Dreamscape

Sister #1, you may not want to read this. I'm afraid it will creep you out...

There is a forest that I visit several times each year. It’s more than a forest. It’s an entirely different world. A strange, sleepy nether-world…transforming…haunting…

It’s not of this Earth, not of this universe, but strangely part of both…and part of me, as well.

When I think of years past, stretching far back and probing the deepest recesses of my memory, I find that I cannot recall a time when I didn’t visit this place. It’s always the same in appearance, the temperature is always the same, the anticipation always as tingling as it was the very first time I realized I was still asleep, but still magically able to step into the twisting vines.

It’s as familiar to me as the reflection the mirror bounces back to me each morning. The paths, trees, shrubs, the racing river and thick, twisted roots of fallen trees are always in the same spots. The slightly rickety, wooden bridge that yawns across a gaping ravine appears to be so flimsy, yet each time, it holds my weight, never swaying or groaning, the ropes never snapping.

The animals are always there—countless bears, wolves, rabbits and deer…the same chirping of the unseen birds high overhead, masquerading in dense foliage…the same humming of the exotic insects that move too quickly to be seen…the occasional snake slithering across my path.

And yet, the place is different each time. There’s the tree root that shoots high up out of the river—it’s always the same size, always in the same place, but sometimes it’s green, sometimes gray or brown, sometimes rotting and pulsating (odd, like a skin infection, hot fluid straining to break through the surface) with something that’s not quite lifelike. There’s the “Tree of Life”, as I call it, which separates the living half of the forest from the dead half of the forest. That tree sometimes leans in one direction or another, pointing me down the path I’m supposed to follow. I’ve never defied the Tree, though there have been many times when I prayed to wake up so I wouldn’t have to follow where it was leading me. And then there are the curious stones that rise like pillars across the small tributaries of the river. They’re always just large enough for me to step on, but sometimes, they stop just short of the bank I need to be on and I have to make a flying leap toward the soggy earth, knowing that I cannot touch the water. To touch the water would mean death.

Every time, I feel as if I should be afraid. But I’m not. Not ever. I don’t feel fear. I feel a strange ache, a hollow sensation, yearning, longing for something. Something. Or someone. But what? Who? I’m always searching. It’s a mindless search, one that will take as much time as is necessary, to infinity perhaps. There never has been any sense of urgency.

Until now.

Time (is it time? is it something else?) is catching up with me. Something dark and ominous is behind me, its putrid breath on the back of my neck, a silent laugh reverberating in my head, shaking the air of this netherworld with mirthful vibrations.

And this time there was a dog. A large dog, a white, gray and brown spotted body, dark brown ears, cropped tail. He (how do I know it was a he?) was barking, racing back and forth, desperately jumping and howling as he watched me walking across the bridge. And there were people, too. There have never been people in this place before. People waiting for me when I enter the forest or re-emerge later, yes, but never people in the forest. There are many now. Watching me with knowing eyes, waving me forward, shouting words that I cannot hear. The dog continues to bark.

And that’s when I hear it. A small cry, barely a whimper echoing from somewhere in this non-real place. Is it an injured animal? It can’t be. The sound has a human quality to it. Is it my child? Is it someone else’s child? I’m running now, needing to know, hurrying along to find the place where the crying comes from (who would leave a child alone in this strange wilderness?) before darkness falls and I no longer have enough light…before I wake up and the child is lost until the next time my dream takes me to this place.

I look to the Tree. It’s pointing to the North. The cry (I’m coming, little one, whoever you are, wherever you are, I’m on my way.) is coming from the Southwest. Which direction do I choose? The cries are quieter now and I strain to hear (keep crying, little one, keep crying and help me find you) knowing that I can’t be far now…just up ahead, a little bit farther. It’s getting darker. And darker.

And then lighter. Sunshine is pouring through my bedroom window. I’m awake. For the first time, the forest has left me feeling unsettled. I try in vain to go back to sleep, hoping to pick up where I left off, to find the child, to bring it home. It’s useless.

All I can do now is wait. And wait.