Last night’s dream fell into the third category. I was in a hazy forest not unlike the one surrounding our town, but like with most dreams I couldn’t totally be sure of where I was. I sat among trees in a shady glen as a pack of wolves scurried past me toward an unknown destination. One of them slowed to a trot, turned to me, and approached.
The wolf kept its nose to the ground during its advance, smelling and sniffing. The beast halted before me and curiously sniffed in my direction. I raised my hand to the wolf and allowed it to take in my scent but I could taste ash in my mouth and I smelt the wolf’s fear. Or maybe it was my own fear?
After taking in my scent the wolf brought its eyes to me for a second and held my gaze before dashing away in pursuit of its pack. That’s when my alarm snapped me into the waking lands. The best dreams usually ended right when they’re getting interesting. Isn’t that always the way?
Anyway, I spent a while after breakfast snipping and preparing the right leather throng which would be the new home for my favorite charm before getting ready for my first day of college. I picked out a floor length, long sleeved black dress to wear on top of a pair of Doctor Marten boots and clipped up my copper hair allowing a few loose strands to fall messily over my pale face and neck. I finished my appearance with dark brown eyeliner to emphasize my green eyes and a black cardigan that was a few sizes too big.
As long as I had a choice, I would live in the nineties for as long as I could.
So with my backpack over my shoulder and a few too many nerves, I headed out into the morning streets. Swallows sang my approach, a fresh breeze came to greet me, and the crisp morning air helped fully wake me up as I made tracks to campus. I hadn’t been to college in so long. Walking up the stone footpath which cut a straight line between two rows of shady Maple Sycamores was like taking a stroll through time.
The familiar scent of freshly mowed grass rode piggy back on the same gentle breeze I recalled accompanying me on the walk through the grounds years ago. The caretaker, Mister Dickens, eyed me from behind the grumbling mower he was operating with inquisitive eyes. Did he recognize me? Seemed to me he hadn’t aged a day, then again once you reach his age the years don’t seem to change a man much.
Lucky bastards.
My steady pace slowed as the hustle and bustle surrounding the main building reached my ears. The structure stood in the shadow of the trees, a pristine work of architecture like few others of its kind. The stony grey building cut a rigid crescent in the green grounds. Marble arches situated beneath Victorian windows offered a classical appeal to a modernized culture. As the statue of a seated George P Raven—the once-upon-a-time owner of the sprawling estate—burned you with his cold, dead eyes, you knew to obey the laws of common decency and camaraderie in his Hall.
Raven’s Hall.
I tucked stray wisps of auburn hair over my ear and stepped through the marble arches without so much as a “hi, how are ya?” to any of the other students. I couldn’t hear them over the Smashing Pumpkins, blasting as they were out of my earbuds, so I made my way to the room where my first lecture was being held and pushed open the large brown door to find it… empty.
Bingo.
Before anyone else showed up I found a seat at the center of the room—not too close to the back so as to seem disinterested, and not too close to the front so as to appear overeager. I quietly unpacked my textbook, a ruled notepad, a black pen, and fitted a pair of black rimmed glasses over my nose. I didn’t need them for much, only if I thought I would be reading or staring at a PC screen for a long while, but they served a cosmetic purpose, so why not wear them?
On the first line of the notepad I wrote “Monday, 16th September, Lecture 1.” Then, realizing I wasn’t a twelve year old anymore, I yanked the page out of the bindings and crumpled it up. First blood. That went on for a few minutes until my first few classmates started to arrive. Blissful silence soon drowned in a cacophony of eager voices, but I kept myself glued to the textbook so as to not give anyone the impression that I actually wanted to introduce myself or socialize.
One man, however, caught my eye as he walked into the lecture room. Many guys had walked in before him, but this one stood out because of the awkward gaze in his eyes. I recognized the look and the emotion; he needed to find a seat before he was forced to sit next to someone he didn’t like by default. I’d worn that same alarm on my face before many times. The need to avoid the fate of having my seat allocated to me is what motivated me to get to class early this morning, let’s not forget.
I scanned him as he searched the room for a space. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a round neck black top with sleeves so long they mostly covered his hands. Beneath his top I spied the outline of his body—lean and healthy with a defined chest—and craning my eyes upwards things only got better. He had a symmetrical face, a buttoned nose, kissable lips, beautiful hazel eyes and a messy, brown shoulder-length mane parted right down the middle and falling lazily on either side of his head.
Holy… wow.
I tried not to stare and begged the Gods to sit him somewhere else, but as luck would have it the only available seat was next to mine. I felt the vacuum his body caused as he slid past me and into the seat to my right and his cologne decided to stop by and say hello. He smelt like a fruity, iced drink on a hot summer’s day; that is to say, delicious. But I tried to stop enjoying his cologne enough to keep track of his movements through my periphery.
I watched him sit down next to me, produce a textbook, notepad, and pen, and sigh softly. Now if only I could get his nam—
“Hey,” he said. His smoky voice drew me in but not before completely blindsiding me.
“Uh, hey,” I said.
An extended hand poked out from his black sleeve. “Damien.”
