Within the Dominion of Dreams

Everything is at peace. Only the babbling of the brooks we encounter and the faint chirping of birds is heard. A passing hum of the wind through the trees as it swept between their boughs, heavily laden with fruits and leaves; the grass whispering and waving. I feel its blades brush at my knees as I walk upon an earth unlike the one I’ve known, a world about me that is at peace. The sky, an iridescent blue, appears as an overarching crystal. The clouds are feathery, drifting carelessly, amidst a dream of their own. And while no fellow companion is to be found, I am not alone. As I cross the field, their presence remains with me. A presence of a spirit - a timeless creature. They bear no distinguishing features, and are shrouded with a heavy cloak. It floats about them as if spirit and shroud are one. At times I see them; at times I do not. We speak to each other as if we have known each other for a long time.

We pass through valleys, and here and there are dotted palimpsests of life that once existed. Modern skyscrapers, toppled and now overgrown with flora. Clothing that was worn before is stamped into the ground, muddied and becoming one with the earth. Flowers and weeds sprout through them, signifying life anew. I point and question this great and old friend of mine of the events here, and they recount to me each one - they weave the tale of each place, and detail each lesson learned. A clothing line dangles in the breeze in solitude, but the clothing itself is not there - more than likely disintegrated over time. Upon the thought of clothing, I glance at myself, only to realize I wear none. Too late to think of covering myself, and yet, I am not at unease with the predicament, despite accompanied. Perhaps because we have walked together for what feels like eons.

“What happened here?” I ask. The breeze finds its way around me, and the spirit turns to me, and tilts what I believe to be their head.

“The same thing that happens, time and time again,” they respond. Their voice is deep, solemn, but whether it is male or female, I cannot comprehend. In the grand scheme of it all, it does not matter much. “Man creates and destroys. In this instance lies a creation that has been destroyed.”

The spirit turns their dark gaze to where I point to the linen line. For a moment, they do not speak, and while I cannot distinguish a single feature, they appear as if they are in a heavy melancholy. The fishing wire line bounces to the wind and the weight of birds taking an intermission from flight. I feel a cold and lingering sadness settling on my bare skin. Upon further observation, I find the remnants of a foundation. Something that could have once been a home. It is barely visible beneath the moss and weed, but it is there nonetheless. I walk towards it, finding basement piping and insulation tangled within grass. There is a bedframe, the wiring and mattress barely surviving. I sit on it slowly. “Was it a natural disaster? Reconstruction?”

“A casualty of war,” the spirit replies slowly. “The greediest sort. The hunger for power never ceases, even when it has consumed millions. It is an empty pit.”

“A war for politics?” I continue, “Or honor?”

“Does it matter much, when the results are the same?” the spirit asks in return. They raise a shadowed hand, their fingers similar to the twisted branches of the trees around us. “Look where you sit. A public grave.”

I nod, humming thoughtfully. When I close my eyes, I feel them - the presence of those before, and of the people they had loved. “Do you know why?” I ask yet again. My heart aches for someone I do not know, and something I do not comprehend. It is overwhelming, but I let it pass through me before it disappears again, simply content I let it be heard. “Man has lived for thousands of years. We have developed technology, made luxury accessible, and invented wonder for those who once could not have had it. Why have we learned everything else except how to be kind?”

“It is an individual journey to take,” the spirit says. “And not all choose to take it.”

“I do not find kindness a difficult choice,” I bite back. It is not that I am angry with the spirit, but there is a growing impertinence inside of me, and I am unsure to whom it is directed. “It is the easiest choice to make.”

The spirit turns their gaze on me, and waits. I remain indignantly silent. The burning within me smarts, and is hard to hold, as if I am bearing the world’s transgressions involuntarily. “And yet, you do not choose kindness now, in your judgment. This place is bleak enough; let us leave some of that needed kindness instead.”

I do not see how this changes what has already happened, and how this would change anything that will happen. I struggle with what they have said, but stay quiet. The spirit leaves me, and I watch them as they wander about the fields around us, stooping into the grass here and there, collecting something in their hands. The mattress beneath me is peeling, and the springs inside it press against me. I allow it, and the resentment grows. Briefly, I wonder if any of these thoughts or feelings passed through those who once lay here, and took solace in this bed. Was their final time here as well, or did they not have the chance to rest once more before everything ended? A flood wells up inside me.

