Too much pressure to come up with an appropriate title!
Tue Jan 10, 2012 6:09:32 pm

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Introduction: This is an actual, recurring, dreaming that I experienced. I spent an entire summer hand-writing it all down in a journal. I felt it was important to get it all as accurately and honestly as possible. Had I just typed it up, I would have been too tempted to "correct" things, and this was supposed to be an exercise in self-analysis. Anyway, what I am sharing now is largely what I originally wrote, but I cleaned up the rough edges a bit (some grammar, spelling, etc.)

I've been thinking about turning this into a legitimate short story. If you actually read it, you'll see that there are larger gaps in the story towards the end (combination of dream logic and getting lazy with details as my hands grew physically tired of writing), so there would have to be a lot of work done there.

Even if I decide not to do develop the idea, at least you guys get a nice long post about some stranger's dream that probably isn't as interesting as that person thinks it is. :|

A Dream

This is a story - my story - about a girl I once knew. I don’t know where this girl lives. I see it, but it has no name. Neither does the girl. For now, she is just a girl, in a meadow along the woods, down the dirt path from where she lives in one of those cottages you might find in a calendar.

* * *

The owl-eyed girl whisks her long, curvy, almost crimped, golden-silk hair from her face - slightly pinker than the rest of her pale skin, marked from adventures in the uncharted woods that surround her home. Her flowing, white cotton dress, two layers, at least, lays gently at her feet, covering her ivory, lace-worked flats - worn from worthwhile wear. A tie for her hair on her right wrist always leaves her prepared.

* * *

She is gathering something in the meadow. The sun castes down on her in broken shadows, the trees their creators. What is she snatching from the Earth? I never know. Sometimes I think shasta daisies and other times chamomile, maybe. But whatever, she picks, with her wicker basket filling. And she is content.

* * *

But the woods are not. Something moves - rustles - amongst them. They are men. A Captain and a Prince. Of where? All ride horses, and cover their bodies in the glory of Mars and the blood of their enemies - victims of pride and a business sense, not arrogance or vengeance. Two by two they file down the path, slightly muddied by trampling hooves.

* * *

The girl hardly glances up, as the horses trot to a halt - the first in line’s muscular body aligns with her own, the rest of the unit stretching back and slightly down hill out of view. The Captain beckons to the girl without a voice. She appears next to his steed, and strokes its mane, looking kindly, but intently into its aging eyes. Its rider asks if she knows the way to ----- Fort. Of course she does. She has lived here all her life.

* * *

“Just follow the path to the other end of these woods. Then cross the wheat field, and re-enter the forest. Then it’s just a short way.” . . . “I had better take you. You won’t be able to get in.”

* * *

“Are you sure you can make it safely by nightfall?” “Just try to keep up” as she puts two fingers to her mouth and whistles. A horse comes galloping from the behind the men. Each follows with amazement in his eyes, as the confident mare approaches the girl, who grabs a hold of the reins and leaps onto the saddle.

* * *

On either side of the horse are baskets. They carry forget-me-nots. It turns out she was making bouquets after all. For the cottage where she lives with her Aunt.

* * *

The girl is not transporting only flowers today, however. On her back is strapped a leather sack for carrying arrows, and attached is her bow. The duo are galloping now. Through the woods. She is a ways a head of the men, but they can see her just at the horizon. Suddenly, she breaks free. From the forest. She is thrust into the open field - into the sun’s blinding warmth, but it is after noon now. The sun is past its zenith and ever declining as she races across the field - her head low to her black and white rump-speckled companion. She is far ahead.

* * *

As soon as she hits the wooden barrier, however, she slows to a trot, confined by the outreaching branches. This gives the men a chance to catch up. They slow down behind her, the Prince pulls along side. She leads them slowly down an unmarked path, the dimming light and bugs dance around them.

* * *

They come to a clearing. Across from them sits a castle. Is it a castle? It was obviously a fort. “How do we get in?”

* * *

She walks forward. Revealing a large tree, stretched across a rolling river. Even on its side the large Oak stands as tall as her chest. She slips off her shoes, places them on the over-turned trunk, grabs the end of her dress, pulls it up just above the knee, and ties it in a knot. She hoists herself on to the natural bridge and picks up her flats.

* * *

The river is raging, but she makes delicate work of crossing. At the end - her dress not snagged on any of the protruding branches - she hops down, and looking back towards the men, grabs on to a stone edge. The arch that forms the entrance to the fort covers the wooden gate that remains a barricade for the men.

