DREAM CHASERS: Screamcatcher, book 2
by Christy J. Breedlove
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Seventeen year-old Jory Pike knows a thing or two about Indian lore from her half-blood Chippewa ancestry. She can trap, hunt and fish with the best of them. She has a team of three other teens friends called The Badlands Paranormal Society. Instead of bagging groceries or playing on I-pods, they think they can excel at banishing evil spirits. They hope to cleanse houses and earn fat paychecks for their services.
Dream catchers aren\’t just the chic hoops tourists buy at novelty shops–they work. And sometimes they clog up with nightmares until they collapse under their own evil weight, imploding and sending the dreamer into an alternate world. Jory uses her worst nightmare to enter the dream catcher world. She’s pulled her teammates in deliberately. Everything goes right on schedule but they’ve bitten off more than they can chew. Now Jory and her friends are there, trapped between the people who have confessed their sins to the Great Spirit and are seeking a way out, and the monsters and evil spirits, which are happy to keep them trapped in the web world forever.
They were once considered Seekers in the dream world. Now they’ve become vigilantes and call themselves Pathfinders. Is it spiritual enlightenment they after? Or have they now become fatally reckless?
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SOME WORDS FROM CHRISTY
ORIGIN OF THE DREAM CATCHER STORY
It all started with a dream catcher. This iconic item, which is rightfully ingrained in Indian lore, is a dream symbol respected by the culture that created it. It is mystifying, an enigma that that prods the imagination. Legends about the dream catcher are passed down from multiple tribes. There are variations, but the one fact that can be agreed upon is that it is a nightmare entrapment device, designed to sift through evil thoughts and images and only allow pleasant and peaceful dreams to enter into consciousness of the sleeper.
I wondered what would happen to a very ancient dream catcher that was topped off with dreams and nightmares. What if the nightmares became too sick or deathly? What if the web strings could not hold anymore visions? Would the dream catcher melt, burst, vanish, implode? I reasoned that something would have to give if too much evil was allowed to congregate inside of its structure. I found nothing on the Internet that offered a solution to this problem—I might have missed a relevant story, but nothing stood out to me. Stephen King had a story called Dream Catcher, but I found nothing in it that was similar to what I had in mind. So I took it upon myself to answer such a burning question. Like too much death on a battlefield could inundate the immediate location with lost and angry spirits, so could a dream catcher hold no more of its fill of sheer terror without morphing into something else, or opening up a lost and forbidden existence. What would it be like to be caught up in another world inside the webs of a dream catcher, and how would you get out? What would this world look like? How could it be navigated? What was the source of the exit, and what was inside of it that threatened your existence? Screamcatcher: Web World, the first in the series, was my answer. I can only hope that I have done it justice.
THE DREAM CATCHER AS A DEVICE–(EXCERPT FROM FIRST NATION\’S TRIBE, ALBERT WHITE FEATHER PIKE)
“It is said that Iktomi, the great trickster and searcher of wisdom, appeared to an old spiritual leader in the form of a spider. Iktomi, the spider, picked up the elder’s willow hoop, which had feathers, horsehair and beads on it and began to spin a web. He spoke to the elder about the cycles of life and the many forces–some good and some bad—and how it was important to listen to the clean, good forces and to avoid the darker ones that could hurt and lead you astray.”
“The big spider was the teacher, then?” asked Choice.
Jory rolled her eyes, having heard the legend before.
Albert’s eyes became slits. “Yes. When Iktomi finished the web, he returned it to the elder and said ‘The web is a perfect circle with a hole in the middle. All of the bad forces, visions and dreams enter onto the web where they are trapped and held. All of the good forces find their way into the center and slip through, to travel down the feather and bead path, arriving upon the sleeper. If you believe in the Great Spirit, the web will filter your visions and give you pleasant dreams. The bad ones will never pass.’”
“But, Grandfather, said Jory, “the dream catcher was used for babies and small children to comfort them. They were used above cradle boards.”
Albert seemed not to have heard her words, having focused on Choice. “And when the sun rose the next morning it would wash all of the bad spirits from the catcher, cleansing it for another sleep cycle. It was always made to fall apart and wither after years of use so that it would never be filled up with the dark things.”
“Damn,” said Choice. “What’s it made of? Little sticks and strings?”
“They were made for adults too,” said Albert, looking at Jory. “The hoop is made from the twigs of the red willow, formed and dried. It is woven with the thread from the stalk of the stinging nettle. The very old ones have sinew for web. The beads are a decoration, and only one gemstone is used to show that there is only one creator in the web of life. Long ago, the government of this country outlawed the use of real eagle feathers, so most are made from feathers of other birds.”
Choice nodded and waved his hand at the board. “Then they’re just copies?”
“Not these,” said Albert. “I made many of them as a youth when no such law existed.”
HOW THE WORLD IS VIEWED FROM ALBERT WHITE FEATHER PIKE–(EXCERPT0.
Albert lifted one of the smaller dream catchers from the board with delicate fingers and extended it to Jory. “Granddaughter, I make this a gift to you. May you find protection in it with the blessings of all our ancestors. It will drive the devil spirit from your thoughts and give you peace.”
Jory gave him an endearing smile. “It’s really generous, and it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer. But, Grandfather, you have to understand that the ways and teachings of the old ones are so very lost in today’s culture. I don’t think I have the proper faith to make it work.”
Albert grunted. “You are saying it is an embarrassment to carry the blood of your family tribe and you find suspicion with things that are held dear and sacred.” He glanced at Choice. “It is a shame that the tribal youth of today–the Ojibway or Chippewa–have no time for the chants and songs, nor do they understand the words in the old stories.”
Albert looked at the large, front panel windows and out into the street. “This is an age of bending metal, cutting down the trees of the forest, fouling the waters and blackening the earth with soot and chemicals. The sound of the flute song and drums has disappeared, along with the dances and animal pantomimes. Today the music is born of electric violence and its words are lost in savage mutterings and howls. The world–the great circle upon which all creatures great and small live–is an angry, dying spirit.” He looked back at Jory. “That is the today you speak of, precious granddaughter. You have lost touch with your origins. The spirit cries out for your return. You have only to give heed to that calling. It’s never left you.”
Christy J. Breedlove (Chris H. Stevenson), originally born in California, moved to Sylvania, Alabama in 2009. Her occupations have included newspaper editor/reporter, astronomer, federal police officer, housecleaner and part time surfer girl. She has been writing off and on for 36 years, having officially published books beginning in 1988. Today she writes in her favorite genre, Young Adult, but has published in multiple genres and categories. She was a finalist in the L. Ron. Hubbard Writers of the Future contest, and took the first place grand prize in a YA novel writing contest for The Girl They Sold to the Moon. She writes the popular blog, Guerrilla Warfare for Writers (special weapons and tactics), hoping to inform and educate writers all over the world about the high points and pitfalls of publishing.
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