The Arms of Morpheus

Chapter 10

After checking on Blake, Amelia went to bed early, still distraught by the events of the last two days. In that short time, her whole life had changed beyond all comprehension; making the more recent, happier times seem like a distant blur. Her fiancé and possibly her daughter had morphed from normal human beings to victims of a heinous hereditary condition - one that slowly killed you but ensured you stayed awake to enjoy the ride.

She had no control over anything anymore, like a falling climber desperately scrambling for a purchase in the rock face before falling into the abyss below.

Following their discussion earlier, Noel had drunk himself into an alcoholic stupor, falling asleep sprawled on the sofa, an empty bottle of Kilbeggan by his side. It was hardly surprising; he had received a death sentence earlier that day. How would it make her feel? She had meant to rouse him, but from what he had described to her earlier that evening, Amelia had gone to bed, considering it better to let him rest. To sleep.

While he still could.

Her sense of helplessness grated. He was going through hell, she knew that, but still she could not shake off a feeling of repulsion, of anger towards him. Why had he willingly started a family with her, knowing that this threat was there; looming, waiting to pounce? What right did he have to expose their daughter to such a threat? He had no right. She hated him for that.

More selfishly, she turned her attention inward. She may not physically have contracted this illness, but mentally and emotionally she was still a victim; her life shattered. What right did he have to put her through this living hell?

Pulling the duvet under her chin, she stared into the darkness of the room, fully aware of the enormity of the space beside her. Was this how it would feel when he was gone? Alone and cold? Frightened by every sound that she heard in the night?

Suppressing morose feelings she closed her eyes, the wide range of emotions weighing heavy on her mind. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty of her world, she drifted into slumber, her mind grasping the relief of the unconscious.

                                                                                    ***

She meandered gently through the slow, ebbing waves of the river, the peaceful blue waters still and calm. Looking behind, she could see the path the small boat had travelled on its journey; a small, foaming trail left in its wake. It moved effortlessly, propelled by an unseen force, the large sandy cliffs to both sides squeezing the vessel along its route.

Feeling calm and reassured by the tranquillity, Amelia rubbed her hand absently along the coarse woodwork of the hull, catching her finger on a sharp, protruding splinter; the trickle of blood focusing her attention on the vessel she was sitting in. Long and narrow and made of dark wood, it was wide enough for two people to sit abreast and maybe three rows deep. It had no sail, offering no protection against the elements and the harsh sun that glowed in a clear sky; the heat beating down onto the top of her head.

She was not alone.

Two figures sat facing her, their unblinking eyes penetrating her flesh. Amelia stared back, noticing their intimate proximity.

One was an old man, maybe 60 or 70 years old, dressed in classic Greek attire. His white cloak covered the lower part of his body and legs, revealing a muscular torso that impressed for his age. White hair and beard were carefully kept, neat and officious. He sat with a cool authority.

He held a staff that was rugged and knotted, as though it had just been torn from the branch of a tree. It was four, maybe five feet tall with his hand perched at its top, giving him a posture as though he was holding an Olympic torch. His demeanour was serious, but not threatening.