Sample the Magic

He stood in a valley drenched in pearl clouds—whimsical, mystical, a vision spun from the Kingdom’s wildest dreams. Paths of molten gold wound through emerald glades, lined with willows dripping silver leaves that chimed like bells in the breeze. Springs burst from cliffs in cascading waterfalls, their waters shimmering with sapphire and amber. The most perfect place he’d ever seen—the Kingdom’s magic pulsed here, amplified, a sanctuary carved from eternity’s edge.

Across the water, a boy stood—small, sturdy, casting a line with a flick of his wrist, his laughter bubbling like the creek at dawn. Rylan’s heart lurched—he couldn’t place him, yet he knew him, a recognition stitched into his marrow. Trickle’s voice brushed his mind, soft as a breeze through the oaks.

“Go,”

He hesitated, then took off, feet pounding the golden path, the air crackling with life.

“Run, Rylan—Run.” Her words were a spark igniting his soul.

He crested the bank, close enough to see, and stopped dead—breath snagging, world tilting. It was Bubba-Carlton-Hulk—alive and radiant, a young boy now—but Rylan could see who he was. His face glowed with a slicked grin, eyes glinting mischief as he reeled in a fish of legend. Beside him sat OG, massive and grinning, his tiger-striped fur gleaming in the sun, drool swinging like a victory banner. OG’s amber eyes met Rylan’s, steady and sure, a silent promise…

Bubba turned, waved—warmth flooded Rylan, a tide of life so pure it burned away the grief and the blame. This was Bubba’s Kingdom now—a place beyond loss, where the creek’s song never faltered—where love reigned unbroken. Rylan stepped forward reaching, tears streaming hot and free, but the vision softened, fading slowly like twilight swallowing the day. The golden paths blurred, the waterfalls hushed, and Bubba’s laugh echoed into silence, a melody he’d carry forever.

Trickle gently guided him, floating weightless through the mist, to a place where he could see a mother sitting alone in the sterile, cold embrace of a hospital room. Her hands trembled, clutching the edge of a crib where her infant son lay, tethered to a chaotic web of bandages and cables. Her face was a map of anguish, etched with the raw, unrelenting grief of a woman who had just endured the unthinkable—catastrophic, an inebriate’s reckless cruelty. The collision had stolen her husband and daughter in an instant, ripping her world apart, a fragile thread of life dangling in the wreckage. Now, she sat, forsaken by fate, with no family, no friends, only the fleeting kindness of a stranger to anchor her to hope.

As Rylan watched, a radiant aura that shimmered with ethereal light surrounded the woman. Within it, four faces emerged—man, eagle, ox, and lion—each glowing with celestial grace, as if drawn from a realm beyond the stars. The light bathed her, pulsing with a warmth that stirred Rylan’s soul, an enlightened guardian’s embrace offering unwavering assurance. In that moment, he felt a profound truth that everything was as it should be, like there was a purpose for it all, and that this was not the last time he would see the Tetramorph that acted as her guardian.

A doctor stepped into the room; a donor had been found—a child of the same age, sex, size, and blood type, whose organs could replace the ones failing within her son. A miracle dangled before her, yet it was laced with a devastating truth. Rylan felt the weight of it crash into him.

How could the Creator, who loved every soul with infinite tenderness, bear the agony of such a decision? One child’s death to grant another life—how could even the divine heart reconcile that torment?

Tears burned in Rylan’s heart as the realization seared through him. In that moment, he understood the unbearable cost of redemption, the piercing beauty of sacrifice, the bitter and the sweet. He felt the mother’s desolation, her desperate clinging to a flicker of hope, and the silent, sacred exchange that wove their fates together. Rylan’s soul trembled with the weight of it—love and loss entwined, a divine sorrow.

A vast ocean emerged, stretching endless and gleaming, its blue so deep it swallowed the horizon whole—somewhere wild, untamed, beyond the reach of a map—they weren’t floating anymore; they were soaring, sweeping over the waves, arms flung wide, the wind roaring past them fierce and untamed. Trickle’s golden hair streamed wildly, catching a light not born of the sun.

Below, the ocean pulsed with wonders defying names. Whales rose slowly, their backs arching dark and glistening, massive as hills emerging from the tide. Their songs rolled upward, low and mournful, vibrating through Rylan’s chest like a chant from a forgotten realm, stirring something ancient within him.

Dolphins flashed in silver arcs, leaping high in spinning frenzies of joy and singing, their laughter splashing the air—playful spirits weaving through the spray. Turtles glided steadily, shells sprawling as wide as old VW Buses, etched with patterns of countless years, moving as if bearing the weight of time. Sailfish pierced the surface, gleaming blue and sharp, breaching with sudden flicks, while reefs flourished beneath—sprawling bursts of red, gold, and violet, glowing faintly, all touched by a ball of flame.

They dove into the deep blue, breaching the water’s surface, plunging into its core. The ocean parted around them, clear as polished crystal. The depths—limitless, a blue so fierce it consumed his mind. Schools of hundreds of different varieties of fish shimmered, twisting through kelp forests swaying tall and verdant. Rays swept past, wings flapping slowly and silently, casting shadows on the sandy floor. A shark sliced through, gray and sleek, eyes glinting coldly but passing without pause, leaving Rylan wondering if it knew they didn’t belong.

