He was walking along a beach at sunset. Warm tropical air fanned the hair from his forehead. The strange cries of unseen birds came from the darkening jungle. The sand, still warm from the day’s heat, was so soft it covered his feet at each step. Looking down at his feet, he realized he was nude. He felt a moment’s surprise, but was immediately distracted by the glints of red light flashing in the sand.
He looked out to the horizon and saw the sun rising red and bloated from the sea. He was surprised, because he had thought it had just been setting. He looked along the beach, trying to judge if the light was growing or fading. He froze, staring into the distance. Far off along the curve of sand, a figure was moving. The distance was far too great to make out any detail, but it was unmistakably a human figure walking by the water’s edge. She – somehow he knew the figure was female – was coming toward him.
He was swept with a wave of curiosity, of a desire to see her more closely. He started to hurry toward her, but the sand was so soft and deep it was impossible to run. He struggled on, feeling as if he were wading against a swift current. Try as he might, he could barely move. It was very frustrating, because he so wished to see the woman closer. Raising desperate eyes, he found she was much closer now, striding forward easily, apparently untroubled by the sand.
How could she have gotten so much closer in such a short time? He could see her more clearly now. She was tall and lithe and willowy, the early morning sun turning her hair to a halo of copper as it streamed about her head in the dawn breeze. She wore a red halter-top and a long skirt of some brightly-colored diaphanous material that streamed behind her as she walked, revealing the strong shapes of her legs.
He continued plodding toward her, making little progress. His feet felt at heavy as concrete. Looking down, he saw that his feet were huge, great blocky things, coarse and hairy. No wonder it was so hard to walk.
When he looked up again, she was much closer. What he had taken for a halter was a mere strip of material tied about her breasts. And he saw now that her skirt was woven of long strands of grass, revealing her bare brown legs. Her long shining black hair fluttered around her face. A fragrant jungle flower was at her ear.
Suddenly he remembered he was naked, and looked down at himself in embarrassment. To his horror, he found he had a huge erection, bobbing before him like a club. He glanced up anxiously at the woman to see her reaction.
She was right before him now. He realized she was nude as well, the tips of her white breasts peeping through the strands of blonde hair that tumbled over her shoulders nearly to her waist. Her eyes were the blue of the sky. She smiled and held out her arms to him.
Astounded at her wordless invitation, he stepped forward eagerly, but shyly, unsure how to behave to her. She apparently had no reservations, pressing herself warmly against him.
His arms came up around her and he crushed her to his chest, pulsing with desire for her. With a raucous cry, a flock of red and green parrots burst out of the jungle and vanished into the setting sun. He smelled the sun’s warmth in her hair and closed his eyes to breathe in the scent of her. She pressed her hips against his, telegraphing her desire.
Standing there holding her, feeling her warmth, he realized with a shock of pleasure that he felt blissfully happy. He was in the midst of one of those extraordinarily rare and beautiful moments that come but a few times in a lifetime, when for a few precious seconds the world is perfect, and you are aware of it.
In the midst of his turmoil of lust and joy, another emotion bubbled to the surface, and it was… gratitude. He was grateful to her for wanting him, grateful to her for being so impossibly, achingly, beautiful, and grateful to whomever had made this moment possible.
He needed suddenly to have her understand what he was feeling – not just the desire, that was beating unmistakably between them like a joined heart – but the sense of thanksgiving he felt. But they had as yet not spoken. He turned and put his lips to her ear.
"I feel blessed," he whispered.
She replied immediately, her voice a deep contralto.
"I know," she said, as if they had spoken together a thousand times before. "We are so lucky to have each other."
He pulled back to look at her face, struck that she had understood so perfectly.
"It’s even more than that," he said, looking into her smiling, shockingly green eyes. "I feel lucky just to be here. It’s like…"
Something flickered in the back of her eyes. Her smile shrank imperceptibly. "Yes," she agreed quickly. "There is no place as romantic as Paris in the spring."
Surprised, he looked over her shoulder. The manicured lawns and walks of a formal garden stretched around them, with high thick hedges and white statuary. In the distance, the many roofs and towers of a large house loomed above the trees. Of course. He had forgotten where they were. He smiled condescendingly. The duke’s garden, for all its opulence and secret bowers, was a mere imitation of Versailles. It was the creation of an ambitious man with more wealth than taste.
He looked back at the lovely woman before him. Her gown was precariously low-cut, even by the daring style of the day. Her flawless skin actually drew the eye from the spectacular diamond choker that accentuated her long lovely neck. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the whole glittering company that filled the immense ballroom. She caught his eye as it rose from her décolletage. She smiled provocatively and flicked her startling violet eyes unmistakably toward the stairs.
