George locked the door to the hotel room behind himself, put down his back on a chair, and taking off most of his clothes got into the bed. It was comfortable, warm, and the din downstairs from the bar was the perfect accompaniment to sleep after a long day.
George’s thoughts roamed back over the day, observing again the sunrise, hearing again the train passing by the ocean, seeing again John’s face, recalling the feelings of despondency in the dark evening. And now here he was, in an unknown town, sleeping in a strange bed, with no plans ahead of him, just days filled with his will, desires and the caprices of fortune.
He drifted off to sleep, with fresh memories still being tilled by his mind.
He was floating over the sea, his arms outstretched, affording him the sublime ability of flight. He was gliding as if he were a seabird, traversing the world’s oceans. Ahead of him he could see a mighty cliff whose base was being thrashed by wild and excited waves, the sound of which echoed like distant thunder.
He carried on, being pushed inland by a firm wind, and below him was to be seen a magical town. It had a thousand chimneys, each divulging a pleasant little tale about curling smoke; there were narrow avenues lined with swaying and graceful trees, footpaths that threaded amongst the houses like veins, and a few bigger roads from which he could hear the chatter of the people. The sight though had a vagueness to it, and it took an effort to concentrate the mind and see the intricate details.
Onwards the wind carried him, but he began to lose altitude, slowly drifting down to the ground. He floated along, very slowly, a few feet from the ground, and finally landed on his feet, finding that to walk was a pleasure also. Before him was a forest, with trees that reached to the clouds, whose trunks were like great pillars of stone. The sunlight filtered down, almost visibly cascading off branches and leaves, like water, and George was bathed in a green haze. He breathed in deeply of this magic light. For a long time he remained standing there, immersed in this wizardly hue, and time drifted away into another realm of being. He felt a great peace, and in each moment he found the rest of a night’s sleep.
A sound though brought him out of this reverie, a cracking sound that came from ahead of him, its source away in the forest. George walked on, hoping to find the cause. His steps passed on, becoming more and more urgent, and soon he was running, but his steps slowed. Or was it that the forest around him was growing? Every effort seemed to bring him no closer, and the trees became yet more massive, imposing themselves upon him like immutable laws from a supreme power. And soon enough he was not moving at all, simply being constricted and immobile.
George awoke, his eyes glad to perceive the real world all about him, thick with the heavy and reassuring presence of real, not dreamt things. It was light outside, but with the softness of dawn, and George was thankful to be awake; how he hated those dreams that ended with stress and paralysis.
Where though had that tremendous crack in the forest come from? What manner of imagined force could have had such an effect? George felt ill-at-ease to just contemplate it.
