What Dreams May Come

Hello all!

Apologies for the somewhat sporadic nature of posts these days, life has been incredibly hectic for a few weeks now, and I have barely had any moments to spare. That said, thing have begun to quieten down once more and I have found the space to sit and write. This piece came about as I have just finished the wonderful, jaw-dropping juggernaut of the modern graphic novel genre, and am attempting to fill the void that it left in its wake – that of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman. If you have not immersed yourself in the huge, extravagant world that this series constructs about it, I cannot recommend you do so enough. It is, without a hint of doubt, my favourite graphic novel series of all time, and I am having a hard time accepting its closure. Coupled with a lovely Neil Gaiman quote I also read recently, I thought I would write a tribute to (in my humble opinion) the greatest author that ever lived. As always, I hope you enjoy the following short story as much as I enjoyed reading it, and I hope to see you back on here soon!

That’s all for now,

Dan.

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I am trapped within a dream from which there is no waking.

With each trembling step, the winds howl and swirl about my numb ears, my eyes flicker from horizon to horizon as the very perspective shifts and warps before me. Time and distance stretch in all directions around me, yawning out into the blankness, and there is no sound save for the short, sharp sound of my breath, and the rustle of my clothes as I move. I continue on, unsure of neither direction nor the passage of time, each step bringing me stumbling through the whirling darkness.

After an eternity of broken moments, falling like glass about me, a silhouette emerges from the diffusing gloom. His head is lowered, his pace steady as he strides towards me. About his ancient form, a pitch-dark cloak, one that drinks in the surrounding night, and upon his face a sharp nose flanked by sunken eyes, friendly yet fierce.

“Hello, old friend.” He is a man shrouded in shadows, the gleam behind his eyes glittering through his obsidian veil. Every step appears effortless, as though he glides through the darkness like a breeze across silk. He offers his hand to me. It is pale, cold, yet comforting. I take the moment in, greeting him both as one would a stranger and an old friend, and we stand there a moment, motionless, my eyes scanning him up and down. He is familiar, but from where exactly I cannot say.

“My lord.” I do not recall why I respond in such a way. Perhaps it was the way he held himself or the cool softness of his voice, but somehow I know, deep in the depths of my heart, that this is the proper way to address a man of his stature, his regal composure obvious to even the most oblivious observer.

“Walk with me a moment.” He does not wait for me to follow, turning about his heels and disappearing through the gloom. I wait a moment, hesitant, but faced with the prospect of stumbling through the infinitude of nothingness, I oblige. After a moment I have matched his pace, as though he were only a few steps ahead of me, rather than a few moments.

“We shall not be long. Our walk is brief, as so many things are.” He raises a hand, gesturing towards a large mound in the distance. I cannot make out the features, but I follow his steps, careful not to lose pace, his cloak leaving behind a trail of fine bright points of brilliant light like fallen stars.

After what must have been three or four steps, we arrive at a mountain that scrapes the heavens themselves with its peak, towering into the sky as far as the eye can see. It reminds me of the drawings of perspective we made when we were children, in some art class from long ago, lines disappearing into infinity in the centre of the page. Set into the edge of the mountain, looming over our tiny forms, is a door, wrought with iron hinges and heavy oaken panels. Soundlessly, it swings open, and my midnight guide ushers me inside. I oblige. The door swings shut behind me. Darkness.

Inside, we turn and are greeted by a dark corridor, littered with dimly lit rooms. Upon each door, a small glass window, light escaping through its small, rectangular opening. We pause at the entrance to this eerie corridor, and my guide’s eyes are suddenly serious, worried.

“Come.”

I peer into the window of the first room. There are my parents, young, smiling, as they hold me for the first time in their arms. I lie, kicking and screaming, burbling about this and that in my incomprehensible baby’s tongue as my mother plays with the fine wisps of my hair, my father clutching at the tiny pink hand that explored the new world about me. They are happy, as everyone fusses about the newborn, and I wander on.

The second door, same small window as the first. I recognise the face behind it instantly, a shadow from the past rearing its beautiful head. Cecilia. A woman whose love was taken from me too soon, our brief encounter fading with the dying heat of a summer well-lived. Through the small window of the heavy stone door, triple-bolted, I watch as she cries, packs her things into a small suitcase, and slams the door behind her as she leaves.

Another door, this once containing my mother, her arms placed upon the heavy mahogany of an ornate coffin, tears falling softly upon the stone floor. At the end of the church, a photograph of my father stands beside a modest vase of orchids. In the photo he is dressed in full military uniform, medals pinned against his chest, his beard short and trimmed, his chest strong and proud. And there I am, a hand upon my sister’s shoulder, providing her with that smallest pinprick of warmth in the coldest winter of my memory. We walk on.

Another room behind another door. I am walking my daughter down the aisle, her arm linked with mine. She is crying, soft tears streaming down the rose in her cheeks. She is the happiest I have ever seen her, and I am proud, in that moment, walking her through a congregation of our closest friends and family. I linger a while, taking in the joyful singing of the scene, and after a few moments, I move on.

The final room. I watch as I stumble through darkness, my eyes shrouded in dense mist. I watch as a dark figure reaches out his hand, takes me through the nothingness to the mountain. We arrive at a mountain, speak a while, then shuffle through its looming doors. The scene is silent, and I turn away to face my guide once more.

The man comforts me, his left hand upon my shoulder, his right gesturing towards the doors that lined the corridor before me.

“We are the sum of our stories, dear friend. They make up all that we are, our dreams, our fears, even our realities.”

“I see…” I pause a moment, trying to make sense of what is being relayed to me. “And is this your hall, my lord?”

“I have brought you here to read your own story, as it were. These rooms are not my own.”

I hesitated, wondering a moment. “I’m dead, aren’t I?” It all made sense, the wasteland, the shepherd. There is both a cruelty and a kindness behind his eyes now, the two forces waging war in the starlight behind them. He nodded.

“My time with you must come to an end here, I am afraid. I must pass you over to my sister now, she will take good care of you.” Turning from me, he vanishes into the darkness from which he was made.

A woman, dark hair, pale makeup, her heavy boots making no sound as she moved. She smelled sweet with a strange hint of something else, something peculiar, perhaps of expensive perfume left open too long in an adulterer’s bedroom or of a meal eaten in a moment stolen beside a loved one’s grave. The resemblance between my two guides was striking, the same smile that had radiated from the Dream King’s face lay plastered across her own beautiful features. Here was a woman with such grace and such beauty, that you would either fall instantly infatuated with her very words or would die trying. She was beautifully dangerous, I knew, and yet it felt as though we had known each other all our lives.

She took my hand, caressing it softly as we departed, and for what could have been a moment, could have been an eternity, no-one spoke. We walk, through the swirling nothingness that had engulfed me, until we reach what looks like an apple, except it was glowing, brilliantly white, and hovers a few inches before my face. We pause.

She turns to me, a look of compassionate pity upon her face.

“Are you ready?” she asks, her eyes stern.

“I think so.”

And so we step out into the darkness together.