A dream I had last night (March 2nd 2014). I jumped between experiencing the scene as a person to outside the body as an observer. Despite this the dream was not interrupted or fragmented but was in fact smooth and fluent. I knew by the garments I wore and by my surroundings that I was at least 700 years in the past or in another world experiencing a similar reality in their own dimension as their present.
I was in the body of a young woman. Hair loose and flowing down to my waist, slim figured and gentle framed. I was about fifteen and still growing into a woman, innocent to some aspects of the world yet wiser to many more. At this moment I was afraid for myself and my mother with whom I huddled against in the cold. We had fled our home, a well established family home that towered above the land it rested on. Made of grey stone it should have been happily situated yet grey clouds constantly sat above it as though in a constant gloom. We had left because something at this place had happened. A faint sensation told me we had been attacked by an external force and the ongoing dramas within had not been the reason.
We sat huddled in the dark dampness of caves. A faint trickle of moonlight through the roof of the caves touched the walls. The condensation that seeped through and down the walls reflected the white glow of the moon showing the sharp face of the rock. The ground we sat on was damp yet firm, not muddy but cold. We were not used to such conditions and we were afraid. Despite our fear we both kept strong for the other. My mother, a woman of fine features and elegance now crouched over a pile of dirt shaking in the cold night. The air so frosted her breaths came out in curled wisps from her mouth as she tried to warm our hands. We knew we could not build a fire without giving away our location to whomever it was pursuing us. I realised a sad truth that had we been able to have a fire we weren’t capable of creating one; our servants had always made them for us.
I suppose that was why we weren’t alone. We had fled with one of the servant boys, a young man of about eighteen years that had shown us the way out of our own home safely and now took care of us. He returned from the outside carrying with him a few blankets and bread. I don’t recall seeing him before, but knew he had been working for us for a long time; it was more of a feeling of him being around that I remembered. His hair sat a little off his shoulders, blonde and swept to one side at the front. An off white shirt faded and dirtied with age sat loosely on him as though he intended to grow into it. Brown pants and boots reserved for gardening or heavy duty work completed his outfit. He had no jacket despite the cold; his main concern had been helping us escape safely and not for his own comfort. Our gazes met fleetingly and I felt soothed, a sense of security and understanding that he would be our calm in this storm.
There was something great about him and about what he was destined to become. It was after this information I somehow knew that I had the sensation of jumping ahead of time and looking back upon this moment. I felt a sadness wash over me though why was not certain. My time in the dampness of these caves with my mother and the servant boy was a pivotal moment in my life. I tried to understand how such a time and place could be so momentous for someone of my standing, and knew that only the passing of time could reveal why.