The Eye of Optio

I was a page in the palace of King Henry VIII, about 11 or 12 years old. I was following a woman who looked something like Madame de Pompadour through the halls of the palace. She was attempting to apprehend a spy known as "the Eye of Optio,"¹ and had pulled me away from my duties and browbeaten me into assisting her.

We approached a large door at the end of the hall just in time to see Henry and his retinue pass through into the room beyond. A conquistador stood guard before the door, dragging the tip of a large sword back and forth across the floor in sweeping arcs.² He stared blankly and unblinkingly as he did this, ahead and slightly downward, though his eyes did not appear to be focused on anything and his pupils were narrowed to tiny dots.

Believing the Eye of Optio was likely eavesdropping on Henry in the room beyond, the lady told me to go through a smaller side door, which led to a balcony overlooking the room. However, as I attempted to enter the door, the conquistador suddenly rushed forward—apparently, this door too was under his protection. He did not swing the blade, but rather pushed it against me to force me away, perhaps as a non-lethal first warning. His gaze remained fixed, unblinking, and unfocused as he did this; he uttered not a sound, but he sent his message clearly enough.

As I retreated with the lady, I felt a stinging sensation, and looked down to see that I had suffered a shallow but painful cut down the entire length of my left leg where the sword had been pressed against me. "Stop your whining; it's just a scratch," the lady ordered as she dragged me out of the palace and into a courtyard.

~

I stood on the crest of a hill, looking down on the ruined city to which the search had finally brought us. I was older now, and did not look like myself: I was a thin, lanky fellow with an odd mop of dark hair. The lady had also changed: she was now younger, pale, with blue eyes and black hair cut in a boyish style.³ Our clothing had likewise changed, and was now decidedly modern.

We started down the hill. The streets through which we walked were pulled straight out of those photos of Chernobyl. I led the way towards a partially ruined apartment building at the the end of the street, and the lady followed with a gun pointed at my back. It had become known to her that I had been involved in a prior search of my own for the Eye of Optio, and I had essentially been taken hostage and forced to retrace my steps.

We entered the building. It was mostly dark, except for a pair of vending machines which were curiously still powered. A plastic trash bin sat on the floor between the machines; I moved this aside to reveal the name "Mitch S." written on the floor. "That's him," I told the lady, not telling her that upon seeing the name I suddenly recalled that it was my own, or at least one of my own.⁴

We found a book behind a counter which listed the tenants of the building, and looked up the apartment number for Mitch S. As we climbed the stairs to the appropriate floor, I again had a recollection: that I knew this building well, that the apartment we were going to was my own; but again I said nothing, although the lady also seemed to be confused, darting quick glances at things half-remembered.

We found the apartment. The door hung awkwardly by one hinge, and came off completely as we pushed our way past. The apartment was pitch black, so we brought out flashlights. The lady's agitation had increased as we approached the apartment, and she now shouted "Where is he? Go check the other room!" I could hear her continuing to shout as we searched, as if she were trying to drown out the thoughts racing through her mind.

Wrapped up in the search, it took me a moment to notice that the shouting had stopped. I turned around and shone my flashlight through the door of the room I had been searching. Straight across in the adjoining room, the tattered remnants of a one seater sofa rested against the wall, and the lady sat in this with her head in her hands. She had realized the same thing that I had: that this was her apartment, and that she was me.

I broke out in a grin and jumped into her lap, and suddenly I was the page boy again. I told her: "Do you see now? It's you! You're the Eye of Optio!"

She said nothing, and her face showed no emotion, but her hands shook as she raised the gun to my head and shot me.⁵
---

Notes:
¹The name "Optio" most immediately calls to mind the root of such words as "optical," thereby giving something like "The Eye of the Eye," which sounds appropriate for a mysterious super spy. "Optio" was also a rank in the Roman army, perhaps alternatively giving a sense of being the agent of some sinister rival empire fraught with Byzantine political maneuvering.

²As I reflected on the conquistador, the image of the cherubim with the revolving sword of fire guarding the gate to Eden immediately came to mind. I suspect the conflation of the two images has something to do with having seen the movie The Fountain, which likewise combined this Biblical/Conquistador imagery. Also getting a hint of a Kakfaesque "Before the Law" vibe.

³This woman has previously appeared in my dreams in various roles, the first time probably being nearly a decade ago. She doesn't look like anyone I know, nor like some famous person from TV/movies/history/whatever, so I have no idea where she comes from.

⁴My name is not Mitch S., nor do I know anyone named Mitch.

⁵It seems like a lot of my dreams end with me getting shot. It does not actually startle me awake like the sensation of falling does, nor does any sense of fear or panic accompany it. Rather, getting shot seems to simply indicate that the dream is over, and it is now time to wake up. Like drawing the curtain on a stage, if you will.