“Come,” I hear the spirit say, and it is not until I blink to see them clearly that the flood finally spills. The spirit shakes their hands, and I see a multitude of seeds in their palms. They shake their hands again, gesturing to the ground beneath us. “Let us leave this much needed simple kindness.”

I wipe my eyes, and let them pour a handful of seedlings into my hand. Despite knowing these passed souls will never know life again, I know they are at peace, and when the flowers bloom, a new story will begin. This puts me at ease, and the burning animosity I’d had for an event I did not partake in buries itself with the seeds. Gently, I pat the ground, and the remaining tears I’d had drip onto the soil. The spirit kneels beside me, tranquil, and I turn away, ashamed.

“Weep, young soul,” the spirit comforts me. “There is no shame in feeling pain for yourself nor others, so long as the pain yields fruit and flowers and not weeds. Let the pain live and die with you, and do not pass it to another.”

They pat the ground where my tears had fallen. “Let it burrow into the soil and rest.”

So we sit, watching the seedlings as if they would grow right before our eyes. We know they will not. The growing will take time. But we watch a passing deer and her fawn as they graze, and observe the setting sun, slowly sinking behind the waving wheat far away. As we sit and watch, I latch onto the way the mother dotes on her child. I think of how this mother loves her child unconditionally, and I wonder, will the child love her in return? How does she love, with no guarantee that it will be returned?

“I loved someone,” I tell the spirit then. “I loved someone and he took advantage of all that I was for himself.”

“Is that what you feel?” they ask. “Or is that what you know?”

Once asked, I feel the truth shake my core. My cheeks burn at the silliness of it all. In the grand history of the universe, scorned love means little, if anything at all. I should have known better. The deer and her fawn dash away, unaware.

“No,” I reply, watching as they disappeared into the glade just to our right. The spirit waits for me to continue. “I know he wanted to love me, but he did not know how. And while that is no fault of my own, I cannot hate him for it. I can only progress.”

The spirit, I like to believe, smiles.

“And so you will progress,” they reassure me, a bony hand on my back. I can feel the way their fingers pressed into my shoulder. Something indestructible that has held for many years, and will for many more. “You already have. Do not let the pain of his insignificance make your journey cumbersome.”

They point to where the deer and her fawn had gone. It is a forest that engulfs the light we were just bathing in moments ago. It is dark, twisted, and unknown, and I feel my soul shrivel, likened to the burdened branches and crisping leaves of the trees just on the forest’s edge. There is a whistling that reaches us, and a hollow echoing of voices I want to forget. I shiver, and the spirit takes my hand, guiding me onward. The harsh texture of their fingers does not deter me; on the contrary, it is a comfort.

The world behind us seems to come to a close as the sun sets, the sky holding a curtain call before we reach the edge of the forest. When I look behind me, the field is dark and silent, a stark contrast to the liveliness it had held before. Above, the stars watch us, and the breeze tickles through the grass once more, as if bidding adieu. I let my eyes linger over it once more.

The branches on the forest’s edge are harsh, and not in the way the spirit’s hands are. They bite, almost as if forbidding our entrance. I push ahead, despite the unwelcoming embrace of the dark. The further we enter into the forest, the darker it becomes, until I see no branch nor root, nor flower nor fungus. Although I hadn’t the need for clothing before, suddenly I do. The forest’s chill causes my bones to ache, and the wind that passes through me feels anything but gentle. Even though the spirit has not let go, I sense impending danger.

“What has happened here?” I ask. Although I cannot see, remembering the ruins in the field have me curious, and the frightening dark of the forest has me anxious. “What is the story of this place?”

“This is where all joy came to die,” the spirit says. Their voice sounds alarmingly far away. “A butchering ground. You cannot see it, but you can feel it. It was a place for slaughter and torture, and many innocents suffered. I will not explain it fully, for fear the wretchedness of it all will overpower you, and then we will be lost.”

Left flummoxed, I cannot answer to this, but I can hear their cries. I hear depraved words against my ear, as if there were lips nearby, and I swat them in a panic. The voice that speaks them is frighteningly familiar; I have heard it before. A low hanging branch, one I can not see, catches my hair and pulls, and as my head snaps back, I can see his eyes, and I cannot speak. I tug at the spirit’s hand, but I cannot feel them there. I am alone now, as I was then, and home feels far away. I am one with the others, vanquished, and there is no way out. I cannot escape, as much as I would want to, and I have lost my voice.

