Cliffside, A Dream

Chaucer, sitting at my feet, swishes her tail and then looks up at me.

“Something’s different, you know?” the words purr out of the feline, melodic and raspy.

“Yeah, I can’t quite put my finger on it though…”I say.

“I can,” Chaucer says, bouncing out of a small pile of snow and down a lavender covered hill.

“Cats,” I sigh and watch her pussyfoot the brambles, her tail high and twitching with curiosity.

I’m standing on the edge of the Winter Neighborhood, still and eternally covered in snow, houses decorated for Christmas, and the top of the cliffs that house a Boardwalk below them. The snow falls softly to my left and melts swiftly to my right. The air is cool, fresh. Shades of rainbow sorbet fill the sky, wisps of cotton candy clouds hang in the air. These are a couple of my favorite Realms.

The Sandman did me right tonight, but something is different. The air off the raging sea below mixes with the clean pure snow floating in the sky above me. The sun is just above the ocean, slightly covered by clouds, forever plunging over the horizon.

“Ah ha, Borderlands,” I say, aloud, to no one. I never begin a dream in the Borderlands, but it is beautiful, nevertheless. The road for the Winter Neighborhood is different now; I had navigated this route many times before, where the road ends before dirt and lavender begin. Now, it drops off down the mile long cliff.

I look to my North, to my mountains, then to my West, my woods, and to my East, the ocean and the cliffs. I don’t look South, I never look South. That is where my terrors used to take place and as a precaution, I avert my eyes. I shake off the temptation to steal a glance and instead take in the bright new sunset once more before taking off down the small, narrow trail that, now, leads down the cliff to the village by the sea.

Cliffside is a place of horse drawn carriages and gas lamps, a place where time stands still. Always perfectly gray, the shade the sky turns just after the sun sets; the time of day where I can be still, calm and nothing bad can happen. Cliffside is the personification of my desire to be quiet and safe.

Down in the village women in corsets and billowy skirts coupled with debonair men in top hats and spats, carrying umbrellas, take to the whitewashed Boardwalk to watch the forever-lasting tide come in. The sea rages dark blue; waves crash up against the railing of the Boardwalk, but nothing ever seems to get wet, as though the village is encased in a protective bubble.

I stand at the end of the trail and gaze back up the cliff. The sight is incredible. I look back to the village and I see the dancing light emanating from the gas lamps and with it the memory of the Lamplighter returns.

The golden hue of the lamps contrasts the gray of the sky like an oil painting. The sky is a pale purple gray with thick clouds lining the curvature of the land. The cool, wet, salty air stings my nostrils. I take a couple deep breaths and let the calm set in.

Opposite the sea is a town, carved out of the salt licked cliffs, wonderfully abstract and welcoming. I watch the ebb and flow of the waves and swear I can hear the auditory musings of an old calliope, perhaps a small pipe organ... I follow the sound thru the small alleyways, like a trail of musical breadcrumbs, feeling the stone against my fingertips along the way, cool and moist. Crossing in front of shops, I smell fresh taffy and cocoa and once I turn down another alleyway, almost against the Cliff itself, I find the origin of the music, a bar. I’ve seen this bar before, in a past dream. It’s a stark contrast with its imposing dark wood and large windows casting a bright golden light against the little street, set against the almost glowing white salt stone walls of the buildings around it.

The memory of the last time I was in this bar halts me. The recollection of what I will find there washes into mind. People from my past, both good and bad; exes, bad friends, friends I lost touch with…I’m not sure this is a dream I want to pursue, but I put one foot in front of another and find myself at the front door.

Inside, it’s warm, too warm. A cacophony of noise slams against me like a wall. I take a breath. My nose accosted with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and scotch… I try entering unnoticed, knowing that whatever brought me here, whatever reason, will find me.

This place is straight out of a movie; clusters of people sitting on high stools and in raised booths, tables lined with empty and half-full pint glasses. Laughter comes in bursts.

Tonight, however, there is new edition to this pub, a dark corner, hidden from direct view; only a sliver of light from the lamps above shows through. Intrigued, I make my way over to it. Just before the point of entry, someone inside strikes a match. Peering into the shadows I search for the match lit face. I have to steady myself against the wall when I find the face. He’s not supposed to be here.

Lifting his head slowly, I let go of the wall and take a step closer. He catches my eye and I notice a look of recognition, mirroring my own. He blows out the match and stands up from the booth. The look on his face, he’s trying to place me.

I know him. I will always know him, the Lamplighter. When he opens his mouth to say something, the same incredible thing happens as did in the Terracotta Village. He simply dissolves into mist.