Down by the ocean shore, a gate stood in front of the town. The placement seemed odd: I could only assume that a road must have once passed between the crumbling pillars and onward to the west, the track now serving caravans of crabs rather than merchant wagons.
I walked down to the beach with my travelling companion to investigate further. Passing through the gate and turning back to face the town, I could now see the giant faces carved into the front of the pillars: one on each side sculpted from smooth white stone, the details still remarkably clear considering the crumbling state of the rest of the structure. Both faces: vaguely male, bald, the necks long and broad. To my left: a face-filled with violence, a single horn jutting from the middle of the smooth forehead, leaning forward to direct the point at the sculpture opposite. To my right: a similar face, but with broken horn and leaning back with an expression of open-mouthed fear.1
I turned to my companion and asked what she thought it represented, but to my surprise it was not she who answered but rather the face on the right. This is the tale it told me:
"Long ago, before there was the sea, my brother and I marked the border between the West and the East. We both held our horns high, knowing that neither could pierce the other without himself being pierced. But the power of the East waned, and the Duke of the West, seeing his opportunity, sought to expand his domain. His army passed through the gate, the peace was broken, my horn was broken, the King of the East fled to lands unknown. When my horn is found, there will be peace again."
I glanced at the sea. "There is peace now. And the West is lost beneath the waves, unless there remains a fishing village or two on some distant island."
The face scowled. "The men who rule now are the descendants of those who came from the West."
"They seem to rule well enough, and the conflict you describe is long forgotten."
"The East demands justice!"
"Well then, where is your horn?"
"It lies somewhere on this beach, buried beneath the sand." It turned towards a stone brazier which stood near the gate. "Fill it with holy water, and I can search for my horn."2
Driven by curiosity more than anything else, my companion and I found a church in the town and discreetly obtained a small amount of holy water. We poured this into the brazier, where it burned with a pale blue flame. A tall figure stepped through the gate. The face was identical to that of the statue, including the broken horn, the body more or less human other than an odd lengthening of the proportions.
The figure immediately set about digging in the sand with its powerful arms. The holy water quickly burned down, and my companion and I took turns venturing into the town to obtain more. Several hours passed as the statue-spectre tirelessly tore apart the beach, never seeming to grow frustrated despite the lack of any trace of the lost horn.4
Finally, just before sunset, the figure paused in its digging, stood erect, and disappeared. My first thought was to check the holy water, but it still burned. My companion and I ran and looked down into the hole, but it was empty. It was only when we looked back to the gate that we saw that both statues now had their horns. However, they were not raised as the statue had told me they had originally been positioned; rather, both statues now directed their horns at one another, the tips nearly touching the other's forehead.
"Now what?" I asked the statue.
"We wait," it replied, and then fell silent.
My companion and I sat out on the beach all that night, first by the light of the remaining holy water, and then by the light of the moon. At some point we must have both fallen asleep, for we awoke in the mid-morning to the sound of jangling metal. The fog had rolled in during the night and now covered everything, so we waited for the source of the sound to draw nearer. Within a few minutes, a group of men, about a dozen in number, emerged from the mist. All were armed and wore an emblem I did not recognize, though it bore some similarity to the faces carved into the gate.
The apparent leader—a short thin man, a sword slung over his shoulder, gray of hair though he still appeared young—spared us only a quick glance before turning his attention to the gate. He stood a moment while his men waited: considering the gate, the town, I know not what. Finally the group passed through the gate and were lost from view as they turned down the streets. My companion and I followed, uncertain about what had just transpired and how it related to the events of the previous day, and whether the appearance of these strangers boded good or ill in the days to come.5
---
Notes:
1The statues looked like something pulled out of a Yoshitaka Amano painting.
2This story sounds a bit like the intro to the opera from Final Fantasy VI, or like something out of Jack Vance's Dying Earth stories, what with all the empires lost beneath the waves and wars that happened so long ago that no one even remembers them. I believe I had just finished rereading Rhialto the Marvellous the night before this dream.
