The Saturday Dream, R. Deon Hamblin [romantic novels in english TXT] 📗

I relish my nightmares. They take me to such strange and bizarre places. They bring me face to face with darkness and teach me the power of hope. They are also a rich fuel for my stories as well as a means of helping me in spiritual transmutations. But I think that because I embrace them, welcoming them with open arms and an open mind. They have tended to transform over the years into hauntingly beautiful voyages through the deepest realms of my mind. So I woke up one Saturday morning, haunted by this peculiar dream.

I heard the groaning of heavy iron as it swung on hinges which creaked in protest. Then a belligerent slam as metal, embraced metal. Startled, I spun around to find myself facing a large stone and iron gate. The gate itself was framed by three large granite slabs, set up as a trilithon, like Stonehenge. The hinges of the gate were sunk firmly into the vertical slabs, while the gate was comprised of two separate parts whose shape and function were similar to those found in Old West Saloon doors. But they were much, much larger, approximately eight feet tall, with several inches of clearance between both the ground, and the capstone above. The tall iron, multi-barred gates which terminated in graceful S-curve’s were freshly coated in a thick green paint. This paint which attempted to cover up the rotting damage of age old rust, failed miserably. The hinges, also painted green, were dripping in rust; the stains of it formed ruddy, long dried rivulets down the granite blocks, evoking the image of dried desert riverbeds. There was one final element to the gates, on the two separate parts; there was a large dark rectangle, with what I took at first to be two circles. But in fact it was a figure eight, lying on its side, broken in the middle only by the need for the gate to open. It was in fact the symbol of infinity. It was the only part of the structure, aside from the stones, which was not painted green. It was already green, a much lighter shade, but green all on its own. It was obviously made of oxidized copper. Upon closer examination I realized that the figure eight was actually made from a looped snake which fed upon its own tail, it was an Oroboros. I gave the whole of the thing a good shake, trying to open it, but then somehow I already knew it would be tightly locked, and it was.

I stood back after prying all I could of the detail from that gate of undetermined age. I looked to my left and right on either side of the gate structure there was a brick wall extending as far as I could see. However, it was interrupted after what appeared to be only six feet by another Granite slab. This slab and the wall itself were not as high as the gate, maybe only six feet in all. Now, the slab was topped with a stone urn. This pattern was repeated on both sides of the gate, at the same intervals as far as I could see; which wasn’t very far because of a grey early morning fog. This fog did not seem very thick, but obscured my vision at the third slab topped urn on either side of the gate.

I began to have the most disturbing thought that I was now in a cemetery, one which I didn’t recognize and I think the name must’ve been on the large granite capstone, but obviously on the other side. I turned away from the gate now, and received stark, visual confirmation. Laid out before me in irregular rows, were apparently ancient and weathered tombstones. Most were broken, sunken and the writing, no longer visible. There was a narrow cemetery road, which rolled out and away from me. With no other option, I decided to move along it and explore these eerie surroundings. It seemed like several minutes of walking, with no end in sight. The Headstones kept coming and coming and they seemed to change in style and shape as I passed them along that tumulus corridor.

Finally I came to a crossroads. I decided to turn left which incidentally was also east, the source of the sunshine which seeped through that ubiquitous fog. My choice was sorta practical, as it was quite chilly. However, there was a touch of instinct to the choice, looking to my right, it looked far, far darker than I expected as the sun was well into its rise and the fog seemed to roll and swirl in a disturbing fashion. I noticed at this moment that I could hear the sound of ravens or crows. I’d never been sure about the difference. But in their mocking cawing voices I thought I could hear the sound of disturbed laughter as if I were listening to the sounds echoing down the distant corridor of an asylum.
Then after what felt like an unending journey, with yet more graves, and more fog, I came to another crossroads and headed right this time. I felt like I had been walking forever with no end in sight. I couldn’t believe the size of this place, but perhaps it was the fog which made it seem so large. Yet the sun appeared to have stayed in the same position the whole time. Just as I was about to start yelling in hopes of finding another person, maybe a groundskeeper or some mourner, I began to hear sobbing. Here I left the road and followed the sound. Walking along the soft dew soaked grass; I noticed yet more changes in the tombstones. They began to look more modern in style and shape. I began to recognize the writing which was readily readable. I now noticed that the sobbing seemed to come from multiple directions. I followed what seemed to be the original sobbing which I heard; it was finally nearer to me.

