Diwa and the Undreamt Sea: Part 1

Diwa has always been plagued by nightmares. Every night, when she goes to sleep, her dark memories take hold, twisting her dreams. But one night, Diwa finds herself freed from the cycle of night terrors: her journey brings her to the Undreamt Sea, where she meets the Mists, the caretakers of this mysterious new world.

Art by Simone Ford

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Diwa opened her eyes. Around her, reaching out to every corner of the horizon, was the deep, ancient blue of the sea. Salt streamed along her skin. High above, the girl heard a seagull screech, but otherwise, only the wind interrupted the rhythmic waves carving their path through the ocean.

It took her awhile to notice she wasn’t alone.

“Welcome, dreamer.” The soothing voice belonged to a bone-white man, skin so translucent Diwa could see his veins flowing and moving. They were of the same color as the sea; the same rhythm moving the waves was moving his blood. This, along with the blue webbed ears peeking through the man’s curling, golden hair, solidified Diwa’s certainty he wasn’t human.

She sighed. Months had passed since… that day, and yet Diwa was still haunted by nightmares. At least this one didn’t seem too dark. Yet.

The man, creature, dream figment, whatever, was still looking at her expectantly. Diwa stumbled as the boat underneath her feet was rocked by a wave. The man remained still, unaffected. His grip around a thick, glowing rope only tightened. Instead of answering him, Diwa peered over the side of the small, wooden canoe they found themselves on, to stare into the depths of the sea. The rope glowed beneath the waves, connected to an intricately woven net, that trailed on the side of their boat, like a guiding star.

“You may rest here, dreamer. Until you can hear the melody of the waves, it is safer for you to remain rooted.” The man spoke again, gesturing to the bench in front of Diwa.

She almost let out a scream. The moment she had sat down, small tendrils had begun curling around her shoes and up her legs, till they formed a green rope twisted around her form from the waist down, securely tying her to the deck of the boat.

“You could have warned me.” She muttered, but the man’s pale blue, gold flecked eyes were firmly set back on the rolling water stretching around them. The rope twitched in his hands, and the man tensed, waiting for something. Diwa felt her muscles tighten in anticipation. A dark, formless mass filled her vision, reaching towards her… Diwa blinked, and the vision disappeared. She breathed in the sharp salt, focusing on the warm breeze flowing through her hair, the cry of the seagulls, and the gentle hum of the rocking waves.

This is a good dream, she thought. For once, it seemed Diwa could sleep calmly. There were no fires, no darkness, no usual signs this was a nightmare. Just sit and enjoy it.

“Amanikable be gentle, I believe this may be a Class 3!” The man uttered, eagerness shining from his eyes, echoing the bright glint of his gilded hair.

Diwa started at his words. Amanikable was an ancient Filipino deity, a sea god of an old religion that only accumulated dust in the shelves of history. She had briefly studied it, interested in the history of her culture, but she was surprised anyone knew who the ancient god was, let alone revere him. It is my dream after all, she reasoned.

The strange man had by now begun pulling in the net, and more green tendrils formed along the inside of the boat to grasp at the lengthening rope as it emerged from the water, tightly holding it in place. The man had begun singing quietly, and the veins under his skin seemed to move in answer.

Below the blue surface, Diwa spotted a dark something twitch, trapped in the ropes of the glowing net. The man grunted, clenching his teeth as he strained to haul the net, and its prey, on to the canoe. Diwa fidgeted, uncertain how to help, but with a final note, the man finished his song, and triumphantly lifted the net into the air.

“What is that?” The words slipped past her tongue unbidden, and if she could move her legs, Diwa would have scrambled backward, away from the thing caught in the net.

“Do not fret, dreamer. It is not a that, but a they. And they are nightmares.” The man answered calmly, and deftly placed the dark, moving shapes trapped in the net onto the deck of the boat. The dark creatures, the nightmares, seemed to get angrier, unable to escape.

“Nightmares? What? What even are you? Where am I?” Diwa’s pulse quickened. This dream was no longer feeling like a dream. The wind grew colder, and bit her skin. Thunder boomed overhead, storm clouds forming on the horizon.

“Peace be with you, dreamer. You are safe here. This is the lands of the Mists, and we are but the simple gardeners of the human mind. We fish the Undreamt Sea for the fears plaguing the dreams of humanity. We watch over the Subconscious and keep the balance of these waters.” The man, the Mist he called himself, replied, and for some reason, Diwa trusted him, perhaps because he reminded her so much of the calm sea, whose waters promised to keep secrets safe.

She loosened her breath, and the clouds unfurled above. The man turned back to his catch, and from the green-vine belt around his waist, pulled a sharp dagger. He started to saw away at the net, careful not to cut the nightmares, whose fury grew, smelling the beckoning call of freedom.

As Diwa observed them, she noticed they weren’t just one dark form, as she had first thought, but each had a distinctive shape. There were instead three nightmares in total: two were black creatures, almost leech-like in appearance, their heads only identifiable from their tails because of a set of small razor teeth lining a gaping mouth; and the third was simply a black loop, a swollen black circle, spinning for eternity.

