Woman of DreamsA Story by Wolf_Lord I found her... Lol... We have been married 8 years now. She was probably in High School when I wrote this. And we are 18 years apart not twenty. It is weird how life sometimes parallels fiction. W Woman of Dreams
WOMAN OF DREAM
First came the dream of her where I found upon waking, I grieved for the loss of her with a grievous aching. Confusion abounded unchecked as my mind was confounded, I found myself elated and astounded and yet, the question was, ‘is she real?’
It couldn’t be possible, could it? That such a one could exist? I’d never thought the possibility, yet now could not resist, though the chances are against me, ‘not real?’ My heart says she is.
When I see my reflection within the mirror, I see her image next to mine. I dare not though, turn to welcome her, for I am merely doomed to pine, for she is not there! I seek her then in the eyes of strangers, ever seeking thus a betraying gleam. The gleam of which comes with recognition, the tendrils of an ever-growing dream. A dream so powerful it becomes an ambition, thus a thousand of times have I spoke this rendition, for, I WILL NOT GIVE UP! After all, I have known her for all eternity.
Yes we have been known to each other for all eternity, though seldom is it the twain do meet, unknowing, uncaring, mired in our mortal lives, we sometimes do not look up, or see that which is around us. Perhaps we even shared each other’s presence upon a lonely darkened street: Perhaps, even touching hands as we passed through crowded markets, bustling along our way: Or Sharing a frozen moment of time, or the music of the land, to the vision of the waking day.
Yet we knew not the other did exist, living our common morbid lives, except within a growing dream of somewhere vague beyond the mist. There, in that place there, awaits for thee thy perfect wife. Just beyond the turning in the road, just beyond that greening hill, on the other side of those trees, surely within the next village, the next bar, or the next tavern on the road, the one next to the whispering stream. Surely she awaits you there. I will not give up!
I will not give up for I know that somewhere she is alive, alive again, not for the first time: Somewhere alive, a child, an elder, or, perhaps a maiden. Destined throughout time immortal one for the other, and yet, are we separated.
A fickle fate indeed of travesty at its height, to watch my hopes grow feeble, through a thousand lives of misery, laid out on the table you will see, the only trump is thus the Queen, a figment perhaps of a wistful dream?
Regrets, you ask? Second thoughts, following wasted shattered dreams? Would you have me expire then; bowed low thus by my own sanity? For I remember, remember the lives, the blessed lives in which I did find her. And should sanity prevail, costing me my faith in dream, that then will be the last time I do inhale, the breath to give my dying scream. And meet her: In the next world!
Yes indeed, the next life, perhaps a life of beauty, of joy, of altered perceptions, of family of friends and even of conception, yet too the joys brought even in frustrations, for is not a woman ever such a mixture of joy and frustration, of dislikes and elation? It has always been so, with my love and I, our lives have ever been thus. Each life its own, sometimes flavored with shame, seasoned with temptation, broiled in intrigue, then served up cold in juices of persuasion. Yet I say that often as not, our loves survive all travail. For we are together, and beauty never dies, when confronted with a wall, of unity.
So wonder then you, why it is that I do cry? I cry because I am awake, and she, Is not here yet! I cry for my dreams that they could be true. I cry to the Gods in rhythms of blue. I cry from my weakness, the core of my strength. I cry for her presence, her image when I blink. Then cry for my grief of which I can barely speak; an ugly emotional emptiness, upon a blasted, barren, peak. For I am lonely and it hurts, to know that she is mine, to know such dreams are possible, perhaps an inch beyond my grasp. If I knew that for sure, I would indeed then die.
(So, I grab my beer, and,)
I grab my beer and toss it down. Then I look around the dingy backwater tavern I’ve most lately picked to have a binger. “Damn,” Where the hell did all these people come from? Place was near empty when I staggered in here. I try to look covertly around, to see just how many people were sharing with me the sad story of my life, but the sheer amount of eyes fixed on me startles me into quickly viewing the pattern on the floor tiles. “S**t, damn, and holy epitaphs,” I mutter. I didn’t mean to get this much attention, but damned if they don’t seem to be listening, the suckers. I wonder what kind of pathetic downtrodden lives they must live, that they would listen to the rambles of a broken down, decrepit old man, (‘wheeze, puff,) crying in his beer about his lost love?
