“We’re almost there!” Wai-Mae chirped. “Close your eyes, Little Warrior,” Wai-Mae insisted, and Ling did as she was told. “Now. Open.”
Ling gasped. Golden light bled through the breaks in the line of gray trees. Here and there, mutated pink blooms sprang up. Red-capped mushrooms poked their fat heads above the patchy tufts of grass that tumbled down into a verdant meadow rippling with colorful flowers. In the distance, a rolling line of purple mountains brushstroked with hints of pink rose tall behind an old-fashioned village of Chinese houses whose pitched tile roofs tilted into smiles. So much color! It was the most beautiful thing Ling had ever seen inside a dream—even more beautiful than the train station.
“Where are we? Whose dream is this?” Ling asked.
“It doesn’t belong to anyone but us,” Wai-Mae said. “It’s our private dream world. Our kingdom.”
“But it had to come from somewhere.”
“Yes.” Wai-Mae smiled as she tapped her forehead. “From here. I made it. Just as I did the slippers.”
“All of this?” Ling asked. Wai-Mae nodded.
Ling couldn’t imagine how much time and energy it must’ve taken. This was more than transmutation. This was creation.
“There’s something magical about this place. We can make new dreams. We can make everything beautiful.” Wai-Mae bit her lip. “Would you like to learn how?”
“Show me,” Ling said. “Show me everything.”
Wai-Mae marched to a puny, half-formed tree at the top of a hill. “Here. Like this. Watch.”
Wai-Mae threaded her fingers through the wispy leaves, holding tight. She closed her eyes, concentrating. The bark moved like melting candle wax, and then, with a great groaning, the trunk shot up several feet. Massive branches reached out in every direction, bursting with pinkish-white flowers.
Wai-Mae fell back with a gasp. “There you are,” she said, wiping a hand across her brow.
Dogwood blossoms drifted down toward the girls. One landed in Ling’s hair. She pulled it free, rubbing the velvety petal between her thumb and forefinger, feeling something primal in its core, some great electrical connection to all living things. If she’d been a true scientist, she would have shouted “Aha!” or “Eureka!” or even “Holy smokes!” But there were no words that she could summon to communicate the magic of the moment.
“Now it is your turn.” Wai-Mae twisted her mouth to one side, thinking. “We will need places to sit for our opera. Try changing this rock into a chair.”
It was as if Wai-Mae had asked Ling to grab the moon and put it under glass. “But how?”
“Start by putting your hands on the rock.”
Ling did as she was told. The rock was cold and dull, like clay awaiting the artist’s hands.
“Think only of the chair, not the rock. See it in your mind. Like a dream. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” Ling said.
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a red-and-gold throne fit for a queen.”
“I cannot wait to sit there,” Wai-Mae said, excited. “Now see the chair and concentrate.”
Ling kept her thoughts on the chair, but the harder she tried, the more it seemed to elude her. Shift, she thought, and Transform and Chair. But the rock remained a rock. Finally, Ling fell back in the grass, exhausted and angry. “I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t!” She pushed herself up and stalked off toward the forest.
Behind her, Wai-Mae’s voice took on a steely resolve. “Little Warrior: You can do this. I believe you can.”
“Just because you believe something can change doesn’t mean it will,” Ling snapped, feeling ashamed of her outburst but helpless to stop it.
Wai-Mae came to her side, offering a moth-eaten dandelion. “Here. Try something smaller. Turn this into a cricket.”
Ling glanced from the dandelion to the magnificent flowering dogwood Wai-Mae had managed to create. “This is hopeless,” she grumbled, but she took the dandelion from Wai-Mae anyway.
“Concentrate. You are too tight! You want too much control.”