'Twas in Menevia, dear, green Menevia, there dwelt a young Breton of family and name. He had inherited a patrimony, and thus needed to do nothing, as others were paid to do for him. And so he sat at his mullioned window and gazed out the diamond panes at the colors of the countryside as they changed with the light. And he dreamed away the day, until the colors darkened and he betook himself to bed, where he slumbered and dreamed in truth.
Of what did he dream? He dreamed of his own land, but in colors more intense, more true, and more pure than in day. His Menevia of Dreams was more real than his Menevia of Waking, and he felt more alive when asleep than awake. Each day at his mullions, he looked and longed for a way to dream beyond dreams—a way to live in his Reverie-Menevia forever and forever.
"Reverie-Menevia," he said, and it was a prayer. "Reverie-Menevia. Reverie-Menevia." A thousand, thousand times he uttered this prayer, and it changed like a dream to " 'Ver -Menevia, 'ver'-Menevia," and more and more it became less and less, until at last, "Vaermina," he said, and "Vaermina," and "Vaermina" again.
And to him she came in Dream-Form, Vaermina Herself, and called him Supernal Dreamer, and First Nightcaller, and named him Omen of a Hundred Prophecies. And when he awoke, he yet did dream, and spoke as in a dream, and called other dreamers to him, and to Reverie-Menevia.
And soon you shall join him. The Nightcaller has dreamed it. One night you shall dream, and in your dream you will say the Name. And She will come.