I stare into my empty tankard morosely thinking over what a waste ‘this life’ has been. Bad enough I’m salting this good ale with my tears, but I just can’t seem to get my asinine life together, move past these stupid dreams, and make something out of what little I have left. Damn it all though, it isn’t as easy as it seems. Those dreams are a reality in themselves! She is Real! I’ve really lived those lives.
All that keeps me going is that somewhere she lives. Somewhere she is alive again, alive this minute. I can feel her mark, if not her presence, within this desolate place. Even if I died this moment, my life unfinished, I would die knowing that she loves me, I would die knowing she exists. To lose that belief, would be true death, the long sleep. It would be a death without purpose or meaning, except for being dead; and staying that way the rest of your life.
Someone interrupts my introspection with a fresh tankard of good stout ale. I can see the question, the longing in his young yet lined face, before he even opens his mouth to speak. I forestall him a moment with a raised hand, so I can gather what’s left of my wits. What the hell? Free ale, a willing audience, I could do worse! So I had pity on the young man and accepted his bribe. I take a good swallow to loosen my tongue and clear my throat, then prepare to play the doddering old man, again
“So, what was she like? Tell us what this woman of yours was like?” This of course was the young man bearing the life saving tankard. It was the inevitable question, which I always tried to answer, but few would have the wits to understand.
“I am weary and I grow afraid. I am old now and I grow feeble. My hair thins and will no longer braid. I do the same old things, only to find that I am not able, to do even that which I could do yesterday, with ease and comfort. As time goes on become I sure, that she has passed me by. Perhaps it was a moment’s distraction, a passing curse, or, inattention when I was high. And so knowing this, I wake upon my tear stained pillow, covered with my salty loss. Trapped within a weeping willow, whose branches are storm tossed? (Except within my dream; my God sent dreams.) Wherein which I see her, see life as it could have been; I a sculptor; a painter; or a prince of the realm: She a renowned scribe; a revered poet; or my princess; or perhaps just a shy maiden after all, unaware of her beauty and over brimming with the beauty of life. It does not matter, for with her at my side, I would be King!” (Silence)
Silence; followed by a belly full of laughter. There are many types of laughter, however this was healthy laughter, that is, this wasn’t the kind of laughter that got you dead soon after. Several of the Kings men were present, but they were laughing openly at my audacity. There were several hecklers in the crowd, and several sneered openly or gave that knowing leer that said they could only think with their penises. The majority of the crowd seemed to be with me though, thank the Gods above. Most of the faces turned towards me still looked either sympathetic or at the least, interested in what I was saying or the interaction. Few storytellers allow the crowd to ask questions or participate in the telling of the story. I did both. Damn s**t-hole though.
The guttering torches couldn’t compete with the blast of air which whistled though cracks in the rotten wood you could throw rats through. I tried once more to sum up my audience but the light made it difficult to judge expressions, which of course, a good storyteller excels at. One expression however took no guessing at all. It was hostile, damn hostile, oh goody, just what I needed to play up the story and insure my next round. Big hunk, gonna be trouble, hope I can handle him, looks like the type who likes to swing first and I don’t feel like ending my binge just yet. Sure enough, green-teeth lumbers over and glory be, it speaketh, the ape-man speaketh.
“So Oll-dd man” he drawled dripping sarcasm and filling the immediate area with assorted fruity odors of a disgusting nature. He belched rattling several glasses, and then went on. “Wha kinna woo-man is dis? Iss she sooo boot i fu or well fee or dis foxee so to torn a mens head?” The room burst into another round of laughter. Whether at his expense or mine I wasn’t sure. “No,” I sigh, “It’s not that.” I try to explain knowing full well they will not understand, but hey, it’s my job to try, eh? “It is the way she makes me feel!,” I announce. Greenteeth of course had a witty reply ready. “In a, a dweeem, hows che make ya feel in a dweem old fart?” He sneered. Laughter again ran rampant throughout the room, although calling it a room was giving the place to much credit. But a room is a room, and all ale taste the same, after the third or forth. Time for the pitch: or for the pitcher, as may be.
