Chapter 26: Becoming

When Allison’s hand finally stopped, the world rushed back in like a tide. Her hand was cramped. Her fingers ached around the Quill’s brass barrel. Her vision was blurry with the particular exhaustion of someone who had been staring at something very close for a very long time. She was trembling. Her whole body shivered; everything she had left was in those bound pages of her family’s book. She had poured something out of herself so large and deep and essential.

Thimble's humming had stopped. Felipe’s harmony had faded. The fireflies above had slowed their orbits to a gentle drift, their light steady and warm, and rested.

Allison looked down at the tome. The pages she’d written on glowed softly — the ink was luminous and alive, the words were settling into the antique paper as if they’d always been there. She couldn’t read what she’d written because her eyes couldn’t focus; more than that, she instinctively understood the words weren’t meant to be read. They were meant for existing, in the book, in Dreamspace, in the fabric of the world she was learning to sustain. That was enough.

She closed the tome gently. Held it against her chest. Felt its heartbeat — stronger now, even steadier than before she started, no longer wavering.

Then she looked up.

The ooze had melted back considerably.

Once it had covered almost all of the portal—only a few inches wide when she started—it now clung to less than half, concentrated at the base, thick and stubborn, but drastically reduced. The upper half of the portal frame was exposed, and through it, golden light blazed—a warm radiance pushing back the remaining darkness like a sunrise against the horizon. It was becoming stronger, steadier.

The ooze still quivered, steam rising in thin wisps that curled and vanished. Its purchase on the portal was fragile. With every pulse of the mosaic’s light, it contracted slightly, as if each heartbeat of the Dreamspace were a blow it could no longer absorb.

It was dying slowly, painfully.

Sol walked back from their sentry position, their stride strong and assured, their golden eyes warm. They looked at the portal. At the ooze. At Allison, sitting with a glowing book against her chest, pen in hand, and fireflies settling in her hair like a crown.

“Remarkable,” Sol said quietly with awe.

Felipe appeared beside Allison — when had he moved? — and pressed himself against her side. “You did it, mija. You did it. Look at it. You are so much stronger than you know. Look at what your words did. Look how much each and every one of them mattered.”

Thimble sat on the mosaic beside her, tail curled, eyes bright with tears she wasn’t bothering to hide. “Your first entry,” she said softly. “Your grandfather would be so proud. Your father, too. As are all of us.”

Allison looked at the receding ooze. At the light pouring through the portal. At her newfound friends around her.

“It’s not gone yet,” she said after clearing her throat. Her voice was hoarse, her throat raw. “There’s still some work left to do.”

“Yes,” Thimble said. “There is. But look how much weaker that horrible thing is. You really put a crimp in its plans. Incredible.”

“What do I need to do to finish it?”

Thimble looked at the remaining portion of the ooze, stubbornly clinging to the portal’s base, quivering. Then she looked at Allison, beaming with pride, while acknowledging that there was still work to do.

“That,” she said, “is what we need to figure out next. Together. But not right now.” She placed a paw on Allison’s knee. “Right now, you rest. You eat something. Let your body recover from what you just did. Because what comes next will take everything you have.”

Allison nodded. She was too exhausted to argue. The Quill cooled in her hand. The tome’s heartbeat slowed to a resting pulse against her chest. The fireflies above her settled, their glow dimming to a gentle light.

Around them, the Dreamspace breathed — deeper, stronger, more alive than it had been in days. The carousel in the distance turned again — two rotations this time, then three. A string of lights on the boardwalk flickered on and stayed on. Somewhere far away, a teddy bear in a striped apron looked up at the brightening dome, set down the cotton candy it was spinning, and, for the first time in a very long time, smiled.

The fight was not over, but it had begun to turn in their favor.

They moved off the mosaic and walked to a grassy spot in the shade of the Heartwood’s massive canopy. Its lowest branches spread wide overhead; leaves filtered the Dreamspace’s damaged light, dappling it and warming it. The grass here was soft and thick, one of the few patches the ooze hadn’t corrupted. It smelled of fresh air, grassy meadows, wildflowers, mushrooms, and trees embedded in loamy soil. It was intoxicating and healing. No better place to sit and recover.

