A Fantasy Nightmare

By Jane Goodhew

The snow crackled as I made the first footprints into what looked like winter wonderland and wandered around the lakes to the house on the other side of the hill.  It was so beautiful, the snow was frozen onto the trees and the icicles hung like large diamond earrings or over excessive glitter on a Christmas card.  Blue skies and a bright sun that reflected its rays on everything it touched meant that it did not appear to be cold even though it was minus 14.5 degrees.  It was magical and my mind began to wander and imagine all sorts of things not the usual Santa on his sleigh with his elves helping but of people from the past who had long gone; of mythical creatures that flew through the air and then skimmed across the ice to see if there were fish below.

So jumbled were my thoughts and changing so rapidly that I was not paying attention to what was really around me until thud I landed and banged my head on a jagged rock that was projecting out from the side of the hill.  When I came too I really thought I must still be dreaming as I was in a house and not one I recognised and several vertically challenged men were staring at me as if I had grown two heads like something out of a Greek or Roman Myth.  It was the seven dwarves from Sleeping Beauty and behind them was the three bears and yes Goldilocks.   I had entered into the land of make believe, all I needed now was Alice from Wonderland to appear.

As if by magic she did and smiled as if to say I know how you feel I have also been there is a dream but this was no dream it was real.  I could see them, hear them and feel them as they tended to my needs, fed me chicken soup and tucked me up in their small bed.  The fire glowed bright and warmed me as I felt sleepy and closed my eyes again and hoped that when I opened them I would be back home and this would have been nothing more than a strange fantasy after reading my children fairy tales and watching sentimental films.

The darkness took over and I slept like a baby well until the morning when I could hear the birds singing but not ordinary tweet tweet or chirping but in time to ‘I know you; you walked with me upon a dream’.  Beautiful sweet songs which filled my heart with happiness but as in my own world it was short lived.  A loud cackle came from the kitchen and a wizened old woman bent and haggard looking hobbled over with as you guessed an apple in her hand.  This really was too much how on earth could anyone be expected to endure so many jumbled stories rolled into one’s nightmare which this was becoming impossible to imagine let alone believe.  She looked at me through her beady eyes which reminded me of an eagle about to dive at it’s prey and she stepped forward, almost glided, her feet made no sound and before you knew it she was bending down over me her hand outstretched with an apple perched upon it.

                                                       

 ‘Manger, manger’ she kept saying, why was she speaking French, I was not in France or any French speaking country.  Then I remembered my first Mother-in-law forcing me to eat chicken curry which I would have enjoyed had she given me the breast meat but instead she gave me the bones of the carcass! Why was I thinking of her now, she had been dead for years and I can’t pretend to have missed her and anyway that was in Mauritius and I was not there.  Come to think of it I am not so sure that I am anywhere I seem to have lost the plot and the will to go on.

The sun moved around and was no longer shining in through the window so I could see the outline of a face, of one I recognised from the present time, not from years long gone.    It was my old friend and walking companion who must have come to save me.  I tried to sit up, to wave my hand, to call out but nothing, no movement, no sound, just stillness and the old hag staring.  My friend had not seen me and for reasons best be known to her did not bother to knock or ask if anyone had seen me.  I had been overlooked, deserted, stranded in this living world of fantasy.

 

     Copyright Jane Goodhew