The Explorer's Apprentice

17:Paper Cranes

Alison Lovett

“Fly, little butterfly, fly…”

Once again, Alison tosses the paper butterfly into the air. One again, it sails a few inches before fluttering, lifeless, to the floor. The ground is littered with them, a crushed rainbow. She’s been at this for an hour at least.

Alison dismounts carefully from her perch and scribbles again in her notebook. She’s making use of a small, ‘Staff Only’ balcony that juts out of a smokestack. Occasionally the winds get really bad, but she’s safe here from prying eyes. “10:17… still no response…”

It’s unusual, that’s all. She isn’t worried, of course not, what was there to be worried about? It’s simply unusual… I dreamt of going to bed, I remember that. I dreamt of going to bed… and I ‘woke’ up again, still in this same dream…

Alison picks up her borrowed scissors, and another sheet of paper, but the tedious task is finally getting to her. She has to think of another solution. She thinks—she’s sure—if she can prove to herself she’s dreaming, the dream will end. That’s how it always works. Once the magic is gone, the mystery, Alison will wake up.

So, for the past hour, she’s been trying to activate some phenomena that could only occur in a dream. Just to prove it. What better way to achieve the impossible than to watch a paper butterfly come to life in midair? The dream had to respond to her eventually, in some way. It couldn’t just keep on being so—normal.

Alison lies on her back and dangles her latest creation above her face, not wanting to let go. If I let go, it might not work. If it doesn’t work… A snowflake of shadows plays across her face.

A sudden sound interrupts her peaceful reflection. Alison sits up quickly, trying to locate the source of the voice. A ship guard! she thinks automatically. Some off-routine patrol. Please don’t look up, please don’t look up…

Two words, distorted in the strange space created by the smokestacks, that don’t sound entirely English. “Mio dio…”

Alison forces herself to relax, to focus. It doesn’t matter, she reminds herself. I’m bound to wake up soon. I’ve been sleeping for so long, it doesn’t matter if I get in trouble. When I wake up, everything will be back to normal. She clings perilously to the winding metal staircase, and peers down to the base of the smokestack.

 A dark, familiar face tilts toward the sun, squinting in disbelief. Dream Danny, thirty feet below, removes his newsboy cap and runs a hand through his thick black curls. He kicks the swarm of paper butterflies in wonder, and talks softly out loud. “Strange weather, in America.”

“Danny! Dream Danny!” Alison leaps down the steps, two at a time. They echo ominously, but she doesn’t mind. These are just like the ones in the real world, on her father’s ship. The echoes remind her of a long-ago time, leaping down long-ago stairs with a parent holding each hand, to keep her from falling.

Danny jumps, like he had in the kitchen, not fully recognizing her at first. Alison doesn’t blame him. The skirts are probably the most monstrous things she’s ever had the misfortune of dreaming up—they’d scare anybody. He stares as she approaches, looking in her eyes while avoiding her gaze at the same time. Different expressions fight for territory on his face.

What’s got him so nervous? she wonders, as she kicks through the paper with her boots. The draft created by her skirt causes the sea of paper to ripple. Individual paper butterflies detach from the group, caught up by the sea breeze, to be later found by children and janitors alike. If Alison didn’t know any better, she might have thought they had come to life.