* * *

The girl begins to climb. Her small fingers and toes fit into the barely bigger cracks and crevices in the stone. It seemed much grander when she was younger.

* * *

She stands upon a small ledge after reaching the pinnacle of the entrance. She finally looks back towards the men. “Welcome.” She pulls a wooden lever, and taking its time, clearly annoyed at being disturbed for the first time in a century, the wooden gate lowers. As it settles on the muddy ground, the girl’s mare, unprompted, strides across. Almost as if there were little gravity, the girl jumps down - landing once more upon the faithful back - and makes her way inside the fort.

* * *

The vast field of grass, balding in parts, stretches out into the center of a large arena type structure - deep set stairs reaching to the top of the surrounding stone walls. The grass is heavily saturated, not dark, but bright. The girl, our Hero, strolls in an elliptical shape about half way between the middle and the outer edges of the field. The men enter the Fort after her, their eyes wondering to and fro in awe, but she is already making her way to the right of the entrance.

* * *

There, at the foot of the stone blocks, she dismounts, letting her mare stand idly while she makes her own way up. She finds a spot, near the corner, whereby sitting sideways, her right foot a step below her and her left bent in front of her, she can see over the broken blocks in the wall. She has sat here a hundred times before. The sun is almost gone now. Her face is aglow with the last remnants of its existence. Her gaze lost in her own thoughts.

* * *

For just a moment she sees the glistening of spectacles in the far off distance. Something grey shifts between the rocks as she squints to understand. The Captain notices her. He appears intent at making his way over, but before he has a chance, a member of his brigade yells - not in alarm, but simply out of a sense of duty. “They’re coming!” And that they are. Along a path that leads around the Fort. They stand waiting. Like the others inside, they wear the skin of soldiers, but a handful are clad in robes - their costumes as dark as the approaching night, with bits of bright-lemon yellow trimming their sleeves and hoods. They are the ones who stand forward, their faces obscured, cloaked in shadow and their loose hoods. The rest stay back, in the outskirts of the clearing, some pushed back into the forest.

* * *

What are they waiting for?

* * *

Three men - or at least we assume they are men - their cloaks make it impossible to tell by their faces - but still, by their stature you might be right in assuming such a thing, stand on either side, facing one another. Nyx across from Mars, the latter's backs to us. There is a cliff that juts out to their left. It’s mostly dirt with some grassy patches. Silence. The air is still. Stifling even. This is enough to get our Hero’s attention. She breaks her sunset induced trance, and turns her head.

* * *

She makes her way down the crumbling steps and passes her horse. Rusty. She named that beauty after her Grandfather. She tip toes towards the gate and peers out. The tallest in crimson is gesturing. He holds something in his hands. Undoubtedly some precious jewel they’ve stolen from a conquered people, she instantly presumes. Priceless. But not to these other “collectors.” So much bloodshed in the name of greed.

* * *

Guns.

* * *

The men in red suddenly stumble back - except the one in the middle. Guns held by the three wearing robes are directed at their skulls.

* * *

She has no explanation. Who knows what evil is? What good is? From where she is standing it all looks grey. As she dashes towards the men her heart begins to chase, like the first time she had this dream. She grabs the object out of the hands of the man who could be a Legate, smiles, and sprints towards the edge of the cliff. She leaps, head first, towards the cold choppy waters and piercing rocks below, and plummets at least a hundred feet. The fall seems to take forever, and it gives her just enough time to look down at her hands. The hands holding the object so precious she just killed herself to protect it. The look of horror captured on her face in that moment expresses exactly the feelings of the 142 men standing on the ground above her.

* * *

Our Hero is not conscious. She doesn’t see the many men peer over the edge. She doesn’t witness them scurry back to their horses or the commanders commanding. She has no idea of the tired hooves digging into the eroded surface of the Earth moving as fast as they can. Towards her. She is clearly unaware of the long procession of brown and grey robes who carefully pull her lifeless body from the icy water. She cannot perceive the gentleness of their hands as they tenderly wrap her body in the cloth off their own bodies and place her on the back of a horse named Maat, and then slowly, but with purpose in their hearts, lead her away. Far away from the men in black and yellow and red who so frantically are racing down the steep mountainsides.

* * *

But out Hero, she is not blind. No. She sees the truth better than any. Or so she will soon discover.

