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By
Gerard Wong
It is night
-- I am not sure what time exactly -- and I am having another vivid dream.
Unlike normal dreams, my surroundings do not assume swirling, shifting
senseless forms. I can see, smell, taste, feel and hear distinctly. I can even
pinch myself and feel pain. Yet I know instinctively that I am dreaming. When I
was much younger I used to have plenty of these dreams. Sometimes I would tell
my doctor about them, but I think he only half-believed me.
I have been
dreaming about my grandson. Eric is eleven this year, a fine lad, but with the
weight of too many long and cumbersome medical contrivances upon his frail
shoulders. He has a constitution of glass, hundreds of allergies and is
constantly prey to some malady, but he is the best companion a grandfather can
desire. He accompanies me on evening walks, talks to me when I pine for
company, and best of all, does all these little things without that edge of
exasperation in his voice and actions. But I can never truly feel happy for
this. I know only too well that what binds him to me also estranges him from
his peers, keeps him from proper teenage pursuits, fills his youth with cruel
winters.
In the dream
we were scaling a giant beanstalk together. That is one great passion we share
-- fairy tales. For me, a writer of children stories, fairy tales are a natural
joy and inspiration. I think, however, that Eric enjoys fairy tales for more
poignant reasons; that he indulges to escape, to flee into a bright sunny world
where his sickness cannot impair him, where there are no bullies to taunt him,
where it is always spring. It was spring all around us as we climbed the
beanstalk, helping each other along. That is the way we live too, two dependent
people lending one another support upon the treacherous roads of life.
Barely three
quarters of the way up my surroundings began to swim and I found myself
suddenly alone. Eric was gone, as was the beanstalk, and I stood looking down a
familiar corridor. I haven't had a vivid dream since my teenage years, and I
was surprised to find myself in one again after so long. They always start off
the same way, with me standing in a long corridor. I will walk down its
carpeted length and open the fourth door on the left. I do not know why I
always take the fourth door on the left. I just feel that it is the proper
thing to do. Something tells me that the other doors are not really doors, just
parts of the wall cunningly disguised as doors and I should not fall for the
deception.
There will
be some encounter within, sometimes thrilling, sometimes frightening, sometimes
cheerful; always vivid. Then I will be whisked off to wakefulness or another
normal dream.
Experiencing
a vivid dream again is like being united with a long lost acquaintance, but I
do not feel too pleased. I want to get back to climbing with Eric, so I go up
to the fourth door on the left immediately, hoping to be done with the dream
quickly. Usually there is a knocker on the door. Sometimes it is a brass
gargoyle, sometimes a silver maiden. Tonight there is no knocker, but I am not
dismayed. I never knock when I enter anyway, and the door is never locked.
I open the
door and step out onto a grassy lawn. I am in a lovely countryside, the
countryside of a fairy tale. The hills are rich and verdure, rolling off to
meet at the horizon a turquoise sky dappled with fluffy white clouds. The
sunshine is bright and pervasive, lifting the morning dew, glinting off the
golden ears of corn, sparkling on the babbling brook. The breeze skips along, whistling
a cheerful tune that matches the laughing sky and the merry jig of butterflies
capering amid the flowers. It is a lovely setting to begin a lovely tale. It is
a beautiful day.
Usually the
encounter occurs immediately. This time I wait but nothing happens, so I decide
to do a little exploration, look around, perhaps even get some ideas for
children stories. As I walk I notice the sky darkening. Ah, I think, at last
things are beginning to happen.
The sun is
gradually obscured, the wind picks up and cold beads break against my lips and
forehead. Lightning blinks in the sky, thunder trembles upon the ground, the
drizzle becomes a shower; all the heralds of a heavy thunderstorm. Through the
intensifying pall of rain I notice a cave cut into the side of a nearby hill,
around which crown I glimpse fluttering black silhouettes. As I near the cave,
drenched and shivering, I detect through the crash and shudder of the storm the
faint flap of wings from above. How strange that birds should continue to fly
as though unaffected in such weather, but I give it not a second thought as I enter the
cool, dry sanctuary of the grotto.