The hole the Mist had cut was only small enough for one nightmare to pass through at a time. The first nightmare, ones of the Leeches, Diwa silently called, quickly squirmed forward, but before it could escape, the golden-haired Mist grabbed it by its tail, while one of the boat’s tendrils wrapped the hole in the net close.

“This is a Class 1.” The man stated to no one particularly, as if only confirming his suspicions. He reached for a chest behind him and withdrew a large glass jar. Its crystal lid seemed to melt away, and without much struggle, the man stuffed the Leech into the jar, who screeched in fury, as the lid reformed, trapping it in a glass prison. The man repeated this with the other nightmares, until three jars lined the side of the boat, each filled with a raging black storm.

“Ah. My prayers to Idiyanale have been answered. I suspect this is your Class 3.” Diwa turned away from the shrieks of the nightmares to face the man, who bowed his head, thanking Idiyanale, the goddess of labour and good deeds. Then he turned to the net, carefully aimed his dagger, before letting it go, fingers arching.

Diwa watched in shock as the knife whistled through the air, before piercing a small black pearl that had been slowly rolling towards the hole of the net, seeking to slip through its gap. Diwa had seen it before, in the mass of black nightmares, but had dismissed it as an oddity from the sea, and nothing more. Instead, as the blade touched the pearl, pinning it in place, a high-pitched scream filled the air, a nightmarish cry that made Diwa’s skin prickle in fear. She couldn’t place it, but she had heard it somewhere, once…

The black pearl twitched but was unable to roll itself free. The man calmly picked it up, and placed it delicately in a fourth jar, shaped like an oyster, if it were made of glass. Then, with a satisfied sigh, he took a green oar in hand, and began paddling.

Diwa swallowed hard, shaking herself from the memories the scream had triggered. She let her fingers trail through the salted waves, let the waters soothe her skin and her mind. The boat picked up speed, the wind lashing at her hair, even though the Mist had put away his oar. Diwa turned, and to her surprise, saw that green tendrils had aligned on the bottom and sides of the boat, forming a multitude of miniature feet, that seemed to almost run over the water, so smooth did they cut through the waves.

Before she knew it, the boat had reached a small island of black sand, empty apart from cherry blossoms and climbing vines. The man stood, and silently offered his hand to her. Diwa took it, wondering where they were going, and watched in fascination as the tendrils released her legs, and formed small hands that waved goodbye.

“Strange.” She muttered, but smiled at them, a foreign feeling on her face, before stepping off the canoe. The Mist followed her, holding a woven basket filled with clinking nightmare jars. He gave her his arm, and together, the two ventured to the centre of the island.

“Here we are, dreamer. A House of Sorrow. For here is where the Fishermen Mists, such as myself, must give our bounty to the Gilded Mists, those who might end the existence of the nightmares.” The man announced once they reached the very core of the island, where the trees grew closer to one another, bathing all in shadow.

Diwa squinted, but saw nothing apart from leaves, bark, and branches. The air here felt heavier, as if the island itself were holding its breath. The wisps of salt from the sea were less pungent, replaced by the sweet perfume of blossoms and sand.

“Whe-” Diwa started but cut herself off with a shout of surprise. The Mist had, without explanation, thrusted the basket of jars into her arms, and pushed her into a small clearing, where tall jungle trees formed a tipped dome.

Her heart thundered. Diwa’s mind raced, and flashes of bitter memory creeped their way through, ready to consume her. The clatter of the glass jars was so similar to the sound of bullets rattling in the barrel of a gun; blood was dripping down her chest; they were all screaming and screaming and screaming; her body was being thrown into the dusted ground; fat, cold tears kept on falling and falling and falling, and everywhere she looked they all continued chanting, they all continued shouting hate, they all-

With a harsh cry, Diwa ripped herself free from the past. Around her, the trees had grown large thorns and the sky had become a dark storm of thunder clouds, threatening to burst, ripe with the tang of lightning and smoke. Diwa couldn’t breathe, she was gasping for air, but she forced herself to keep her eyes open, to keep her feet planted in the ground. She would not run.

The Mist was still there, staring at her with wide, blue eyes. He whispered a prayer, and without another word, bowed, before stepping back into the trees. It only took a few steps before his robes became leaves, and the man faded into the dark foliage, as if had never been.

Diwa swore. But before she could react, a humming filled the air, and a light began to glow from underneath her shoes. She looked down, and to her astonishment saw she was standing in the centre of a circle of ruby gems, ones that were aglow and had begun vibrating. The light burned brighter and brighter, the humming growing louder and louder.

Diwa flinched and shut her eyes tight. The light and the humming, continued droning, until Diwa could almost taste their essence on her tongue, a rich fragrance swollen with fire and haunting melody.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, Diwa repeated silently, but she stopped when the words reminded her too much of that day: that day where everything had broken, where the glass had shattered into a thousand small pieces, too many for her to stitch whole again.

The light and the music had grown so loud they had merged into a single beat, an endless roar. Diwa screamed, but her voice was lost in the deafening thunder. Still, the light burned brighter, still, the music became louder, until with one, single peal, everything faded to black.