For now, the forest is.

The lion curls itself into a ball at the dreaming child’s feet. It rests a burdened head on his large front paws and huffs out a great sighing breath. In time, the forest will be no more. But the lion would not wait to see its end. In time - for all spans of time are equal in the lands of the forest - the lion must leave. An old man leaning on a staff of white ash will huddle out of the forest, and only the slithering beasts above will remember the scent of his dark cloak as he trails away. Only the gurgling creek will recall the ancient aching in the old man’s eyes as he leaves the forest and continues his search. But for now, there is time. For now, it is twilight in the lands of the forest, and a smile tugs at the tip of the child’s lips, his bed warmed by the black lion that slumbers at his heels. For now, the lion closes his eyes.

There is a forest growing in a sleeping child’s bedroom, and a shadow has gotten in. The forest draws closer around the shadow, sheltering him with a blanket of leaves. It cannot sooth the pain the shadow carries with him. It cannot wash away the aching. But it can embrace the shadow and pull him closer. It can fold a black lion into the dreams of a sleeping child and keep both safe. The lion closes his eyes. For now.