Past and Present Collide in the DreamTime

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

The dream started like the others.

He drifted through heat until he came to the cabin, but this time the Bard held onto him longer.  He wanted more than anything to rest in the safety of that embrace, but the Wanderer knew their reunion wouldn’t last. 

When the old man pulled back, there was sorrow in his deep black eyes.

“There was something I never told you,” he said.  “Sometimes it can destroy a man to follow his heart.”

Before the Wanderer could answer, his grandfather pushed him through the fire and he came out in the garden surrounding the manor.

He knew it was summer from the sweat on his brow and the scent of lilies nearly overpowered his senses. 

Then he saw the couple. 

The Patroness had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes sparkled and she had a robust bloom in her cheeks, strolling with her husband through the garden paths. 

The Wanderer arrived in time to hear her say she was pregnant. 

The Patron gave a shout of joy, picking up his wife and spinning her through the air. His beloved was light as a feather floating and fading away. 

Her chambers were the next destination in this journey of dreams. 

The Patroness seemed ready to give birth, her belly swollen and round beneath the sheets. 

But the Wanderer was aghast at her appearance. Her cheeks were hollowed, her skin the color of ashes, dark circles under her eyes. He suspected she’d been confined to bed for months. 

The Patron was at her side, reading a parable in the rhythm used to lull a child to sleep. But his wife was agitated.

“Be good to her.” 

Her voice that once rang with the clarity of a silver bell was ravaged, now raspy and hoarse. She gripped her husband’s hand and pressed her lips to his palm.

“Please,” she whispered.

The Wanderer had to look away from the desperation in her eyes. 

The Patron paused, then set his book aside to stroke her forehead.     

“My love, please don’t distress yourself.”

“The baby is a girl. Girls need…”

She trailed off, her face crumpling before she turned away. Her husband caressed her and murmured soothing words. But she turned back to him with a hard set to her features.

“Give me your word that you’ll be good to her.”

“Everything will be fine,” the Patron said. “You’ll mend after the baby comes.” 

“Promise me!”   

She tightened her grip on his hand until his fingertips were white, the ferocity in her gaze forcing the Patron to look away.

“If you love me, then you will be good to our daughter no matter what-”

“That’s enough!” the Patron shouted. “Of course, I’ll be good to her. I give you my word along with the promise that we will make wonderful parents for our little girl.”

Her features softened and the terrified urgency in her eyes was gone. The Patroness was almost beautiful again and she kissed her husband’s hand with ardor, disappearing from the Wanderer’s view as he drifted back into the mist between dreams.

But there was no warmth and all was black around him. The chill on his skin reminded him of nights in early spring before winter was ready to let go. 

Then he heard her screaming. 

He came back to the chambers of the Patroness, startled when a servant walked through him. 

He realized she was the midwife and the birth must have gone horribly wrong. The woman’s features had the distortion of grief and the bundle she held in her arms was silent. 

The Wanderer thought the baby must have been stillborn, for the Patron’s anguish was deafening. 

He sat in a pool of blood, the cords along his neck bulging from the howling threatening to tear the room apart. He held his wife in his arms, rocking her back and forth. Her head rolled aside and the Wanderer stared into eyes that had gone black, seeing only into the land of death.

He knew this was only a dream and struggled to come awake, but he couldn’t. 

The dead stare of the Patroness blurred, leaving the Wanderer gazing into the black eyes of his mother.

He never realized how frightened she had been that night until he saw her as a man. He reached out to her, but she looked right through him, standing at the door with a finger to her lips.

“Be quiet,” she said. “And do not move.”

The Wanderer turned around and saw himself. He was a little boy in bed with the covers up to his chin, his eyes wide with terror. 

Then his mother closed the door and thrust him into the darkness. He couldn’t do as she told him this time. When his mother screamed, the Wanderer screamed with her.

Silence and stillness had killed her. He would yell and fight. He would rail against the demons he was blind to, the intruders who had murdered his parents. 

The Wanderer felt a touch on his shoulder and swung his arm. His hand balled into a fist, his fingers crushed against skin and bone.

 The punch was gratifying, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly his wrists were gripped, his arms pressed above his head, and one of the demons was upon him.

“Wanderer…Wanderer…”

He wasn’t a child anymore. He knew he was stronger than his attacker, pushing back until the weight on him gave way. 

Then she leaned into him and he heard her voice in his ear.

“Wanderer, wake up!” she said.  “You’re having a nightmare.”

He opened his eyes and saw nothing. He pushed again, but confusion exhausted him enough she was able to keep his arms pinned above his head. 

He knew it was the girl from her scent. The honey musk was undeniable, her breath warm on his face.

“Wanderer, do you remember where you are?”

He was shaking, and before he could stop himself, began to sob.

He felt the girl stiffen and her weight shift.

But the Wanderer sat up and grabbed her, burying his face in her neck.