The lash of
the elements grows in fury. Looking out, I am greeted only by a thick curtain
of grey and the sporadic burst of light, so I turn my attention to my immediate
surroundings. By the intermittent illumination I see that it is not a cave I have ventured into,
but a tunnel, with roughly hewn stone steps disappearing down its throat.
Perhaps they lead to the dwelling of a dragon. In books, dragons live in such
places all the time, surrounded by riches and the yellowed bones of unwary
morsels. This may be what my dream is about, being driven into the stomach of a
dragon by fortune (of a thunderstorm) and folly (of a curious creature).
Indeed, I am
deeply curious about where this peculiar dream might take me, and finding the
gloom and grumble outside a poor preoccupation, I descend the stairs without
hesitation. Soon I am far beneath the surface and in the darkness I fumble
around, careful not to lose my footing on the slick uneven steps and to keep my
head low so as not to graze it a second time upon a leering stalactite.
I turn
another corner and see light. It is an illuminated doorway, behind which I find
an ancient chamber sculpted by the hand of man. Torches crackle from brackets
set in stone walls that are dusty and overgrown with moss. Ferns peep from the
myriad cracks and crevasses of the granite floor. The chamber is longer than it
is wide and a faded red carpet running from the doorway stops short of a giant
slumbering form upon an elaborate throne. The path is lined on either side by
rectangular slabs upon which lie armoured warriors, their weapons clutched to
their breasts. It is a royal court, I realise, the subterranean court of a
sleeping king and his sleeping soldiers.
I advance
quietly, not daring to shatter the sacred peace that must have reigned for
centuries and stop in front the monarch, who sleeps with one hand under his
chin and the other upon the hilt of a huge sword leaning naked against his
thigh. A golden crucifix gleams from its place in the stone above his head. His
great red beard spews down the mighty, heaving chest like a plume of flame and
completely engulfs the stone table before him in scarlet tendrils. As I take
another step forward my shoe scuffs against a protruding tile and I trip,
catching the table to arrest my fall with a cry of surprise on my lips.
“Is it time
yet?” the red-bearded king murmurs, startling me with his speech.
“T-time?”
The heavy
lids on that stern, worn face crack open an inch and then fly wide apart as the
roving pupils rest on me.
“Awaken,
brothers, awaken!” The giant bellows, gripping his blade and shearing his beard
from the table in a single stroke. “We have dawdled in dreamland for too long!
Arise to the call of the Fatherland and the Faith!”
Steel
clatters against stone as the soldiers rouse themselves to answer the cry of
their leader. They surround me in a thick body, sealing my exit with a human
wall bristling with menacing weapons, hard eyes and unshaven faces. The giant
leaps upon the stone table and the lurid glare of torchlight on the shroud of
red curls at his feet makes him appear poised atop a bed of fire. He raises his
sword, rugged features set and malevolent – and hesitates.
“You do not
look like the Antichrist.” He says at last, squinting at me in the poor light.
“Indeed I am
not!” I answer, shaken to the core but trying hard to conceal it.
Suddenly
bereft of purpose, the soldiers around me falter. They withdraw to their stone
beds and mill around listlessly, as though unsure whether to continue their
repose or to await further instructions from their king.
“But neither
are you the lad or the Almighty,” the giant rumbles on. “And that means you
have no right within these hallowed halls. Tell me, do the ravens still fly?”
“Ravens?”
“Yes,
ravens,” he says irritably. “The ravens that circle this mountain, or that are
supposed to anyway.”
I remember
the birds I saw flying above the hill, not mountain, but as it seems a poor
time to correct this grumpy and eccentric king I just answer, “Yes, they still
fly.”
The man nods
wordlessly, settles back into his seat and sighs as one reassured. “The
Fatherland does not ail then, and I can continue my rest. I suppose you have no
proper reason to be here but never let it be said that I am an emperor without
grace. I bid you leave now and never disturb us without good cause again.”
