inside my head, though that’s weird enough, but sometimes you get the feeling that it’s more than imagination. And isn’t imagination itself a kind of reality?
Sometimes when I dreamed at the cottage it was like there was another world pushing its way through into mine. And there were other times when what was happening was more real than anything I’d ever known. Certainly, what it was doing to me was real enough.
Anyway, that night I had another dream and I don’t think it was all my doing.
I am walking through the hills looking for Anne.
The night is very dark and windy. A heavy sky obscures any moon there may be, but occasionally stars show themselves through breaks in the clouds. The wind pushes and tugs at me, turning me this way and that, causing me to stumble and slide on stony paths. There are long sweeps of hillside where the trees grow in sparse clumps, leaving broad avenues where I scramble up one side and tumble down the other, mud-streaked and bruised.
Anne is there, somewhere up ahead. I know she has fallen from her horse, but it is still possible to save her if only I can reach her in time. She is moving away from me, not lying on the ground but walking slowly, ever so slowly. Though I cannot see her I know she is wearing a long dress and a cloak that drags over the grass as she moves, leaving a trail to mark her passing. She moves with a steady grace, unhurried and with no concern for the elements or the passing of time. Her loosened hair writhes and coils, twisting upward on the wind. But, no matter how hard I try to run, no matter how I scramble on all fours, slip and snatch at the long grasses, stumble to my feet only to falter again, I cannot catch up with her.
Somewhere in the distance a horse whinnies, its distress carried on the air. And I am certain I can hear a fiddle. Maybe he could help me find Anne? But I would have to find him first and there is no time. She is moving away from me, gaining ground, and I have only the trail of her cloak to show where she has passed.
The grass is crushed where she has walked, I can see that quite clearly even though the darkness is unrelenting. There is something shimmering in the swath of broken grasses as if her cloak, in the wake of its passing, has laid down a tracery of light for me to follow. And I try, I try so very hard to keep up, but I know I am losing her. In the end I fall to my knees, heaving lungfuls of air, my hands pressed into the trail she has left behind. And as I lift my palms they glisten with wetness. I now see what it is that lights the path.
Blood.
Anne’s own blood is washing the earth as she moves across the land.
I woke early, sunlight filtering through a misty haze, the grass heavy with dewfall, and wandered down to the lake. The surface was still and silent. There were wild flowers growing at the water’s edge, foxgloves and some sort of yellow daisy, and I picked a handful, shaking the dew from their petals. Suddenly I knew why they were there.
Briefly returning to the cottage to collect a jar and fill it with water, I took the road back around the lake and up through the trees to the clearing. The name on Anne’s gravestone stood out sharply where I had cleaned it a few days before. It took only a moment to clear away the weeds and grasses and arrange the flowers. The makeshift vase looked clumsy, but it would do until I found something more fitting. Any trace of a mound in the earth had vanished decades ago but a few smooth pebbles gathered and laid around the stone would mark out her territory.
It wasn’t much to do for her, perhaps, but it was something.
EIGHT
T HE next few days at the cottage were clearly divided into separate compartments. After that my memory seems to run together like wet paint streaking down a canvas. There was the work, which, at first, was all encompassing. Hours of intense concentration when I forgot to eat or drink and only the sinking of the sun reminded me that I had other
Sometimes when I dreamed at the cottage it was like there was another world pushing its way through into mine. And there were other times when what was happening was more real than anything I’d ever known. Certainly, what it was doing to me was real enough.
Anyway, that night I had another dream and I don’t think it was all my doing.
I am walking through the hills looking for Anne.
The night is very dark and windy. A heavy sky obscures any moon there may be, but occasionally stars show themselves through breaks in the clouds. The wind pushes and tugs at me, turning me this way and that, causing me to stumble and slide on stony paths. There are long sweeps of hillside where the trees grow in sparse clumps, leaving broad avenues where I scramble up one side and tumble down the other, mud-streaked and bruised.
Anne is there, somewhere up ahead. I know she has fallen from her horse, but it is still possible to save her if only I can reach her in time. She is moving away from me, not lying on the ground but walking slowly, ever so slowly. Though I cannot see her I know she is wearing a long dress and a cloak that drags over the grass as she moves, leaving a trail to mark her passing. She moves with a steady grace, unhurried and with no concern for the elements or the passing of time. Her loosened hair writhes and coils, twisting upward on the wind. But, no matter how hard I try to run, no matter how I scramble on all fours, slip and snatch at the long grasses, stumble to my feet only to falter again, I cannot catch up with her.
Somewhere in the distance a horse whinnies, its distress carried on the air. And I am certain I can hear a fiddle. Maybe he could help me find Anne? But I would have to find him first and there is no time. She is moving away from me, gaining ground, and I have only the trail of her cloak to show where she has passed.
The grass is crushed where she has walked, I can see that quite clearly even though the darkness is unrelenting. There is something shimmering in the swath of broken grasses as if her cloak, in the wake of its passing, has laid down a tracery of light for me to follow. And I try, I try so very hard to keep up, but I know I am losing her. In the end I fall to my knees, heaving lungfuls of air, my hands pressed into the trail she has left behind. And as I lift my palms they glisten with wetness. I now see what it is that lights the path.
Blood.
Anne’s own blood is washing the earth as she moves across the land.
I woke early, sunlight filtering through a misty haze, the grass heavy with dewfall, and wandered down to the lake. The surface was still and silent. There were wild flowers growing at the water’s edge, foxgloves and some sort of yellow daisy, and I picked a handful, shaking the dew from their petals. Suddenly I knew why they were there.
Briefly returning to the cottage to collect a jar and fill it with water, I took the road back around the lake and up through the trees to the clearing. The name on Anne’s gravestone stood out sharply where I had cleaned it a few days before. It took only a moment to clear away the weeds and grasses and arrange the flowers. The makeshift vase looked clumsy, but it would do until I found something more fitting. Any trace of a mound in the earth had vanished decades ago but a few smooth pebbles gathered and laid around the stone would mark out her territory.
It wasn’t much to do for her, perhaps, but it was something.
EIGHT
T HE next few days at the cottage were clearly divided into separate compartments. After that my memory seems to run together like wet paint streaking down a canvas. There was the work, which, at first, was all encompassing. Hours of intense concentration when I forgot to eat or drink and only the sinking of the sun reminded me that I had other
Similar Books
