Soren lay in her bed, breathing hard and trying to force herself to relax. After a long moment her breathing finally slowed. She soon found herself enjoying the soft spicy smells of her mother’s cooking. Her covers were damp and curled around her in a tight cocoon.

Had it been a dream? she thought,

Course it’d been a dream, she told herself.

People don’t turn into trees or suddenly burst into flames! Yet, parts of it had felt so, so real. Terrifyingly real. She swore she could still smell that piney lemon fragrance of her, father-tree.

No, papa. she thought.

Once again, she couldn’t help but think there was a soft oily film stuck to her. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes with one hand and immediately noticed something very wrong. There was something else that had awoken her. A strange lump of warmth was emanating from her hand. She felt the odd mass clutched within her hand, then slowly looked down at her hand.

With a quickening pulse, Soren slowly loosened her grip, watching as her fingers pried apart. Within the prison of her small hand, an uncut gem of pale green revealed itself. suddenly seeing what she was holding, Soren opened her hand the rest of the way. A frown formed on her face. It looked remarkably unremarkable. Like a slightly shinier version of the stones she collected from the creek-bed. Nearly weightless and warm, she thought she could see the stone pulsing with her heartbeat. It was not pulsing with light however like her dream, but something else. something intangible yet very much there. The stone was much too light and the warmth of the thing could have been more than her own body heat. but then again, maybe not. Plus, it didn’t exactly look like the Ochre from her dream. That stone pulsed with light and hummed with energy. this thing was paler and somehow duller than in her dream and unlike her dream, she felt no odd surge of tinged power coming from it. She felt nothing really except the unexplainable pulse that very well may have just been in her head. It had been a very strange dream after all.

Soren put a hand over where her heart was and felt at the pumping there. She watched the gem trying to see if it mimicked the pulse. She really couldn't be sure if it was pulsing together or not. As she lay there daydreaming about her night dream, the stone accidently slipped from her hand, falling to the floor with a loud thump, belying the near weightlessness of the stone. Any pulsing she thought she had felt, stopped immediately as it hit the ground. Mind racing, she heard the soft creaking she knew to be her mother climbing the short ladder to her room.

“Su-ooOren” she heard her mother call. Soren’s mother Yalina Pickett, always called her name like that. She'd make the ooo inflection go up at the end in an accent she'd kept from her childhood. Soren had always loved the way her mother called to her. Now however, it only intensified her feelings of panic and dread. She flung her arm down and snatched the gem back up just before her mother entered the room.

As Yalina opened the door, all her warnings and stories flooded Soren’s mind. Cautionary stories her mother’s people the Yunadaya, had been very clear about. They called them The Old Controls. Bringing objects back from dreams was a portent and usually dangerous. Most of the stories involved foolish children who played with the powers of the dream god Enki and were ultimately punished or killed or had some accident which ended in their horrible demise. Soren had scoffed at many of these stories most of her life. Now though, she wasn't as dismissive of the old tales. Enki was the dream shaper, the God of dreams and Patron to all who were born under the signs of the dreamer. He was as unfathomable as he was ephemeral and his sway could be a boon or bane for those who heard its call. Some stories spoke of dreamers with incredible powers, able to travel great distances through the dream world. Only to wake up hundreds or even thousands of miles away from where they'd fallen asleep. Other stories spoke of dreamers who took their foes into their dream worlds with them, leaving them to slowly go mad or rot within prisons of their own minds.

There were also stories of nightmare beings of shadow and terror who made evil runes etched onto the minds of careless dreamers. These creatures, the Huella-Cull, ever sought to find ways into the waking word. Her mother told Soren of stories of dreamers who'd lost their way in Enki’s house. They roamed forever along the endless shoals of his sleeping realm. Other stories told of ancient creatures who watched and waited in the shadows for other dreamers still tethered to the waking world. They’d use a dreamer’s mind as a gate to the waking world, taking control of their body and possessing them forever.