* * *

At first, she feels the warmth of her Grandmother’s quilt. Snuggled away on a chilly rainy day. And what’s that? Aster? Her mother loved aster. But that’s impossible. Besides, the framed photo on the wall that’s coming into focus now clearly is not in the tastes of any of the women in her family. Her Grandfather, perhaps. Right, that hand on hers. She’s felt it before. Aged, but soft - like it had recently been covered in a fresh coat of baby powder. A weak outline of brown raises into the air. “She’s coming to again.” The brown patch sways out of her line of site. A gray patch replaces it. A hint of silver cuts it in half. It’s a person, that’s clear now, even if there is no face visible to confirm her suspicions. And it’s a man. This she doesn’t recognize until he speaks to her. “It’s OK, you’re safe now. I think she’ll hold on this time.” And she does. Mostly on to the bed sheets below her, arms at her sides. “Don’t be afraid. You were injured. Do you remember?” “Never mind that,” another voice chimes in, a woman. “Right. How do you feel?” She debates this question, presumably addressed to her, for a few seconds. “Where am I?” “You’re safe now. We found you. You fell very far. Do you remember?” “I jumped.” “And why would you do a thing like that?” “Dear, why don’t you rest. We’ll explain everything once you regain your strength and are more up to it. We’ll have someone here with you all night.”

* * *

But they don’t. Not the next night, anyway. The elderly man who is supposed to be there now passed away in his sleep during the prior shift. The equally elderly man he is supposed to replace has finally gotten fed up with waiting, and when goes on his way to find his old friend, he’s distracted by a light - emanating through a pair of ornate window curtains. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s important is that our young Hero is aware of this lack of guardianship. She has been awake for hours. Her eyes clenched unnaturally tight, but her nearly blind protectors are none the wiser. She has a chance now. Quietly, she slithers her way from under the covers, afraid to disturb the strange, but comforting, energy around her. She looks at the floor near the edge of the bed, instinctively, for a pair of slippers, but she can’t see any even if they are there. It doesn’t matter - the floor is carpeted. Not plush. More like that industrial strength, rug-burn waiting to happen, that you’d find in a school full of children who like to trudge in with their muddy shoes in the Spring and make their friends squirt milk from their nostrils. Not soft, but no bitter cold tile, at least. She makes her way, surprisingly loudly, towards the single door at the foot of the bed. She doesn’t even think about what might be on the other side. She just has to pee. She looks left and then right down the hall. The way to the left seems to stretch on forever into the dark. The way to the right ends in a few feet at a three-way intersection. She goes right, and then right again, since it was such a success the first time. She has been expecting a public ladies room of some sorts. Even though she recognizes that would make little sense... this is clearly a religious boarding school in some capacity. That explains the robes. She hasn’t actually seen any women yet, but she vaguely recalls hearing the voice of one. She just can’t remember when.

* * *

What happens in the restroom is rather predictable. It’s what happens when she comes out that is unexpected. It’s a second or two before she looks up, but when she does, she notices the large painting on the wall across from the door she came through. That face. She knows it. It’s her father. No, she doesn’t even know what he looks like. But she does. In her dreams. She has seen that face come to her a hundred times before. Always untying the bows in her hair. She hated those bows, but her Aunt told she looked like a wild lion without them. There are bows in her hair now, but they aren’t hers. Neither are these clothes. Someone has bathed and dressed her. She takes a step back with her left foot. “What?” Her eyebrows scrunch into perplexity. Her head just slightly shaking from left to right and back. She reaches out her right hand and moves her left leg back in front. Her upper body leans forward towards the painting. A small bronze (it is actually gold) plaque on the bottom of the frame is mostly hidden by a tall plotted plant with broad palming leaves sitting below. She grabs the northern most leaf . . . “There you are.” “Oh!” She stumbles back and quickly snaps her hands to her sides. “I was, uh, just going to the bathroom.” She feels like she has been caught sneaking a colored egg on Easter morning before the others have gathered to properly start the festivities. Not that she knows what Easter is. “That’s quite alright. Did you find it OK?’ “Uh, yeah. But...” “But...?” “This man.” “Who is he?” From a forced smile to a genuine frown. “Probably some wealthy donor. You know how it is.” “Right... but, his name?” “I don’t know. It’s late. Come on. I’ll show you back to your room. It seems you’ll be well enough to join us for breakfast in the morning.” She doesn’t bother resisting. She follows the stocky man back to her room. She is still incredibly sleepy and she doesn’t intend to reject the comfort of a fluffed pillow and soft mattress.