As he sinks
into his original pose with chin upon hand I say desperately, “Please, your
majesty, I need your help.”
“Help?” he
mutters drowsily, eyelids drooping, “What help?”
“I am --
well -- lost.” I reply. And it is true, in a way.
“If one is
lost one should pray. Yes, that was what I did, and my prayers guided my armies
to the Holy Land. So pray, son. That is my best advice for you.”
“I don’t
pray, I’m afraid. Actually I was hoping -- ”
The giant
stiffens as though thunderstruck and in an instant all the sleep is leeched
from him. He glares at me with flashing eyes that sink back beneath furrowed
brows, transformed into a formidable
spectacle of righteous fury. “Not pray?" He thunders, brandishing his
massive blade, "Heathen! Heretic! Now I know why you’ve been sent to us!
To arms, my brethren, to arms! Our faith is being tried! To arms and seize the
infidel!”
I flee for
my life, eluding the grasping hands that reach to snag me, dodging the swing of
the axe and the stab of the pike, out of the chamber and into the darkness, up
the flight of stairs and out into daylight. Daylight. The storm is over and the
sun glimmers on the rain-speckled foliage. No clamour rises from below and I
decide that the soldiers must have given up the chase. I lean against the
tunnel entrance and pant heavily, my sweat mingling with the rivulets of
rainwater that course down the rocks to form puddles on the rain-soaked ground.
Never before in my dreams, vivid or otherwise, have I experienced exhaustion,
and I walk off marvelling at this phenomenon.
***
I am
standing on the crest of a grassy knoll that affords a bird’s eye view of the
region. In the distance I spy a white castle with soaring spires and dancing
pennants. There the ruler of these lands probably resides, someone who might
render aid in a more effective and civil manner, so towards the gleaming
fortress I head. It is a pleasant walk over hills, with the wet grass crisp
beneath my feet and the air sharp and invigorating within my lungs. Upon
reaching the castle I discover that it is surrounded by a forbidding moat, but the lowered
drawbridge extends an open invitation into its dazzling quarters.
I pass
freely through the outer bailey and courtyard without encountering a single
soul. The portcullises are lifted, the gates wide open; the guard houses are
empty, the battlements desolate. No patrols accost me, no domestic servants
bustle around on their various chores, and indeed, the place does not impress
one with a need for any of them. There is no obvious military threat for miles,
save perhaps the red-bearded king who seemed perfectly content slumbering
alongside his soldiers in his underground domain; the buildings are spick and
span and admirably maintained in the absence of human hands.
At the
threshold of the keep I pause, thinking it polite to first make known my
arrival before barging into royal lodgings, and rap the knocker thrice against
the oaken door. When there is no answer I admit myself with diffidence. The
entrance hall is spacious and unfurnished and I am beginning to think that the
palace is completely uninhabited when there comes a sound like the bang and
clangour of metal against stone from the upper stories. Swiftly I ascend the
winding stairs and, racing down the hallway towards the source of the ruckus,
arrive at a door from behind which a man's deep breathing can be heard
distinctly. Before my knuckles come within an inch of the portal it swings open
and a tall, slightly flustered man stands in the doorway before me.
"Hola,
my good man!" He booms cheerfully, "Hast come to inform me that it is
time? But, by my troth! I am ever ready to hold the marches of my fair beloved
land with tempered steel and untempered faith!"
The man is
broad of shoulder, fair-skinned and silver-haired, his otherwise handsome
visage marred by a gaping, blood-encrusted wound where an eye should have been.
There is something of pride and majesty in the beak-like nose and fierce brow
that sit above a suit of steel running from neck to heel. Draped in a long
jacket upon which is blazoned a scarlet wedge against a white field, he adjusts
the buckle of his sword-belt as he watches my face eagerly.
“I am sorry,
sir, but I think you’ve mistaken me for another. I have not come to inform you
of anything.” I answer as courteously as I can manage.
The
excitement washes away from the single shining eye and his features droop.
“Alas and alack, that I should have bided here all these years awaiting the
chance to once again champion the white cliffs and green fields which I love,
and that when at last a messenger comes he should bring no call to arms!”
