Page Twelve

 

Once again Gide tosses in his sleep, a nightmarish confection captivating his subconscious. Through the mind’s blurry lens he sees the wound encrusted, lopsided faces of disfigured, poorly sutured soldiers galloping in pursuit of Gide's dream self.  The boy’s only chance is to take up arms and heroically strike a blade into their patchwork cadavers, sending them cowering back to oblivion. He enters an attack stance, heels anchored in the dirt, as the monstrous mass swoop around him in a circle. They aimlessly tarry in this formation instead of attacking, fueled by the boy’s helplessness and panic. They needn’t hurry, for they must wait for a signal from an elusive commander preparing himself for battle in secret. Tapping into his heart’s fortitude, Gide’s fears wane and his determination toughens. He bravely reaches for the weapon sheathed on his side, but the hilt is without a blade, causing him to drop the defected weapon in fear.  That’s when the skies alter and swirl like a storm raging in a cauldron. Suddenly the ground shakes once, then again, and finally the sky splits creating this deafening shriek. The creatures are silent save some faint guttural cackling, as they gaze upon the sky’s vapor spewing fissure. From within the gaseous gap descends their decorated commander who touches ground like a comet landing gracefully on the surface. A path is created for him; the intensely void smokestack marches closer to its young victim, black and featureless, ravenous and poised. Each step is a surge of raw force rattling the minion’s twisted joints as they pledge their devotion to evil’s ephemeral incarnate. The monster is adequately armed, clutching a long, double prong, clip-point blade to the left of its opaque form. Its shadow cast over Gide who kneels in the dirt, eyes stuck in their sockets, trembling with awe and tears. With a bellow the monstrous mass lifts the weapon over its shoulder, higher and higher for a mighty arch.  It plunges the saber, targeted at the center of Gide’s forehead. But before Gide could scream from the agony of being severed in half, his scream fills his chamber as real tears bolt down his cheeks.

 All Gide's trembling body can do is produce tears and tight breaths, relentlessly sniffling as the morning rises to fade out his distress. Soon his anxiety lessens, for no longer is he cornered by hoards of corpses or weapon wielding shadows. But it is a brief relief. Wildlife whistles and chatters; insectile screeches welcome the day, but that ghastly shriek, the same that divided the heavens in Gide’s dream, repeats it deafening shrill, sounding like a gagged giant screaming in the distant mountains. It makes Gide leap from his bed, crying,

       “Liba! Liba! Liba!” To his relief, Gwenliba is already at his door and ready to take the boy into his arms.

       “My child, what has terrified you so?” He pulls Gide closer, hand planted on his shoulder, and walks him back to his bed. As Gide crawls in, Gwenliba tugs a chair and seats himself. The boy sits up in the bed and pats his damp cheeks dry by sliding his hands down their rosy mounds.