3Anyone who has played the later Castlevania games knows that holy water obviously burns blue.
4The digging scene again calls to mind one of Jack Vance's Dying Earth stories, in this case the episode at Flutic where Cugel takes up employment digging through the mud and slime for the scales which composed the body of some ancient god.
5Definitely some political themes going on, the message of which I believe should be self-evident.
Showing posts with label Count St. Germain II. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Count St. Germain II. Show all posts
The Quashing of the Resurrection
I stood on the earth, my feet spread across two continents, my head chilled by the cold void of space. For thousands of years, I had lived as a god with the others who had escaped the pathetic fragility of the "human condition" and reclaimed our true preternatural form.
But now we were reminded that we were merely gods: on this day, the light of a Higher Power appeared in the sky.
We had not believed this day would ever come, that it ever needed to come. We had learned the secrets of the universe, had made the necessary adjustments to prevent it from ever being snuffed out. We had rebuilt it to our own design, perfected its flaws, created heaven on earth. What need was there for... for this: this "Rapture," this "Second Coming," this "Last Judgement," whatever it was supposed to be called?
I looked down at the earth: wherever the Divine light fell, I saw little hillocks of earth bulging upwards, pulsing, pushed outward by those making their way up from below. What right had they to join us, we who had achieved godhood through our own efforts and devices? These who had chosen a life of slavery and fatalistic servitude, begging for eternal life while we risked all to seize it ourselves: why should they share in our glory?
I moved my foot to block the light, and the earth settled into stillness once again. There would be no Resurrection on this day.
---
Notes:
I think the message this dream is trying to tell me is "I am a horrible person." I won't bore you with all the esoteric mystical mumbo jumbo or quasi-philosphical sci-fi claptrap going on. Oops, sorry, just did.
But now we were reminded that we were merely gods: on this day, the light of a Higher Power appeared in the sky.
We had not believed this day would ever come, that it ever needed to come. We had learned the secrets of the universe, had made the necessary adjustments to prevent it from ever being snuffed out. We had rebuilt it to our own design, perfected its flaws, created heaven on earth. What need was there for... for this: this "Rapture," this "Second Coming," this "Last Judgement," whatever it was supposed to be called?
I looked down at the earth: wherever the Divine light fell, I saw little hillocks of earth bulging upwards, pulsing, pushed outward by those making their way up from below. What right had they to join us, we who had achieved godhood through our own efforts and devices? These who had chosen a life of slavery and fatalistic servitude, begging for eternal life while we risked all to seize it ourselves: why should they share in our glory?
I moved my foot to block the light, and the earth settled into stillness once again. There would be no Resurrection on this day.
---
Notes:
I think the message this dream is trying to tell me is "I am a horrible person." I won't bore you with all the esoteric mystical mumbo jumbo or quasi-philosphical sci-fi claptrap going on. Oops, sorry, just did.
The Slaying of Balloon Boy
Our ship zipped through the sky, narrowly dodging the hail of projectiles directed at us by our foes. Down through the clouds and towards the surface we raced, over a landscape of jungles and rivers. We had reached an adequate proximity: a bright flash, and we shot from the ship in an orb of energy, making a beeline for a small city on the horizon.
We crowded together against the window of a single-room house, peering through the blinds at the people in the sunlit streets, waiting for the meetup which we had been directed to spy on. Squat men in trenchcoats and fedoras walked back and forth along the street, their faces hunched down and hidden behind their lapels. A siren suddenly sounded: our presence had somehow been exposed. The trenchcoated men dissolved into light and bolted up into the blue sky, towards the ships too high to be seen.
We rushed out into the fenced-in garden behind the house, knowing what was to come next. Small squat humanoid figures drifted slowly over the fence and settled onto the ground, where they continued to move about with a slow, floaty bounding manner, as if they were sentient balloons. Indeed, they had a metallic purple sheen to their bodies, like those foil balloons which no one likes as much as normal balloons.
