The Dreamer's Descent
By Oscar S. Cisneros [Author Info]
I have dreamt the glazier’s dreams for many months now. They are always the same: molten glass burning white in the darkness, the orange of the kiln bathing the scene. And the rods, always the rods -- thin purple steel plunged into glass, beauty shaped every night.
There was an enchantment about the rhythm that drew me to him, something alluring about the heat. So many dreams like blades of grass I have seen in this world. And yet the glazier’s dreams for all their monotony have stayed with me.
I have found good company, here among the dark elves. I sleep dormant among them and know them only through their dreams. The echoing caves of the drow can at times be no different than an urban alley at night or a country road stretched far into the black forest. The sun’s rays can never reclaim me in this Underworld; I no longer fear that dreaded orb.
I had dreamt the dark elven city long before I made the dangerous descent through untold tons of rock. It was in a dream not my own. It was in the glazier’s dreams. There, I made myself known to him. To him I said this:
"I know the wolf’s hunger. I know about his lean days trekking through snow and mountains with nothing more save his will and an acid emptiness in the gut. So have I marched through the world, empty and with longing.
I am the lurid dreamer sleeping dormant amongst the tree’s tangled roots. I am the dreamer whose thoughts take form as clouds far above lazy landscapes of hills and labyrinths. In my dreams, flower petals rain down on lovers tensed in motion. In my nightmares, lightening splits the sky.
I am the palm tree whose roots stretch far and wide, not deep. Every drop, every drizzle of rain that falls within my root’s grasp is devoured in a parched-mouth lick of the sands. I am the palm tree and you are the rain."
"Who are you?"
"I am the dreamer," I said. "I have been here for many nights besides you, feeling the heat of the kiln and the warmth of its light on my body. I have watched every twitch of the rods, every long arc of a swan’s neck burning from white molten glass… I have seen a dragonfly’s wings crystallize from the cool blast of your lungs. I have felt the force of your mind shape floating things of beauty in the air -- Crystalline creations whose delicate bodies now ring with the strength of steel. The tireless touching. The impelling of some force a will whose weak ebb moves slowly, but with the strength of with a mountain. Every night you dream this dream. And everyday you bring it to life."
"Will I remember you when I wake?"
"Of course, if you’ll have me. But beware: I could dabble the firelight of your creations as if it were a color smeared on a palette for my brush. Nightmares, I sculpt. Dreams, I ply. But I tread lightly in your world, Rizzlin, and I will not use your dreams to haunt you."
"Tell me of oceans. I have never seen one. In the Underworld we have only the Black Sea whose waters drown hundreds of miles of caves in darkness. You speak of swooning waters, of waves and of islands and of sky. I know not these things."
"In time, Rizzlin. In time you will know these things. You shall dream them. But first you must walk me down to your city through the hidden passages ways of the Underworld whose doors appear translucent in your dreams. I want to know your people. I want to dream your dreams."
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Copyright © 1999 by Oscar S. Cisneros. This material may be distributed only subject to the terms and conditions set forth in the Open Publication License, v.04 1998 or later (the latest version is presently available at http://www.opencontent.org/openpub/).
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