Soren stuffed the gem behind her pillow as her mother entered the room. She tried to stuff her mother’s terrible stories away as well, though with less success. Yalina Pickett was a slender woman, slight of build and yet unerringly resolute of bearing. She had the look of a woman who’d survived many long droughts. Her salty callous skin, tanned a stark shade of brown long ago would never pale again. Her hair was the color of light desert sand and only accented her dark skin the more. Soren thought she looked a bit like the Dire-Cayotes that lived on the barren lands to the south. She was long and lean with a runner’s build and a strength not given but earned.

She hoped one day to resemble her mother. The thought calmed her nerves somewhat. Her mother was from far to the south, from a place called the Deep Desert. It showed as much in Soren as it did in her. She had originally been part of a smaller nation of nomadic peoples, related to the Yunadaya. They were travelers and traders, known to exist in the liminal spaces most believed baren and unlivable. Soren had trouble understanding the distinctions her mother often talked about, yet her mother was emphatic all the same. The Yunadaya, in their secret language roughly meant, “of forgotten times”. Her mother’s nomadic people were called the Dayakara or “of the reconciling times”.

Very few outsiders knew the language of the Yunadaya and Soren’s mother said it was a privilege to be taught any words. She had made it a point to teach Soren and her brother an at least broken version of the language. Soren knew still didn’t understand most of the language, though she knew more than most. Especially the university scholars and researchers that came from the north every year. Most Northerners, even the scholarly types, looked down on the Yunadaya, considering them untamable savages. Even towns like Newton City and Cottonwood were considered backwater hovels, compared to the huge cities further north. In border towns like Cottonwood that pivoted into the vast southernly desert, townsfolk spoke of the Yunadaya with little affection. They stole children, used unholy powers and never kept their word. The savages sacrificed their own children and made blood offerings to wrest control of the harsh climate the Yunadaya called home.

Many of the Pickett’s own neighbors told stories of The Yunadaya blood magic and the revulsion was often tinged with not a small amount of fear. These stories came easily and were rarely taken for anything other than firm truth as far as Soren could tell. She’d heard Rev. Fellman and Giedion Bellfew talking of “The evil gods whose powers came from heat and pestilence and whose names had been lost to time” last time she was in town. They had gone rigid and quiet as Soren and her father past. Her father had barely squeezed her hand but otherwise showed no sign the two men had even existed. She'd easily heard them start back up behind their backs as they passed, “…goes one of them now. Never did trust tho…”

The Picketts and especially Yalina, were often targets of libel for any misfortune Cottonwood seemed to experience. Rarely did it come to violence and being a farm of some distance away, most were content to blame the family from afar. It was a strange strain on the family, as far as Soren could tell. Only ever showing itself in subtle ways that Soren barely caught the periphery of. Rather than scare Soren, the stories the people of Cottonwood told about the Yunadaya fascinated her. She never asked any of townsfolk, not that she ever got the chance. Yet, she often asked her mother about the Deep Desert and her people. Supposedly, the Desert was immense. She knew it began just south of them a couple days journey, but never could wrap her head around the size of it all.

According to her mother, The Deep Desert was a place of wild dangers where giant monsters bore through the sands at incredible speeds, devouring or crushing unsuspecting travelers. Massive packs of Dire-Cayotes hunted far and wide, ceaselessly roaming from one water source to the next. Soren's mother once told her of a snake whose bite put its victims to sleep. There the snake hunted its victims in their dreams draining them slowly as they slept. There were Deep Desert flowers said to bloom only once every hundred years whose nectar cured any illness. Her mother didn’t often speak of the Deep Desert yet, she had on occasion cursed the rumors that surrounded her people.