I discovered that my comrades had suddenly abandoned me, but no matter: the balloon boys were easy enough to dispatch, and the slow-moving projectiles from their bubble guns were easily dodged. Several discharges from my laser pistol, and all but one of my foes had been destroyed... but my energy cell had also been exhausted.
I picked up one of the dropped bubble guns and engaged the remaining balloon boy in battle, and it was here that I made an alarming discovery: the HP regen rate on the balloon boy was faster than the firing rate of the bubble gun! What had the programmers been thinking!? I was now trapped in an unwinnable battle against a shamefully easy opponent.
I ducked and rolled around the garden, avoiding the bubbles directed towards me by the balloon boy. I repeatedly shot him with my own bubble gun, to no avail. Enough! I threw aside my weapon and grabbed the balloon boy with both hands. A metal rod projected out of the ground nearby, providing a vinehold for a tomato plant. I thrust the balloon boy down onto this, and he tore open with a shriek, his metallic purple skin flapping empty and hollow.
A voice boomed from above: "WHAT THE HELL. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO DO THAT. SHUT DOWN THE SIMULATION!"
---
Notes:
I have no idea. The only image I can possibly source is the balloon boy, who looked like a purple metallic version of Archer Prewitt's "Sof Boy." There was clearly some sort of Star Trek: TNG holodeck thing going on as well, although at least it wasn't one of those retarded episodes where the holodeck becomes real.
We crowded together against the window of a single-room house, peering through the blinds at the people in the sunlit streets, waiting for the meetup which we had been directed to spy on. Squat men in trenchcoats and fedoras walked back and forth along the street, their faces hunched down and hidden behind their lapels. A siren suddenly sounded: our presence had somehow been exposed. The trenchcoated men dissolved into light and bolted up into the blue sky, towards the ships too high to be seen.
We rushed out into the fenced-in garden behind the house, knowing what was to come next. Small squat humanoid figures drifted slowly over the fence and settled onto the ground, where they continued to move about with a slow, floaty bounding manner, as if they were sentient balloons. Indeed, they had a metallic purple sheen to their bodies, like those foil balloons which no one likes as much as normal balloons.
I discovered that my comrades had suddenly abandoned me, but no matter: the balloon boys were easy enough to dispatch, and the slow-moving projectiles from their bubble guns were easily dodged. Several discharges from my laser pistol, and all but one of my foes had been destroyed... but my energy cell had also been exhausted.
I picked up one of the dropped bubble guns and engaged the remaining balloon boy in battle, and it was here that I made an alarming discovery: the HP regen rate on the balloon boy was faster than the firing rate of the bubble gun! What had the programmers been thinking!? I was now trapped in an unwinnable battle against a shamefully easy opponent.
I ducked and rolled around the garden, avoiding the bubbles directed towards me by the balloon boy. I repeatedly shot him with my own bubble gun, to no avail. Enough! I threw aside my weapon and grabbed the balloon boy with both hands. A metal rod projected out of the ground nearby, providing a vinehold for a tomato plant. I thrust the balloon boy down onto this, and he tore open with a shriek, his metallic purple skin flapping empty and hollow.
A voice boomed from above: "WHAT THE HELL. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO DO THAT. SHUT DOWN THE SIMULATION!"
---
Notes:
I have no idea. The only image I can possibly source is the balloon boy, who looked like a purple metallic version of Archer Prewitt's "Sof Boy." There was clearly some sort of Star Trek: TNG holodeck thing going on as well, although at least it wasn't one of those retarded episodes where the holodeck becomes real.
The Caduceus of Asclepius
I lay across the seat in the back of the white ambulance van, trying to sleep. This task was more strenuous than it might seem: every time I was about to doze off, I was awakened by a sudden burst of screaming, explosions, or sirens.
The other staff members rushed out of the van whenever this happened to assist the wounded, but I remained behind and did my best to sleep through the chaos. What was the point? What could a pediatrician like myself possibly do in a situation like this? No one ever came stumbling out of the flames with a lethal case of chicken pox, nor were there throngs of children lying half-dead in the streets due to an unusually aggressive infestation of head lice.
