Beyond Reverie

Chapter Nine -

Genevieve almost missed the days that she actually forgot her dreams. Lately, they had been far too vivid, and frequently remembered. Though they faded with the days, the fact that she remembered anything at all from them was a marvel in and of itself. This time, she found herself in Grandgran's, great-grandmother's, room. She remembered everything about it, the softness of the decorations, her Grandgran's bed, the tray with various perfumes on the vanity, a small, boxy, television that looked like it belonged on a technicolor TV show. It had been positively modern, when it was originally purchased, with more than two buttons on its remote control. The rocking chair that now sat in her room was there with a quilt dangling over it. She walked over to it, took the quilt and held it, just to try to draw any memories she could from the sensations. She barely remembered Grandgran now; she was only six when she had passed. Her mother told her once that her great-grandmother's death might have some influence on the cloud of sadness that lingered even at her happiest moments. That, maybe she blamed herself for it. She hugged the quilt, and sat in the rocking chair. The room made an impression in her mind. It was in this room that she was found when Grandgran had passed.

Tears welled in her eyes, her bare toes curled into the ivory shag carpet. It was as empty as she remembered it last. The bed was neatly made, the coverlet pulled down slightly to reveal decorative pillows, including a sausage-shaped neck pillow with lace on the sides that made it look like a piece of wrapped candy. She sat alone for a while in the chair, not really thinking, just remembering. The scene changed, and Genevieve was little, again, rocking in the chair back and forth, her feet firmly pushing her back, almost until the back of the rocking chair touched the wall behind her. A familiar voice hit her ears, she recognized it immediately. Her head rose sharply just from the fact that she wasn't alone, anymore.

Standing in the doorway was her great-grandmother as she last remembered her, weathered skin a light olive, with brown splotches like random freckles, her hair was like a silver-white cloud atop her head, the fashion of her younger days. She was hunched over, cane gripped in a gnarled hand. Her housecoat hung baggy over her slight frame, her slippers shuffled against the carpet. Her voice was stern, harsh from what Genevieve was certain was over 70 years of cigarette smoking, "Don't hit the wall, or I'll make you paint it."

Genevieve looked at her great-grandmother then stood up and ran over to her. She threw her arms around Grandgran and looked up at her face. "I'm not trying to, but it keeps moving backward."

Grandgran hugged her back, and smiled, then lifted a hand to pat her head. "It's alright."

It felt so happy. She buried her face into Grandgran's housecoat. She must not have been awake very long, but long enough for her to take the curlers out. "I have a story to tell you."

Genevieve remembered loving Grandgran's stories. Any time she visited her grandparents, that was when she would spend time with her great-grandmother before she went to sleep. She would tell her stories about remarkable women, and Genevieve would sit, enraptured.

Genevieve laid herself down on Grandgran's bed, finding one of the pillows from the bottom of the stack, one that was actually for sleeping on. Curling up and holding it, she listened to the story. It was a story of the Guardian, the very first one. She began to doze off, listening to her great-grandmother's voice. The world around her faded, Grandgran's voice was going along with it.

It was at that point that she might wake, the dream being one of those short ones that actually take up the night, but chronologically take only a few minutes in her head. However, this was not where it ended. Instead, she would open her eyes, her dream-self forgetting what had just happened as she awoke on the cold ground. The air was damp, a crackle of wood and a wavering red illumination inside her eyelids told her a fire was near. The warmth implied it was in front of her, closer to her legs. She opened her eyes, and looked around. In front of her the fire warped the air above it, the orange light from outside only partly filled the small area, blocked off by some kind of curtain. She was in a cave; the stone walls were smoothed, looking like they'd been molded, or sculpted, and the dirty floor was uncomfortable. She sat up, trying to dust her hands off, then rub her eyes. On the other side of the fire sat a woman. She was shorter, noticeably shorter than Genevieve, even as she sat. She didn't look to be much older, though her face was weathered by the elements.