Written by Elianna Gregory 2020
Sandmen don’t dream. They never had. They never would. This was but a simple ironic fact, because Sandmen were slaves to dreams—just not their own.
The Shadowlands were home to the race of Sandmen and parallel to the realms of man. Sometimes, if you really squinted hard enough, you could catch a glimpse of it, like a fleeting after-image of two superimposed photographs. It was only at night, entirely free of consciousness, that the spirits of men could cross the thresholds of reality and venture there; to the complete and utter chagrin of the Sandmen.
Human spirits were unwelcome tourists in the Shadowlands, with interminable, fortuitous arrivals and indeterminate departures. And every Sandman knew that along with every human, imaginations always traveled. Imaginations that humans ignorantly generated and subsequently left littered to run unsupervised about their realm.
Seymour resented the humans and their minds; how they lived ignorant of the true nature of their fantasies and the consequences that came with them. He came from a long line of distinguished Sandmen, and like everyone else, he was expected to accept the baton of duty carried by many generations before him; to suit up, to be brave, and to confront the very real and tangible imaginations of men. Somebody had to do it. As long as there were humans, there would always be new imaginations to contain—and humans weren’t going extinct anytime soon, as much as he wished they would.
As Seymour walked into the Department of Neutralization and into the locker-room, he thought back to simpler times when he was a child free from the responsibility of his inevitable vocation. In those days, his heroes were the members of the Interpreter Committee, whose' jobs it was to record and unravel the meanings of human imaginations. Their columns in the Shadowland Tribune detailed the experiences of Sandmen on the front lines, and through anecdotal experiences, theorized on what the human realm could have been like. He’d read them all with a ferocious thirst for knowledge.
Many times, he envisioned himself in the ethereal white cloaks of the Interpreters, but that was childlike folly. He was always destined for the black robes of the Dispatchers. Just like his father and his father's father before him.
Maybe it was because of that folly he did what he had done, or more specifically didn't do what he was supposed to. Maybe that's why he had forgotten his duty. Maybe that's why last week replayed like a broken record in his mind.
…
In the desolate clearing, it was easy to spot the human spirit. They stood still and unaware of his presence, but their solid, unwavering aura signaled they wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon without assistance.
With a perceptive eye, Seymour scanned the area for possible malevolent imaginations, relieved to find none in his immediate sight for now. Careful to not linger, he approached with measured, strategic steps. Peculiarly, the spirit didn't even flinch. Whatever. It made his job easier anyways.
With urgency, Seymour closed the distance between them and raised a long, black-clad arm in preparation.
But just as he readied to dispatch, he froze.
--Because the spirit had turned…and in their gaze was something he’d never once encountered before in a human...recognition.
And then, unbelievably, “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” They said aloud.
...and he hadn’t dispatched them. That was secret enough, but what Seymour had done after was truly implicating. Because he hadn't just let a human spirit roam the Shadowlands without interruption. He hadn't just facilitated the possible generation of imaginations. He'd done so, and, in secret, kept visiting that place and the human spirit therein.
And why? Seymour often asked himself, when he had resented humans so zealously in the past; when they were the reason that Sandmen had to be sandmen; when their intrusion into the Shadowlands was the cause for so much chaos?
Maybe it was because standing there, being acknowledged, he’d momentarily forgotten the color of his uniform and what he was there to do. Maybe it was because, just as strange as his unwillingness to dispatch them, the spirit had not left after a week when most humans, on their own, only lasted hours. Maybe it was because, from the second their eyes met, they knew they were dreaming when it was happening.
Dreaming. It was what the human’s called their visits to the Shadowlands. They never knew it during the experience though. That's why their imaginations were so dangerous.
But this human, was different. And told him things. Many interesting, unfathomable things about human life that no one knew...and for a moment, he was again a child earnestly reading the Interpreter’s column.
A voice to his right ripped him from his thoughts.
“-ed to today” The voice belonged to Ted, a fellow dispatcher.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite get that.”
Ted blanched as shrugged on his midnight robe from the locker. Midnight. Seymour learned that word from the human. They said it was the color of the sky in the Shadowlands.
“I said,” SLAM! “What’re you assigned to today? I haven’t seen you around recently.”
And he wouldn’t, see him.
“Just border patrol.” Seymour lied easily.
“Ouch.” With a tinge of pity, Ted continued, “That sounds terribly boring.”
“Oh yes,” Seymour agreed, grinning “, very boring.”
For the next few minutes he obliged Ted in some polite work smalltalk. First, about the recent changes in structure that the Department of Neutralization was going through, and then about the baffling new article in the Shadowland Tribune which hinted that there were times that humans could see the Sandmen in the Human Realm.
Sleep Paralysis, the humans apparently called it. He mentally noted he would have to ask the spirit about it later.
He wasted no time navigating there.
“You’re back.” The human said, getting up from a position on the floor. Around them, were a slew of seemingly various items, some Seymour could not quite identify. Seeing his curious gaze, they supplied “I was re-imagining some of the things I’ve lost in the past.”
Seymour hesitantly stepped forward to see. Even though he knew that for some reason this human had control over their imaginations, he couldn't help but be wary. When they’d first tried to show him one, he’d dispatched it immediately. It had taken some convincing to let the imaginations stay, and to get close enough to observe them.