He tilted his head in a practiced, genteel bow, barely noticeable, but at once acknowledging her suggestion and signaling his agreement. She turned at once and started making her way through the throngs toward the stairs that led to the upper levels of the immense house. She ascended the elegant gilded stairway without attracting undo notice and disappeared through an arched doorway.
He allowed her five minutes, then politely terminated his conversation with the English ambassador, and followed. He moved easily through the crowd. Stopping now and again to speak to an acquaintance to nod to yet another sycophant. He climbed the stairs and paused at the top to glance down over the glittering nobility below. Had that fool of a husband noticed? No, there he was by the fountain, speaking earnestly to the Papal legate. That should keep him engaged for a few moments.
He found himself in a long corridor lined with immense dark paintings of the duke’s severe-looking ancestors. A dozen doors opened off the corridor, all closed. Then he noticed the third door was slightly ajar. He pressed it open, stepped inside, and pulled he door closed behind him.
The room was lit by a single candelabrum on a chest beside the bed, but it was reflected back a hundred times by the mirrors that lined the walls and ceiling. The duchess was there, as he knew she would be, wearing only her jewelry. The elegant gown, that must have cost two villages a year’s labor, lay crumpled on the floor. The light of a thousand reflected candles turned her alabaster skin to gold. She held out her arms and he walked into them. He was now as naked as she. He felt intensely happy.
"I feel blessed," he whispered into her auburn tresses. "I feel incredibly fortunate just to be here."
He felt her stiffen against him.
"I know," she replied, her voice a deep contralto. "We are so lucky to have each other."
"It’s even more than that," he said. "It’s just all so unbelievably perfect. It’s like…"
She pressed her lips against his, fiercely, hungrily. "Yes, darling, yes," she murmured, "but don’t worry about that now. Now is the time for love."
Her ardor was frantic, needy, clinging. She clutched him to her, rained kisses on his face, stopped his mouth when he tried to speak.
Taken aback by her intensity, he drew back his head and looked at her. Her eyes were wild, desperate – but not with lust. He realized that the woman was terrified. He felt a stab of remorse. Why had he insisted on speaking? In trying to express his joy of the delicious moment, he had destroyed it.
"I’m sorry," he said. "Forgive me. But I was so happy. Don’t you see? Everything was so perfect, it almost seemed like…"
"Don’t!" she suddenly shrieked in a voice that reverberated through the house. Shocked, he realized the orchestra had faltered and stopped. The sounds of the crowd below had ceased. The great house was silent. Frightened now himself, he stammered out an apology.
"I only meant," he said, trying to calm her, "that it was so perfect it was like a dream."
Her lovely face twisted into a mask of rage. She screamed at him, spittle flying from her mouth. Her arm swung up and she slapped him so hard across the face that he staggered back from her, stunned.
"You fool!" she screamed. "What did you think you were doing? Have you completely forgotten who you are? Where you are?"
He could only stare wordlessly at her, uncomprehending.
"You can’t say it’s a dream, you idiot!"
"But… but why?"
"Because then he’ll know. Oh God, it’s starting already. Look! Look what you’ve done!"
He realized the walls were wavering and shifting. The duchess herself seemed to be changing. He couldn’t seem to focus on her clearly. He became aware of a roar of noise from the ballroom below: shouts of rage, cries of horror, long anguished wails from hundreds of throats.
"What… what’s happening?" he cried, thoroughly terrified now.
"You’ve killed us all, you damned fool," she screamed. "We’re all doomed. You, me, everyone – we have only seconds to live. And it’s all because of you!"
He struggled to understand, but the walls were dissolving around him.
"Wait!" he shouted. "You said, ‘then he’ll know.’ Who will know? What will he know?"
The walls were gone now, translucent swirls of color and light. The floor waved and floated away beneath his feet. He grew weightless and drifted upward and away from her anguished, terrified face. Looking down at his hands, he could see through them, could see other rooms and other worlds. Faces, scenes, sounds, smells, swirled around him.
"He will," she wailed. "He’ll know it’s all a dream. And that destroys it."
She was nearly gone now. He could just make out the ebony of her eyes against the kaleidoscopic images that flashed past on all sides.
"Who will know?" he screamed, feeling himself stretch and thin.
"He will," her voice drifted back, far away now. "The Dreamer. The Dreamer will awaken."
copyright 2002 by Brian K. Crawford