* * *

But she doesn’t go to breakfast the next morning. It’s brought to her, instead. It isn’t until seven men are standing around her, dressed all in gray robes, except one in brown, that she realizes just how much pain she is in. Her ribs are broken or else severely bruised. She feels the tight band so suddenly suffocating her. She begins to make a mental check list of the damage. Big toe nails on each foot missing. Probably a sprained ankle. Definitely some large flesh wound on her outer thigh - considering the size and thickness of the bandages there. The rest of her legs seem relatively unscathed save a few scrapes. She tries to shrug her shoulders. Pain shoots all up and down her left arm. Three of her fingers on that side remain in splints. “Don’t try to move. We hear you got up last night. We’ve decided to reduce your medication. It can be dangerous not to recognize when your body is in distress.” The second man from her left lowers his hood. She expects a bald monk, but he looks more like a lumberjack with thick brown facial hair. Before she has a complete chance to memorize his face, the rest of the men lower their own hoods. Everything gets blurry. The muted colors of their robes and hair swirl together in a muddy mess. Their features lost in the spiral. “Can I have cryspes?” The one thing her mind seems able to focus on. “Of course.”

* * *

Sleep.

* * *

“Where is she?” The brown-robed man peers at the security screen. “There she is. In the corner. She’s gotten up. Let’s go.” The men open the door of their small room. Theirs is next to our Hero’s. They decided she was too coherent to merit in-room surveillance. The cameras are inconspicuous enough, anyway. The first to speak stands with his back to the frame of the door, facing the girl’s room. Waiting. Sure enough, in a few seconds her door opens. She stands, slightly swaying. A few steps forward. “Quick. Get them.” “OK. Shhh...” the remaining man watches as our Hero seems to float across the ground in her soft blue night gown. Once she is clearly in the hallway, several men in gray robes rush from behind a wall ten feet a head. The man in the lead stops - spreads his arms out - and shushes the others, with a half-way-glance, not daring to completely take his eyes off the girl.

* * *

“Just watch.” By now there are six men gathered in the hall, at varying degrees of separation from our walking sleeper. 5 ft. 10 ft. 20 ft. and she halts. She slowly pivots her body to the right. A waist high table stands against the wall. A small fern sits on top. She walks towards both and slides the foliage to the left end of the table. She stops. Raises her right hand. Very deliberately she places it on the patchwork brick wall in front of her and gives a solid push. The stone retracts into the wall. Suddenly, an arch shaped cutout begins to appear as a large slab of brick retreats and slides behind the rest of the wall. It’s a door. A secret one, naturally.

* * *

The girl remains motionless. The brown robe rushes to the door and peers in. He leans back and begins pushing the long table against the wall, until the doorway stands open. It’s like a switch turns on in the girl as she begins walking into the room. As first, it’s darkness. Then a light flickers. A gray Robe walks to the door and follows the girl in, as the others take his lead. As the girls walks forwards, more lights begin glimmering. They’re candles, evenly displayed along the perimeter of a small circular impression. Spider webs hang from the ceiling, connecting everything in a silk maze. The walls were clearly crafted to inspire terror. Large dragons and lions protrude from their sculpted surfaces. A hint of red paint dots various crevices. The men walk behind a gate, three and three, never taking their eyes off the girl. She stands in the center, probably for what seems like an eternity, with her jaw pointed at the ceiling. Her eyes effortlessly relaxed. Her arms at her sides, palms forward. It’s only been a minute, when suddenly she raises her hands to the ceiling. In that instant, a beam of light breaks through the concrete and stone. The light veils our Hero. Everything beyond an arm’s length from her body remains untouched. She collapses. Like someone has dropped a bag of bricks from above.

* * *

She’s getting tired of waking up in a fog. She misses the warmth of the sun shining in through her bedroom windows, gently nuzzling her to get up. “How do you feel?” “What?” “I don’t know... like I ran into a brick wall.’ “Do you remember anything?” “What?” “Your dream. Did you dream?” “Maybe. I can never remember these days. It’s all a blur.” “What happened?” “You were sleep walking last night.” “So what happened?” “You walked right into your door and fell back onto your head. You gave us quite a fright, of course.”

* * *

“It’s her. She’s ready.” “Are you sure?” “She’s had the visions. She uncovered the receiving room and she was received! “I thought so... we must be gentle. She has been through too much.” “Of course.”

* * *

It is time. Time? What is time? She has no idea how much time she has been here. Her broken bones are nearly healed. Her bruises gone. Week? Months? All she knows is that in all that time she has been very protected. From what? Or who? Or maybe someone or something is being protected from her. She has met perhaps a dozen of the robed. All men. Some obviously suspicious of her - others, more curious. They all want to know about her. Some are simply more obvious about it. She wants to know just as much about them. Are they holy men? A cult? Where are the women? Where is she? And what is going to happen to her?