“I’m sorry,
sir, but I have a request -- ”
“A request!”
The spark reappears in his eye. “Perchance you seek advancement through
honourable debate? Or to exalt your lady? Ha, my teeth may have been blunted
somewhat by overlong disuse, but the old war-hound is ever keen for fresh game.
But, what ho! Thou art no knight! Where art thy golden spurs? Whither thy
coat-armour? Shalt besmirch my noble hands with base-born blood? Why, thou
knave-“
“I never
said I was here to fight you.” I interrupt hastily.
He stops,
relaxing, and blinks perplexedly. “Well, what manner then does your request
take?”
“I am a
stranger who wishes to find his way out of these lands.”
“Faugh!”
Cries the knight in high disdain, “Must needs concern me with such trifles? Is
the gallant cavalier of the argent pile gules, at whose coming every French cur
once trembled, to deign to become a signpost for every wandering wayfarer? I am
off to resume my respite.”
So saying,
the warrior turns and re-enters the room, divesting himself of his armour and
letting the pieces fall to the ground with dull clanks before collapsing on a
cot at the far end. The air is rank with the smell of steel and sweat and a
battered wooden training figure in a corner suggests how the knight employs
many of his waking hours.
“Please sir
-- ” I begin in another bid.
“Methinks,”
comes the baritone of the supine figure, “That since I rest to husband strength
to defend my country in her hour of need, and that thou doth disturb my rest,
you may be considered an indirect assailant of fair England. Leave me be, I
prythee, lest I be moved to draw steel upon you.”
There is
nothing for it, and so I go.
I feel the
utmost despair and wretchedness now. Never have I before experienced such a
unique dream, wherein everything is frustratingly and boringly placid, and
everyone is eager to be left alone. I cannot seem to wake from it either, and
something tells me that I shall only do so after a climax of some fashion, like
in any other dream. But what is this climax, and where is it to be found? Each
time I ask for help, I am answered only with a threat on my life.
Then a crazy
thought strikes me. Perhaps the object of this vivid dream is to have my
life taken. Yes, indeed, has death not been my release from countless dreams in
the past? I decide to have the knight hew my head from my shoulders, but I turn
to find the drawbridge up as if by magic. No matter, the red-bearded emperor
will be only too happy to serve, but then it is a long walk back to the cave
and a better idea has suddenly occurred to me.
I look over
the lip of the moat into the dark, glassy water far below. Piranhas or
flesh-eating monsters of some kind may dwell beneath its unassuming surface,
and even without them I will be guaranteed a swift death by drowning. I make up
my mind and take the plunge.
The wind
whistles in my ears as I hurl myself headfirst into the chasm. One side of my
face strikes the water painfully and I go down under with a splash. Muddy,
gritty fluid fills my ears and mouth. I gasp from the shock of the chill and
inhale a lungful of dirty, icy water. My chest constricts excruciatingly and as
the vice of death tightens over my lungs my vision fades and blackens.
***
The golden
shafts of late morning slant into my bedroom as the curtains are drawn,
flooding the darkened area with light. I squint my eyes in the unaccustomed
brightness and peer at the dark figure that stands by the window with his face
toward me.
“Grandpa,
you’re awake at last!” Comes the voice of my greatest affection.
“Eric,” I
answer, my voice hoarse from sleep. With a smile, I shield my eyes that are
gradually adjusting and look out of the window, “a fine morning today.”
“It is!” He
says, and I notice the unusual exuberance in his voice. He rarely sounds so
energetic and bubbly, and it pleases me to hear him like this. “Grandpa, let’s go
for a walk now.”
“A walk?” I
shook my head, trying to clear my newly awakened brain, “But I’ve just got up,
Eric. I have to brush my teeth -- ”
“No, no,” he
says, laughing. He walks over to the bedside and tugs my hand. “A walk right
away. A bit of fresh morning breeze will do you good. You can always brush your
teeth and when we come back.”