Thimble produced a notebook from the satchel, the tiny leather-bound one she’d been taking notes in throughout the research session. “Right,” she said, settling into the grass with her tail curled around her. “There’s got to be something useful in all these notes. Allison, can you see what you can find in your tome? Anything about declarations, initiations, rituals of ascension, anything that describes a Sparkkeeper formally taking up the role.”

Sol sat beside them, back against one of the Heartwood’s great surface roots, and closed their golden eyes. A faint hum came from their chest—the sound of internal processing and sorting. Without opening their eyes, Sol reached out and pressed against the root. The wood responded with a subtle budding at the bark’s surface. The familiar organic port emerged to meet Sol’s palm. They connected. The drone deepened, and the Heartwood’s archives opened to them once more.

This was the first time Allison had seen Sol do this. Whoa! Dreamspace magic is cool. I have to learn some of that, she thought. She watched for a while, then caught herself staring and looked away with a bashful grin.

Allison tore her eyes from what Sol was doing, opened the family tome on her lap, and began turning the pages carefully, searching for something specific, even though she didn’t know what. She had an inkling, though, of what it could be, even if she couldn’t articulate it: the moment. The turning point. 

She decided to try the cool magic for herself, and let Dreamspace and her ancestor guide her. She laid the book open in her lap, pulled her hands away, and placed them on the ground beside her, palms down, willing her needs into the soil as she whispered, hoping no one would hear.

Dreamspace. I don’t know how to do this or even if I can. I don’t know if I have any of that magic stuff Thimble or Sol seem to have, but I need your help. We have to find a way to strike a final, huge blow against this evil thing. I have no idea where to look. I’ve never had to do anything like this before. Can you please guide me and help us find a solution? I want to go home eventually, but I also want everyone here to be safe. Thanks.

Thimble turned to look, a huge grin spreading across her face. She just nodded, twitched her whiskers, and went back to her work, keeping Allison in her periphery in case she needed help. She knew that the most powerful magic here is from the work you figure out yourself, in a way that works for you. The Dreamspace knows what to do with it.

The pages of her family’s book began to glow softly, then moved on their own, flipping page after page carefully. The tea-stained enchantments faded as it moved through once-hidden sections. The Dreamspace had evidently decided she’d earned the right to see more. Her grandfather’s handwriting appeared—fluid, looping, right-slanted. Her father’s block capitals were exact and utilitarian. Sketches, schematics, margin notes, and even recipes—recipes, in the Sparkkeeper tome! Between them were passages that resembled journal entries: intimate, unfiltered, hesitant.

I’m not sure I’m doing this right. Her father wrote in the margin, his block letters smaller than usual, almost cramped, as if trying to fit everything into so little space. Dad made it look easy. Nothing about this is easy. But my daughter’s bears from the drawing she made for me are here at the carnival, and the carousel runs. I’m glad I got to do that for her and for me. I hope she gets to see it one day; perhaps that’s enough for today.

Her eyes stung. She kept turning.

Felipe sauntered down the path from the Heartwood, cart fully loaded. Fragrant steam rose, and the display was organized with the discipline of a little boy in a kitchen chair, watching generations of women prepare for a battalion of children, grandchildren, hard-working men, exhausted new mamas, and neighborhood friends. Squeaking wheels hit cobblestones, and before he even entered the shade, the smell triggered an urgent growl in Allison’s stomach.

Felipe announced, parking the cart and flipping down a small serving shelf with practiced efficiency: “Nobody is doing any more world-saving until everyone has eaten a proper meal. This is not open to negotiation. I don’t care if the dome is cracking, the portal is sealed, and there’s a tar monster at the break—everything. Empty stomachs make bad decisions, and I refuse to be complicit in bad decisions when I have a perfectly functional kitchen.”

The spread was extraordinary. Tacos—carne asada, carnitas, and a vegetarian option with roasted squash, black beans, and pickled onions. Empanadas, sweet and savory: spiced chicken and peppers for the savory, dulce de leche and cinnamon-spiced apples for the sweet. Rice and beans, aromatic with cumin and cilantro, steamed in a clay bowl. A stone molcajete cradled vibrant guacamole—bright with lime and flecked with jalapeño—beside a basket of warm tortilla chips. Three salsas—verde, roja, and a smoky chipotle—Felipe called “not for beginners, but you seem brave.” Churros, dusted with cinnamon sugar, nestled in a cloth-lined basket. A full pitcher of cold, creamy horchata sweated in the warm air.