I wish I could say that I fight or flee, but I find myself numbed and am lost here for an insurmountable period. The branches overtake me, until nothing of my own is left unviolated. I feel them scratch my flesh and take root inside me. I allow this poison to grow within me. If I fight it, I will become afraid again, and it will hurt, as it had so many others. I will not allow it to hurt me; instead, I let it fester and grow. I do not know where the spirit is, nor can I care. I cannot call for them anyways, and I know they will not listen, same as the branches would not listen if I pled for them to stop. Same as the malefactors did not listen to the ensemble who had begged them for mercy. An angry seed blooms inside of me, a thorned thing that scars inside where I cannot reach.

Suddenly, a glimpse of light catches my eye, and still mute, I turn to it. It is far from me, and brings me back to the field, and I long for it, missing it terribly. I do not desire the branches in and around me, and am angry that they are within me, for I did not ask for them, nor for their astringent growth inside me that pulses terribly. I do not know where to direct my anger, and as I let it grow, so does the seed. It only afflicts me more, and the more I allow this, the further the light becomes. I miss the field more than I long to take revenge upon the branches. For the first time, my skin opens from the branches’ harsh intrusions, and I bleed. I fumble in the dark, the branches withering beneath my hands, and when I first touch the spirit’s hand, I leap away from them, sure that I have only found the malevolence of the forest again.

“It is I. Do not strike me,” the spirit rasps. “Come, take us away from here.”

I want to cry. I feel hopeless, for I do not know where to go. And I do not want the forest to take over me again. I do not know how I could be of aid. If they could see me in this darkness, they would see my disbelief. But I cannot ask how the spirit should feel this way, as I hear a great yawning of the earth, and a rumbling so loud that we jolt into a desperate race, eager to escape what we have been ensnared by for good. I reach for them, and we run through the thickest of the forest. I feel the roots reaching out, snaking along my ankles, threatening to pull me back with them and imprison me. The screaming follows, and just behind me that familiar voice tells me I will fail, that I am not worthy of more, nor will I ever be capable of more. I belong in the roots, he tells me, and will rot with them. My body belongs to the deep of the forest, and no scream that leaves it will be heard.

I run anyways, because the spirit depends on me. I run until my lungs and legs burn, and I cannot carry us any farther. When I collapse to the ground, I cannot breathe, and panic. This is the end if I have not lead us away. We will be bound again. I fear the voice is right, and no amount of rebellion will change it. I try to explain this to the spirit, that they have put their great faith in someone too little.

“Close your eyes,” the spirit commands, “and speak to the branches, the roots. Tell them what you know they need to hear.”

I want to tell them I do not know, and that even if I did, I do not believe they deserve to hear it. But I nestle in the dark earth instead. I imagine I see them, and hear his voice, intermingled with the others. Their cacophony causes me to grit my teeth. I tell the branches they cannot hold me, because I will not allow them. I tell them I am sorry that they can only hurt. I tell them I hope the sun finds them, and that the rain washes over them and they bloom again. I tell them they hurt me, and that I may never forgive them for it, but that I will no longer carry the hurt they have given.

“You have saved us,” the spirit says when I open my eyes. “As I knew you would.”

“Why?” I ask, my voice returned. “How?”

“You have survived an injury such as theirs,” the spirit explains, “and so of course, also underwent what they had in their own lifetime. But you merely experienced your own, and do not carry the memories of thousands of places such as this, with a great many more tragedies. I admit, I am grateful I did not share them.”

When I only stare after them, the spirit continues, their voice a shadow.

“Had I poisoned your mind, I fear we would have both fallen prey to the branches, with neither able to escape.” The spirit seems to cower in shame of their weakness, and I immediately regret that I have forced this confession from them, despite unknowingly. “The pain I underwent overtook me. I found myself hating mankind, even you, young soul, and could not fight my way out. But you escaped from their grasp.”