* * *

“What’s this?” “It’s a robe. We thought you might be more comfortable.” “For what?” The brown robed man is old. She swears she has seen his face before. But then, it seems like that is always happening these days. And yes, she technically has seen him many times. He waits on her more than any other Robe.

* * *

The brown robed man leaves the room. For a moment he pauses at the door and looks as if he’s about to turn back. It’s just for a moment and she doesn’t see it, as she is staring down at her new garments. Bright royal blue. And pleated. With a wide hood and slightly darker sash. She slips it over her head. “What am I doing?”

* * *

He jumps just a bit as she cracks open the door and enters the hallway. Was it surprise? Anticipation? Embarrassment? “Here.” He wraps the sash around her waist and ties it on her right side. “Oh.” He grins and walks past the secret door...

* * *

She’s finally going left, but at first she almost thinks she recognizes the way. But she knows she has never seen the light overflowing the long corridor, lined on either side with men in brown and grey robes, all their hoods down. And they are all men. Some are holding books, vaguely facing other Robes, pretending to chit chat, while always keeping an eye on our Hero. It really is quite bright, but very refreshing. It stings a bit, but it is the most detail she has been able to see around her in ages. The floor to ceiling windows, their long antique curtains drawn to the sides. She glances outside to her left, as they make their way down the hall. She can see what looks like a garden pool, surrounded by storied pillars and ivy that has probably been growing there for longer than she has been alive. Most remarkable is the blue glow. Like the reflection of water in the sun against a white wall, but actually permeating the air. She keeps walking.

* * *

She doesn’t know where to look, really. It feels awkward every time she catches the gaze of one of the on looking Robes, but she simply doesn’t feel right peering at the ground like some shy school girl on the first day of class. So she holds her head up and looks straight ahead. Eventually, they reach a tall set doors. Maybe they are real Sequoias reaching to the ceiling. The brown Robe stops, and lets out a light sigh as he seems to prepare himself. “What’s going to happen in there?” “Something wonderful.” “Should I be scared?” “Would it change anything?” The brown Robe grabs each large handle with his fingers, and noticeably gives a labored pull. Ah, there they are.

* * *

Our Hero feels a sudden sense of giddiness. She can’t quite help it. The room is the most majestic piece of art she has ever laid her eyes upon. The cavern seems to go on in every direction forever. The curves of the branches, reaching out every which way, are illuminated by small, whimsical lanterns. She could swear she sees fairies dancing through the leaves, or maybe they are just fireflies. It is a fantasy, to be sure. In the center of the room sits a woman that she recognizes as herself in thirty years, a slightly older Venus at the mirror. It seems like only yesterday that her Aunt was telling her to be home before night fall when she ventured out. She remembered this time to pick the “sorry” flowers before it got dark. She was always forgiven when she came in with a posy. But now this woman before her, with all the kindness and simultaneous sternness in her face, looks prouder than she has ever seen her. She is sitting a ways above the other women. Four of them, about five feet lower, two to the left, and two to the right. Perhaps it is the smiles on their faces that are so contagious, but before she even realizes what she is doing, she bursts out in a delighted giggle.

* * *

“What will happen when I go through?” “Something wonderful.” “You always know.” “I’ve never been. No one has. At least, no one has lived to tell about it. And those who have, never come back anyway.” “But I love it here.” “And we love you, but the rest need you.” “I’m ready.”

* * *

The cool breeze seems to emanate from the glistening pool. She requests only her grandfather be with her. As she faces the pool, standing at the top of six or seven steps, she can see the large bronze gate below the surface. The sweet music sends her into a trance. She slowly steps into the water, her blue robe surfacing around her, until she is fully underneath - her long hair and cloth floating above, the latter easily slipping off as she raises her hands. She can’t help but hold her breath, even though she knows she doesn’t need to. The gate is replaced by a smoky fog. She turns her body downward and spreads out her hands in even strokes. Her fingertips glide right through, followed by the rest of her.

* * *

The music never stops. But suddenly she is dry. Her hair up in a loose bun. Her elegant light blue ball-grown, encrusted in diamonds and embellished in lace. She is already smiling, the spotlight shining warmly on her face as she walks down the stairs. As she approaches the wooden floor, someone grabs her by the hand, and they begin to dance. Spinning and swirling. Every few minutes more bodies joining the crowd. She finds herself on the edge, near the tables. Most are sitting, but the tall Prince in red stands out. She can’t ignore his inviting smile. “Care to dance?”