Felipe poured horchata into mismatched cups: a clay tumbler for Allison, a tiny glazed mug for Thimble, and for Sol, a cup they wouldn’t drink but would hold to stay part of the group, something Felipe had learned to do without comment.

Felipe then started making plates. He didn’t ask or suggest. He just assembled them, making a taco for Allison with the exact toppings she’d once mentioned: extra lime, easy on the onion, double cilantro. He made a small plate of empanada and berries for Thimble, and a full selection for himself, because a chef who doesn’t eat his own food can’t be trusted.

He sat down, crossed his legs, balanced his plate on one knee, and looked around at the group with the satisfied expression of someone who had identified a problem and solved it with seasoned meat, fresh vegetables, juicy fruit, and just the right amount of chile.

“Eat first,” he said. “Then save the world.”

They ate. Conversation paused; the food demanded attention, and their hunger was too intense to ignore. Allison bit into her carne asada taco, and immediately, wiggles showed her delight. Felipe caught it and nodded in pride. Thimble ate with delicate intent, half-closed eyes focused on every morsel of empanada. Sol held their warm cup and watched with quiet understanding, content even without a meal.

Felipe played waiter between his own bites, refilling horchata and offering seconds. When Allison asked for it, he produced a small plate of chipotle salsa, raising an eyebrow as if to say, “Are you sure?” She was sure. She regretted it for a moment, then didn’t.

The meal settled into them the way Felipe’s food always did, not just filling their stomachs but something larger. The fear ebbed. The exhaustion softened. The overwhelming impossibility of what they were doing—four beings against a tar monster made of self-hatred—became manageable for the duration of the meal. Because they were together and fed. And Felipe’s tacos were, as always, transcendent.

Allison wiped salsa verde from her fingers on a cloth napkin Felipe had provided because, of course, he had cloth napkins, and pulled the tome back onto her lap. She’d been reading between bites, turning pages while holding a churro in the other hand, and now, with the food settling warm in her stomach and the fear pushed to a manageable distance, something caught her eye.

Two pages. Side by side: diverse handwriting, different eras, but the same structure.

The left page was her grandfather’s hand—flowing, meandering script with long-tailed y’s. Dated March 15, 1952. Beneath the date, a formal passage—not a casual journal entry, a declaration.

I, Edward James Lewis, do hereby take up the mantle of Sparkkeeper. I claim this role because I am worthy, and because the Dreamspace has called me and I have answered. My word is my bond. My spark is my oath. I will tend this world with everything I am, for as long as I am able. The light is mine to carry. I carry it willingly.

The right page was her father’s block capitals. Dated June 8, 1979, six months before the letter to Allison. The identical structure. The same formality. But her father’s voice was unmistakable in its directness.

I, DAVID ALLEN LEWIS, TAKE UP THE MANTLE OF SPARKKEEPER. I DON’T KNOW IF I’M READY. I DON’T KNOW IF ANYONE EVER IS. BUT THE DREAMSPACE NEEDS ME, AND I’M HERE. MY WORDS BUILT THE BOARDWALK AND THE BEACH. MY WORDS WILL KEEP BUILDING, BECAUSE MY WORDS MATTER. I’M NOT MY FATHER. I ‘LL DO THIS MY WAY. BUT I’LL DO IT, PROUDLY. THE SPARK IS MINE. I CARRY IT FORWARD.

Allison read both declarations a few times. Her eyes were wet on the second reading and flowing freely by the third. She felt each of them in the strength of their words, as if they stood beside her, at her shoulders, and maybe, in some way, they were.

“Thimble,” she said, and her voice was low and quiet. “Sol. Felipe. Come look at this.”

They gathered around the tome. Thimble read first, her dark eyes moving quickly, her whiskers quivering. Sol processed both entries in seconds, their golden eyes reflecting the handwritten words. Felipe climbed onto Allison’s knee to get a better view, his little body cozy against her thigh.

“Self-declarations,” Thimble breathed. “Both of them. I’d heard about this, but I’d never actually seen them in the book.”

