Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound
The Dream
Torin blinked…
in amazement…confusion…wonder…
his thoughts…a bewildered tangle…
his flesh…creeping.
He was in the manor’s kitchen…
But…it was…and…it wasn’t…
something was wrong…off-kilter…askew.
There was no…sound…
As though the room had been…sucked dry.
On the mantel…the clock pendulum
swung monotonously to…fro…noiselessly
no tick-tock-tick
of time counting down…passing.
In the grate…
flames pantomimed a goblin jig…
prancing…skipping to an inaudible flute.
A movement…ever so slight…
stirred at the corner of his eye
causing him to pivot.
From an alcove…next to the hearth…
a girl…woman…
[hard to tell…]
studied…him…placidly.
Seated cross-legged
upon the stone slab floor…
only skirt-covered knees…
taut arms…slender-fingered hands…
were fully exposed…revealed.
Nose…mouth…lips…
mere outlines…suggested…hinted at
[Eyes…luminous splotches…
against gray…shadow-sooted skin…
Hair…leeched of color…a lusterless smudge]
She was a study in stillness…immobility…
[the only suggestion of movement…life…
the blink of an eye]
a perfect companion piece
to the perturbing…unsettling…preternatural silence
permeating the room.
Without warning…
like water bursting free of a dam…
noise poured into the room…
[Torin ground his teeth…clapped palms over ears
at the sudden…eardrum-popping…cacophony]
The clock ticked…tocked
The fire hissed…crackled…popped…
The girl leaned forward…
[eyes…tragedy-scarred…
old beyond their years…bored into his]
and spoke…
Arms and legs flailing Torin struggled upright. His lungs fish-out-of- water gasping, heart flip-flopping and hammering against the confines of his sweating chest. Tearing free from the grasping sheets he staggered across to the loft door, slid it open and greedily gulped in the chilly, bracing air. Gradually his pulse steadied and his mind cleared. He sagged limply against the jamb raking fingers through matted hair and laughed shakily in embarrassment.
A dream. That’s all it had been. Yet. A phantasmal finger traced his spine as the words the illusory lady had uttered [the words that had propelled him awake…] came rushing back, as clear as if she stood beside him.
"Will you stand firm,
do what must…has to…be done
to save me?"
Shivering he closed the door and padded back to bed. Pulling the coverlet over his shoulders and around his legs he huddled, his back pressing into the hay bale headboard. Her words filled him with disquiet, and puzzlement. There could be no mistake, her gaze had bored unflinchingly into his, the query had undeniably been meant for him. But its meaning he could not fathom nor why she’d chosen him to ask. Her voice, flat, pessimistic, yet fraught with a desperate hopefulness, had brought no tingle of recognition. Her countenance, as she’d leaned forward into the firelight, had been unremarkable and unknown to him. Upon his knowledge he had never encountered her socially nor by happenstance. He could recall no link that would cause such an assumption on her part that she knew him and thus, might consider him to be her deliverer [whatever that meant or entailed. Deliverer from whom, from what?].
All through the night he sought to decipher the dream’s significance. By dawn he’d made no headway and lay in an exhausted sprawl upon the bed. The cat, lounging upon the counterpane, observed him with speculative eyes. Bored, it rose, stretched languidly, and yawned, gliding to the edge of the bed. Dropping soundlessly to the floor it glanced back at his still reclining form [Torin could have sworn it shrugged] then slinked to the ladder and disappeared down, apparently to tend to its morning ablutions.
For days after, Torin went about his never-ending tasks feeling off-centered and out of sync, prone to flagging concentration, mind wanderings and flights of fantasy. Her voice and words dogged his steps and worried at his thoughts like a mosquito whining about an ear.