“Very well,”
I say, chuckling. I shove the coverings aside and slip off the bed, groping
around for my slippers with my feet. Hastily, I change out of my bedclothes.
“Come on,
grandpa, out of the door now. Hurry.”
I finish
buttoning up my jacket and make for the bedroom door, wishing my eyes would
adjust to the brightness more quickly. It is then that I notice something
remarkable about the scene. The light is too dazzling, far more intense than
what I wake up to on usual mornings. And the bulk of the brightness comes not
from the window, through which frail rays of sunlight still filter in, but from
the door leading out to the hall. A sudden terror, overwhelming and inexplicable,
grips me as I near the exit. I try to halt my steps but to my horror my feet
stride on defiantly.
“What on
earth -- ” I begin, turning to Eric, but it is no longer Eric who is standing
in my room. It is a monster, a demon, something horribly and indescribably foul
and malignant, that leers at me, clapping its hands and cackling as the
vestiges of Eric’s semblance melt away from its features. The fear within me
magnifies a hundredfold and I become desperate, twisting and struggling
frantically to distance myself from the portal of searing light without avail.
Then, barely
a feet from the doorway, I come to an abrupt halt. I back-pedal as far as I can
from it as the demon snarls a curse and the brightness diminishes.
I look up as
the bedroom window shatters with a tinkle of glass to see Sleeping Beauty
leaping through in a flurry of petticoats. I recognise her from the
illustration in a collection of the Grimm Brothers' that I have read and
re-read countless times. She is exactly as the picture had her, with a sweep of
dark ringlets cascading into the curve of her back, a pale face, marmoreal in
its beauty, and lips the hue of ripe cherries. I must be going crazy, I
think, as Sleeping Beauty sizes up the demon and pink tinges of anger appear on
her flawless cheeks.
“Be gone,
you rascal.” She says, her angry glare never leaving the abomination, “this one
belongs to my world.”
“He is a
lost one!” He screeches in a metallic and terrible voice. “He belongs to me!”
“He is
hereby reclaimed. Busy yourself with the others. He has a purpose in coming to
my lands, and his purpose is also my purpose. I am taking him with me.”
The demon
growls and suddenly lunges at the beautiful lady. With impossible composure,
she flicks a silk handkerchief out at the creature and, as though caught in
mid-leap by an invisible hand and hurled back, it flies, screaming curses,
through the very doorway it had lured me towards.
Sleeping
Beauty gives me a warm, radiating smile. “It is time to return,” she says,
taking me by the arm and sending us hurtling out of the window.
***
I jerk into
a sitting position, coughing and sputtering with my lungs afire. Water, laced
with dirt and sediment, spews out of my mouth and nostrils in violent spurts.
As I recover, I realise that I am in the shallows of a meandering stream, and
remember faintly the tug of an undertow in the moat before slipping off into
unconsciousness and the most bizarre dream. Yes, it must have been a dream. But
does that not mean that I have had a dream within a dream? I groan and clutch
my throbbing head.
A few
moments later I rise to my feet unsteadily, trying to figure out what place my
crazy attempt on my own life has landed me in. A stone’s throw from the riverbank is a forest,
dark and huddled, and at its edge I spy the form of a child, curled up against
the trunk of a massive tree. I walk up to her, shivering in my soaked clothing,
and rouse her gently.
The child
stirs and awakens, scrubbing bleary eyes and yawning loudly. Snugly clad in a
fur tunic, she has a fair complexion, dark tresses and looks to be no older
than Eric. She raises herself to a sitting position and beholds me with the
wide, trusting eyes of untainted childhood.
“Is it time
already?” She asks, smoothing her hair and massaging her neck.
There it is
again, the same, mystifying question with which everybody in this world greets
me, and grow grumpy and reticent when I cannot seem to answer it. This girl,
however, looks to be fairly harmless and mild-mannered, a promising candidate
for my nagging queries.
“I’m sorry,
little girl, but I haven’t a clue what you are talking about. Can you explain
to me what is this ‘time’ that you refer to?”
