The Dreamer’s Story

By Amaranth Rose

The Dreamer’s Story

1. Darkness

The shadows are growing long as I knock at my friends’ door. It opens, and she makes me welcome. I step inside, grateful as the light is blocked out by the closing door. She looks at me closely.

“What’s wrong?” Her cool hand brushes against my forehead. She looks concerned.

I groan softly. “Same old same old,” I mutter. We sit in the kitchen. We gossip a while over a cup or three of a nice herb tea. Finally I get my courage up to ask what I came here to ask.

“Can you…do you have something that would make me sleep?”

“You need something for the fever,” she says calmly.

I hang my head. “I know. But if I get some sleep, perhaps the fever will go away.”

“How long this time? Two days?”

“Three.” I stare blankly at the tabletop. “I think. I’ve lost track of time.”

“You’ve been writing again.”

“Guilty as charged.” I look up then. “It’s going very well. I can’t sleep more than two or three hours because I keep thinking about the next pages instead of sleeping. I feel driven.”

She shakes her head. “You’re going to drive yourself right over the cliff.”

“I hope not. Do you think you can help me? Please?”

She looks at me, and I know she sees within, to what others do not. My essence, my spirit, has its troubles. She knows why I write. Even if I do not make a living from it, it helps to still the troubled souls within, keep the nightmares at bay. Sometimes, though, the writing takes me over, and although it shields me from the horrors within, it weakens an already damaged body even further. I shiver slightly; the fever is worsening.

“I’ll see what I can do.” As she prepares something, the front door opens and closes. Her husband enters the kitchen. We are old friends.

“What’s up?” he asks cheerily. I mumble a greeting. She looks at me, then him.

“She’s not feeling too well. When I get this remedy fixed for her, could you drive her home?”

“Sure,” he agrees readily.

“It’s not that far,” I protest. My voice sounds strange to me, distant and hollow. She looks at me.

“We’ll take you. It’s dark out now. You have no business being out alone feeling that way.”

I hesitate, a protest on my lips. They’re right, though. It has never been easy for me to accept help from anyone. Yet I know it is in order. “Thanks,” I say at last.

2. Night

After my friends take their leave, I brew the medicine. I take a mug of it and sit on the sofa, my feet tucked under me. Taking any medicine is somewhat of an act of faith for me. I react very strangely to many medicines, no matter what medical tradition they come from. Soon the mug is empty, and I sit staring at the bottom, as if somehow expecting to see something there. But there is nothing. I get a second mug full, sipping it a bit more restrainedly. A gentle warmth begins to creep through me, not the heat of fever but the fire of life. I had not realized I’d been down so far. Again for a while I search the mug’s bottom. I know the answers aren’t there. I just find I have to look sometimes. Like the story of the man looking under the streetlight for the keys he lost in the darkness across the road, I am drawn sometimes to seek where I know things are not. And tonight, I’m not entirely sure what the questions are.

I put the cup on the coffee table and lean back against the cushions. ‘Just for a moment,’ I think. ‘Then I’ll get up and go to bed.’

Soon, despite my best intentions, I am fast asleep on the couch

3. Vision

I awaken slowly; it is the middle of the night. I am aware that I am not alone; someone else’s breathing stirs the air besides my own, another’s spirit vibrates the ether. Who would be here? My friends have a key, but they would not come without calling. A moment of terror overcomes me. Perhaps I’m asleep, and it’s just a nightmare. A couple of calming breaths, and the terror slowly unlatches from my soul. My mind begins to clear from the panic. Think. What are my options? My feet are asleep; I sat on them. I can neither run nor fight. Slowly I open my eyes. A man is sitting cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. He is a stranger to me, yet somehow something in me recognizes him. He is neither old nor young, powerful looking, yet mild as well. I instinctively draw my hand up in a gesture of defense. It draws his attention. His gaze fixes mine.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he says gently. “I would never harm you.” He watches as I slowly disentangle my feet, trying to rub them back to life without appearing vulnerable. He sighs. “So much fear. So much pain. And a world of cause.” He reaches toward me. I flinch, bracing myself. He touches one leg delicately. Warmth spreads through it, and the pain is gone. “You shouldn’t sleep on them. They’re made for walking.” A feather-light touch on the other leg, and it is healed as well.

I stare at him. “Who are you? And how did you get in here?” I glance at the door. It is still locked. My nerves are shot anyway; except for what I have slept tonight, I’ve had less than six hours of sleep in the past three days. I’m edgy to say the least. And my experiences with waking up to find some stranger in my room have all been less than pleasant. He looks at me for a long moment. I feel as if I am becoming transparent under his gaze. I fight to look away, and I cannot. Finally he nods, and I am able to look at the floor.

“Yes. You have seen much. More than a person should. And you are very strong. But you can only defeat those nightmares by facing up to them. The light of your regard is the only thing that will destroy their power over you. You are weak right now, weak in your soul.” I look at him then.

“How do you know? Who are you?” I search his eyes. There are probably no answers there, but it seems the place to look. “How did you get in here?”

He runs his hand through his hair, an inoffensive nervous gesture at which I involuntarily flinch and draw back. He sees. “I’m just a friend,” he sighs. “I came in through the doorway which you opened. A combination of your lack of sleep and the herbs. And your tremendous need. Your spirit is very weak. It needs help. It called me here.” He reaches into a pocket and draws out a small scroll, tied with a thin red cord. “Here. Give this to your friend.” He places it in my hand, closing my fingers around it. “She can make it for you. Take it as it says. It will make your spirit stronger. Then you can face the horrors and overcome them. When you are in peace, things will get better. But now, you need rest.” His eyes look into mine, and suddenly I feel as if I am falling, slowly at first and then faster and faster.

4. Dawn

I awake as the sky begins to lighten. I am on the couch. There is a pillow under my head, and a couple of blankets from my bed have been tucked around me, keeping me warm. How did I get here? Did I dream that there was someone here? If it was a dream, how did the pillow and covers get in here? I would have simply gone to bed, and not gone to the trouble of carrying those things into the living room. Hmm. Medicines do affect me strangely. I bring my hand up to brush away a stray lock of hair, and I see I am clutching something. It is a small rolled-up piece of paper, tied with a thin red cord. I untie it gently and uncurl the paper. There are numbers, measurements, names of substances, instructions, all written neatly in a precise, even handwriting. I will take it to my friend. Later. When it is daylight. Right now, I need rest.