In the ancient church, on the medieval stones, he kneels. Alone, far above, a live star shines, cold as mystery. In the choir, the founders smile, bright egos. There is no plan, no heresy, merely the link, back, to our Lady. In silence he kneels…
Picture: Uta von Naumburg, source
A late dream,
Don’t I know what to expect!
The storm must have woken me,
And you, dear angel,
Are still fast asleep…
Yet I know: the Enemy and his minions strike before dawn,
Hiding their hideous shapes
Behind the windows’ frames…
I wrap myself in your gown,
And swear at them.
Picture: from this fantastic site: http://darkdreams.centerblog.net/1396-les-nagas
The demon bowed low, and attempted to spin his speech, as if it felt a surge of guilt. I had to smile, even as I felt like having a rant at those annoying busy-bodies. I ignored the fellow, and went back to my page, and the story of a city overrun by the Enemy and his creatures.
I am a light sleeper. Maybe I have become one. Not that I wake up for no reason, not at all. I just hear sounds, sounds, not noises. In my sleep I try to identify them, like what was that rapping at the window? Or, was that stones falling in the courtyard?
I listen to the rain, I hear creatures moving. Also, I see marks, on mysterious old walls, and I try to decipher them, still asleep. Then I wake up, or near enough, and I can’t see them anymore. This makes me think, as I go back to sleep, that I may be inventing things.
The floors shake, the ground vibrates. Is this a dream, or is there an earthquake coming? The night is a long adventure, with short intervals. No ground to worry, it’s age. Or that is what I keep telling myself.
Old memories, the little demons amusing themselves to annoy me. This is it: they can’t unsettle me during the day, so they take their revenge at night, or try to. Bar a failure of imagination, I still have plenty of ideas of what they may be up to next, that is tonight. And the night after.
Image source: le grand homme de la nuit
Their clear voices rose above the valley, as the bell called the novices to practice. They were there to serve, to prepare for the day when they might be accepted, but none of them had any clue as to what they would have to endure.
Picture: South Portal of Chartres Cathedral, Martyrs, By Medieval sculptor – photo TTaylor, 2005, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=888289
We will rehearse our roles, as we stand up in good order. You, of course, will pose as the priestess, she who knows how to read the flow of time, as I blend in the multitude.
Picture: Naumburger Dom, West Choir, founders, Markgräfin Uta
The artist drew the small horns, atop the hideous wings, but we have to notice the hooves. The fallen angel turns his gaze toward the snake, an act of sheer despair in the desolate landscape: the gate of Paradise is shut.
Image: Paradise lost, by Gustave Doré (Paradise Lost or James Donahue) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Who will defend the fragile stem, the green line that rises from the sand, in the desert so close, and yet so far away?
Picture: Wikimedia, “Adenium obesum” also known by the names “Sabi Star, Kudu, Mock Azalea, Impala Lily & Desert-rose” – – Own work, 5 April 2010
The lock we picked,
a small step we took
in our past…
Now our numb mind
can only hear the sound
of the ancient clock
marking time.
We can no longer tour the City as it was, and yet, in the dawn hour, we can chase its ghosts. For we ourselves change, under its spell, and we too evolve into something of the past, an obscure picture in the dust of Time.
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s prompt, and Babylon Berlin
