I was given an incredible dream a few nights ago. Set sometime in the middle ages in Western Europe (probably France) but not tied to any overt belief system. It was a battle between the forces of dark and light, from my view, and it had reached its zenith. As with many of my dreams, the images were gloriously cinematic in detail. Words don’t adequately describe the scenes, their cadence or subtleties of sequence but they are indelibly marked in memory. A dream lovingly recorded in my journal even though I will never forget it.
The “costumes” were rough-hewn and made of Hollywood-style torn woven cotton and linens, devoid of color. This stands out in memory because mostly I dream in Technicolor and the uniformity of dress was like a flash-card alerting me to the fact this was a story of mythic quality, suggestive of something other. It was most likely not a past-life experience (although who knows), triggered by present circumstance.
If I’d taken more time to study the dream when it was still fresh, the objects, pottery and artifacts it would likely reveal more. All the characters (except me and my confidants) displayed disheveled hair, unclean bodies and lived in virtual squalor, a sure mark of the commoner. Rural landscapes were dotted with cattle, sheep and crude mud and straw buildings.
To have a solid wooden door and iron hinge with a bolt latch was a sign of wealth. We had one but it wasn’t much comfort. Spies had infiltrated the land disguised as loyalists. They lured their prey with laughter and comraderie but had cruel and murderous intent.The tableau depicted a sepia vision of an inner world at war with terrifying guerrilla forces, almost like a memory, except there were a few elements that deny that.
The story opened, as I recalled it upon waking, with a surprise visit. I and my servants were in hiding somewhere in the country where we thought we were safe. There had apparently been a long siege of some sort. I hadn’t heard from my husband for a long time. A group of men on horseback rode in without warning around dusk, dismounted and knocked on the large, heavy hinged door. It swung open of its own accord, as though recognizing the visitors as friends.
In strode a man of regal, though weary aspect, accompanied by his guards. He confirmed that my husband was dead but that he had purchased me from him before his last breath. He vowed a deep and abiding love for me. His exact words regarding my departed husband were “He knew you would come to love me more than he and you will.”
I viewed him from behind a semi-transparent veil in my private chambers as he said this to me. Those words at first sounded cold and egotistical but I recognized something about him and knew he spoke the truth. In fact, I already loved him. His face was newly scarred from some close encounter. My husband’s death didn’t surprise or even upset me. I was long past early grief. I’d no hopes of new love and yet here it was in the most unlikely of circumstances.
He won me over immediately. His errand was valiant and ultimately deeply romantic although no physical favors were exchanged. He was concerned for my safety. As he described the battles going on around us, I saw them play out through my powers of second sight, bequeathed me by my late mother. It was one of the few things I knew I could rely upon. After a brief audience, he departed to finish the war. One day I knew he would return for me.
I remote-viewed a pair of guerrilla attacks by the enemy’s roving band of executioners after my new husband departed. Or perhaps it was a projection of my fear of dying and losing him too. The long slow torture of a wife, still in her wedding gown, being knifed and bleeding to death and then the crucifixion of her unsuspecting husband in a public bar for the enemy’s grotesque entertainment. These murders were so graphically horrifying I hid my face. Then I woke up.