I was jolted out of my near-sleep by a banging on the window by one of my colleagues. Apparently such a situation had indeed arisen, and my services were needed. I began to get up but suddenly froze, struck by the horrible realization that I was not a pediatrician after all.
---
Notes:
Please forgive the pretentious title; I was trying to be clever. The Rod of Asclepius (a single snake coiled around a staff) is the correct symbol for the field of medicine. However, the Wand of Hermes or "Caduceus" (two snakes coiled around a winged staff) is often mistakenly used instead. The confusion between the two symbols seemed to be an apt analogy for the content of the dream.
The other staff members rushed out of the van whenever this happened to assist the wounded, but I remained behind and did my best to sleep through the chaos. What was the point? What could a pediatrician like myself possibly do in a situation like this? No one ever came stumbling out of the flames with a lethal case of chicken pox, nor were there throngs of children lying half-dead in the streets due to an unusually aggressive infestation of head lice.
I was jolted out of my near-sleep by a banging on the window by one of my colleagues. Apparently such a situation had indeed arisen, and my services were needed. I began to get up but suddenly froze, struck by the horrible realization that I was not a pediatrician after all.
---
Notes:
Please forgive the pretentious title; I was trying to be clever. The Rod of Asclepius (a single snake coiled around a staff) is the correct symbol for the field of medicine. However, the Wand of Hermes or "Caduceus" (two snakes coiled around a winged staff) is often mistakenly used instead. The confusion between the two symbols seemed to be an apt analogy for the content of the dream.
The Stifled Shriek
They stood at an intersection of stairways in a dark, rundown building: men and women, dressed as if they had been on their way to work, or out for a day shopping, or on a brief stroll through the park. Too scattered to be called a mob, but too many to be called anything else. They faced all in different directions, their eyes half-closed, softly moaning.
A hum was heard from deep below and abruptly ended with the cheery chime of an elevator. Sliding doors rumbled open, a man stepped forward from a shaft of light, the doors slid shut once again. Apparently oblivious to the strange scene around him, the man shouted in a tone of annoyance: "Damn them, running us late, what the hell do they-"
Suddenly his voice cut off, and his head rolled back. His eyes bulged, and a horrible shout of agony tore loose from his gaping mouth. Expressions of fury appeared on the faces of the others, and they rushed towards him.
But before they could reach him, the shout ended in a stifled gurgle. The man's head slumped down onto his chest. The others turned away and returned to their quiet moaning, and he joined them.
Again and again this scene was repeated, and the building slowly filled.
---
Notes:
I have no god damned clue what this dream was about. My best guess is that it had something to do with the manner in which the pillow had worked its way under my head, so that my neck was curved back at an odd angle which caused an uncomfortable tightness in my throat. The elevator/rundown building imagery is perhaps drawn from my recent forays into the Manhattan subway system.
A hum was heard from deep below and abruptly ended with the cheery chime of an elevator. Sliding doors rumbled open, a man stepped forward from a shaft of light, the doors slid shut once again. Apparently oblivious to the strange scene around him, the man shouted in a tone of annoyance: "Damn them, running us late, what the hell do they-"
Suddenly his voice cut off, and his head rolled back. His eyes bulged, and a horrible shout of agony tore loose from his gaping mouth. Expressions of fury appeared on the faces of the others, and they rushed towards him.
But before they could reach him, the shout ended in a stifled gurgle. The man's head slumped down onto his chest. The others turned away and returned to their quiet moaning, and he joined them.
Again and again this scene was repeated, and the building slowly filled.
---
Notes:
I have no god damned clue what this dream was about. My best guess is that it had something to do with the manner in which the pillow had worked its way under my head, so that my neck was curved back at an odd angle which caused an uncomfortable tightness in my throat. The elevator/rundown building imagery is perhaps drawn from my recent forays into the Manhattan subway system.
