The Mountain Queen

Part II, Chapter Five: Silah's Dream

In my dream I was not myself.

I walked out in the valley I had known since birth. The sun was shining, but the air was unearthly still. Nothing moved. There was no shadow. My fellow valley folk had vanished. I strode through the valley, and I was quite alone.

Something called to me, out there. Out there where the grass was flat, where every slope and peak was equally distant, something sang in the silence and called out to me by name. My name was not Silah. I was not Silah. I was a downy-skinned, golden-haired maiden of the valley, graceful and desired, my white dress streaming behind me in a wind I could not feel.

When I reached the center, I stopped. The song of the valley had ended, but I knew the tune, so I picked it up. Trilling, melodious, my voice rose above the flat expanse, calling, answering the call, answering it sweetly, willing it to come forward, willing it to hold me, longing to be in its arms.

All at once he was there before me—the singer, the man, the one I called to, the one who called to me. He was tall and strong, clean-made in every sinew, his beard a rich red and yellow, his body hewn from the earth itself. This was a man I could give my soul to. This was no meek valley-man; this was more-than-man, beyond man. This, at last, was the man I'd yearned for, and I gave myself to his brazen touch.

When our bodies parted we lay in the grass together, and he stroked my golden hair. All around us was the world of men, but we took no part in it. What did we want with Silah? Who was Silah? Why would I dream of Silah, when I was wide awake, and I was Silah, and Silah was—

"Silah!"

The voice jolted me awake, and I sat up swiftly, my head throbbing and ringing in the cold. The grass underneath me was wet, and my cheek was damp where I had lain against it. It was dark, and I was shivering. The stars and the moon made enough light to see.

I looked up, and there was Cressock, crouching over me, a look of concern etched on his face. It was his voice that had intruded into my dream, and broken me from my slumber. I was glad to see him, but I hated to lose the dream. It had been so warm, so easy. Now everything was cold and dark.

"Are you all right?"

I nodded, and reached out a hand. Cressock pulled me to my feet, holding me gently as my legs found their waking strength.

"I'm all right. I'm all right."

Reluctantly, he released me, and I balanced myself on shaky legs.

I looked around me, at the glistening moonlit grass. "How did I get out here?"

"You must have walked in your sleep."

"It's never happened before."

He shook his head. "I don't know what woke me. The night seemed a little too silent. I checked your cot, and it was empty. It was cold, too. You must have been out here for some time."

I shivered, and drew my arms around me. Cressock pulled off his shirt and drew it swiftly over my head. Then he swept me up in his arms and hurried back to the farmstead. A dim glow stained the eastern sky as we made our way inside.

* * *

Cressock banked up the fire and kindled it to a blaze. He filled the kettle and hung it on an iron hook above the flames. He threw a blanket over me and put on a fresh shirt himself. I wasn't nearly cold enough to warrant all this fuss, but his solicitude was comforting, so I said nothing as I watched him work.

When we were both settled in with tea, I tried to tell him of my dream. By now it was only broken fragments, half-smothered impressions, and formless feelings that defied all speech. My words went wrong as soon as they left my mouth—became leaden and prosaic, leaving the warm spell of the dream behind. Cressock listened attentively, but I could see I was not getting through.