The Dreaming: Dark Star (Book 5)

Imorah's Dream

         

I'm in the field, walking through the grass. The silver-grey leaves seem to sparkle and dance in the sunlight, swaying in a light breeze.

In the distance I see the tree and the wall of what used to be a house. For a second, the scene flickers, and I see the house as it once was, glorious, surrounded by a garden, covered in vine leaves. The mountain changes also the flora and fauna are much different. There are pine trees and the ground is covered in moss. The air is damp. The house, made of stone, sits on an aquifer—there is a well beside the house. The scene flickers between the past and the present.

I focus on the past—willing it to become my stable dream reality. I am lucid. The air turns cool. I can see my breath. It's early morning. I look down and see that I'm clothed differently now, strangely, in fur and thick, heavy clothing. I like it. My hair is blonde. I smile. I'm pregnant also, I can see under the many layers of clothing.

"Sue," a man calls.

I turn and see a big, bearded strapping man, over six feet tall. "George," I call out, intuitively knowing his name. I'm lucid in the dream, but the dream is somehow controlling me. This is new. This is strange. This is real. This is a ghost of something real. I feel emotion ripple through me. I've never dreamed like this before!

He waves. "Fetch me some water, please," he yells. He's dragging a cache of logs behind him on some pallet he's constructed.

I intuitively know exactly what I need to do. I walk to the well to fetch him some water and I drop a wooden bucket down and hear it splash. The rope bobs, then goes taught as the bucket sinks. I pull it up, but when I do, the bucket is empty.

I lean over and peer down inside the well—I cannot see the water glistening down there.

Suddenly a rock that I'm leaning on breaks loose. I jump back and barely save myself from falling into the pit.

I turn and watch as the landscape changes. Many season go by—spring, summer, fall, and winter. I turn and watch as the building crumbles. The pine trees and the moss disappears. The garden is long dead.

The stones of the house disappear, one by one. Taken by someone—to build a home or a wall somewhere else.

Hundreds of years go by in less than a minute. The air is hot, stifling. The sun is blinding, though my dream eyes see perfectly.

The scene forwards to today. I see myself lying on the ground, leaning against a big black bag. On the other side of that bag is Liran—he is a dark shadow—I cannot see his form.

"Liran," I whisper.

I will his form to take shape—to reveal itself to me. And suddenly it flickers. The scene flickers between a shadow of a man and the man himself. But there is a great resistance.

I pull, as if I'm pulling on an enormous elastic band. I feel this great resistance, but I keep pulling tighter and tighter.

"Liran," I whisper.

And then the tension breaks. Whatever was resisting is gone.

Liran opens his eyes. "Imorah?" he asks. He's groggy. He doesn't know he's dreaming. He thinks he's in the real world.

"Yes, Liran?" I say in a soothing tone. I don't want to confuse him—maybe it's better he thinks he's sleeping. These thoughts are instantaneous.

"What are you doing—why are you standing in the sun again?"

"Oh," I say, and walk over to him. "I just had to go to the bathroom." I sit down next to him in the shade.

"Ayah," he responds, and then closes his eyes again, sleepy. Then he opens his eyes again

"Why..." he's talking as he sleeps. "I thought you were dressed... strange... I didn't recognise...," he is falling in and out of dream consciousness.

I breathe a sigh of relief. "No—no, there's nothing out of the ordinary," I soothe. "You're just sleeping. Maybe it was a dream—." As soon the word slips from my tongue, I know I've made a grave mistake.

"Ayah," he responds sleepily. Then suddenly he opens his eyes and sits up. "A dream—I... I... I don't dream!" He looks around suspicious. He stands and shakes his arms, his legs. "Something's not right," he says, starting to panic. "I don't feel... normal."

"No, everything's okay, Liran," I try.

He turns and looks at me. "Why—why are you dressed like that!?" he screams.

Oh Guardian, I think. It's too late. I'm dressed like a viking or something. I forgot. Oh Great Guardian—he's becoming lucid—any second now.

"Imorah," he tries to say, but his mouth won't work. He puts his hands to his mouth. His face is turning red. His eyes are bulging... He manages to gasp, "Help me."

Oh my Great Guardian, I have to do something. "Shalon!" I scream. "Help me!"