“But let us not dwell on these things any longer, lest they find us again. Come. This is the place I have yearned to show you,” the spirit says, and when I stand my feet feel the moss and sigh in relief. There is a clearing ahead that, while dark all around, seems to glow of its own accord. In the midst of this juxtaposition lies a sunken temple. There is a faint humming from within that settles my rapid heartbeat. I want to enter, but am afraid of what lies within, and do not wish to be trapped again. Surrounding the temple is the marsh it has sunk into, and small fireflies darting in and out of the darkness. When I look to the spirit, their hand is shaking. As long and as short as I have known them, this is unlike them.

“I want to be strong,” I say, not mentioning their trembling. “I just need to know we are safe.”

“I cannot promise anything, save for this,” the spirit returns solemnly, “I am with you, and it will be wondrous.”

I take a shuddering breath, and step into the marsh. It is cold, and my feet sink into the muck, but it is not deep, merely rising to my calves. I slosh through the warm undercurrent and sludge, and it reminds me of childhood. We had stayed out until dark then, no worry on our minds, the forest our backyard. Suddenly the mangled bark and branches of the trees around us do not frighten me. It is only man that has ruined the experience of life, and I had let that influence a part of the world I have dearly loved once. My heart flutters in yearning, that old nostalgic feeling of discovery returning. I have not felt this way in quite a while. It grows in my gut and settles, warm and heavy. I continue to make my way into the sunken temple, the swamp water swirling around my legs as I sift through. The spirit follows behind, a floating presence. I step up into the temple, water dripping from my legs onto the cracked marble.

It is then that the moon breaks through the clouds above us, and I see what the temple had once been. Across from me lies the agora, and beyond, the hallways. It holds stairs to a second floor, open to the sky. The moon peeks through them, bouncing off the moss and vine covered walls and reflecting off the water that covers it. I can see the steps that would have once led down into it, and listen for may have once been a bustling crowd. Now, the water comes up those same steps, and I seat myself at the top of them, staring into the pool. In the shallow, the water is clear, sparkling, inviting - but as I draw my eyes further down the steps to see the center, it grows darker and deeper. While I want to let myself sink into the serenity of the lake, I withhold myself.

“You are afraid,” the spirit notes.

“I want to know it, but, yes, I am afraid,” I reply quietly. “The darkness draws me away.”

“Because the darkness has hurt you before,” the spirit finishes, quieter. “Because you are afraid it will hurt you again.”

I nod. The spirit rests beside me on the steps. “Go in,” they say. “To know is to hurt. To be known is to be hurt. But the hurting is often the healing. Go in and see.”

This is harder than the forest. It is a harrowing moment before I finally allow myself to sink a foot into the water. I flinch, presuming every horrible consequence for trusting it to come upon me at once, yet the water remains still and calm as it had before, unchanging. It welcomes me, and although I continue to tremble, I place my second foot into it, stretching into its warmth.

The water is murky and frightens me, and yet, I cannot look away. I find myself wanting to see to the bottom of its darkest depths, although the possibilities frighten me. I know that it is because of these darkest trenches and secrets that the water remains beautiful and enticing, in a way that it would not be if it were just as any other clear stream or transparent lake. The very thing that nearly drove me away is what keeps me here now. I find myself wanting to be here to uncover it, good or ill. This is when I begin to understand the spirit, and I realize that this must be what love is, to want to know, despite what may come with the knowing. That to love is to be willing to see, from the clear edges that sparkle to the hidden obscurites that shroud and terrify.

I turn to the spirit to share this revelation, only to find that they are quiet and appear to have taken rest, their posture is slouched and their breathing slow. I am alone with the water. I allow myself to take in this place. It holds its own life, with each climbing creeper along its fallen columns and out of its cracked marble thriving from it. I pay mind to a gentle tinkling above me from the dew and rain finding a new home on each leaf as it trickles down into the pool, and even when I hear a deep rumbling from the obsidian, I do not shudder, and let the rippling water tangle itself around my legs, and nothing more comes of it. Only that it grows warmer, and I find myself giving in to sleep as well.

When I wake, the spirit has been waiting for me. We do not speak of what settles in the air around us. We cannot stay, but have learned something new. Something I will carry with me always. If you were to ask what it was, I could not tell you, but I know this. As we walk, leaving the temple and venturing on - through the forest and into a great mountainous region - I continue to ponder aloud the happenings that have occurred, and the spirit answers each and every question. I find myself alright with the knowledge, grand or terrible. When it does feel a bit too heavy, I reach for their hand, and we fall silent, passing through the world. I am with the spirit, and they with me, and we will be alright.