Blueprint Of A Dream

for the Jungian inspired

Like each time before this one, I finish the third chapter of a book I will never recall. He smiles and gets up from his place on the couch beside me. I bookmark the weathered page, close it, and place it back on the top shelf.
The old man looks at his watch, and as he glances at the window reflecting the just beginning to set sun, he tells me what I have heard many times before.

“You know you have to leave”, his voice is distant, perhaps strained.

“I know”, I tell him.

The old man makes his way to the door, where he bolts and chains it shut. For a moment I am confused. Somehow he senses this, but doesn’t, or can’t, turn around. Moments later, now reoriented, I struggle crawling through the small, southern window.

“Same time tomorrow”? I ask. I stand, brushing the dirt from my knees in what is a small but lush garden.

“Yes, same time”. Then, more serious, “Stay on the path and you will be fine. And Allan, remember, you must never come back here after it is dark. No matter what, you must never return in the dark”.

I assure him that I remember, not to worry. Though he is worried I fear, for his smile is both soothing and ominous when he pulls the curtains tight. Making my way down the narrow path, I admire the orange grove to my left. Past it, the green field quickly turns to jagged rock, ending at a sharp cliff. Hearing the surf crash far below, I recognize, and am thus comforted by my proximity to the ocean.

As I make my way along the path from the familiar cottage, the sky is an intoxicating shade of orange and red. I am content. However, I am aware that with each step I take, the orange and red sky darkens, and it seems slightly, but increasingly colder.

Now well on the road, it is completely dark and very cold. I don’t want to be here, though I don’t know why. I have no recollection of taking this road before, and as I approach the narrowest point I am filled with ever mounting anxiety. I look back toward the cottage. A warm glow from the light in the window is convincing. But I resist the urge to bolt back there when I hear the mans words in my ears. “No matter what, you must never return in the dark”.

That is when I see them.

There, lying on the side of the road, are three horses. Something is terribly wrong and I sense they are ill, in need of water or medicine, but yet they appear so majestic and strong. It is only when I move closer, and am in front of the horses do I realize how far off the road I have strayed. An ominous, gut churning fear rises from inside me as I realize all three are near death.

Then, suddenly and without warning she is there. A woman in a black coat who seems to have come out of nowhere. She is kneeling over the horses, whispering to them. I cannot make out what she is saying, though the gravely ill animals stiffen, recoiling at her presence. They are terrified.

The woman turns to face me, and I gasp as I feel my skin begin to crawl. Eyes unblinking, the pale, white face scarred of time; her wild hair is as black as the black in her eyes. I notice the air around her fills with a heavy, rancid stench. Rotting meat? Though it is when she speaks, I realize I am looking into the face of death. A face that seems to stare right through me.

“How could you? They were all he had.” The voice that escapes her lips resembles something remotely human, shrieking in guttural tones. Then, from somewhere under her black coat a snake slithers down her right leg.

Confused and terrified, my head swimming, I have no clue what she is saying or what is happening here. My fear rises quickly. As does the idea that perhaps I really do understand. Fear turns to panic, and I prepare to run.

That is when I feel it.

A touch, cold and vice-like, on my right shoulder. With rising panic and a deep shame I cannot place, I realize the icy hands with a death grip on my shoulder, are the hands of the old man.