Lysander's shame

Deep within the confines of an enchanting, dreamlike forest...where day ends, and night now rules the land...there sits a gloomy cottage...its spires reaching high, as if in veneration to the sky. Beyond the dismal, horizon of the home, the moon looms bright, highlighting the once stately old battlement of discarded war-weary structures, long forgotten and abandoned.

The night flyers are circling high above, flexing their avian wings, as if eagerly awaiting something promised upon the wind.

A lone traveler walks by, his steps slow, as if trying his best to be silent, lest he disturb the shadows. His heartbeat increases in beat with his fear, as the witching gnarly limbs and fingers of the contorting trees reach out to throttle the life from his quivering throat. He pulls his cloak closer around his stalwart figure, his senses fully alert, lest danger reared its leering face.

Lysander had no idea where he was heading, try as he might he could not recollect how he got here. Countless times he had tried to interpret this dream while awake, but to no avail.

Here, betwixt the twilight, where the sky always appeared foreign, the haze was eerily foreboding and translucent. Fear hangs palpable as the lone figure continues on, silently. He walks hunched over, peering here and there, as mystery lurked just below the ominous surface. A kind of foreboding hung thickly in the air, dark enigmas eagerly waiting and biding time in which to consume the restive, unsuspecting and frightened wayfarers.

As he dreamed, the man mumbled, restlessly tossing from his left side to his right, the bedsheets long tossed onto the floor, as sweat matted the half-graying strands of dreadlocks adorning his still handsome head.

The light flickers inside the dream cottage, then quickly engulfs the entire house in bright lights. On his bed the sleeping man groans.

In the dream, Lysander stands still. Fear engulfing his entire frame. His mind says 'run', but his feet are made of molten concrete, shaking and poised for flight, yet unable to move. Frozen in sleep paralysis, he awaits his doom.

The door to the cottage creaks slowly open, as a shadowy female form appears in the doorway.

In the haze, she appears quite beautiful, but upon her head is a glowing light depicting the Africa landscape, as wild animals gambol here and there. Frightening lions, willowy giraffes, elephants and a whole parade of wildlife galloped forth, poised to exit the confines of her head.

Lysander would watch, transfixed, as the woman then floated over to the stricken man frozen in his nightmare state. She would scream in the most ghoulish and horrid inhuman guttural shriek imaginable, the animals rearing forth to devour him. Raising his hands in futile defense, Lysander would fall into a dead faint.

When he awakened, the woman had him clasped in her fiery embrace, easily rising from the ground. She transported him in through the open door of the house, which then slammed shut loudly behind them in a deafening crescendo of rattling and shaking.

Then, for a blessed moment there was silence. Terrifyingly, the house came alive again, the air resounding terribly with the wailing sounds of tortured voices in a mighty rendition of great weeping and mourning.

In wretched dread and alarm, his soul would crumble.

Only then would he mercifully awaken, fear dripping from his brows.

The sleeping man had known these dreams all his life. Nightmares within his waking hours which perplexed his thoughts and caused curious questions from his family. They became his quiet daydreams which stole his mind and left his attention drifting into bursts of oblivion.

Yet ever since he had left his homeland these many years, this particular heart rending dream had haunted his days and nights.

Strangely, the woman seemed familiar, her distinctive rage against him personal and deeply exclusive.

Could it be her? He wondered.

Yet Africa was a whole lifetime ago, twenty years to be exact. Lysander had relocated to the quiet Blue Mountain Hills of Jamaica, where he lived a secluded existence in his little home deep in the mountain. By day he worked the land and painted beautiful pictures, selling his fruits and vegetables to merchants, and his art to craft vendors. He avoided human companionship as much as possible.

The man tried very hard to forget the events of his past life, but it seems that nature always finds a way to bring karma to one's door.

Lysander's parents had been Exchange students, his father an Englishman, and his mother Of Jamaican parentage, but born in the UK. They had met in Africa, fell in love with each other, the country and its people and never left. The union produced a son and a daughter.

Many were the happy years spent in the sun blessed open spaces of the African landscape. Lysander and Wysper enjoyed learning about the many ethnic cultures which represented the country. Thy reveled in the arts, crafts, paintings, pottery, ceremonial religion and folklore.

They were fascinated by the 1000-2000 different languages spoken, and had learned a few. Wysper was much better at it, as well as better at sporting activities. They often went into the jungles to hunt small wildlife for food. Though Lysander was five years older than her, Wysper tended to be more mature.

It was on one of these trips that he had lost his beloved sister.

That July day, Wysper's birthday, had dawned bright and gloriously hot. While their parents planned her 21st celebration, the two had ventured into the woods for a swim before the festivities began. The watering hole was a pre-birthday tradition for the family.

They heard the angry snarl too late. The huge lion growled menacingly.

The siblings knew the rules of meeting a lion:

Running from a lion is not recommended. If you encounter a lion, the best advice is to stand your ground and not to panic. Running may stimulate a lion’s instinct to chase. Instead, you should face the animal, make yourself appear larger, and make loud noises to intimidate the lion. If the lion charges, continue to stand tall and do not turn your back on it. Retreat slowly, maintaining eye contact and appearing as a threat to the lion.

But Lysander had lost his nerves, he yelled for his sister to run. He turned and ran, not realizing that she had not.

In the split second it took her to turn her head to try to stop her brother, the lion was on top of her. It got her by the throat, and she clamped her arms around its neck, trying with her last breath to save her brother from the same fate.

Hearing the commotion and the angry guttural sounds, the brother paused a moment to look back. But what could he have done, he thought. He too would die, because he could not then save his sister from her fate. It was too late.

His sister turned her head and mouthed the words 'run'. Tortured, he felt helpless. "RUN" she gurgled through her blood-soaked larynx.

With tears streaming down his face, he turned and ran. He never imagined Wysper to be that strong.

They found her mutilated body in the bushes nearby.

Lysander's parents never blamed him to his face, but he could not live down the shame of being branded a coward, even after he had joined the hunting party in which he shot and killed the lion. It had been a rogue male which had strayed from the pack, usually they did not bother anyone, unless threatened.

And so he had traveled far to find his mother's people in the distant hills of the Caribbean.

Now the dreams were wearing him down. He had lived a hermit's life, never allowing himself any happiness, just hard work and lending a helping hand to anyone who asked. People whispered, some asked, but no answer was forthcoming from the grieving man.

On the night of his sister's 41st birthday, the dream somehow changed.

This time it was Wysper walking out of the front door of the dismal, dreary, fog-laden candle-lit house.

Taking his hand, she led him inside where the scenes were the manifestations of his home in Africa. His mother was on her sick bed, his father sitting by her side weeping. Lysander had spoken to them very little over the years. It had been a while now.

Wysper hugged her brother and whispered in his ear.

"Do not punish yourself any longer, Lysander. You need to forgive yourself as I had done so many years ago".

"But how can I"? He asked, weeping.

"Go home, Lysander. It is there that you will learn to forgive yourself and find peace. You must hurry"!

His eyes flew open, Lysander half expected to see his sister standing there. But reality slowly caught up with his awakening brain.

Exhausted, he again fell asleep, morning was still a few hours away. When he awoke, it was to the realization that he had not dreamed at all. Maybe, just maybe, he would now be all right after all.

Africa had been calling all along. He just had not been listening with his heart, his conscience had taken a strong hold on his life.

Lysander made his reservations and started packing with a great deal of urgency. His parents needed him.

He felt lighter than he had done for many years. Maybe he could start living again.

........................................................................................

Dream story I wrote over a year ago.

Written three years ago.