I lightly shook his hand and smiled out of the corner of my lips. Did he read my mind? “Amber.”
“Coincidence or design?”
“Because of my hair? I don’t know. We’d have to ask my parents.”
“It’s a nice name.”
“Thanks. I don’t know many guys called Damien, but I’ve always liked it.”
“I’m glad you do.”
We didn’t swap many more words after that, so I tried to figure him out. A good looking man who comes prepared is a rare breed, but I wasn’t entirely won over yet. He kept glancing at my hair, and that meant one of three things; he was trying to figure out if I dye, he had never seen a ginger before in his life, or he was wondering whether the carpet matched the drapes.
The frequency of his peeking suggested a combination of the three.
Professor Simmons, a man with a receding brown hairline ending in wisps reminiscent of a bride’s veil behind his head delivered a lecture which had more in common with a sermon than a class. This was Religion and Mythology, sure, but did he need to make the lecture feel like mass?
Damien wasn’t much of a talker, despite his friendly introduction, and he fled the lecture hall quicker than I did when class ended. I can’t say his disappearing act didn’t leave me hanging… okay, let me rephrase that. I noticed his absence and wondered where he had left when class ended. Like I said, I wasn’t quite won over by his awkward, good-looking charms.
But I did wonder where he had gone in such a hurry, and in the analytical side of my mind alarm bells were starting to ring.
CHAPTER THREE
Time flies when you’re having fun, right? Religion and Mythology proved to be exactly as entertaining a class as I thought it’d be. Professor Simmons made the morning drag on, but the other two lecturers leading my course—Professors Robertson and Irwin—displayed more energy and humor, respectively, which balanced things out. I looked forward to my next classes already.
College in general, however, was no different now than what I remembered. I still got stares, and hushed whispers seemed to follow me everywhere. It was like having a pet black cloud hanging over you that everybody saw and talked about but I couldn’t see myself. School treatme
nt of introverts hadn’t changed since my last stint at college. But at least now I had the experience of being well travelled; that had to count for something, right?
I headed to Rosella Avenue after classes had ended to pick up the rest of the shift. Eliza covered the morning shift and I handled last couple of hours of the day, and then closed. This afternoon wasn’t busy. Customers trickled into the store only on occasion giving me ample time to finish my class reading and prepare for my first assignment; an essay on organized religion. At about 7pm I closed up and made my way home down the chilly streets, stopping to pick up some Thai food on the way.
My home was only a twenty minute walk from the bookstore, fifteen if I hustled. Like other houses on my street, my home was white; although the local climate turned anything white into a dull grey over time. Comprised of two floors, an attic and a basement with plenty of bedrooms and toilets, my home was not modest in size. A family home with one single inhabitant; can’t say it didn’t get lonely.
When my folks left they didn’t take much with them so the ghost of a family still lived in house in the form of furniture, photo frames, and a room full of old snippets. I could live with the space during the time I spent with Eliza as a roommate but, as couples do, the pair moved in together a few months ago leaving me alone. I could have moved, I guess; rented a smaller apartment somewhere downtown. But two places existed within my home—two sacred places—without which I couldn’t live. The first was the attic, the other my backyard.
Both locations served a ritualistic and a personal purpose; my Coven and I would use both areas for our group rituals, and I felt most energetic when I spent time in either place alone. They always seemed charged with a kind of palpable energy I could feel with my fingertips if I so much as brushed at the air. I didn’t understand it, but I sure was happy for it.
Most evenings, while the summer air retained the day’s warmth, I would step out to the deck, lay a blanket on the grass, and write in a notepad going back inside only once the cold crept in. After the long first day of college I’d just had, going home and spending time among my thoughts, my dream diary, and a notepad—or a notepad—was all I wanted to do. I had a dream to round off, anyway.
I became quite the wordsmith as time went on, at least I thought so, but in truth I wrote for myself. Every short story I’d ever scrawled into a notebook and fleshed out on word processor were all personal to me and my dreams. Writing little stories was my own form of therapy. So, settled in my backyard with my laptop, a glass of wine, and my Thai food, I transformed the remainder of my dream into the makings of a short story.
A soft, cool breeze reached the witch’s warm skin. She turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes, smiling, but the air soon turned putrid and assaulted her senses. The witch glimpsed a mounting darkness oozing through the forest, the draft transforming into a cutting chill.
The witch rose to her feet and advanced toward the black smog. Tiny white flecks descended from heaven, but as they touched the witch’s skin they left an ashen stain instead of a melting snowflake. From the heart of the gloom there came a figure, tall and wreathed in shadow.
“Who’s there?” asked the Witch, curling her hands into fists.
“Don’t you recognize Death?” The voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
“Death has no place here. This is a sacred glen.”
“Death is everywhere,” said the voice, “It comes for all; you as well.”
“You know nothing of me.”
“I know plenty, witch.”
A bird fell from the sky with a thump and burst into a cloud of ash. Then another and another, until soon dead birds dropped like the rain and grey specks filled the air. The witch’s face warmed. Her knuckles turned white. Slow moving tendrils licked at her feet, and the tall, bony figure followed close behind as if hovering over the ground. The wolf’s den had been consumed, as had half the forest.