“Let me explain,” I plead, “But my throat is dry.” I add this wistfully with a practiced dry cough for good measure. There were several sympathetic chuckles followed by not one, but several tankards and to pitchers of good stout ale. Several gulps of thanks later I continued my tale.
“I see her only in dream, each time yet the same, each time ever changing. Her appearance is serene, for she seeks not fame, though the aspects of her rearranging. Doe’s eyes of limpid brown, then yet again a sea of green: Sometimes of dew kissed hazel, then yet again a sky of blue. Yet within the depths of those eyes whatever color, is a special kind of gleam, which lets me know that it is true, that I have found my lost love once more!”
It was not enough. I knew that it would not be. They did not understand my words, as if I was speaking a foreign language. Case in point, another heckler speaketh. “But that doesn’t tell us crap, old man. What’s she look like? That was the question.” Very well, I would do my humble best to teach them what true love was about. Though I was sure it had passed me by in this life, I would try to rack up points in the next by sharing my knowledge.
“In my dreams it is as if she has always been by my side. I see her as a shining star, the source of all my light. Would you find her desirable? This I cannot say; for my memories of her change, with each and every passing day. Yet can I tell you this: She is almost always my height or shorter, what you would call petite. Neither is she grossly fat, nor yet skinny, yet as a woman is complete. She is neither buxom nor yet is she at all deficient. Though beauty shines within her smile, blink and you could miss it. Her hair is always honey brown, dark or black or in between. Her skin from alabaster to a flawless soft brown creme.
Oh Gods, I can’t go on.”
I weep into what is left of my Ale and push the empty tankard aside with a racking cough. Someone pats me on the back and buys me another. I slug it down and clank it on the counter to show that I am experiencing true grief. Grief for my long lost, slash, never found, slash, only love. Don’t they understand? I could be so much with her at my side, if I could only find her in this lifetime.
If she were an infant, I would bring her up, as does a doting father. Giving her the love of a family for that would be my fate. If a maiden, I would again marry her, make her the shining star of my life, the sole purpose for which I live, being her happiness. And if Gods forbid a dying old crone, still would I give her what happiness could be gained in her time left and comfort her in her death.
Then would I take my own life, which would almost assure we would be of an age in the next. Though not assure that we would meet in the next. “Ahhh!” This was the sound of satisfaction I made when several tankards and a pitcher appeared before my parched drying lips. This place ain’t so bad maybe I’ll add it to my list of stops. I especially like the way the buxom waitress served my drinks giving me an ample view of her enticing cleavage. This move by waitresses is a worldly thing reserved for desirable young men and pathetic broken old guys you want to cheer up. Bet I could land an olive in there from across the room. I slosh ale on the guy next to me by way of thanks, and continue my story.
“No it is not her physical beauty, nor wealth of body, nor even brains. Although from life to life all these aspects tend to change: Me a pauper or perhaps a prince, she a peasant or perhaps a Queen. Yet somehow we are always each other, in real life or in a dream. Each life I live without her is a promise of a living hell. Seeking, seeking ever her eyes, for it is the eyes which tell.”
“What do you mean old man?” asked the youngster I had spilled the ale on. “What do you mean it is in the eyes?” “Why, that is simple stripling,” said I, “It is a form of recognition.” “HUH?” was his witty reply. In my best exasperated dotter ring old man voice I shouted, “Clean out your ears boy, she will recognize you and you her, she will know you by your eyes.” “Hey, old man,” shouted one of the forgotten hecklers, “My old Lady’s eyes sparkle with anger, does that count?”
Every one laughed at that one and another round of good stout Ale made its way to me. Whoops, my mistake. That was spiked with spirits; Must have belonged to the guy pissing in the corner. Maybe he’ll warm my ale with some of that rotgut, good whiskey I mean.
Suddenly the room went silent as the front door blasted open admitting a taste of nature’s glory on her period. She was pissed. The torches guttered and shadows chased themselves around the room trying to look important. Two men, then finally four men helped the stranger wrestle the stout door closed against Mother Nature’s monthly tantrum.