“What is that?” He asked finally, pointing to a foreign, shiny object he could have mistaken for a rock if not for the obvious crafting.
“This? Oh,” The human picked it up, and Seymour observed the softening of their features as a faint smile appeared under nostalgic eyes. “A broken promise, I’m afraid.” They put the strange object on their finger and held it out to see. “My old wedding ring.”
“You’re married?” He’d read once of the human customs of marriage in the paper. It was a foreign concept to Sandmen. Just like their jobs were fated so were their partners, or spouses, to use the human term. Seymour hadn’t been appointed one yet.
“Was.” The human said with a note of sadness. Seymour didn’t push it. Instead, he asked, “What is the rock --ring,” he corrected, “for?”
This time, the human smiled.
“Let me show you.”
The imaginations came. First, a building with strange, beautiful windows that glimmered. And then, they were inside, sitting in long seats that could hold his whole squadron of dispatchers. In front, there was a man (imagined) in a white robe, not unlike the Interpreter’s, reading out of what looked to be an ancient script. Two figures flanked him, man and woman, in equally strange clothing. They seemed to be speaking, each holding the rock- ring, with them. And then, they put the rocks on each other’s hands, and put their faces together?
The imagination dispelled.
“I still don’t get it.” Seymour admitted.
The human laughed. “It’s...symbolic.”
He’d just have to accept humans were weird.
The days to come followed in a similar pattern. Seymour would leave work on “Border Patrol” and find the human waiting for him. They imagined more things for him to see; of a nice place with strange ground that was called a beach, and a small creature that the human had called “man’s best friend.” Seymour had raised an eyebrow at that one. Man’s best friend was incredibly weird-looking.
The human also showed Seymour scenes from his life and answered his questions with ease, pausing only to laugh at some of the myths touted by Sandmen about humans. Seymour was shocked to learn that humans needed to do something called sleep, which is how they crossed into the Shadowlands, and the human was shocked to learn that the Sandmen kept a museum of their worst nightmares.
“You mean those things- our dreams, they stay here? I thought they would disappear when we woke up.”
Seymour nodded, grimly. “I’m afraid not.”
“And it’s your job to make them disappear?”
Memories from past dispatches flew through his mind all at once. Briefly, he remembered that the spirit walking beside him could generate the same creatures that haunted him and his ancestors.
There was a long, troubled pause.
“More or less.”
They seemed to contemplate that.
“I see.”
When Seymour returned the next day, the human had a question readied for him.
“Do Sandmen ever dream?”
His answer was immediate.
“No.”
“Why?”
Because, as far as Seymour knew, there wasn’t a realm for their spirits to accidently venture into.
“Because we never have. And we never will.”
“That’s awfully sad.”
Sad? “Why?” Imaginations were troubling. He couldn’t imagine imposing that unto another race of unfortunate beings and their realm
“Because, you never get to imagine something new for yourself.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” He sighed. Humans didn’t know what it was like to clean up the imaginations of others. They would never have that burden, and therefore, would never understand.
“No. I’m serious. Haven’t you ever had a dream?”
Seymour stared dubiously.
“Not that type of dream,” the human clarified “Haven’t you ever wanted something in your life so badly, you wished for it to be true, even if it wasn’t? And you could see it being true, even if it wasn’t?”
“No.” Seymour shifted uncomfortably. Sandmen were creatures of tradition and habit. Everything about their lives was planned and revolved around containing the pesky dreams of humans, or theorizing about the dreams of humans, or stopping the dreams of humans. They didn’t dream. They were staunchly anti-dream.
Returning home that night, Seymour thought about the human and his question. Did Sandmen dream? The answer, literally, was no. But still, when they’d asked, Seymour had lied. Because there was something that he could see being true when it wasn’t. In his own way, by talking to the human, he was trying to make it come true. He was a sandman in black, living in white, and he’d been trying to play the Interpreter by questioning them. Despairingly, Seymour realized he’d tried to forget his fate. He was never going to be an Interpreter. His colors were black. His father was a Dispatcher before him, and so was his father’s father, and what would they think if they saw him now? Lying to his coworkers. Shirking off work to rendezvous with a human spirit.
They would be disappointed. No. They would be incensed.
With grim realization, Seymour knew what he had to do.
When he returned, the human was waiting for him. They only had moments to register his determined, resolute expression before knitting their brows in confusion and opening their mouth to speak--
--just as Seymour’s fist burst through their chest, and they evaporated into a cloud of smoke.
He couldn’t let a human spirit run unsupervised around the Shadowlands, afterall, and they had done a great job reminding him of why.
Because it was just a simple fact.
Sandmen don’t dream.
They never have. And they never would.
And yet...as Seymour stared at the spot where the human he had so callously dispatched only moments before stood, he couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of grief. That feeling only multiplied as he dispatched every single one of the human’s imaginations. The church. The dog. The beach. It only took minutes to erase all evidence that the human had ever been there at all.
As Seymour despondently turned from the once-again desolate clearing, something shone from his peripheral vision. He glanced down.
It was a small round object, and could be mistaken for a rock, if not for the obvious crafting.
The ring.
The last of the imaginations.
Picking it up, Seymour smiled sadly to himself --and as he started the long walk back to the Department of Neutralization slipped it into the folds of his midnight robes.