Yalina explained to Soren repeatedly that the Yunadaya worshipped “The Ancient Twelve just as much as any Northerner”. True, they followed a strict code of ethics unlike those in the north. The very name of said edicts were secret, though her mother was always adamant, they were dictated by the ancient twelve, the old controls as she called them, just like in the north. The Yunadaya believed every person was part of a great cycle, nourishing one another through unseen tendrils of Ancient Controls. The Yunadaya had no written language and considered the written word cursed. Still strangest of all to Soren though, none of the Yunadaya kept accounts of their birth dates. In fact, it was seen as a taboo to tell a child their birth dates. to the Yunadaya, discovering one's birth dates was part of the journey into adulthood. Soren’s mother had discarded that tradition with Soren and her brother but still had kept other strange traditions. Some Soren didn’t understand in the slightest no matter how much of an explanation her mother gave her.

One such custom was ensuring Soren and her brother Louis always gave gifts to the passing years god or goddess. It was a gift to appease and ensure a safe return when that cycle came back round.

“To ensure you live another eleven years to see that patron again.” Her mother always said.

Each new year, Soren and her brother would go out, find a gift their mother deemed adequate and "present" it to the past years’ god or goddess. For Soren this was often an excuse to go out and explore on her own, dreaming up worlds and escaping the reality of daily chores. Her gifts were often strange feathers or strange rocks she'd found in the dry creek-bed, polished and buried long, long ago when water still flowed through the ancient artery. For her brother it was more and more an excuse to go into the nearby town of Cottonwood and flirt with water bearers or, more recently, spend the day drinking dusty maize beer in the tavern.

“This year,” Louis had declared, “I will have to travel to Newton City to find a proper gift for Enki! wouldn't want to end up stuck in a dream or something!” He had said, mussing Soren's hair. Newton City was some eighty miles north of Cottonwood, which was itself a little over ten miles from the Pickett's homestead.

Soren had only been to the city once, to receive her birthdate tattoo. Everyone in Central was required to register and get marked before their first Vireo birth date, the birth date that cycled every three years. The tattoo was done with an ink that never faded and actually grew as the person did. It never actually in shape or design, yet as a person grew, the Control tattoo grew as well. A person's Control tattoo was for life, no matter what. Soren had seen her grandmothers tattoo, though the skin looked like tree bark, the lines and circles of the tattoo were just as sharp as her own. She hadn’t remembered getting her marking, though the raised and scarred tissue around it spoke of a traumatic experience.

Much to his parents’ chagrin Louis left the morning of Zaday, the beginning of the week. He hadn’t arrived last night, the night he had intended to return. Though not completely unexpected, Soren’s mother had been unusually quiet when Louis had failed to return. Yalina did not ask if her father, Dolor had seen him. She didn’t mention the obvious gap in their family as they sat for dinner. Soren knew it to be a bad sign and fretted restlessly before falling into her fitful sleep, no doubt contributing to her odd dream.

Now it was morning and Soren knew her brother still hadn't returned. Yalina looked at her daughter lying in bed, sheets pulled up to her chin, small frame lost in the sea of bedding and hand me down quilts. She gave her daughter a quizzical look, seeing the shadow of panic on her face.

“Soren Pickett” she said in an accent, turning the ‘r’ to a soft ‘d’ sound, “Only four days before the New Shamash and you still have not finished your gift to Enki. Honestly child, you are of Enki’s house, through and through. Surely you feel this shift!”

Soren could feel The Shift, the changes everyone felt to some degree as one year came to an end and another began. This New year would happen on Enkunight, the night of her patron god Enki. On top of that it was a Shamash year making this Shift even stronger. Every three years added up to a Vireo, and every four Vireo’s in turn, added up to one Shamash. Today was Serastiday, second longest day of the week, it was usually one of the two day's reserved for hard manual labor. As the days waxed and waned in length according to the two suns, so too did the work week. The shortest day of the week was Zaday and was reserved as a day of cooking, cleaning and general housekeeping for most people. the longest day was Shamaday and was a day of rest. With The Shifts upon them however, most people took the entire week to rest. The whole world, as far as Soren knew, halted for the six days prior to the Shift. Some even still felt the effects of the Shifts, the nausea or dizziness associated with the changing of the cycles.