The stranger shook off the snow revealing the robe of a monk, brown and hooded. He thanked the men in a whisper, guess the wind must have gotten his voice for there was dead silence as he approached the bar. He whispered to the tavern keeper and a bottle of wine quickly appeared before him. I noticed that he was fairly small for a man and the hand he proffered payment, in silver, was fine lined and delicate; a scribe then and not a warrior. Slightly effeminate and a wine drinker to boot, probably prefers young boys.
You get to be a pretty good judge of what’s up by my age, but that doesn’t mean you are always right. Although he carried no sword, his other hand juggled an ebony metal capped staff taller than him, and of surpassing beauty; hmm, maybe a warrior after all? He carried the wine bottle and glass to a back booth with the fluid grace of a panther.
I blinked several times, as he seemed to melt into the darkness of the booth he’d picked. It was a trick of the light perhaps, or just my failing eyes. Eyes, yes, that was where I had left off at. I wish I could have seen the eyes of that monk. There was something, something familiar, about the way he moved, blending in with the very air about him. Someone slammed two full tankards of Ale down in front of me breaking my growing vision of De Ju Vue. “Come on old man,” roared a grizzled old veteran soldier, “Drink up and tell us more about eyes. I’ve seen eyes like a wounded fawn, and bedroom eyes to harden your manhood with a glance. That the kinda eyes ya mean father, (a token of respect) or is there something more to it?”
“Something more to it indeed, stripling; it is a form of recognition.” “Huh,” was his witty reply. ‘Sigh,’ well I guess it was time to come back down to the level of the yokels. “Clean out your ears boy! She will know thee truly, as you will her.
“You will see in her eyes, a kindred light, kind of like a spark, like from a hidden fire. Something within the depths of them as if the Gods have decreed, this is the woman of your missing rib, you are Adam and she is Eve. But you have to open your soul to pain if ever you are to see, your true love in her appearance now, this time, this life, even though she may not be free; your true love, your true love to be.”
The man next to me fingered his missing rib. The man on the other side let out a very loud smelly belch. It looked as if he was feeling his ribs too, which for some reason was hilariously funny. The room broke out in gales of laughter. I heard a titter escape the invisible monk, which everyone seemed to have forgotten was there. A titter? that was strange! Perhaps, a scribe after all; I’ve heard very few warriors titter.
“So! We get the thing with the eyes,” said the belcher nonplussed, “but I’ve had a lot of sparks pass thus. Some I bedded, one I wedded, but none of them was for the likes of me. Did you say you recognize each other at once? Like if yer gaze met across a crowded room, or just in passing?”
“Sometimes; sometimes not. Both and yet neither. Yes or no, maybe?” The belcher guffawed. “Come on old man, make sense, ya either know her, or not. Whatcha mean?” For once I was truly flustered. “It’s not as simple as that boy, for…Sometimes the love glows like the stars in the night. Oft times it is something for which you have to fight. Sometimes it unfolds like the petals of a flower. Other times it strikes you as the lightning is draw to the tower. In some lives, I’ve killed dragons. I’ve laid kingdoms and riches at her very feet: Built up my armies as the blood ran down our streets. Yet in others I’ve toiled for our living, and pulled it from the very land. In lives in which she was gentle, even to staying my hand, and let those whom offend me live, for love of her. For love of her would I be a hero or a coward, for the rest of all eternity.”
“A Coward? How could a woman love a coward?” This was from old green teeth. He had apparently gotten his bodily functions under control and was once again trying to make witty conversation. However, before I could come up with a witty repartee, the lout was answered by another source. “Perhaps a coward is that for which she sought within that lifetime. Thus she was happy with getting that for which she did seek?” Our invisible, reappearing, monk uttered this astonishing insight. The voice and the statement were both strange; the voice because it was effeminate; the statement because it was true.
Everyone glared at him for the interruption, for unlike me they didn’t understand what he had said. I glared too, but for my own reasons. There was something strange about that damned monk. Strange and familiar! A*****e kept appearing and receding like a ghost in his booth though. Glaring at nothing was stupid, also as it happens, thirsty work.
