Where Dreams Come From

A shortstory. A descriptive shortstory.

My dear uncle, his gaunt-looking wife and their two small snotty kids live in a picturesque and God-forsaken village Pribylina, located somewhere in the middle of valley under High Tatras. Or, they used to live there, until they packed up six years back and moved to a bigger city with a higher rate of employment.

During summer, just two years before they moved away, I and my brother (who was just very childish, grizzly and gap-toothed back then) had to spend the whole holidays in the healthy Tatra air. I would have had no problems with that- the dense deciduous forests with all those silvery springs and romantic nooks were like heaven- but my precious aunt was a little bit more neurotic and a little bit less bearable than I could like. I believe that she tolerated us under her roof just because she got paid for it. She always had to be paid. But I understand though.

As I said, the forests nearby were glorious and devilishly attractive, but the first sentence that slipped out of aunt’s lips was: “The forests are a forbidden place unless you are under the oversight of an adult.” A week after the big rule was said and inscribed in our minds; I discovered that chickens, rabbits, and cousins aren’t of much fun and the adult supervisors don’t have a liking for long walks.

I bribed my younger sibling with some peppermints, packed some bread with butter and apricot jam and went to hug trees and collect some leaves that I found remarkable.

It continued like this for some time- a month or so- and the adult supervisors did not seem to notice, only uncle from time to time stated something about boars, mother-bears, and gypsies. Soon I came to know the nearest woods fairly well and I felt safe and confident while wandering on the footpaths. (Now I wouldn’t be so carefree, though.)

Once, when the weather was simply calling for a long wander, I climbed on a top of a smaller hill. I sat down, relishing the stillness of the forest while small streams of a golden-green light were tenderly dripping on my skin, creating small puddles of glow. In the next minute I found myself running down the slope.

Some boar, mother-bear, gypsy or something scared me to death. The rapid sound of rustling leaves contained a warning against a creature of a rather unpleasant size.

I ran down the slope, trying to avoid any collision with some tree, bush or dead branch. I ran down and with every step receded from the known path.

I didn’t stop until my hair tangled into the thorns of dried-up raspberry twigs. Then I realized that a few steps ahead lay a glade. I walked there and for certain recognized where I was: lost.

I shivered slightly as the cold air soaked with moisture and the smell of mouldering trees stroked the skin on my face. I took a breath of the mute air, heavy and greasy with silence and darkness that seems to be material and more real than the darkness in a children’s room after their parents turn off the light. I glanced up at the dense crowns of the surrounding trees. Their branches enlaced each-other, suggesting long fingers of an old and wrinkled witch. They prohibited any spark of light from sneaking down into the circle. Also the slightest breeze has disappeared. Abandoned spider webs hang from the branches quietly, in absolute calm.

Abandoned spider webs. Yes, there was no insect. Nor singing birds. No bugs, not even those small and oozy creatures crawling on the ground. There was no life. Just old, bulky roots lay uncovered on soil smelling of mycelium and rotting leaves, and in the middle stands- a tomb.

I touched the tomb’s disintegrated stone- gray and solid, moss grown in places- and I felt an overflow of immemorial and bloodstained energy. Thick stone beams clutch a boulder that probably had been put there after the tomb had been shut and sealed up. Above the stone beams, a shield had been carved. The engraving was quite time-worn and I wasn’t able to recognize what it should have been portraying but a head of a wolf showing his fangs. “EXECRARI” had been engraved under the shield. Some dirt caught in the lines of the letters during the long years, but the primal legacy of the inscription was lost a long time ago.

Suddenly somebody breathed in, just near my ear. I turned around an saw no one but the mute spider webs. Silence. No, somebody was whispering with a deep, weary voice. The stones were whispering. The ground was.

I stepped backwards. And once more. I turned around and ran again.

Somehow I found a way back to the known path leading out of the forest. Some strangers led me there.

The experience with the tomb was strong. Too strong for my age of ten years. I did not try to find the tomb anymore. However, from time to time I have a dream where I breathe the cold air soaked with moisture and the smell of mouldering trees and feel the shadows slowly enwreathing my body.