Trickle’s fingers grazed his, light as a whisper, and a warmth pulsed through—binding him to this marvel, leading him deeper.

*Ain’t no dream… this is real,* he thought, half-lost.

The water spat them out, and they found themselves standing on a cliffside. Rylan drew a ragged breath, chest heaving, and the air struck him—salty, warm, laced with something sweet, like home distilled into a gust. This wasn’t his creek, but it echoed the same song, wrapping around him like a memory taking shape.

A waterfall thundered beside them, a hundred feet tall, its white rush crashing down in a deafening cascade. It fed seven pools below—each one, catching the next—carved into the rock like a staircase sculpted for giants. Mist rose, dampening his face, and Rylan caught rainbows flickering in it—thin bands of color bending toward the sea, faint as a vow whispered on the wind.

Beyond the cliff, the ocean sprawled fierce and boundless, hurling itself against spires of rock rising sharply from the deep—black, rugged peaks, small mountains thrusting out of the blue like guardians of a sunken world. Waves smashing them relentlessly, bursting into white explosions of froth, the sound pounding through the ground like a heartbeat older than his years. Rylan felt it rattling his bones, a rhythm soothing his edges.

Trees leaned over the cliff’s rim, swaying gently in the breeze, branches drooping with fruit—mangoes dripping gold, papayas glowing orange—and Lemons, the most beautiful he had ever seen. He plucked one and peeled it. He bit into it, accepting its conditions, the juice bursting onto his tongue, sticking to his chin, tasting as if he were consuming the vision itself. It was both bitter and sweet, as if it had been ordained by father earths own hand and dipped in Mamma’s magical Honeysuckle Lemon Sugar.

Roosters strutted freely around the cliff, bold and untamed, combs flashing red, crowing deep and rough, their calls laying a basis for a wild chorus of tropical birds. Bright ones screeched, wings blazing red and yellow, while smaller ones—green, blue, gold—trilled high and free, spilling sound like water cascading over stones. The noise wove around them, lifting Rylan’s spirit, and he glanced at Trickle—her jade eyes catching the light, gold flecks sparkling, and that glow flickering around her again, soft as a breath, making him wonder if she’d summoned this song, some angel tuning the air to sing for him.

A Gypsy camp clung to the cliff’s edge, poised above a colossal waterfall fed by a mystical spring, as if the rock itself had birthed it. The spring sparkled, its waters so pure they seemed distilled by the heavens, pooling in this sacred hollow to nourish the world below. Its flow stretched beyond Rylan’s sight, a shimmering mystery that outran his understanding. On a weathered porch, an elderly couple rocked in chairs polished by time, their silhouettes framed against the setting sun. The man’s hair glowed white as the foam churning far below, while the woman’s tight braid wove silver threads like rivers through slate. They shared a pitcher of Golden liquid, its radiance alive, smothering the dying light, searing their image into Rylan’s soul.

Trickle surged forward, hurling herself against an invisible barrier that rippled like liquid starlight. Her arms stretched through it, fingers grasping at the firmament that held them back, her heart laid bare in a fierce yearning. Tears traced her cheeks, defiant against the radiant, faith-filled smile that lit her face, as if she could will the boundary to dissolve.

Rylan was drawn to them, his legs itching to run, to cross that stretch and sit at their feet, quenching his soul with the Golden Ale, hearing their voices. He stepped forward, heart racing—but something stopped him, solid and unyielding, blocking him and Trickle from drawing closer. His fists clenched, reaching through it, but it stood firm, a barrier woven from the vision’s own fabric. Trickle’s hand brushed his shoulder, light as a feather, and her breath hitched—soft, aching, like she felt it too. Rylan looked into her eyes and realized this place held her heart as well as all of her secrets.

The sun dipped lower, spilling red and gold across the ocean, and the scene shimmered—fading slowly, like water slipping through his grasp, leaving him yearning for a place he couldn’t reach. The cliffside lingered, the waterfall’s roar echoing, the waves’ crash thumping, the birds’ song twisting through him. He saw the couple again, their faces blurred but warm, sipping the Golden Ale as if it held the world’s sweetness. Trickle stood silent beside him, her glow dimming but present, a light he couldn’t shake. Was she drawing him here, revealing her secrets, something beyond his creek, beyond Bubba’s loss, beyond the Dragonfish’s shadow?

The vision stretched further, letting him soak it in, the ocean’s wild dance, the cliff’s green embrace, the cabin’s quiet promise. He felt the fruit’s juice again, sticky on his lips, heard the roosters crowing, the birds singing and the waves roaring. It was a coast raw and alive, but something more—a glimpse of peace, of grace, of a shore where pain didn’t follow. Rylan’s chest tightened, longing to stay, to shatter that wall and run to the porch, but the barrier held fast, and Trickle’s eyes met his—knowing, hinting at truths she couldn’t voice. The sun sank, the silhouette flared, and the world faded black into her embrace, leaving him with a hunger he couldn’t name, a vision of light she’d gifted him.