Читать книгу The Bronze Cast - Pam Stavropoulos - Страница 10

5

But her sleep is far from tranquil. And this comes as a shock.

She knows she is dreaming. It’s one of those lucid dreams she has often had in the past. And she knows this particular one well. But unlike some lucid dreams which are susceptible to influence, this one she is powerless to shape. The recurring images haven’t bothered her in a long time. But are now assailing her with a vengeance.

It starts benignly enough, as has always been the case. Things are pleasant and reassuring.

Before becoming intense, exciting, and finally suffused with horror.

The pattern is the same, and it hasn’t deviated. The dream itself spans the full spectrum of feeling, from delight to nightmare.

Why is she (re)experiencing it now?

When she had been feeling good after a characteristically affirming session with Robert?

But re-experience it she does.

I am standing in a garden. It is a deep, shady garden, with beautiful blooms and large ferns. Beyond it are hills and valleys as far as the eye can see. I feel protected and safe in this garden, which has a canopy of leaves.

Sunlight sifts through the lattice work of the overhead branches. The hum of insects induces an almost hypnotic state.

A sense of relaxation gives way to excitement and wonder as everything around me becomes more vivid. Initially traditional in style and pastel coloured (rose, honeysuckle, lavender) the flowers begin to change their hue. And even their species.

From looking as if they could grace a wedding bouquet, they mutate before my eyes into outsize exotic blooms which would not be out of place in a jungle. Narrow stems, delicate leaves and sugary shades of pink, lemon, and white give way to huge petals, cactus-like centres, and brilliant shades of indigo, orange and magenta.

She feels like Alice in Wonderland.

Is charmed and spell-bound by what is transpiring around her. Feels magical and powerful; as if it is her presence which has catalyzed such luxuriant transformation.

But then - and these sensations are very familiar - the feelings become less pleasurable.

The garden keeps growing to the point of grotesqueness. It threatens to ensnare and overpower her. At this point it has indeed become a jungle.

A vine-like plant laces itself around her limbs; to her shock and rising panic she realizes her hands and feet are now tightly bound. Attempting in vain to extricate herself, she only succeeds in trapping herself more securely.

And senses the watchful eye of someone – or something – that seems to observe all that is happening. But chooses not to intervene.

She wakes in the way she has always woken from this dream- dripping with sweat, heart pounding.

A finger of moonlight dances on her doona. At another time that might have seemed serendipitous. Now it is strange and surreal.

The luminous dial of the clock shows 4.05 am. She is too alert to anticipate sleep. And too disturbed even to welcome it.

I know this dream well. But it only comes when I’m already uneasy. So why now?

Slipping into a bath robe, she goes to the kitchen for water. Pauses by the half-open door of her sleeping son. His left arm flung above his head, Matt looks as if he has been intercepted mid-movement.

His breathing is rhythmic and regular; she can observe the rise and fall of his chest without entering the room.

My little warrior.

He looks as if he could slay the dragons of his own dreams.

It’s a weird inversion to suspect that her child could probably comfort her from her night-terrors better than she can comfort him from his.

Moving to the kitchen, she pours some water and sips it meditatively. Her heart gradually slows its hectic pace. But her thoughts do not.

`It is pizza night tonight!’

The triumph in her son’s voice is unmistakable. She ruffles his hair while catching a `soldier’ of toast that has slid from the egg cup and is about to hit the floor.

`Is that right! Is it really Friday already?’

She always feigns surprise, and he always loves the charade. Festooned with traces of breakfast, his face splits into a toothy smile. She resists the temptation to tickle him (not a good idea when he is eating).

Images of the dream are receding in the sunny kitchen. Although she knows she will need to ponder them later on. Always attuned to the yields of the unconscious (that trait only partly occupational) both the recurrence and the timing of this dream demand her attention.

And the sense that something important is at stake for someone other than herself is new to her.

`So what kind of pizza do you want?’

`You know!’

She does too. But drawing him out on every ingredient of the preferred topping is part of the game. She welcomes it now, a lighthearted foil to the inner exploration she’ll do later on.

Pizza and red wine as reward for the psychical excavation in which she will engage. She only has two clients today; there will be plenty of opportunity to ponder. But while normally drawn to an inward focus, the nature of this dream is such that she is strangely reluctant to probe possible reasons for it.

`Mum! Where are you?’

This is another interaction between them. If he doesn’t feel he has her whole attention, her son will point that out in this particular way.

It is rare for him to do that these days. Which attests to her increased ability to draw a line between her work life and her four-year-old, as well as to the strength of his own immediacy. But she feels a glimmer of guilt as she brings herself back to the moment.

Where am – was - I? In the jungle navigating the vines?

Matt would relish the imagery. But this is adult stuff.

`I was thinking we’re gonna be late unless we move it. Where’s your backpack?’

Jumping from the chair, he scampers off to find it, leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake.

Yet insight comes surprisingly easily when she clears a space in which it can emerge.

Sitting in her small office later in the afternoon (client notes written up; a full hour in front of her to focus solely on the dream) she wonders why she didn’t see it straight away.

Perhaps it’s because, distracted as always by the slide of images from pleasurable to terrifying, she has been revisiting the obvious elements of the dream rather than what, this time, has catalyzed them.

Perhaps because the dream so evokes Luke, and the challenges she still faces in absorbing his legacy, she has been slow to recognize the significance of recurrence of this dream at this particular time.

Her new client, Ryan, is in no clear way similar to her former lover. And other than the disquiet she feels in the wake of the dream images, she has no evidence to suggest otherwise.

But perhaps – and the intimation doubles her sense of disquiet – perhaps the issue which troubles him is the same.