February 12, 2022 - Steffen Blake
Harbinger - I
She comes to me in my dreams, different each and every time. There is no name or description I can truly ascribe to her, in fact she may even have an entirely different appearance each time she visits me, for I can never truly recall what she looks like at all. Her visage is always ephemeral and leaves my mind as easily as it arrives.
I know these following things, however. The first, dear reader; she is without a doubt a woman… Or, at least, she presents herself as such. The second; she has always made herself welcome in my dreams as long as I can remember. Even as a child I believe there were… moments where her presence was made, though those occurrences are long and faded. Trying to recall such things feels like pulling at the dregs of the bottom of an ancient pond, long since stilled. Each memory is bleached and covered in countless layers of dust and settlement.
The third; despite her fleeting presence and prehension for mutable apparation, I always know it is her the moment she arrives. Without a shadow of doubt I am aware of her arrival as soon as she has stepped into my dreamscape.
There is some form of connection between us, but I simply cannot speak as to what it is. Something ancient and eldritch ties me to this visitor. She speaks to me often, and yet some piece deep within wonders if it is truly me she is speaking to. Somehow, as odd as it is, her presence often is one of warm welcome, almost maternal. Less like a mother though, more like an older sister, perhaps?
There is one final point I wish to speak on, with regards to this Harbinger, this… visitor from elsewhere. And that is precisely it. She is not something within my dreams, of that I am completely certain. There is that certain level of airiness and shifting contortion dreams have, where reality itself seems to constantly bend in on itself at the moment’s notice. A simple passing thought can warp and twist the world around you (for better or for worse). But her… no she is like a stone in the center of the river, breaking its current. The ephemeral world wraps around her, completely bending to her presence. She passes through my dreamscape completely unhindered and unshifting herself.
Constant.
Concrete.
Immutable.
And yet I feel no fear, only understanding. I welcome her by name, yes, I know her name. But only when she allows me to. Each time she arrives its as if all the fog of my lost memory lifts. “It is you!” I call her by name, and often reach out to hug her in welcome. In those moments I remember all and everything. We talk about many things, and she tells me extremely important details about what is to come, what has happened, and what is happening. She places a steady but reassuring hand on mine. I nod my head in understanding, and then I awaken and have already forgotten what I was told. The only principle I can remember, one that stands gleaming and unfading, was that whatever she told me was extremely important.
Reader, I think she knows this, though. This Harbinger is aware of how these rules apply to our conversations. Sometimes, perhaps totally unrelated, but perhaps not… I get a bit of a feeling. A sort of internal stirring, like leaves being twisted and knotted up in a swirl of an autumn breeze. Somehow I just… know. And I act on these feelings with an assured degree of self confidence I certainly have not earned, and yet I am unfailingly correct each and every time.
Was it her? Is there some part of my mind far at the depths of my subconscious that remembers? A piece of me wonders if maybe it is for the best that I do not recall what I am told. Surely if a man is informed of fate he will struggle to alter it. Perhaps I am better off this way.
Some things I am allowed to remember though. These moments stick like glue to the front of my mind, crystal clear and vivid. Allow me to recount the most memorable to you, dear reader.
I had two younger siblings in this dream. We were quarrelling over something material and pedestrian. An item of minor importance had been lost and the moment was tense. I want to note however that these two siblings were not real individuals. I have a sibling but neither of these were that one. They seemed to be only a few years younger than I, adults as well. Certainly not individuals I know.
I felt her then though, as a beacon of unbending realness she split the dream asunder. I opened a door and there she sat in a room, my childhood abode as a matter of fact, and I was younger now. She sat at the foot of my bed smiling, and I approached her warmly. I was saddened by my quarrelling with my dream un-siblings and hugged her, and I remember asking her if she hated me now.
She smoothed my hair and reassured me she would never hate me, and that she would always be by my side. Forever. And had always been by my side, at that. Somehow this confused me, as she only ever visited me in my dreams.
“Let me show you something” she responded, then produced a small photo album and handed it to me. I thumbed through a few pages, “Do you know what this is?” she queried, watching my stern youthful expression carefully.
It was apparent of course. “These are my memories,” I responded.
“That’s right!” she stated as she took the book back, “Now, look here, do you recognize this one?” and flipped open to a page near the beginning.
A young bleach blonde boy sat at a table, a cake before him and surrounded by other children. A celebration it appeared to be, many smiling faces looking at the camera. Yes, I remembered now, “It’s my birthday” I stated. Why was she showing me this?
“Look closely!” she stated, and pointed at my top left shoulder. I narrowed my eyes to focus, then let out a startled gasp. Clear as day, there she was. One hand on my shoulder. Had she always been in that photo? Now that I could see her it was so obvious, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wouldn’t have noticed her right away without the guidance. This was no trick of light, nor was she hidden in any way. No, the only one more prominent than her in the frame was I (and the cake).
“I’ve always been with you,” she softly whispered, then flipped through more pages, “And I always will be,” she pointed in other memories, some more recent, and in each and every photo in one way or another, there she was.
That’s the last I can recall for you, reader. I think there was more after, an incredibly important conversation, a revelation, a moment of mutual understanding, a hug goodbye perhaps?
I don’t remember her words with warmth and open fondness, however. I recall a chill down my spine and an emptiness in the pit of my stomach when she spoke to me. Like a deer frozen in headlights I simply had to accept all that happened.
Who is she? I cannot say.
As I reflect and meditate on this further, dear reader, I believe more will come to me. I intend to continue documenting these faded memories to the best of my ability, so please stay and listen.