A Word and A Story

Because I know you like a good story*

sweven (n.): dream; vision


There was a girl, born into a modest family some years ago, who was the oldest of four daughters in that family. One favorite pastime, as the children grew older, was the sharing of the previous night's dreams. The retellings were often fantastical, as many dreams themselves tend to be, and energetic. The father sometimes joined in, recounting his most ferocious struggles--the ones that left him tired once he awoke. A popular theme for everyone, except the eldest child, was one of flying. She had never experienced such exhilaration in her slumbers. She seldom shared anything of her dreams. In fact, she often went months with her mind a blank slate as she slept. And that was fine with her. Because, unlike the other family members, when a sweven came, it was not fancy. Held within each of her visions was a message, a truth. Often it was a presentiment, as sometimes happened during her waking hours. The sensation would wash over her with such knowing that she was often frightened, whether she was asleep or not. Knowing what was to come was often difficult to bear. No, not often. Always.

But sometimes there were dreams that were memories of the past--memories back beyond this lifetime, which were not so frightening, because they were over. She always woke knowing the difference. She was sad, too, because her own daughter now had this...whatever it may be called... this recalling of the past. The daughter of the daughter, when barely old enough to speak, told her mother of a dream...

But that's a different story. It's that child's story to tell when she gets older. If she even remembers it at all.

One of the most disturbing dreams of all though was the one that was about what was yet to happen concerning this woman's past. The event itself had not yet occurred, but it would be about her life before. The life before this life. Or possibly the life before that one. Even she was unsure of exactly which time before since she had been through many.

She was walking through a gallery, somewhat like a museum, but more of a place where things might be purchased. But the impression of the gallery was important. It seared into her mind. She was with a special soul, a friend or sister perhaps, but that was less important. Whom she was with was not imprinted upon her memory as this occurred. But the glass was. The glass and the underplate...

The pair belonged together. It was rare, perhaps one of a kind. It was not the underplate for a gravy boat (how common!). Not a finger bowl, nor a dessert coupe with an underplate. And no, it was not a horrible little mayonnaise (how modern!) dish with a plate underneath either! It was a goblet. The goblet and underplate were a set. And as she saw it, she was overwhelmed with hunger. The desire, the longing to hold that glass once again nearly sent her to her knees. That glass had touched her lips in the time before. She had held it with a gloved hand, and tasted the sweet liquid upon her lips. That glass was HERS!

She moved away shaking. How could she not shake? To behold a thing, not a mistily familiar person or soul, but a concrete physical reminder of a past life? It was terrible.

But not as terrible as waking. Waking, and knowing... Soon, she would see, with her very eyes, an object she had held in her possession once before--in a life before. For it was an item that she knew would be impossible to explain to anyone.

*no story stealing allowed