Golden Glade Brick by brick.

Snapshots through fog: a woman, followed by four children led by a terrified duck, one hoisting a stick that was twice their own  body-length overhead. 
The beach was a mirage of gold. The woman turns to the middle child, opens her mouth, speaks. Out of her mouth comes the whisper of wind through the trees.

Jocasta's eyes opened as slivers.
She blinked around a beam of light that warmed her face and blinded her. The coarse sand of her dream transitioned as she adjusted to being awake. Seaweed gave way to ferns. The sound of a distant tide became air rushing across the tops of the trees—warmer today. It didn't smell like rain; in fact, the sky was clear and calm.

As she rose to her feet she looked dreamily at her surroundings. She stepped towards a nearby mud puddle and sniffed the surface. Between when Jocasta had made her bed for the night and now it had evaporated—or been reabsorbed by the glade. Either way, things were looking up.

The snapping of twigs made Jocasta's head raise too. It came from higher ground, somewhere east of her own position, and not far. Perhaps her good fortune would hold out and she would find a bite to eat. She began to slink between the ferns to suss out the sound's origins.