Last Night I Had A Dream About You
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I didn’t believe it until they told me so. I hadn’t known what she looked like, but I knew that I’d never have been able to recognize anyone who killed my mother. Not ever in my life, not even if someone had described her for me.
But there it was on paper, clear as any word written down could make it. That’s why they called it “writing.” Because you can write anything down. If it wasn’t true, then they would just change it. So I knew it must be true.
Or maybe it wouldn’t hurt if they changed things. My father was always saying I needed to learn to let go. And he did mean me. For instance, sometimes when we fought, I got angry because he would say something about the way I looked or acted, but then afterward he said he thought I was beautiful.
He would ask why I didn’t think that I was pretty. And that made me feel terrible. Sometimes I would cry afterward because I felt bad. But other times I would get angry at him too because he seemed to think that every time he said something nice about my looks it was supposed to be an insult to everyone else.
It was almost as though he wanted me to hate myself, and then I wouldn’t feel bad. Maybe it was that kind of thing, too, that was hurting my mother.
My father was not very bright; he was not much better than a child—he couldn’t even read well and he had trouble telling right from left when he held something up in front of him. But he loved to fight, which is probably why he found himself with me in his household.
He liked having somebody around to fight. He would tell me stories about fighting men who could walk through fire without burning.
There were stories about men who could see into the future and some people who could heal themselves just by looking at another person’s wound. But these men weren’t really heroes, they were only characters in old tales, like the ones my mother used to tell me. They were always being chased by enemies and forced to run away to save their own skins.
Most of those battles ended the same way. Someone would find out where the enemy was, then lead the rest of the warriors over the top of the mountain or through the swamp or under the waterfall, and when the last of those who could move came stumbling out onto the plain, then the battle would begin again.
“We are going to win,” he would always shout to me, whenever we faced a new enemy. “And after we win then we’ll know how many enemies we still have to face.”
He had taken me everywhere with him since the day I was born. Whenever he went anywhere, he would bring me along. Sometimes it would be to visit his friends’ places—or sometimes they would come to our house, too, because my father was a famous warrior.
He would tell the visitors that I was his little girl. He was so proud of me! “You don’t know what a prize I’ve won here!” he would say. “Look at this beauty! She is everything any man would want in a woman.”
I didn’t understand half of those words, but I knew it meant he wanted me to look like a lady. My hair was curly and dark as blackberries, my skin was pale enough not to show all the freckles, and my eyes were blue.
Sometimes when we visited my father’s friends, I would stand near him and try to copy the way they moved, and I would listen to their talk. One thing I remember hearing once: “They say your father has a gift,” a warrior said to one of my father’s guests. “That he can see into the future when he fights.”
This was something I hadn’t heard before. The visitor didn’t say anything, and I thought I saw tears in his eyes. “It is only a story,” my father told me later. “Just something the townsfolk say. People always seem to need something to explain why they lost.”
But when I was older, I wondered if my father might be wrong about that. After all, that night when I was asleep, I had seen him standing at my mother’s bedside, and I was sure of it: I knew exactly what my mother looked like.
I hadn’t known her. I didn’t even know anything about my mother except that I loved her more than anything in the world. But that’s what she looked like to me, and I knew it was true because of my dream. And my father must have been lying then. He would never hurt my mother or me. No matter how badly we fought, he wouldn’t hurt us. Even if I hit him back—even if I hurt him.
But my father had gone away for two days and nights, and on the third day, we found him dead. We buried him in an unmarked grave, so no one would ever know where it was. It had rained the day before he died, and the water was high.
A few days later, when it finally stopped raining, the river came down so fast, it flooded almost up to the edge of town. Then a big tree blew down from its roots and smashed the bridge, so we couldn’t leave at all. When we tried to cross the river to go out, we got swept away by the current. That’s how I became one of the first refugees in the kingdom of Sespech.
The river carried us far downstream, and I watched from the bank as we passed towns and farms and villages and all the people who lived there. Many of them shouted for help and waved their hands to keep us away, but most of them turned away and pretended they didn’t see us coming.
At one point, the river carried us past a farmhouse, and a farmer came running out into the road to wave his arms and shout at us. We saw a whole pack of dogs chasing him.
“What did you do?” I asked, thinking it must be some kind of crime, although none of it made any sense to me.
“I didn’t do nothing!” the farmer yelled. “They just come and start killing every animal and everything! They’re monsters!”
Then we came to another village, and this time we met a group of men carrying spears and swords. “Who goes there?” they called.