“Why, time
to protect my flower of course. It is a frail thing, but it is my beautiful
child and I shall always love and defend it. It struggles to survive on its
own, but sometimes the weather in Iceland gets too harsh, and my strength is
required to tide it over the storms.”
“I see, but
why did you think that I am here to tell you it is time?”
“Because
that’s the only reason I would be awakened, isn’t it?” She says in a tone that
conveys how obvious she thinks her statement should seem. “But usually it’s the
Valkyrie who wakes me. I was surprised to see you.”
“The
Valkyrie?”
“The
mistress of this land. She always calls me just before the great blizzards and
frosts beset my garden back home.”
“And where
might I find the Valkyrie?”
The child
turns her head from side to side, craning her neck and peering as though
expecting to see the personage nearby. Suddenly her face lights up and she jabs
her finger towards the riverbank.
“There she
is!” She trills and waves her hand. “Hello, Madam Valkyrie!”
I look
around and see a familiar vision of absolute loveliness standing near the spot
where I had washed up, returning the child’s greeting with laughter and nods.
Then her gaze settles on me and her smile softens. Sleeping Beauty shakes her
head, as though regarding a disobedient but adorable child, and beckons me
toward her.
“That was
rather unwise of you, to give up just like. No wonder Gargharsh thought you
were a lost one,” she scolds gently as I draw level with her.
“Lost one?
Gargharsh?” I say, my thoughts reeling in my confused and disoriented brain.
Irritation creeps into my voice. “Look, lady, please. I’m lost and frightened,
and I want nothing more than to be freed. If you are the ruler of this place I
beg you to be merciful and to release me into the waking world.”
Her smile
vanishes, and she says, not unkindly, “That is not possible.”
I experience
a wave of panic at her words, and suddenly I am sick of the endless riddles,
sick of feeling scared and helpless, sick of having to linger in this
ridiculous place meeting the most ridiculous people. This is just a stupid
dream, dammit! I lose my temper and begin to rant angrily at her, the vehemence
of my words and the magnitude of my fury taking even me by surprise. Never have
I experienced such wild transports of rage, that bring me beyond the reach of
even my own reason. Deep inside I somehow know that the lady who is bearing the
brunt of my ugly temper is not to be blamed. She is here to help. Yet the
pent-up fires refuse to subside until I have shouted myself hoarse. Numb and
drained, I sink to the ground, hot tears trickling down my wrinkled cheeks. How
undignified I must appear, an old man throwing a tantrum like an infant, but
what do I care?
Sleeping
Beauty settles herself beside me and braces my trembling shoulders with a
comforting arm. At her touch I suddenly feel like a child again. “I’m sorry,
Darryl,” she says quietly, ”that you should have to go through so many trials.
But it couldn’t have been helped. Most people arrive here by the prearranged
route, and they receive my guidance right from the start. You did not take
conventional paths, and so I took time to locate you. Those who turned you away
so unkindly are my beloved charges also, and I apologise on their behalf for
the shabby reception.”
“Those
people were --” I stopped as memory brought a sensation a strange familiarity.
It had been a long time since European history in my college days, and yet, the
myths of Germany and the heroes of Hundred Years War-England were not entirely
lost to me…
She nods
with a silent smile to unspoken thoughts. I indicate the girl who has gone back
to her slumber at the edge of the woods. “And who is she?”
“No one you would recall. A daughter of a
common Norse family that lived hundreds of years ago.” Sleeping Beauty looks
back at me. “But it is your story that requires our attention now. Do you
remember what happened before you found yourself here in these lands?”
That is
easily answered. “I was climbing a beanstalk with Eric. The real Eric, I mean,
but in a dream, just like this one, except it isn’t so vivid.”
“And before
that?”
I think
hard. “I cannot remember,” I say finally.
“Try again,”
she says, concern touching her voice.