Then out of the swirling mist I began to discern two forlorn shapes, darkly dressed and standing over a series of graves. There were three graves in all, two closed, one opened. The two shapes, a man and a woman of rather plain but dignified appearance were standing over the open grave. Naturally I hated to bother them, but I was honestly lost and needed help. So I approached the sobbing pair. The man, arm wrapped around the woman’s shoulder, holding her tight and close, looked at me. His rheumy tear addled eyes blinked several times as they tried to lock onto me. He raised a handkerchief to dry them, and then wipe the tears from his cheeks. He offered me a strained but apparently sincere smile, then turned slightly with his wife and extended his hand to me.

“Hello”, he said to me, “my name is Tom, this is my wife Martha.”

I was honestly taken aback, but couldn’t help but respond by telling him my name, then saying. “I am truly sorry to bother you folks at such a time, but I am very lost…” I stopped, as I looked down, truly noticing the third and empty grave. The headstone was very small, as was the hole over which it sat. Obviously this was meant for a child. Then, I noticed that there were no flowers, no slices of Astroturf, No coffin. And then I thought; where is the dirt? There wasn’t even a priest nearby that I could see. I examined the gravestone and saw the name Lilly, Lilly Haven, Beloved Daughter. There was a birth date, but there was merely a hyphen after that.

“I…I’m sorry, is this…for your daughter?” I asked, certain I knew the answer.

This time Martha spoke up as the Tom’s face wrenched itself into tears. “Yes, there was a car accident. And now,” She began to sob, but fought through them to offer her answer. “Now, she’s all alone!”

The both of them sobbed in unison now and while I desired to ask them more, to find out why there appeared to be no funeral in readiness, no coffin, or at least try and get some directions out of this place. I thought better of it. I decided to quickly offer my condolences and leave them in peace. As I walked away I glanced down at the other two markers. The dates of death were only a few months prior to the current date. But the names struck me, according to those two fairly recent marble stones the occupants of the graves right next to Lilly’s, were a man and a woman, named Tom and Martha. Baffled, I walked away.

I noticed more and more as I walked on, that there were more and more people, usually no more than three or four, sometimes only one. In each case they were mourning over empty graves, some knelt, some stood, and others were absolutely prostrate. And each the perfect image of grief and sorrow. When I dared wander near, I was, oddly enough, usually acknowledged and often greeted warmly, and it started to seem as though these mourners felt as if we shared some connection, some common bond, other than mere Humanity. At the head of each grave however, I found the same thing, a name, an epitaph, and a single date with a hyphen, but nothing more. The persistent fog, seemed to stay constant, yet I could see more and more people, farther and farther out.

I oriented myself keeping the sun to my left and walked north. Then a little ways up ahead, I saw a distinguishable sight. A tall white pillar topped by a lion. Finally, I thought, a usable landmark! As I approached it I was even more elated. It was not the only one of its kind, two more pillars appeared, further back and directly in line with all three visible pillars was a large rectangle, which is called by some, a double cube. I paused in my approach because over the top of that cube, was the most unbelievable sight. A woman, leaning over and apparently embracing the structure, she appeared to be sobbing. Her long jet black hair draped down over the double cube and highlighted her milky white skin. I thought at first that she must be wearing some form of black cloak. Then, the cloak moved and I suddenly realized it was no cloak at all. She had wings, large black, functional wings. I was stunned. She however continued to sob ceaselessly over the marble stone and took no notice of me. Beyond her I could see a fourth pillar, atop that was what appeared to be a bull. Looking to the other two pillars I realized that the