Dream

The fire is almost out, only embers shimmer over white coals and the horizon holds that certain held-breath feeling of being too far from sunrise to quite exhale. The camp guards are quiet, restless shadows between the here and there. A slave awakened by strange dreams is of no consequence and I do not seek their attention.

It was so strange, the tent silent and the air strange. Funny how that happenes, that once upon a time I found the scent of the air in Ar so very foreign. Gone were the verdant undertones of old growth forest and rich loamy earth. Replaced by the scent of merchant stalls, the kitchen, the streets, it was all so strange. Yet I find myself here, far to the south and tasting the air is a new experience. It is not familiar, not steady. It is not home. I have to laugh to think that were I to go back to my birthplace, that too would taste so strange.

I hope they find the woman they seek, healthy and whole. I am eager to help but quite often in recent days have found myself in the role of listener, observer, without the knowledge or skills to truly be helpful. I do not like that feeling. And so I offer what thoughts I have, see to the free in camp and keep a wary eye on the horizon for what may come.

Tonight, yes well. Strange and yet not so much that I thought to find myself here with a cup of water and this book, a cloak draped over me against the chill of night as I seek to unravel the disjointed fragments of the dream that wrested me from slumber. More than the images, the faces, it was the feel of it. It felt important, crucial even, as if I could not handle letting it slip away like spider silk upon waking.

The stones were cool beneath bare feet and the air was that summer morning kind of cool where moisture brings it close against bare skin and th promise of warmth touches you. Sunrise over the Viktel Aria and a cloaked figure just ahead. His head was down, hood drawn, a walking stick in his left hand. No matter how I paced myself, I could not close the gap, distracted by the small wooden box I carried.

I stepped from the stones and was within the sheltering boughs of a wooden glen. Trees stood tall above me and in the light of the fire ahead two women danced. Their bodies moved with a strangely underwater slowness but they moved beautifully. I felt I should know the dance, but I did not and then their fire was a small greenish blue globe. It had the sense of a ritual, a slow yearning worship of the fire that was no longer fire. I turned away, remembering then that I was not to dance to that tune.

There was a sense more than a visual, something beckoned me deeper into those trees, the darkness giving way to daylight and there was a storefront but no store. The frame of window held no glass and where display of merchandise ought to be there was only a small wooden table. It felt important and I looked to the small box I held. When looking back, the table was now made of chain and had become a glittering square..

There was a taste in my mouth, a sweet warm burn as if I had sipped sulpaga. The table of chain wrapped the pulsing form of a female. My pulse was loud in my ears, quickening in tandem with the table girl. Much more than chain but secretive, careful, it was important to let the chains shine, they drew the eye from the girl whose eyes snapped open and met my own. A finger touched her lips. Shhh. She knew the secret, the table knew the secret and I turned away.

The scenery slid away, sunset on a shoreline I am very sure I never touched. The box in my hands had a hinged lid and I stepped into the water. It was warm, no hot, suffocating and the waves that lapped at my ankles rose higher despite my feet not moving. A figure floated past, and I took from the box a dina petal. I slipped it through her lips and like a small fish she flared to life, swimming away in a streak of silver. It was then that I realized so many more forms lay dormant, floating in the water, lifeless.

I became panicked, reaching again and again into the box for petals, each revived by the gift and swimming away. It was only when the last dove deep that I realized the waves were at my navel and tugging me harder. The tide was rising and I was too deep in to wade out to safety. I could taste the salt water on my tongue, braids heavy and pulling my head back, the triple moons full above and a stone rising from the water upon which stood that traveling man with cloak and stick.

Too far away, the water lonely without anyone who needed help. He could not hear me, and yet he turned his head and in that moment I knew him. I opened my mouth to call his name and a great wash of water filled my mouth, my throat, The moons shimmered above the watery surface and I remember feeling achingly calm as I went under. The box clutched tight, I looked within, dismayed at the very many compartments. Such craftsmanship, it was lovely, each was unique and yet all were devoid of the petal I would need to learn to breathe when air was taken.

I woke to the very real sound of a shhh in my ears. Disturbed, panting, it was the swirl of emotion and sensory images that gripped me, led me to grab this book and try as far as possible to bring solidity to what was fleeting thought. I make no pretense of having done so well. I do not speculate as to the meaning of any of this. For all I know it was a dream like countless before it that simply caught on my consciousness and prodded me to write.

I do not know. I know so little really. Maybe that is the hardest part.