I lower my
face and close my eyes in concentration. Sleeping Beauty rests her palms gently
on my head and the ache in my temples subsides. With the distracting fog of
pain lifted from my mind, the recent events flash past with greater clarity –
the Viking girl, the demon, the moat, the knight, the red-bearded giant, the
corridor, the beanstalk. Eric joined me only halfway up the plant. Before that,
I had been standing alone at its base, gaping at the gargantuan stem that
spiralled upwards and lost itself in the clouds. Before that? Swirling motes of
lights, masses of amorphous shapes and figures. And before that?
Suddenly,
with the breathtaking sharpness of icy water in the face, everything comes to mind.
It was not
night. And this was no vivid dream.
In the late
afternoon, in the real world, I had been taking an evening stroll with
Eric, as usual, by my side. His recent interest in botany had brought us to the
park, where he delighted in calling out the names of the many specimens around
him, taking note of the characteristics of those he did not recognise for
future identification. We had stopped in the shade of a tree to rest and I was
bending to tie my unravelled shoelaces when I felt the familiar ache. It
started off as before, a dull throb in the chest which I had always dismissed
as some malaise too minor for the doctor’s office. This time however, the pain
did not subside within the first few minutes. Instead it grew like an expanding
ball of razor spines, searing my chest, sealing my lungs. Then I was choking,
clutching my chest in agony, fighting to breathe. Then my knees were buckling
and I was being driven to the ground. Then I was hearing my grandson’s frantic
cries. He was right beside me but already sounded a world away. Then I was
keeling over, vaguely conscious of a gathering crowd.
“I have
passed on,” I whisper, and what surprises me is how I do not feel the thrill of
revelation. It is as though my subconscious has known the fact all along, just
that I have never consciously registered it.
Sleeping
Beauty nods silently, and I suddenly feel a weakening twinge. Uncontrollably
the tears return, and as I sob, thinking how strange it is that I should be
mourning my own passing, I realise that it is not my loss I grieve.
The lady seems to read my thoughts. “Do you
think," she says as I draw a shivering breath, "that we truly abandon
our loved ones to fend for themselves forever when we die?”
“Yeah, I’ve
heard all that nonsense about dead people watching over living ones from the
sky. It’s just a sorry invention by people who have lost to console themselves.
Eric may think this and feel a little assured but the fact is -- ” I cannot
continue.
“The fact is
you are no longer physically by his side, can no longer help him, support him,
give him strength the way you used to? The fact is you feel you have deserted
him?”
She is
shrewd. I nod dumbly.
“Do you
think, then, that Barbarossa and Chandos and all the other beings, great and
small, who slumber in my domain, slumber in vain?”
“What?” I
ask, raising my head.
“There is a
reason why people find themselves here after their death, Darryl. Humans are
more than mere shells. You are guided by not only instinct, but also
consciousness and intent, and when the corporeal form can no longer be
sustained, you would be wrong to think that the purpose and the will crumbles
with it. Do you remember the question repeated by all those you’ve met?”
“Is it
time?” I echo, “But time for what?” And the answer comes to me even before
Sleeping Beauty speaks.
“Time to
rise to defend the cause they love, Darryl, the things they never ceased
fighting for while they lived, and still continue to work towards after they’ve
died. Chandos loves his country, Barbarossa is eager to glorify both nation and
religion and Aesa’s mission is smaller but no less significant to her.”
“I imagine
Eric would be terrified to see my ghost.”
“In his time
of need you will rise for him, not in form, but in his heart. Just as
Barbarossa rose in one Hitler’s heart when he felt it was time to bring his
kingdom above all others, though he was ultimately thwarted in the attempt.
There were others who rose to protect their interests as well, you see.
Still, the emperor bides his time.”
I grow
comforted at her words and as my
sadness ebbs away questions surface in my head. “May I ask who this Gargharsh
is?”
Sleeping
Beauty becomes solemn. “More of a what, actually. The demon you saw was only
his manifestation. Gargharsh collects the lost ones, mostly wastrels and
villains who had no direction in their lives, or those who have given up their
purpose and so have no reason to continue their existence in this realm. Theirs
is a sorry fate, but we should not dwell on this. Gargharsh will never trouble
you again.”
