Prologue: what are dreams made of?
"Mommy, what are dreams made of?" asked the little girl on a cold December night. Her bright, curly, brown hair shining by the firelight, her blue eyes sparkling with wonder and merriment that a four-years-old had.
"That depends on the dream, Sweetie. What sort of dream are you talking about?" The mother answered in a calm-storyteller voice. Her long, light brown hair cascaded down her neck in little ringlets, intertwining with her daughter's. Matching blue eyes sparkled with amusement at her little one's question. They were both cuddled near the fireplace, while, outside, the snow fell in slow, lazy dances.
"Sort? What do you mean mommy?" Her face was turned towards her mom. She was curious.
"Well, what do you want to dream of?" Her voice held traces of amusement that her daughter could not pick up on.
"Ummm. How about … children!" the young girl exclaimed. She bobbed her head in excitement, happy to have found a dream-type.
Her mother laughed. "That's an easy one. All you need is a hint of rainbow, dewdrops from a summer morning, the Three Sisters' blessing and a wish from two parents."
"What are the last two mommy? The three, … three, … three, … ."
"Three Sisters' blessing and a wish from two parents."
"Yes mommy. That! Why do you need those?"
"The Three sisters, or the Fates as they are more widely known. They are the ones who weave the tapestry of Destiny. They are the ones who create a child. They are three sisters who spins the threads that they use to weave the Tapestry. Each thread represents a life."
"What are they called?"
"The eldest is called Clotho, she is the one who spins the threads. The second is known as Lachesis, she is the one who measures the length of the threads that are needed. The youngest is named Atropos, she is the one who cuts the threads that are needed."
"I see. But, aren't they bored from doing the same thing over and over again?"
"No, they are used to it. Besides, they decide how the tapestry should look."
"Ok. And the last ingredient for a dream of a child?"
"A wish from two parents?"
"A-hun." Her little blond curls bobbed up and down as if they were on springs.
"A dream of a child cannot be created if two people do not wish for it. They are known as parents since they are the ones who brought this dream to life. If the parents' wish is strong, then a child is born somewhere in the world." She saw her daughter yawn. Somewhere, a clock chimed: once, twice, thrice, … until eleven times runged. "Time for bed little one. It is late in the night."
The girl got up. "Ok mommy. Night." Kissing her mother's cheek, she slowly went up the stairs and to her bed. She was to tired to complain.
The mother smiled at her child's retreating back. Love for her daughter flown through her body and soul. Gazing outside she stared at the snowflakes.
'What were dreams made of?' she mused. She did not know where her answer came from. When her daughter asked, words had just come out of her mouth, flying through the air to respond to the question. Being a storyteller by trade made you think of some very creative responses. Of that she was certain. She too started to go up the stairs to her bedroom. Soon, as her daughter before her, she fell into a deep slumber.
Outside, snowflakes fell in the inky-night sky. They danced there little dance only they could now. And somewhere out there, three sisters weave their tapestry. They had three little dreams to create or else there work would be destroyed.