According to her mother, long ago everyone felt the Shifts. They manifested as strong aches in specific spots depending on a person's birth dates. Over time however, the effects of the annual cycle had diminished. The aches slowly became dull throbs, more a nuisance than anything else. To the point where now, many people didn’t feel the Shifts at all. Some speculated this was due to a weakening of the Controls, though others were sure it was due to the ever-varying combinations of Controls people now possessed. Still, as a custom, most shops closed and work paused to allow a respite from any lingering, albeit unlikely aches or pains. Over the centuries, the Shifts had even taken on an air of festivity, most people looking forward to the time of rest and relaxation, and with an excuse no less. It struck Soren that those who enjoyed The Shifts the most, were usually the ones who felt its effects the least.

This year, a traveling troupe had set up just outside of Cottonwood. They would spend The Shifts acting out scenes from famous stories, selling cure-alls and exotic foods and generally entertaining the townsfolk with parlor tricks and games. The town of Cottonwood was particularly excited this year as the troupe was supposedly of particular talent. According to Soren’s friend Tucks, the troupe had arrived in Newton City a week late and another reputable Troupe had already taken their place. As Cottonwood was the closest thing to a settlement next to Newton City, the troupe had cut their losses and decided to spend The Shifts there instead.

As far as Soren was concerned, The Shifts were nothing to celebrate. In fact, she had felt the approaching Shift coming for some time now. She had felt it coming last year, and the year before that and truly, every year she could remember. It was a wave, growing stronger and stronger with each year. For Soren, The Shifts always began as a soft pressure behind the eyes. This feeling grew in intensity until the very light itself caused intense headaches and dizziness. At its worst The Shifts felt like the ground itself was roiling up and down beneath her. Once the new year had passed, the feeling would subside, the pressure would release and she soon forgot the feeling. It had been difficult to describe at first and her mother initially dismissed her feelings as that of a child, not attuned to The Shifts and confused by the newness of it all.

“Shifts feel different for everyone” her mother had said,

“To me they feel like someone pulling me from my bellybutton” Her mother said, poking the center of her belly.

Soren remembered giggling at that, and in the way only her mother could, she'd once again forgotten the feeling of intense pressure behind her eyes. She dismissed the strange forces stirring in her mind and the oddly satisfying feeling of vertigo she felt even as a young child. Soren hadn’t noticed the sideways glances her mother then gave her as she passed. Now, as the new year approached, the pressure had come once again.

“Mama,” Soren said, “I do feel The Shifts. Yesterday I was in pain all day and couldn’t play catch the hare with Tucks. And he doesn’t seem to feel them at all! It's not fair!” she said for what seemed like the hundredth time even to her.

“Soren, your father explained this to you yesterday. The Shifts are the echoes of your Control, made manifest in this world. You are lucky, The Shifts you feel are powerful from the coming Shamash. Many people live their entire lives without feeling such things.”

“Don’t feel lucky,” Soren replied under her breath, then to cover it up said, “But, why do I feel them? What, changes…”

Exasperatedly Yalina huffed, “Soren, It is the will of The Twelve. Leave it at that please.”

Soren huffed unsatisfied and was about to tell her mother so. Before she could though her mother continued,

“Enough of these questions. Today, you find your gift. Up now. Your breakfast is downstairs and your father is already doing your chores. You know what happens if he finishes without you.”

“Yes mama.” she said.

“Alright up now.” Yalina said, before looking at Soren as she swept out of the room, she paused at the door frame, again that quizzical look on her face. She said,

“Let your dreams be dreams little one. They are not real and cannot come to this world. Enki’s blessings belong in his Dream House, and it is dangerous to bring them, even in thought, to this world.”