She stands
and gently assists me to my feet. A small boat with no pilot draws up beside us
and we step into it. As the boat drifts down the stream, I am treated to
glimpses of this wonderful world in the constantly changing scenery. Then it
was a hillock, now a hamlet, here vast barren plains dotted with yurts, there
exotic palaces nestled in the folds of ancient blue mountains. I was right from
the start. This is a lovely setting to begin a lovely tale, a tale that
will last forever. I spread my arms to encompass the grandeur around me and
say, “So this is the land we all come to eventually, a fairytale land, ruled by
Sleeping Beauty!”
She laughs
but hastens to correct me. “Yes and no. A person sees this place, and sees me,
according to what he believes in. Barbarossa, for instance, calls me the
Almighty, and to him this place is Heaven. Aesa sees me as a Valkyrie, whom her
people believe lifts the valorous from the stricken field. You have lived
always by fairy tales, and so you see this realm as the splendid and wondrous
lands you so often fantasised of.”
“Amazing,” I
say, just as something else occurs to me. “I don't suppose the German emperor
and the Viking girl speak English, yet how was it that we understood one
another?”
“Language is
but a physical barrier in the living realm. Meanings are conveyed here, not
words, and an individual interprets them according to the speech he is familiar
with.”
“Why then,
this place is built entirely upon one’s perceptions!” I exclaim.
Sleeping
Beauty looks askance at me. “And the place you came from is very much
different?”
I think
about it, and realise she is right.
The boat
stops near a cliff and we alight. Off the cliff is a cottage that appears to be
suspended in mid-air, but as I draw close I see that it sits at the peak of –
yes – a giant beanstalk. Bidding Sleeping Beauty farewell, I leap across the
space and land on my feet beside the house. Here I have come at last, to the
top of the beanstalk, the end of an exhausting climb, the conclusion of a long
journey. As I enter the quaint and beautifully furnished abode, fatigue
suddenly weighs down on me, turning my limbs to lead. But it is the pleasant
kind of fatigue, the weariness of a day’s work well done. I walk up to my bed,
lie down, and assured by the knowledge that I will be awakened duly, go off
like a light.
***
I am having
a vivid dream. In the dream a slightly built boy kneels beside the bed of an
old man in a hospital ward. The old man, wrinkled and grizzly, wears a look of
blissful serenity on his face. The boy’s features are mottled with grief but he
expresses his sorrow through no more than a few quiet tears. Once he might have
bawled loudly and furiously, angry that he should be robbed of a beloved
companion when he has already been deprived of so much, but since then he has
grown, matured. He has learnt through the past years, through the past hours as
his grandfather wavered between life and death at the hands of the surgeons, to
be brave in the face of adversity, strong in the face of misfortune, accepting
in the face of the inevitable.
Around him
doctors and nurses bustle, shaking their heads at the beeping heart monitor,
tearing life-sustaining tubes and needles from the arms of the man who occupies
his space with little more than his body, drawing the sheet over the worn and
peaceful face. A nurse tries to help the boy up, but he shrugs off her hand and
gets to his feet by himself. His gaze never leaves the old man’s face until it
is at last obscured. One last tear rolls down the inflamed cheeks; he permits
no more. He knows his grandfather would not want him to mourn.
“I know
you’ll always be with me, grandpa.” He whispers, so that none can hear him but
himself – or so he thinks.
“Yes.” I
reply, and he jerks his head up, eyes shining with wonder as they rest on that
unmoving, covered form the nurses are beginning to wheel away. Then he shakes
his head, as though in disbelief, but his grief-contorted features are eased
somewhat as he turns to leave the room.
He does not
know it -- or maybe he does, just that he will never be able to reconcile this
feeling of his with his logic -- but I continue to live, not by his side, but
in his heart. He may be frail and aspen in the storms of change, oppressed by
his differences and disheartened by his difficulties, but ultimately he is made
of sterner stuff. He has courage and tenacity, and will rise to great heights,
like the beanstalk that twists and bends yet reaches the clouds.
After all, life is just another vivid dream. And in a dream, anything is possible.