The War on Mars
You were driving the motorcycle while I sat in the sidecar.1 We raced across the wind-swept, dusty plains of Mars, zipping past the burnt out wrecks of vehicles scattered along the roadside. We couldn't understand why they had sent only the two of us to fight the entire Chinese military. Nor could we understand the goals of the Chinese, which seemed not to be conquest or capture of resources, but simple indiscriminate destruction.2 Settlements, individual vehicles out on the road, vast empty stretches of landscape: there was no obvious pattern to the targets of their bombing.
The motorcycle puttered to a halt: we were out of fuel. We both turned a glance to the west, where we could hear the distant hum of Chinese dropships. I checked over my rifle while you tried to get the motorcycle started again: we might still be able to get another mile or two out of it. We had plenty of ammo—we'd salvaged everything we could find from the wrecks we passed along the road—but it really doesn't manner how many rifle shots you fire at an armored dropship.
While checking the rifle, I noticed two small red bumps on my wrist. My heart sank. I pulled up my sleeve and found another one near my elbow. There was no fauna on Mars save for a species of winged stinging insect that had been brought to the planet accidentally in the early days of colonization, and which had continued to evolve under Martian conditions. The insect's venom operated in a curious manner: the first few stings were harmless, but once a person had been stung five times, some sort of saturation point was reached and the person would die within seconds.
I already had three stings that I could see. The fact that I wasn't dead meant that I hadn't reached the deadly fifth sting yet, but for all I knew the damned thing had gotten into my suit and I could go down at any moment.
The sound of the dropships, now louder, snapped me out of my thoughts. Was that a dark blur now visible on the horizon? I looked at my wrist again, climbed out of the sidecar and began unloading half of the ammo cases. You glanced up from fiddling with the motorcycle and asked me what I was doing. I pointed at the canyon to the north. "You can hole up in there and ride this out. I'll stay here and draw their attention."
A bang, a puff, and the motorcycle suddenly sprang back to life. You tried to coax me back into the sidecar, but I waved you to silence. You needed to get as close to the canyon as you could, and every second you spent arguing with me added to the distance you'd have to run.
I carried my half of the ammo behind a cluster of rocks and laid it out for easy access and reloading. I sat down with my back to the rocks and listened: to the fading hum of the motorcycle as it carried you to the north, to the growing rumble of the dropships, to the unceasing Martian wind.
---
Notes:
1It sounds odd, but the other character in this dream was not a specific person. Rather, I just somehow knew that it was "you," the person to whom I would later recount this dream, whoever you may be.
2I honestly have nothing but positive feelings towards the Chinese, but I guess this doesn't prevent my subconscious from casting them as our most likely rival in a future intrasolar war.
The motorcycle puttered to a halt: we were out of fuel. We both turned a glance to the west, where we could hear the distant hum of Chinese dropships. I checked over my rifle while you tried to get the motorcycle started again: we might still be able to get another mile or two out of it. We had plenty of ammo—we'd salvaged everything we could find from the wrecks we passed along the road—but it really doesn't manner how many rifle shots you fire at an armored dropship.
While checking the rifle, I noticed two small red bumps on my wrist. My heart sank. I pulled up my sleeve and found another one near my elbow. There was no fauna on Mars save for a species of winged stinging insect that had been brought to the planet accidentally in the early days of colonization, and which had continued to evolve under Martian conditions. The insect's venom operated in a curious manner: the first few stings were harmless, but once a person had been stung five times, some sort of saturation point was reached and the person would die within seconds.
I already had three stings that I could see. The fact that I wasn't dead meant that I hadn't reached the deadly fifth sting yet, but for all I knew the damned thing had gotten into my suit and I could go down at any moment.
The sound of the dropships, now louder, snapped me out of my thoughts. Was that a dark blur now visible on the horizon? I looked at my wrist again, climbed out of the sidecar and began unloading half of the ammo cases. You glanced up from fiddling with the motorcycle and asked me what I was doing. I pointed at the canyon to the north. "You can hole up in there and ride this out. I'll stay here and draw their attention."