My father raised his hand to signal them to stop, but I grabbed hold of his sleeve. “No,” I whispered. “They will kill us if they catch us.”
So we ran on. I thought we would get away, but soon the sound of their voices followed us, growing closer and louder and closer until they were right beside us. My father held his shield over his head. He kept saying, “Don’t worry! Don’t worry! Just keep going and hide.” He took hold of my arm. “Keep close now,” he said. “I’ll protect you.”
We climbed up onto some rocks that jutted out of the middle of a deep, narrow pool that was formed between two hills. There we hid in the brush. The dogs barked nearby. We waited a long while before we dared to move again.
We had only a little food, but it was enough to eat a single bite each. But then I saw a hawk swooping down toward one of the dogs, and when it snatched the dog up by its tail, the other dogs chased after it, barking wildly.
We had plenty of time then, and we ate more, though I felt guilty and wished we could share it with someone else. We also found a piece of leather, which we wrapped around our legs, and some old rope that we used to bind the ends together, so we had both a walking stick and a short spear.
My father tied it to my belt and showed me how to use the stick as a quarterstaff. He said he’d taught me a new fighting style using my sword and shield, and now I should learn the same techniques with this weapon, too.
But I still don’t understand why he had to teach me something different. I wanted to train myself so I could fight in the way my father trained me—so I could defeat those monsters and free everybody. I think that’s what my father expected me to do because the first thing he did when we were finally alone once again was to tell me, “You have to find your sister!”
I asked, “Did you forget about her? Did you really mean that she has to take care of you and not let you die?” And my father said, “I told you we have to look for her. She is much stronger than either you or I are, even if she doesn’t know it yet.” Then he told me, “There is another girl here who knows a great deal more about fighting.”
He led me across the streambed and into a cave that seemed very familiar. It was the one my father always called his “hideaway,” the one he’d taken me to when he was teaching me. But there was a difference now: Instead of being full of old blankets and skins, it was packed with weapons, shields, swords, armor, spears, bows, and arrows. In the back was a small fire pit.
All the things had been gathered from various places along the banks of the river, or perhaps from people fleeing town. There were no horses there, but there was a donkey, so we could ride on it if need be. We also found a sack filled with bread and dried fruit, which we shared out among ourselves.
But it wasn’t the cave itself that I remembered. That place was gone. The memory of it was somewhere else; the cave itself was just a shelter. This place was full of the past, the present, and the future, and all sorts of things happened here.
My father sat me down near the fire, and he started talking about what I should do next. First, we needed to find where I could best defend us against those creatures, so we went outside and climbed the hills.
After climbing several steep slopes, we reached a rocky shelf above the ground, and there I saw a great fortress. The walls and towers were made of stone, but they weren’t tall enough to be called high walls. The fortifications looked like the ruins of an ancient building. It reminded me of my father’s hideaway.
The gates were open, and inside stood many soldiers with heavy spears and swords, wearing metal breastplates and helmets. But the guards were not attacking anyone. They just watched us pass. My father pointed up at the highest tower of the fort and told me to watch carefully for any movement.
I did so, and I saw a man climb out of one of the windows on top of the tower, and then he began to walk along the edge of the wall, looking down at me and waving. He wore a chain mail shirt. I knew him well. The man who had come into my dream.
It was my brother. His face had changed since I last saw him—the beard stubble was gone, and his hair had grown out. Now he looked older, and his body was strong and hard. As he passed, he shouted down at us, “Brother! How are you doing? What took you so long?” And though it was my brother, his voice sounded strange.
I yelled back to him, “What are you doing here? I thought you were with Father! Why didn’t you go to our father and get help? You could have stopped those monsters! Our father—”
“Oh, my poor brother,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “That’s what he wants me to do. That’s what Father wants me to do.” Then my brother added in a mocking tone, “Father would never leave my side!” He waved goodbye to me, and after that, he disappeared into one of the towers. My father and I climbed down the rocks toward the ground again.
We continued our journey through the mountains and valleys until nightfall came. Then we set up camp and rested in peace. We found some food in the sack and shared it. The bread was dry and tasted bitter, but I ate a little anyway. Then I lay down with the others and slept.
When I woke up, the sky was already dark outside. I felt tired, and I had a splitting headache. I got to my feet, stretched my arms, and walked around a bit. Everything felt very strange to me. I didn’t understand anything anymore. I couldn’t feel my body.