“They declared themselves,” Allison said. “Officially. Formally. In their own words, in their own handwriting, in this tome. They claimed it.”

She looked up at her friends, at their faces—Thimble's bright with recognition, Sol’s steady with understanding, Felipe’s radiating with the particular emotion of someone who knows exactly what’s about to happen and is already proud of it.

“This is it. This is the answer. I need to do this. I feel like it’s the thing I need to do,” Allison said. “I need to write my own declaration. My own words. Claiming the role as Sparkkeeper.”

“Yes, I believe you’re right,” Thimble whispered. “That’s exactly what you need to do. If it feels right, it is right.”

“And when I do, when I mean it, truly mean it, the way I meant the invocation, it’ll be the final blow. My own words. My own proclamation. Written in the book, for posterity, on the page after my father’s declaration. Then I’ll do it. I will defeat this demon inside of me and out.”

Sol nodded. “That’s the Allison we’ve been waiting to meet. The ooze was born from your refusal to claim yourself. Your declaration seems to be the opposite of its antidote. The moment you write yourself into this lineage together with full conviction, the ooze loses its last source of sustenance.”

Felipe placed both paws on Allison’s arm. “You’re going to write it, mija. And it’s going to be magnificent.”

Allison closed the tome gently. She held it against her chest. She felt the heartbeat—hers and the book’s, synchronized, steady, strong.

“I want to do this right,” she said. “Not sitting on a cobblestone. Not rushed. This is… this matters. This may be the most important thing I’ll ever do.”

Thimble nodded to Allison, reverent about what they were about to undertake. “You’re right. It deserves a proper ritual. Your grandfather had one. Your father had one. Yours should be no different.”

Thimble's brain had already gone into planning mode. Allison could see it, the wheels turning behind those dark, bright eyes, centuries of inherited knowledge clicking into place.

“Sol,” Thimble said. “I’m going to need a few things. Can you make a list? Felipe, will you help gather? I need to get our Sparkkeeper ready to claim her voice.”

“Already on it,” Sol said, producing a small notepad from somewhere inside their frame. Apparently, everyone in the Dreamspace carried stationery.

Felipe hopped down from Allison’s knee with a purposeful thump. “Tell me what you need. I know where everything is in this place now.”

Thimble began listing items: candles, specific colors, incense, a ceremonial knife from the Heartwood’s archive, lake water, salt, and a white cloth. Sol recorded everything with meticulous accuracy. Felipe bounced on his toes, already mapping collection routes in his head.

Then Thimble turned to Allison. Her expression changed—from organizer to guide, from strategist to priestess.

“Before any of that,” she said, “you and I need to go to the lake.”

“The lake?”

“For cleansing. You can’t write a declaration of who you are while still carrying the residue of who you were told you were. The negative energy, the self-doubt, the old stories—they need to be washed away first. Physically. Ritually. Completely.”

She reached up and placed a paw on Allison’s arm. “My family has been helping your family do this for centuries, Allison. I know the way. Do you trust me?”

Allison looked at the raccoon beside her—small and fierce, mightier than its size suggested, carrying a satchel that defied logic and a heart that had waited a long time to prove itself. The raccoon who had sung her father’s lullaby, enchanted her tea, and helped her push through a meltdown and a portal, because giving up wasn’t an option. The dedication was as much for her as it was for Thimble. She understood that now. 

“Absolutely,” Allison said, feeling her power flow through her without limit. “Let’s do this.”

Thimble smiled so big her eyes were nearly closed. Then she turned and beckoned a firefly from the air. It drifted down and landed on her outstretched paw, its warm radiance pulsing attentively.

Thimble leaned close and spoke softly, words Allison couldn’t quite hear, directions encoded in timbre and rhythm, which the firefly absorbed with its whole body, its light sparkling in response. Then it lifted from Thimble's paw and darted away through the trees, carrying a message to Sol and Felipe: We’re going to the lake. Meet us at the firepit under the Japanese maples. And bring the white cloth.

Thimble turned back to Allison and extended her paw. “Come on. Let’s go get you clean.”

They walked together away from the mosaic, away from the weakened ooze, the glowing portal, and the damaged dome, into a lush green and profoundly quiet place in the Dreamspace, where the lake waited, glassy and deep, in a realm that was beginning to remember how to be whole.