Cherry Village

At night, my dreams are vivid and intense. I watch and read enough sci-fi and fantasy to know I’m not alone. There are others out there who feel there is some kind of parallel universe that exists within dreams. I don’t think it’s just a random array of snippets from day life that jumble up in your brain and play for your sleeping eyes.

During the day, I struggle to make ends meet. I live in a dingy little studio apartment on the outskirts of Smalltownsville, USA. My name is Alexandria, but I prefer Al. I’m short and petite, and not always sweet. I have honey brown hair and eyes and an affinity for herbology and helping people. I work two jobs only to afford to have no life, outside of just getting by. I find solace in my dreams, and in writing about them later.

I’m getting ready for my day job when there’s a knock at my door. I know that it’s my favorite ‘old’ man from apartment 4B, Marko Kobor. I’ve always felt that I have more in common with the elderly than with my peers.

“Hey Marko!” I say. “Here’s that valerian root we talked about, and some local honey from the farmers market to help it down.”

Marko smiles. “I appreciate you taking care of an old man like me, but you need someone your age to spend time with, Miss Al. You would love my niece; I keep telling her to come see an old man and meet you.”

For an old man, he’s pretty spry, and his blue eyes are the blue of a young man.

Most mornings, I press garments at the local laundromat. Evenings, I wash dishes at the café. I’ve been working more than usual lately, and my dreams have been getting weird. The other night, I barely dozed off, and suddenly my body is flying over a land of rolling hills. I see a village nestled comfortably against a looming mountain. On the western side, there’s sunshine, and cottages dot the expanse of valley. Fields of purple eggplant and yellow squash and golden wheat. There’s pale pinks of bee balm and bright pinks of echinacea and the deep reds of yarrow. I travel on, and the vibe changes to the east. It’s much darker, more ominous. Precarious paths filled with craggily rocks and gnarled shrubbery. It’s like light and dark, good and evil.

Awakening in my studio apartment, I’m exhausted as I reach for the black Moleskine on my bedside crate. I describe the colors and the feelings I experienced in my dream until I’m startled into reality by the classic Nokia ringtone. I glance down to see that I’ve covered a full page in ink, before picking up my cell. The screen is cracked and unreadable, but I know that it’s work, calling me in early.

“Be right there,” I say, throwing on jeans and a work shirt and rushing off. I spend all afternoon daydreaming about my night dreams.

Back at home, I light my lavender candle, and my consciousness zooms back to the mountainside village. I am transported towards a particular cottage. A fragrance wafts into my nostrils, and I see royal purple lavender buds against the weathered cobblestone. Inside, a woman sits at a workbench, steam canning something into jars. Her hut is lined with pressed herbs, salves, tinctures. Only some are familiar. I see pieces of charcoal chalk, and I notice her recipes written all over the walls. I try to focus on any of them, but the words aren’t clear. I continue to look around, when an invisible force yanks me backwards in the sky. In reverse, I am pulled above the huts and fields of bright flowers, and over the towering mountain, up past the clouds. I’m dragged across the eastern ridge. I feel an oppressiveness here, much darker than the jet black sky. The air is like crackling static. In my line of sight is a rowdy band of men brandishing torches and radiating hatred. They appear dirty, blood thirsty, and dangerous. I break free of this invisible hold to catch my wits. I push my way back through the air to return to the village once again. I’m viewing the community from 20 yards in the sky. In the distance, they work and play. I hear people speaking in a foreign tongue that slowly takes shape in my brain as a language I can understand. The Boros (wine makers), The Csizmadias (boot makers), Miss Fazekas (Sculpts clay), Hajos (fisherman), The Kerte’sz (gardeners), and Kalmar (merchant) are gathered together for a szureti unnepseg (harvest celebration).

I outline the new developments in my Moleskine. I write of warning these people of the trouble coming from the east, as the dream and the feelings start to fade into another laborious Thursday.

I’m sweating as I remove the wrinkles from a stack of dress shirts. I gaze out the window as steam billows around me. The regular crowd is here: Carl Grady, doing his drywall-stained overalls, and his pregnant wife Peggy Sue. I walk around the counter to deliver her the sachet she requested—red raspberry for nausea and nettles for her strength and immune support.

“Aw Al, my morning sickness has stopped, thanks to you.” She slips me $10, which covers supplies. I don’t usually take profit. I enjoy helping people naturally. Pun intended.

The day is done, and I slump into my mattress. My fingers trace my belly and find the raised skin of my circular birthmark. I find myself rubbing it from time to time, as if it hurts. I let the world go and close my eyes. Slipping out of my headspace, my body disappears from this realm and reappears in the next. A tall, wild girl is running alongside a dozen goats. Her dark hair flows freely, her head thrown back in a joyous laugh. She herds the goats into a pen at the corner of the clearing.

