Going NowHere

He burps an acidic mouthful, and reaches for his pocket hankerchief to spit out the offending matter. He realizes with a brief yet jarring crush that he is not wearing his suit coat; that in fact he is nearly stark naked, excepting the soft sarong tied around his waist. Swallowing the bile with a sharp inhalation, he throws both hands out to the his sides in alarm and coughs, gulping for air. He is sitting on a minutely suspended cushion of very large size, reaching nearly the sides of the carriage, rocking slightly back and forth with the motion and sound of a train all around him.

Looking about, he sees tapestries gently waving with the train's sway, and in front of him, affixed to the floor, tall white candles in various stages of melt burn brightly. Incense smokes into comforting curves rising to invisibility from a swinging censer. He consciously slows down his breathing, assuring himself of his immediate safety.

A very petite man, wearing a turban of bright yellow cloth, comes into the room effortlessly carrying a silver tea tray. His deep eyes are focused upon his task of pouring steaming light amber fluid into a tall crystal glass. He arranges mint leaves on a tray, bows silently and leaves the carriage through a sliding stained glass door at the far end.

The man inwardly, distantly, recognises that he is in a state of shock. Upon this recognition, he feels sudden pain, a startling serpent of inward injury slashes at his emotions, his heartbeat accelerates appreciably, noticeably, and he struggles once again to breathe. He closes his eyes, and reigns each inhale back with a deliberately restricted exhale, only thinking the words 'All is well', over and over again. His breathing eases.

When he opens his eyes once more, he sees the tea inviting him to drink, and gently picks up two cubes of sugar with ornate silver tongs, and holds them in the surface of his tea watching until they dissolve slowly into the glass.

Once again, the small turbanned man enters into the chamber, this time carrying a tray with various-sized covered dishes on it. He gently sets this tray in front of the man, and slowly bows and retreats behind the stained glass partition. The man finds that he is quite hungry, and lifting the various lids is assailed by a beautiful aroma of saffron rice, and dahl.

He finds himself, after consuming a good portion of sustenance, and drinking all of the tea, feeling quite sleepy. He lies down upon his side, hands resting under his cheek, and is rocked to sleep by the swaying train.

He dreams:

some soft shoulder, his hair moved back from his forehead by the wind

a single flame

a small girl standing yards away on a terraced stone wall, behind a profusion of honeysuckle

a single flame

a glance of his own hands, sure in their movements over a finely tooled wooden surface

a single flame

a room full of books, dark shelves stacked higher than high

an acoustic guitar

a single flame

a fire burning brightly under a dark starred sky, mountains in the distance

a single flame

the hiss and sizzle of the tide's edge as he walks, feet sinking into the sand,

seagulls wheeling

a single flame

a stag standing in an open meadow, the morning mist rising

a single flame

The train comes to a slow stop, screeching. The motion of his side to side somnolence shifts, awakening him. The very small man in the yellow turban enters the compartment. He pulls a silken rope, festooned with small bells, moving a tapestry aside to reveal an arched wooden door. He puts his palms together and bows, looking at the floor in front of him, suggestively.

The man stands, and finds himself to be automatically bowing deeply in return, peace pervading all of his senses. He stands and regards the door in front of him, with it's harmonious engravings, it's deeply grained lustre. He steps forward, and grasps the handle of a brightly curved glass fixture, his fingers fitting exactly into the grooves. The handle glows blue, then a deeper violet and begins to spin. He lets go of it easily and watches the pattern on the door spin to the accompanying sound of clicks and whirring. The door begins to slide into the recessed wall of the compartment, but then simply melts from the top of the arch in a slow roll of deep gold-flecked sparkling waves.

He steps through the door directly onto the soft sand, the sizzle and hiss of the tide foaming gently over his feet. To his immediate right stands a woman, her profile turned toward the waves. She looks into his eyes, smiling, her long dark hair blowing and catching the light around her. She faces the ocean again, and raises an ornate lantern in her right hand with reverent greeting to the sunrise, where full sails unfurl.