The Dream Thief by Catherine Tavares

Detective Renaud burst onto the metaphysical plane at the entrance to the Night Market. He absently patted himself down, an idiosyncrasy to realign his consciousness with his dream-self and away from his physical body, asleep somewhere in the Dream Enforcement offices of the material plane.

Striding quickly to the Night Market gate, Renaud flashed his badge to the officer there. He needn’t have bothered. Her eyes widened in recognition, and she waved him forward, already knowing why he was there.

The hunt for the Dream Thief was the most famous case of their time after all, and Renaud was the only detective to ever come close to catching him.

And catch him, he would, Renaud thought, hurrying into the splendor of the Night Market.

The aisles of the market were a cacophonous flurry of global patrons: men, women, children, even animals wandered about, sampling a foretaste of the fantasies that awaited in the dream world beyond. Delectable foods and drinks tempted the senses, musicians entertained at every corner, and crowds gathered for teachings on religion, history, science, and story.

But none of it mattered. The Thief had no interest in the market, Renaud knew. Anyone in a slight doze could enter it, thus its constant crowds. The real magic of the metaphysical plane, the reason the Thief stole consciousnesses, lay beyond the Night Market where only the deepest sleepers could travel.

Renaud hastened his steps. Unlike in the market, he would hold no jurisdiction out in the dream world. It was a place of peace and freedom, absent of pain and evil. Law enforcement could do nothing there; there was nothing for them to do.

If the Dream Thief made it beyond the borders of the market, he would escape Renaud’s reach, forever.

Outside the market proper, Renaud clambered up the hill path where he knew the invisible border to the world beyond lay. He stopped at the top where a small, hunched figure sat on the grass.

It was a woman, mid-thirties with tawny brown skin and sleek black hair. Her left arm was a tattooed sleeve of tangled leaves and flowers. Renaud recognized her from the hospital where she lay in a coma, but when she turned to look at him, he saw the Dream Thief behind her eyes.

Renaud walked the final steps to the Thief and settled himself cross-legged next to him in silence.

“It’s so close,” the Thief whispered with the woman’s voice.

“You can’t enter?” Renaud asked.

The Thief shook his head. “She’s fighting me,” he said, waving a hand down at himself.

“So she should,” Renaud asserted. “Her consciousness is not a joyride. Nor were the others.”

The Thief hummed absently—in agreement or derision, Renaud couldn’t tell—and returned his gaze to the horizon.

“I’ve never been, you know,” the Thief said. “The curse of an insomniac. My consciousness isn’t strong enough to make it before it’s pulled back into waking.” He clutched at his chest, fingers pinching the fabric of the shirt.

“It hurts. The less sleep you get, the less your consciousness can tolerate being here. You’re a stranger, a cancer to the plane. Do you know what that’s like, Detective? Do you know what tortures I’ve lived?”

Renaud did know. He had seen sleep-deprived individuals before, watched them descend into madness, unable to find relief on either plane. It was a fate worse than death.

“There are treatments,” Renaud said, the offer sounding pathetic even to his own ears. “Medicines and therapies. You’ll receive those, even in prison.”

The Thief laughed, an ugly sound. “Do you think I’ve never tried such things? It’s too late now. I will not survive long enough for any…treatment to work. No, Detective, the only way I can ever find peace is through the consciousness of another.”

Renaud sighed. “I can’t let you do that.”

“I know.” The Thief hung his head. “I am tired, Detective. Weary beyond any possible imagination. No, don’t say you understand because you don’t! Just…” He trailed off, and Renaud saw the beginnings of tears in the Thief’s eyes

“I am not harming her, I promise,” the Thief whispered hollowly. “And I will come with you. But…can we stay here a little longer.” He turned back to the dream world, almost smiling. “Just a little longer.”

Renaud followed his gaze, wondering what the Thief saw. To him, the world beyond was rolling hills and wildflowers, tall trees in whose shade one could curl up with a book. But the dream world was different for everyone, a personal haven of escape. Renaud remembered the way the Thief clutched at his chest. Did whatever the Thief see end his pain, or could he only experience reflections of the woman’s consciousness? After years of waking agony, did he even care whose dream he entered?

Renaud didn’t know. All he knew was that such pain and grief had no place on any plane. Renaud was suddenly very tempted to shove the Thief, pick him up and carry him into the dream world where his tears would dry and his torment end. If not for the woman, he thought he would’ve done so and happily given up the search for the Dream Thief forever.

But not even dreams could change what was true in reality.

“I’m sorry,” Renaud said. “I’m so sorry.”

The Thief nodded, breathing shakily as he turned away from the dream world. Renaud quietly put restraints on the Thief and led him back through the Night Market. They were met with cheers from officers and civilians alike, everyone thrilled at justice being served tonight.

At the gate, Renaud paused. He should say something. This was the culmination of his career, what he had worked toward for years. He should make some sort of acknowledgment to the people here who bore witness. Instead, Renaud found himself mirroring the Thief’s bowed head, their tears disappearing in an instant in the dust at their feet, not permitted to exist this close to paradise.