I looked back over my shoulder at the others, and they seemed even stranger. They were like shadows, only moving their eyes. I didn’t see how they could move in this world, without legs. I wanted to shout at them, asking if I was the only one who remembered anything, but my throat was too sore for shouting.
Then I heard something approaching. My father and brother were both awake, sitting near the fire and holding weapons. They looked straight ahead as the sound grew louder as if they knew exactly what was coming.
A beast ran by. It looked like a horse with scales instead of skin, covered all over with feathers. Its hooves clattered on the stones and echoed loudly off the cliffs. My father pointed at it and said, “Look at that one! It is not one of those creatures.
Those things are ugly, but this one looks much worse. And I can see that it carries something under its arm, which reminds me of a bow. This one has killed people before.”
He drew his sword from the sheath and readied himself to fight. At least we’d know now who had been behind all the recent deaths in our village. If I were going to die fighting, then so be it. I drew my own blade. We waited until the creature had nearly reached us.
But the beast stopped abruptly at the sight of us. It turned back, reared up, and threw something away from its belly. Then it lowered its front end. There was nothing left but a mass of flesh and bones, like a dead animal thrown away from the road.
My father and I exchanged glances. We understood each other perfectly well: “It’s an Archdemon.”
An Archdemon was a magical beast, like a horse or wolf, made of living stone and flesh—but far more powerful than either. When I had seen these beasts before, they always attacked travelers, and they killed with their claws and fangs, ripping through armor and clothing.
But it was rare indeed to see one run away from combat, and when one did so, it usually meant that there were no longer any people alive to fear it.
“Now it knows we’re here,” said my father. “And it doesn’t want to attack.”
The Archdemon stood still for some time, watching us intently, while we watched it in turn. It was like a statue frozen in place, only breathing. And the longer we waited, the more I began to wonder about it.
Was it possible that this Archdemon wasn’t the same as the ones I’d known before? Were we dealing with a new type altogether? If that was the case, maybe we had a chance of stopping it.
But it was not long until the Archdemon decided otherwise. The moment we both moved, it charged toward us with great speed and ferocity. I tried to stand between my father and the Archdemon, but I was too slow and fell back. My father was struck in the chest by a clawed paw, and then his leg was crushed underneath the beast’s heavy hoofs.
I saw it all happen, though I hadn’t done enough to stop it myself. The Archdemon raised its snout high and roared in pain; it turned to my father and opened its mouth wide to spit a stream of hot liquid at him. Then my father was gone and the Archdemon vanished into the night sky as if the whole thing had been a dream.
I stood alone on the rocky slope. A terrible emptiness filled my heart, and I was overcome with despair. Then I realized why we were there in the first place, and my anger boiled over.
“This wasn’t my fault,” I shouted, pointing at the Archdemon’s remains. “It’s yours! You’ve brought me back only to kill again!” Then I screamed my rage at everything and everyone, and the Archdemon became a distant memory.
My head ached and my stomach rumbled. I sat down beside the body of my father, who was lying there motionless. His face was pale and cold. It was hard to believe that this was really all the same man who had taught me to ride and hunt. He was like a corpse—a stranger to me.
As I sat there, a thought suddenly occurred to me—that it would be better if he had never found me after all. It seemed to me that he would have lived longer, and been less frightened if I had been someone else entirely, a boy who didn’t exist anymore.
“Why did you bring me back?” I cried out, shaking my head. “You must realize now, don’t you? What good is this life, if it has to end just because I was born in a strange land? No matter how much time I spend here, I will never forget what happened to me or learn any other language except your own. So what do I live for? Why don’t we just let me die right here and now?”
There was no answer. My father looked exactly as he had when I had last seen him alive: as though he were merely sleeping.
At last, I could stand it no more. “I can’t take this anymore! You’ve taken all of my hopes and dreams and thrown them away. Now tell me: What kind of future do you think I should choose for myself? Should I go and find another family, or start a new village?
Is that what you wanted for me? To make a decision based on nothing but the whim of the moment?” I stood up and paced about the field, feeling the wind on my face.
When my father finally spoke again, it was to say that it was not his intention to destroy my entire existence by sending me away; rather, he wished only to spare me some pain. That was why he had arranged to meet me somewhere along the way, to give me a choice whether to stay or go. It was an impossible request, of course, but he had hoped to make it seem reasonable to me.
And yet, even knowing that, he had still chosen to send me away. Why? Because, despite his love for me, he couldn’t bear to lose me forever? Or because, even after hearing my thoughts and feelings, he still believed that it was necessary for me to leave?