“Yes mama.” Soren replied quickly, hand impulsively moving towards the Ochre gem under her pillow before she could stop herself. Her mother descended the stairs and disappeared out of sight. Soon Soren heard the eternal battle against the ever-encroaching dust start up again. She tentatively pulled out the gem and again gazed at the Ochre, wondering at its soft pulse and odd weightlessness. She couldn’t understand how this soft, beautiful thing could be so dangerous. If it truly was ‘Enki’s blessings’ brought into this world, surely it was a gift. She couldn’t have been the only one who had ever manifested something from her dreams, she thought. Yet, she only knew of two others who had been born under the sign of Enki. Beazley Johnson was the best known in Cottonwood.

He’d been born on the night of Enki and nearly at midnight as well, but his month date was in fire and he had been born in an abiding Vireo. Two dates that put him well outside what was considered a ‘strong’ dreamer. He had dreamed of the place where the town was to dig their well. Unfortunately, the water had been salty and most of the town dismissed his dreams thereafter. Rosie Everett’s, the mother of Soren’s only playmate Tucks, was also born under Enki. Yet, according to Tucks, only by her hour and day and she rarely talked of her dreams to anyone. She remained tight lipped even to Soren’s mother, whom she was closest with. Once, Soren thought she had heard her mother and Mrs. Everett’s talking about Soren’s Birth dates. Yet, when she had crept up under the windowsill, her foot had scuffed the ground and the two had quickly changed the subject. She never heard them speak of Enki or Birth dates again.

That only left Soren. When she had been born, her mother had kept her true birth date a secret from the townsfolk, fearing what they might assume of her. Soren had been born in the hour of Enki, on the night of Enkunight in the month of water, in the year of Enki, in an Arbitrary Vireo and in the Shamash of water. As far as Soren knew, no one else had a Birth date that matched so succinctly with their patron god. It simply never happened. Too many variables, too many changes of the calendar. Truly, for such a thing to happen was beyond anything any person could plan for. To top it all off, Soren’s Meridian Control, where she had been born, was perfectly in line with Enki. This was due to some kind of strange happenstance her mother still refused to talk to her about. There were other stories of course. Tales told to comfort children on the long nights of the year when the suns shone dully and the nights came long and often. Yalina often told stories of hero’s who embodied the gods, becoming vessels for their patron deities, and performing incredible feats. They were always saving the ancient world from impossible odds, defeating evil monsters and bringing hope back to the people. Yet, Soren knew those things never happened in real life. Even as a young child, Soren knew when she was being placated. The stories were exactly what they appeared to be, bedtime stories told to restless babies who couldn’t sleep through the long winter nights.

On top of that, no one knew the other Control dates beyond the Shamash date, at least no one Soren had ever met. Those dates weren’t general knowledge and were not required when registering a newborn. The further away from your birth hour you got, the subtler the effects on someone, therefor it was often impossible to even feel what these dates might be. Her mother said the Yunadaya knew the twelve Control dates of the world, kept secret for generations. If true, it meant there were at least five unknown Control Dates.

According to her friend Tucks, some of the Wealthy families in the major cities far to the north and west were known to have kept long records of their family birth dates. Some of these dates supposedly stretched back as far as the Arcus date, two Controls most didn't know about. Tucks said these secrets were jealously guarded and few in the family actually knew the dates themselves. Once when Soren had been sent to Cottonwood for the first with Louis he'd left her outside the general store as he bought flour and salt. Soren had overheard two elders in talking of clocks, built by ancient peoples and buried deep underground. One of the old men insisted the clocks still worked all these years later, waiting to be discovered ticking away the hours in perfect synchronicity. Her mother's stories hinted that her people also kept such records though through oral traditions, passing knowledge of the true dates of Meridian from one matriarch to the next. Her last bit of knowledge about the true dates of the world also came from Tucks who seemed to never tire of the subject. He told her of the secret cults of the Silurian’s who hunted for ancient knowledge and the true date of Meridian with singular purpose. Yet, Soren was dubious of each and every one of these tantalizing clues. Secret cults of knowledge seekers, all born under the Silurian sign? Ancient clocks built deep underground keeping time for thousands and thousands of years? It all seemed impossible. Honestly, she even took her mother’s stories as defensive posturing against the constant stream of rumors from their neighbors.