The witch raised her right hand and drew a circle in the air before her, tracing the lines of an invisible five point star. The pentacle shone fiercely, and the trees above the witch separated. Golden sunlight flooded the glen, fighting the darkness until the shadows receded and the dark figure came into full view.
The face beneath the black hood bore no distinguishing features; only grey skin sagging over a bony face with a gaping hole for a mouth. The witch clenched her jaw. Fire burned through her veins. She would destroy death, or else the reaper would take everything she loved.
I wrote and rewrote the same few paragraphs over and over until they sounded exactly as I wanted them to. Then, noting how my fingers were starting to cramp from the cold—it wasn’t quite summer anymore—I called it a night and went back inside for a well-deserved sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
I settled into a routine pretty quickly. Every morning before my first class I’d sit beneath one of the tall Sycamores just outside of the campus building, reading and listening to the likes of “Jack Off Jill” and “Nirvana”. I held my book up like a barrier shield between myself and other students, preferring to keep to myself prior to the start of the day.
On Wednesday morning, about twenty minutes before class, I was sitting under the Sycamore when a distinguished quick shadow broke the book’s hold on my attention. A large Raven came fluttering to a landing nearby. Despite the music in my ears, the big, black bird’s presence and cawing drew me in. I got the impression the bird needed something, if that makes sense.
The Raven remained perfectly still, watching me from a few feet away as if to analyze me. I stopped the music and listened to the animal caw. The sounds were short, quick and almost rhythmic. Curious, I extended a hand toward the bird, but it fled into the wind kicking up a quick gust with its ascent. So I stuffed the book into my bag and followed the bird’s flight path as best I could. Occasionally I’d catch glimpses of the Raven soaring above the trees. I followed wondering whether I was going mad or the bird was taking me somewhere.
My walk led me away from campus and down a hill and toward the banks of the Geordie, named after the man who founded Raven’s Glen—George P Raven. The river’s soft sloshing reached my ears as I approached, but the Raven had disappeared between the thick trees. I spent a moment catching my bearings until I heard the bird’s song at the edge of my senses in an almost ethereal way. It was drawing me to the riverbank, so I obliged.
Where the grass turned to mud and the mud met the water I spied the Raven once more, majestically perched on a branch. I dropped my bag on the dry grass and stepped lightly. The bird didn’t move from the low hanging branch it had claimed but it stared at me and cocked its head. I came so close I could’ve touched the bird if I reached far enough, but I was worried I would fall into the water. My heart was racing now, hammering so hard I felt it in my fingers!
The feeling came suddenly. It was as if a cold hand had reached into my chest, clutched my heart, and squeezed.
The Raven took flight and left me by the riverbank hugging myself, gasping, and choking on my own breath. I staggered towards the nearest tree and held myself up. Like something out of a nightmare, I tried to scream but no sounds escaped my lips save for struggled wheezes. My heart refused to relax, soon trees, rocks and river started to blur into each other. I almost passed out. But the cold hand let go of my heart and I felt it start to beat again.
I stared at the slushing water and scanned the skies for the Raven but found only questions glaring back at me from the tree-line across the river; questions and an ache in my chest. The surface of the water was rough and angry now, when moments ago it had been cool and still. So I moved closer to the river and stood on precariously slippery grass, my eyes pulled to the frothing currents as if by magnets.
In an instant all became clear; my answers weren’t above the water, but under it. The only thing that made sense now was to go in, so I dashed into the river and waded through the icy cold like a girl possessed. Liquid ice swirled around my body, biting and cutting. The black leggings I wor
e stuck to my skin as I went and the material of my black dress soaked up so much water it was starting to weigh me down.
My entire lower half went numb in an instant, but a mystery called to me from beneath the murky water. My chest tightened again, an alien pressure threatening to cave in my rib cage if I didn’t continue into the river. All I wanted to do was to get out of the water, to escape the cold, but something didn’t want me to leave.
It wanted me to dive.
Dive.
CHAPTER FIVE
The murky, freezing river water stung my eyes as I groped the riverbed. I reached into the mud with my fingertips and dug with a purpose. The cold didn’t bother me as much as the pain my fingers were in from burrowing through rocks, but there would be no stopping now. I had to go deeper.
Deeper.
Find it.
Deeper.
Out of nowhere a pair of hands pulled me out of the water and carried me toward the grass. Frozen air bit at my skin, stinging my face and nose; my body trembled and teeth chattered. Who dragged me out of the river I didn’t know, but my heart beat hard against my temples and I tried not to cry. I wrapped my hands around the neck of the person carrying me and buried my face into his chest. What an idiot!
Who the fuck throws herself into a river in the fall?
I regained myself when warm air caressed my cheeks. Dazed, I scanned the interior of the car I had been brought to. In the driver’s seat I spied Damien, starting the engine and rubbing his hands together, blowing into them on occasion, only I couldn’t believe it was him. At least, not until he spoke.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“G-God its cold,” I said, chattering.