A bang, a puff, and the motorcycle suddenly sprang back to life. You tried to coax me back into the sidecar, but I waved you to silence. You needed to get as close to the canyon as you could, and every second you spent arguing with me added to the distance you'd have to run.
I carried my half of the ammo behind a cluster of rocks and laid it out for easy access and reloading. I sat down with my back to the rocks and listened: to the fading hum of the motorcycle as it carried you to the north, to the growing rumble of the dropships, to the unceasing Martian wind.
---
Notes:
1It sounds odd, but the other character in this dream was not a specific person. Rather, I just somehow knew that it was "you," the person to whom I would later recount this dream, whoever you may be.
2I honestly have nothing but positive feelings towards the Chinese, but I guess this doesn't prevent my subconscious from casting them as our most likely rival in a future intrasolar war.
The Bed of Shirts
I was standing at the foot of a glass-faced skyscraper with three other people, comrades in some completed endeavor which I can no longer recall other than that it involved wandering around a semi-ruined building which looked like a cross between the interiors of a greenhouse and a submarine.
There was a sudden, loud crack. I looked up to see a massive piece of broken glass falling from the side of the building. Twice more this happened, the giant pieces of glass slamming into the concrete around us. A fourth and final piece broke loose from the building, and with it came a bed, tumbling through the air to smash into a heap before us. We stared at the bed in stunned confusion. As we did so, three pads of sticky notes were tossed from the hole in the building and landed on the bed—"pif... pif... pif" they went.
The first note said "See second note." I skipped the second note and instead picked up the third note, which was some sort of angry rant about the lack of towels in the room, raging at the fact that the writer had been forced to make his bed out of towels. I looked at the bed and noticed that it was indeed covered in towels rather than sheets, and that the mattress itself was made out of white men's dress shirts.1
More importantly, I noticed the large fresh blood stain on the bed, and the body that lay in the middle of it. I was horrified to see that it was Paige, a former coworker.2 Knowing that there was nothing I could do for her, I rushed into the building and up the stairs, vowing to take revenge on the murderer.
---
Notes:
1What's really weird is that later in the day following the dream, I saw that this was posted to Everything Is Terrible. Synchronicity out the wazoo. The video probably just seems goofy and weird to most viewers; for me, it now seems sinister and disturbing.
2I occasionally run into her at random places (Renaissance Faire, voting booth, mall), but she isn't really much more than an acquaintance. Although I guess I'll admit I always liked her and was sad to see her leave the museum.
There was a sudden, loud crack. I looked up to see a massive piece of broken glass falling from the side of the building. Twice more this happened, the giant pieces of glass slamming into the concrete around us. A fourth and final piece broke loose from the building, and with it came a bed, tumbling through the air to smash into a heap before us. We stared at the bed in stunned confusion. As we did so, three pads of sticky notes were tossed from the hole in the building and landed on the bed—"pif... pif... pif" they went.
The first note said "See second note." I skipped the second note and instead picked up the third note, which was some sort of angry rant about the lack of towels in the room, raging at the fact that the writer had been forced to make his bed out of towels. I looked at the bed and noticed that it was indeed covered in towels rather than sheets, and that the mattress itself was made out of white men's dress shirts.1
More importantly, I noticed the large fresh blood stain on the bed, and the body that lay in the middle of it. I was horrified to see that it was Paige, a former coworker.2 Knowing that there was nothing I could do for her, I rushed into the building and up the stairs, vowing to take revenge on the murderer.
---
Notes:
1What's really weird is that later in the day following the dream, I saw that this was posted to Everything Is Terrible. Synchronicity out the wazoo. The video probably just seems goofy and weird to most viewers; for me, it now seems sinister and disturbing.
2I occasionally run into her at random places (Renaissance Faire, voting booth, mall), but she isn't really much more than an acquaintance. Although I guess I'll admit I always liked her and was sad to see her leave the museum.
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.
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.
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