As she lay in bed listening to her mother bustle about in the kitchen, Soren began to fret again. What would happen next time she slept? Would something else bleed into the waking world from her dreams? Was this just the beginning? Had something already come back with her? A Huella-Cull perhaps? These worries hounded her as she pulled back the covers, glancing absentmindedly at the tattoo across her heart. The mark laid bare someone’s Controls to anyone looking. It was a form of control in itself, she thought. The marks were generally considered private; having your tattoo exposed in public was akin to walking around naked. The marks were always placed over the heart of the child, six perfect circles, one inside the other. The rings had lines cutting through them, breaking the circles into twelve slices, with the Vireo and month dates broken into three and four even parts respectively. Along each intersecting line was a small dot. Filled in for all the controls save the Meridian control which was left unfilled. In this way, a person’s Controls could be quickly and readily viewed. For wealthy families, these tattoos were often done with elaborate decoration and detail. Details that often effectively obscured a person’s controls without a detailed examination of the marking. These types of tattoos were often suffused with family crests and other symbolism of one’s heritage.

Soren’s mark was a plain thing of government uniformity save one oddity. Where Enki’s sign was traditionally placed, Soren had an oddly uniform line connecting every single sign of Control. She stood and dressed; her hand-me-down trousers of soft leather were already beginning to show more signs of use than they ever had on Louis. She noticed small scrapes and scratches, sure signs the pants wouldn’t last much longer without serious repair. The rough spun tunic she wore over the tight undershirt also bore signs of hard use.

The young women who lived in Cottonwood scoffed behind their hands at Soren’s clothing and general appearance. Women in town, even young ones rarely wore trousers, instead preferring the large hooped dresses that came from Newton City or beyond. Most of these dresses had enough fabric in them for Soren’s mother to make five garments. For the life of her, Soren couldn’t fathom why anyone would willingly subject themselves to that much clothing in the heat and dust of Central. Let alone wear the tight corsets most women wore underneath. Yalina had sewn a form fitting shirt of white cotton with a shift that could easily tuck into her trousers. This kept dust and dirt out while leaving room for a comfortable breeze to dry the sweat, keeping her cool. It was a utilitarian garb through and through. At times she was embarrassed at the stark differences in her clothing. Still, she was thankful for what she had and couldn’t help but notice the quality and care her mother put into her clothing. Besides with her dark tanned skin and light hair, she stood out regardless of what she wore. She'd never fit in with the people of Cottonwood and deep down she knew it.

Soren made her way down the short stairs that led into the family kitchen, tying her long wavy hair back with a black ribbon of cotton. Her breakfast had long since gone cold. A familiar gruel of oats cooked in goats’ milk with salt, yuca nectar, dried dates and almonds. Even cold and familiar as it was, Soren loved her mother’s cooking. As she sat, Yalina set down a cup of hot tea, brewed with the bark of a willow tree, pine pitch and sage. As she set it down her mother said,

“Drink this hot, for your Shifts, I know you have a headache, dizzy too, no?” Soren nodded and did as she was told. It didn't take long to notice the tea did make her head feel a bit better. Her mother turned around and resumed washing out the dust that had accumulated the night before around the windows and door frames. Soren watched her mother and ate and drank. A familiar grit of dust grinded on her teeth yet the texture was somehow comforting to her, like the itchiness of a wool coat in winter. The suns were beginning to shine and the heat of the day was starting. Soren couldn't help but feel a bit better. Sure her dreams less than peaceful but that was starting to become her new normal. Maybe today wouldn't be that bad after all. At least Louis wasn't here to annoy her. She'd finish up her chores, then find Tucks and explore the creek-bed. She still had to find a gift for Enki after all.