I knew then that I must go. Not for revenge against the Archdemon, nor for my father’s sake. I had come home only to discover something else: that the Archdemon had slain my father. The Archdemon, however, was a creature that I could fight—and defeat. But my father …
A tear ran down my cheek as I remembered the day he had left.
“Father,” I whispered, looking down at the ground.
He was silent. Then I said: “You loved me.”
His eyes blinked slowly once, and his hand twitched slightly.
I took hold of his hand. At least this time he would feel warmth again. As I held onto the warm flesh of my father’s wrist, I felt a strange sensation begin to creep over me. I closed my eyes and let out a low moan, as though I were going mad.
The Archdemon was gone, but that wasn’t why my mind was spinning. This wasn’t like anything I’d ever experienced before. My father’s death was one thing, but I had expected to feel something like sadness.
After all, it had been my father who had led me into battle, and now I understood that this was what he had been trying to protect me from. And yet, instead, I was consumed by rage and hatred.
But where did this rage originate? It wasn’t my father’s fault that he died. If anything, it was my own doing. Yet the Archdemon had killed him.
That’s why it’s so important for us to stop this Archdemon, I thought to myself. That is how we will avenge our father.
I stood up and looked around at the others. They were all waiting for my reply, but I wasn’t sure which path to follow. How could I choose between two paths so different?
At last, a young man with long red hair caught my eye. He was standing quietly by the edge of the field, watching me. I walked up to him.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him. “Are you worried about me too?”
He smiled sadly and shook his head. “No, I’m sorry—but I’m afraid not. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to fear.” I gave him a friendly wink and turned toward the village gate. But then, out of nowhere, a strange feeling began to well up within me. I realized that I didn’t want to leave.
Instead, I went back to my father’s side.
My gaze wandered aimlessly through the village. Everywhere I looked were buildings made of stone, and everywhere I stepped there were people walking about and laughing. But they were all speaking my father’s tongue, and it seemed as though no one even noticed that I was among them.
All around me was a sense of normalcy—the life my father had tried so desperately to create. And here I was, in the middle of it, feeling completely out of place. Even as I walked among the villagers, my thoughts were filled with resentment and hate.
How dare they live as if all of this never happened? How dare they go on with their lives? What right have these people to be happy and carefree while my father lies dead?
I knew what had happened to my father—or at least, what I had assumed. He had fallen on the battlefield against the Archdemon. The Archdemon’s minions had taken him and brought him before the Archdemon himself. In exchange for his life, my father had given up every secret of our people. He must have been tortured, forced to watch as his wife and son were slaughtered …
This was why I had come home. To find out who had done such a thing. But when I came upon the Archdemon’s camp, I realized that I hadn’t come home at all. All I wanted was for my father’s killers to pay for what they had done.
As I watched the Archdemon’s minions preparing for the night’s attack, I saw a group of soldiers walk past me. One of them stopped to look up at me. As he looked closely, he gasped and said: “Is it really you?”
I turned my attention to the Archdemon’s tent. The Archdemon was seated within it, surrounded by a dozen of his most loyal servants. A single servant stood behind him at the entrance of the tent, staring down at me curiously.
I felt something strange happening inside me again; my heart fluttered and then sank. Was the Archdemon coming after me next? Did he already know what I was planning?
But then, before I could decide whether I should stay or flee, the Archdemon spoke.
“Why does that surprise me?” he muttered to himself. “I always suspected you might try something like this.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The Archdemon had recognized me? How had he known? Had he seen me before in my disguise? Or maybe … I thought. Did the Archdemon recognize me because he knew who I was? Because he’d been told?
A terrible realization washed over me. The Archdemon must have known everything. He must have learned of my plan from someone in the village, but he had probably sent the Archdemon’s minions to kill me first, and then followed along afterward.
“So,” the Archdemon said, “what are you going to do?”
I looked down at my sword. I had no choice. I would have to fight this Archdemon. And then I remembered my father’s final words—he had said that if ever I found myself facing the Archdemon, then I should run instead of fighting.
It was true. There was another way to stop this Archdemon and save my father’s honor—I could run.
“Do you remember what your father once said?” the Archdemon whispered.
The Archdemon’s face swelled and darkened with anger and hate. His voice became a growl, full of menace. “Run away! Just like you always do!”
“Yes, that’s right.” I turned away and walked purposefully toward the village gate. I was leaving.
“Wait!” he said angrily. “Where are you going?”
And then the Archdemon attacked.
The End