In this night's dream I found myself high in the sky at daylight. I knew my son was okay. I was not so much on a quest or rescue mission as I was the night before, but I was unnerved. I am at a desk, staring at pages all around. Some have one word in bold print, all caps, centered in the middle of the page such as "FAVORITE" or "MISTRESS" or "DISAPPOINTMENT." They hang within my peripheral. It reminds me of my old cubicle at 69 West. Other stacks hold sheets of case captions for transcript work and/or red-inked drafts of impossible corrections to work, representing hours spent in futility.
I feel sick to my stomach. Overwhelmed. I reach for the pitcher of water, but there is no glass to pour into. On the other side of my window beams a glare so blinding, I will not read any further. This is not the side of language I favor, and I begin to feel defeated.
Violent winds roll through the room as if trying to pick a fight. The top button of my dress plummets to the earth as I lean out the side of the tower to face the whisking howls. I squint to the distance where I spy a figure, colossal and harrowing. The clomps of the horse's gallop become more prominent when his rider locks eyes with mine.
I rush down the twisting staircase for only a few steps when Herne the Hunter catches me in his cool, dry grasp. Leaves and pollen are kicking up all around his form. He smells of oak and berries and just the smallest trace of blood. He takes my left hand and pulls me back to the top, my cell. There he holds both my arms, forcing me to rip the sheets of paper down. My bare feet are on his as he moves me around like a puppet, tearing it all apart. I suddenly think back to the first time I saw the film "The Miracle Worker."
I have dreamt of Herne before. And when I do, he almost always brings the boy who took my virginity. This annoys me to no end. Herne will often put me in front of him while he stands beside me, commanding. "Tell him." I always accuse this boy by stating, "You took my words."
I then ask if this means my voice and Herne disagrees in frustration. Herne is usually frustrated with me, but I know he loves me. And I laugh as I write this because if you could see us together, you would laugh, too.
"Why aren't you afraid of me?" he asks with an animal-like chuff as a punctuation to his question.
"Because I know you would never hurt me," I respond.
"How do you know?"
"Because I've known you for so long," I reassure him.
"I am dangerous," he explains.
"I know."
I admit this with such a casual dismissal, I can see his frown turn further downward and then up again in the corners, holding in an aggravated chuckle.
He leads me down, out into empty, scratchy fields of a harvested vineyard. Some fruit sits in crates, but much of it is beneath our feet -- ankle deep. The wind picks up again and I look back at the Tower of the Seven of Mirrors to see it was actually a mountain with life-sustaining resources. I was too occupied with my "office" to ever realize. The sound of a horn bellows and Herne shouts to not look back.
He begins to pick up the pace, though you wouldn't notice since his stride is smooth and calm. Further and further through the spiraled vines and flush burgundy piles I find I am running for my life while his form is absent of any sign of fatigue. Every step he takes is in a rhythmic track of grace and beauty.
"Please. I have to stop." I slump over, touching my splattered knees; dress torn at my thighs, breathing for the magic of a slowed pulse.
"Why don't you ask for help?"
I just look up at his crown of antlers and roll my eyes, then closing them, exhaling my embarrassment.
He hauls me up a grassy hill, eventually pulling his sword when my sleeve becomes caught on a vine, digging into my shoulder. Once we reach the top, his horse greets us, resting in the shade of a mammoth tree.
"Do you remember where we met?" asks the mighty hunter.
I honestly do not remember as I gaze out across the land, over the woods ahead of us. The sky is many shades of exhausted red, fading into orange and yellow. I sit on a sturdy branch with my friend as he hypnotically recites a very familiar poem. I recalled the lyrics. It was the poem from The Dark is Rising series. I clap and smile, unable to contain my joy. He closes his eyes.
And then it hits me. Holy cow does it hit me.
I loaned my first copy of The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper to my very first boyfriend. He never returned it. In fact, he admitted he didn't "get" it and teased me for loving it . In the second, as well as the fifth book of the series, Herne's role is quite pivotal in that he leads the Wild Hunt in a battle to push back The Dark.
I smile at him as he holds his sword above his head with pride, sweeping it across the sleepy sky, summoning hounds and animals and spirits of his tribe. I notice a ram with glorious circular horns. I climb down in my stained garments, raw and washed over. I embrace the quiet animal, and a soft synergy occurs with a kiss to his brow.
"They are only words. I am always here," Herne whispers. (That last sentence would follow me to Sunday in my conscious life.) I fall asleep among the leaves with the scent of fresh grapes for a sedative.
Tomorrow I will see it all so differently.
*Sunday* is highlighted as it leads to another entry involving an experience with a tarot reading where, in fact, I believe Herne was still making his presence known.
I wish you many rays of light on the night of the Super Moon.
Part III (Green Man) to follow.
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