Further along the countryside, I spot the witchy woman preparing a fire in a makeshift pit on the ground. A misty aura surrounds her, exuding strength and comfort. I smell burning licorice root and bilberry. I try to catch her features in my mind’s eye, but her face is blurry.

I decide to leave a message for her, inside.

As I enter her hut, I notice a glowing papyrus scroll. I am drawn, and as I gaze upon it, writing seems to appear. It seems to be mimicking the very same notes from earlier. I’m disconcerted, but at least it seems my warning has been seen. I peak around more and a particular recipe on the wall beckons for me, as it clicks into focus.

I’m awake, but groggy as I reach for my notebook and realize it’s already in my hand. It reads:

~1 pinch gotu kola

~2 drops root of astragalus

~3 knuckles of saracens woundwart

~4 pinch powered comfry

~5 sprinkles of sweet cicely (for taste)

“Madam Jo Javasok’s (Good Medicine Woman) Cure All

Friday was a blur. I was relieved to get home, and Marko even stopped by to say hi.

“I am going to make a special dinner for us,” he says. “May I borrow a recipe?”

I hand him my black book. “You know it, I have tons. All the pages after the Food tab. Otherwise you’ll be reading my dreams. Just bring it back tomorrow.”

We embrace, and he trots home. I crawl into bed and pass out as my head hits the pillow.

My head is dizzy and my body heavy. The villagers seem tense. The tall girl who was tending the goats is speaking to Madam Jo in hushed tones. A man with a protective aura stands next to them, as he scans the horizon. He looks like Marko. He speaks of the girl in a foreign tongue, yet his words are in my brain in English.

“Kato Juhasc (Katalin Shepard) is my late brothers beloved daughter,” he says, “and this Meggyesfalvi (cherry village) is home. I may be Kobor (wanderer), but once I laid eyes upon this valley I felt at ease. Now these warmongers coming for us .”

As he gestures, the sound of static permeates the air as the angry mob surges into view and takes the town. A hundred men hungry for destruction wave their torches, illuminating their twisted expressions. The villagers have no time to flee before their huts are on fire, and their screams echo endlessly.

Madam Jo, Kobor, and Kato are running for the trees. I fly towards them, concentrating on my feet touching ground. I reach Madam Jo’s side, and I see her honey brown eyes pierce mine with an awareness that is startling. I see this version of myself staring back at me when suddenly a bullet tears through her back, and out her abdomen. Kato disappears into the trees as a flaming torch is flung at the ground by Mr. Kobors feet. It rapidly catches fire to the barrel of Juniper oil the Boros use to make gin and explodes in blue flame. Kobor is sent flying into the air and lands splayed out in an unnatural position. Fire licks at my senses, and I awaken in a cold sweat.

My alarm is screeching in the background. My heart pounds as my fingers trace my bullet-sized birthmark. No time to lament; there are dishes to wash. At the café, I drop into the rhythm of sudsy plates and clanking silverware when suddenly Peggy Sue comes screaming through the front door. The screams from my nightmare hit me again in a wave.

She’s yelling, “There was an explosion!”

Except this isn’t a dream. This is the Southside Apartments, where I live. Where Marko lives. My heart sinks. I speak with my manager, and she pardons me for the emergency. A firetruck passes me on my way home. My palms are clammy, and I’m terrified. When I arrive on my street, there’s an ambulance, and a hole in the ground where 4B used to be. My panic rises, and I run towards the EMTs….

“What happened here? Where’s Marko Kobor?”

Tears stream down my face.

“There was a gas leak, an EMT says. “It happened quickly, so he didn’t suffer.”

Feeling lost, I stand in the street. A tall and slender, dark-haired woman appears, coming up the block. I’ve seen her before. She strides over to me. “Al, right? I’m Katelyn Shepard. Uncle Marko told me all about you, I feel like I already know you.”

Her Led Zepplin tee and her general attitude tell me that we'll get along well. She puts her hand on my arm and smiles through her sadness.

“I hopped on a plane yesterday to come see him.”

Her tears well up as I wrap my arm around her.

“There will forever be a Marko sized hole in my heart. He has left instructions should anything happen. He wanted us to be taken care of, but if he had his way he would've left his savings inside his mattress. Thankfully, I talked him into a safety deposit box at the Savings and Loan. Let’s go together.”

In a room lined with lock boxes. Marko’s box sits unopened in front of us.

“One of us has got to do the honors.”

I touch the metal, and it sends me a shock. First from the built-up static, and then from the contents inside. I see bundles of cash and my Moleskine. There’s a sticky note on top that reads: $20,000 for my szeretett (beloved), gyogyitos (healers) along with all my love, Marko.” I flip through the pages which were previously empty to discover new entries full of ‘old’ healing recipes and techniques. All written in a foreign hand that I somehow recognize.