Therefore, I glared instead at my empty tankards. By the Gods, there were a lot of them. Surely, all of those couldn’t be mine? That would mean I was even more shitfaced than I thought. I was beginning to reach signs of apathy and dejection when two, not one, two fresh tankards appeared before me. I had not seen the responsible patron, so looked my question at the barkeep. He pointed at the monk whom had actually come and joined us peons at the bar, where the real drinking is done. A real drunk wants to be part of the action up front; not hidden in some dark booth.
He now was seated, on a barstool about 3or5 people away from me. I glared at him throwing in a convincing snarl to show I appreciated the drink. ‘Pretty hands for a boy,’ I mumbled around a mouthful of ale. He just lifted his glass in salute and I found my anger dissipating. Don’t know why I was angry anyhow. He was adding to the story, not taking away from it. Such was the way of the storyteller. Without comments and leers, or unbelief or questions, I would soon be out of business. Besides, I couldn’t stay mad at a mere boy. Therefore, I faced him as I continued. For that too was a part of the game. You always faced the direction of the one questioning or the last one to buy you a drink. This is part of what they pay for after all. Moreover, I’m nothing if a good storyteller.
“Surely my lad that is the crux of it; each life which is lived, possesses differing goals or experiences and desires. You are very discerning for that is the way of it. For in this life she may be a harlot or the priestess of a temple. Her goals could be to rule the world or perhaps be wholesome and quite simple. You may have to change your manor simply, or completely don’t you know. Yet, if your love is pure and she is the one, this most certainly time will show, that she is your one love truly.”
Beautiful words but they were kind totally ruined by the appearance of green teeth at the end of them. He sat two full pitchers of fine ale before me. However, my gratefulness was short lived as he let loose with a sound from each orifice. That boy sure had a problem with flatulence. It seems he couldn’t move without some type of gas exaltation.
Good thing he was not sitting by a torch, he would have burst into flames. However, he now had my attention, as well as the attention of several people holding their noses and muttering. The guy behind me, you remember the one I had spilled my drink on, suddenly grabbed his mouth with both hands and bolted for the trench on the other side of the room. The monk giggled, striking again a familiar cord. Where the hell had I heard that giggle, and titter, before? Maybe I am getting senile! I usually remember things, places, people, and even smells, (phew) with great clarity. You can disguise your looks, change the way you walk, even talk with a different voice, but the hardest thing to disguise is your laugh. Moreover, I had more than just a casual acquaintance with this monk’s laugh. It was going to drive me crazy until I figured out who he was.
“Soo, oold man,” said old greenteeth actually making the words a string of belches as he adjusted himself. “Wots a gent-belch-man to do if’n he wanz ta fine dis woman-belch-sool mate-belch? Wot appans if’n dey doon-belch-re-con- ree-cone, dat is knew each udder?” See, I mean see what I have to put up with? I earn my good stout ale, every single drop of it.
“That’s true oh flatulent one, however not everyone is able to see even that which is going around about them. Much less, what is not physical, drinkable, or edible. However, there is a rule of thumb. There has to be, as I’ve said, a spark, a spark of recognition, something that passes between you upon meeting. Then you have to take a chance. You have to take a chance that- “Perhaps the spark was only the result of your lust. Perchance you were attracted only to her bust. That even though the sex is maybe out of this world, she isn’t your soulmate, nothing more than a girl. A girl you would have passed, anywhere else, or at any other time. Sometimes there is no reason to it, nor is there any rhyme.”
“And you, old-timer?” squeaked the tittering monk. “Would you take that chance, even now, at your age?” Ahh, the naiveté of youth; probably a virgin too, if not a lover of his own kind, or perhaps both. “Surely stripling, would I take that chance. In addition, no chance would it be for me, for I know her well. Fat, tall, light, dark, or small, I have spent so many lifetimes with her, not to know her instantly.”
The monk giggled that hauntingly familiar giggle again, and then receded into the background again. He was good at that, even though only a few feet away. Either that or I was a lot more shitfaced than I thought. His voice had such a familiar ring to it. If I closed my eyes and listened to it in my mind, I could almost remember, remember...
