The Sandman and the War of Dreams by William Joyce Read Free Book Online Page B

same place they had started the evening, at the top of Big Root, nestlednext to Kailash in her gigantic nest. They looked around, utterly perplexed. The Dream had seemed so real. Yet here they were, feeling rested and ready, but for what, exactly? The host of their dream was nowhere to be seen. Nightlight stood up and looked at the spot where Sandman had hovered. There was nothing. Not even a grain of sand.
    Mr. Qwerty peered at his pages. They were filled—the entire dream had been written down, and at the very end was a tiny drawing of Sandman.
    Nightlight gazed at the illustrated page. He was unsure what to think about what he saw. But he reached out and touched the sparkling sketch. The drawing was made from a sort of sticky sand. It had been left by Sandman himself!
    Golden grains clung to Nightlight’s fingertips. He looked at them closely. He could feel the magicin them. Then he had a sort of flash of memory, of a song from so long ago: Nightlight, bright light, sweet dreams I bestow. . . .
    “Is there a message there, Nightlight?” Petter asked.
    Nightlight closed his eyes and held his sand-covered fingertips to his forehead. The sand told him many, many things.
    Nightlight rarely, if ever, spoke—only the direst of circumstances could compel him to use his mesmerizing, otherworldly voice. So it was all the more alarming when he quietly replied: “Only that he’s gone to help Katherine. And that none of us should follow.”

C HAPTER S EVENTEEN

    Nightlight Dawns
    T HE FIVE G UARDIANS WERE in a full frenzy for the rest of the day. Or more accurately, Ombric, North, Bunnymund, and Toothiana debated all morning while Nightlight remained still and quiet. He watched his friends study grain after grain of Mansnoozie’s sand under a never-ending array of magnifying glasses, microscopes, spyglasses, cosmic ray detectors, and even a crystal-clear egg that Bunnymund assured them could pinpoint the precise origin of the sand and its exact age. It did neither.
    After hours of testing and studying, the onlyconclusion they came to was that this sand was . . . well . . . sand. It obviously had magical properties, but what exactly were those properties, and how were they triggered?
    No one knew. And so they argued on, about everything. Whether to try to follow Sandman. How to follow him if they ever could agree to follow him. Where he might have gone and what to do if they found him. Should they split up and try to find Katherine? Should they call the Lunar Lamas? Should they try to contact the Man in the Moon?
    And, most irritatingly, why hadn’t Sandman asked them to join him? They studied charts, they consulted clouds, they looked into the past, they tried to see the future, they grumbled and worried and fussed.
    Though Nightlight remained silent, it was notwithout purpose. He had not yet told his friends that he could “read” the sand. Which was not unusual. He spoke only if he thought it necessary. He was always curious about the ways of the “Tall Ones,” as he called adults. He did not think of them as smart or intelligent. He thought of them in terms of other qualities, those things that made a Tall One “good”: kindness, bravery, trust, fun. But if they were cruel, lied maliciously, or were mean? Then Nightlight viewed them as “bad.”
    North, Ombric, Bunnymund, and Toothiana were Nightlight’s favorite Tall Ones. He understood that they were the “most good.” And he understood that they had “knowing,” which was his way of calling them wise. Then he thought about Sandman’s dream story and the new Tall One—Mother Nature. Was Mother Nature good or bad?
    Now that he knew her story, he was not sure. As a child, she had been kind and wild and brave, like Katherine. And like himself. But so much hurt had come to her. So much loss.
    It had changed her. And it had changed Pitch.
    Nightlight stared at his friends. They seemed changed too. Like they’d lost their knowing and bravery and