|
The last
thing, however, that I expected was to have someone
dream about me in a central role. Andreas, who
described it to me a while ago, has done an excellent
job in capturing the details, though we all tend to
forget most of
what we dream about. Here is what he wrote.
“Stepping from the
sleek black carriage I found my breath the only sign of
warmth in an evening crisp with anticipation. The
silhouette of an immense,
gothic edifice rose beyond the oiled backs of the
magnificent black
stallions,
drowning the light from the solitary street lamp in the
courtyard where we stood. The portentous squeak
that sang from deep within her blue velvet cape as she
swept past, raising a tapered arm to bid me follow,
startled me with its suggestion of a design more like
the taut rubber of my sister’s
doll
than of warm flesh. Yet follow I did. And the sound of
the powdered courtyard
snow,
crushed beneath her
shiny black and
pointed boot heel, ricocheted around my head,
causing an avalanche of yet unknown desire in my chilled
soul. The approach to the dwelling was lined on either
side by barren
trees,
covered white with snow and dripping long fingers of
ice that
sparkled in the moonlight, and as we moved towards
the foreboding wooden door I had at once the feeling
that I was the captive of a
Christmas
paperweight.
The icy seal
cracked, and we were sucked inwards past a
liquorices-haired
girl of
tender years shuffling backward behind the
retreating door. I heard the door shut out the night
air, the sound of footsteps quicken behind me then slow
and match pace with my own; a small tender hand eased
gently into mine. I turned to look at her;
skin like milk,
eyes and
lips
black, a little
frightened, perhaps, like my sister had been outside
the door when we waited for her inoculation. A
simple white dress hung from her shoulders and fell
loosely about her body, betraying the
boyish nature of her form as she kept stride.
“You’re so warm,” she whispered, looking at me, black
lips parting slightly to suggest a tiny red bud. But it
was the cadence of her words that stung my ears and
joined the night air and her cold hands sucking at the
warmth of my blood like
desert sand at urine. Shackled
thus, hand in hand, we journeyed down the long dark
corridor draped in silk, drawn in the turbulent wake of
our
mistresses’ cloak.” |