Remember what it feels like to have a drink spilled down your back. The guy who had lost his lunch had just returned the favor of spilling a drink on me. However, I forgave him, as he was the bearer of my next two rounds. He drooled on my feet as he presented them, but I still accepted them graciously. I focused my bleary attention upon him, as he seemed to be trying his damnedest to form words. His first word sounded like, “phlplpaaglumgaphoo?”
After a couple more tries, he finally spit it out, literally, then was able to talk, after a fashion that is. “Dream? Howz ye know it isn’t just a dream, nothing but a damn dream?” One dream to many apparently, for he now snored loudly, crumpled and draped upon the barstool. Now he would never know the answer to his question. Nevertheless, answer it I would, for he had paid for it with the drinks. To say nothing of the other two drinks he had left untouched on the counter. I mean, hell, he wasn’t going to need them, and you can’t have good ale going to waste. I turned my attention back to the room in general, no longer beholden to him. I had answered this same question a hundred times and more. Both to a room full of people like this, and even more, to myself. Standard answer three hundred and forty seven, the storytellers guide to milking the public. Nevertheless, something was different on this stormy night. Somehow, the rules had been changed on me. I turned to the room and bellowed my frustration, letting my storyteller persona slip. I spoke the truth, my real feelings from deep down inside.
“A dream.... Perhaps! I am after all, just a doting old man, crying in his ale. Moaning about his lost love, the one he has never met, in this, one of his many supposed lives. Perhaps even those too, are only a dream. Yet perhaps all of this is a dream, and those are my reality...........Nay, say I, not a figment of just my imagination. Nor an image born of a life of misery, a lifetime of my own frustrations. For though she changes life to life, she fits me like a well-worn glove. She is the possessor of all my secrets, she whom is my long lost love. And yet, she loves me despite them. IS THAT TOO DAMN MUCH TO ASK,” I bellowed.
Damn, Damn, Damn! I think I was a driddle lunk, I mean a little drunk. The room fell into a sullen silence. I guess that last was a little over the edge. But, damn it all to hell, I’m old, sick, and tired. They were probably right. She was nothing but a damn dream. Whom did I think I was fooling? I’d have surely found her by now if she really did exist. It was definitely about time, to finish my last drink and slither out on my belly into the storm. Quietly, and hopefully without attracting anymore attention.
God, I thought, just let me get out of here without pissing anyone else off. Let me get out of here in one piece and I’ll a-tell this stupid story no more. I give up! The priest and the Lady’s of our holy order were right. These dreams are just demon sendings, sent to confuse me and make me unhappy with the life I have now. Then suddenly, most unexpectedly, I felt a tear course down my cheek. Unexpectedly, because, IT WAS NOT MINE! It belonged to the monk whom was now standing over me. She had shed both the tears, and her hood.
I sank into her eyes and saw the spark of recognition. I knew now where I had heard that tinkling laughter before, that nervous giggle, those beautiful hands, for it was she. The room had fallen into an awed silence. Even the wind did not dare to blow anew, respecting this moment for what it was. She was in my arms and now my tears joined hers in a crowning glory. Her lips met mine and I was twenty years younger, at least in mind and the way I felt at that moment. She was twenty years younger in age, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that she was there, we were there, in that time and place. I had again found my true love. And.......”
“And that’s the whole story kids. That’s how I met your mom and how we got married, and eventually, how you were born. Now give us a kiss and go up to bed. It’s way past your bedtime!” My beautiful children did as they were told, they kissed us goodnight sprinkled with ‘Love you’s,’ and then ran up to bed. My beautiful wife of Ten Years came and sat on my lap, kissed and hugged me, then said, “God, I love it when you tell that story!”
Created by ANTHONY HOTOPP all rights reserved by ACH incorporated ach unpublished works 2001 Revised Edition 2016 All Rights Reserved By ACH Ink ACH Unpublished Works 2016 © 2016 Wolf_LordAuthor's Note
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Wolf_LordAlbuquerque, NMAboutI am an aspiring author whom was on penwrights for ...well ... about as long as it existed... I watched apathetically as the site fell to pieces... Freedom of expression was squashed... People were be.. more..Writing
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