Dreams of the Past?

So I find myself waking yet again to my recurring dream. It has come to me now steadily, at least once a week, for about the last two months. Each time I have the dream there is a new detail or revelation that is presented to me. It is always the same though when I wake, physical symptoms are present along with the overbearing feeling of anger. It is a righteous anger that I can feel in every fiber of my body, saturating me, and overflowing.

The details are so sharp that they can not be ignored. It is cool outside but not cold. The sun has not been up for long, the dew still glistens on the grass and drops from the leaves. The season is changing. Some of the tree tops are donning new colors. The air is still today and there are no clouds in the sky. This is rare because here there is almost always a present breeze, the trees whispering as it caresses their exuberant foliage. Though this time of year, the breeze is more like a vengeful banshee ripping through anything barring its way, while black clouds filled with malice bring torrents of rain that beat the ground into submission and flood the hills.

The sun is to the rear casting sharp and stretched shadows. To the left are rolling hills in a stretching field. The foothills of the mountain can be seen, almost looking like a blanket, with the expanse covered in a thick layer of evergreen trees. Beyond that the giant watches over everything, ever present with its diamond cap, nothing escaping its gaze. The vibrant forest to the right usually seems friendly, welcoming, almost like it is alive. The wind moving their branches almost like they are inviting you in and dancing with each other. An offer of refuge, peace, and warmth radiating from its depths. Today the forest is staring, cold, and as still as death. Oaks glaring at the scene, suspended as they anticipate the event about to unfold.

There is a wide path extending east to west along the side of the forest. It is a commonly traveled path, trodden down to a nice firm packed earth and large enough to accommodate wagons traveling in either direction simultaneously. Far off to the west, peeking from behind one of the hills along the path, a glimpse can be caught of a stone structure. A promise of a city or village of some sort in the distance, too far for significant detail. On this path is where I stand.

I use the possessive “I” loosely because at the same time I am standing there experiencing everything personally, yet I am also viewing everything from an outside perspective. Somewhat like a panoramic picture with crystal clear definition. Omniscience would be a great word for it except that only God is Omnipotent, so that would not be correct but close, if you will. Also, the possessive is used loosely because the man standing in the middle of the path that I am seeing, that I am experiencing, is not me.

I have never met this man before in my life. Never before have I met anyone like him, but at the same time he is as familiar as I am with myself. From the outside I can see every minute detail, the placement of a single strand of hair on his head or the individual scuffs and grains of dirt on his well seasoned boots. Each are as evident as the looming mountain on the horizon. He is about a head taller than I am, a little more than six foot. He has thick brown hair, but it is cut short, no longer than an inch. His eyes are piercing and intelligent, they fall between the shade of olive and sage, dusted with flecks of gold. A short beard is present on his angled face.

His clothing is mostly quite simple. He is wearing sturdy looking boots, a dark brown in color. His pants look to be a dark green color, almost black. The shirt is the shade of parchment paper and has longer sleeves but is thin. Over this he also is wearing a dark grey cloak with a hood. Beside him, resting on the ground, is a large traveling pack. The only thing that stands out in his garments, and does not seem to belong, is the brooch that holds his cloak on. It appears to be the shape of an oak leaf or something similar. The leaf is made of silver, with the veins trimmed in gold.

On the personal level I can feel everything he feels. His emotions and thoughts are personal to me, as if they are my own. Confusion, pain, sorrow, and fear are all strong emotions within him. Each emotion is different in its own respect but are all manifested from the same catalyst. None, though, are as strong as his overbearing anger. I can also see everything he can through our eyes and we are not alone.

Standing directly in front of him, about three paces distance, is another man emitting an aura of mischief and evil. He looks quite similar in build and size. His facial features resemble the man I inhabit as well, possibly some sort of relation. The length of his hair is much longer and his eyes are darker. The eyes are devious and they dart from place to place, searching and calculating. His clothes are of a better quality and darker in shade. The same oak-like brooch can be seen holding his cloak together.

In a loose, staggering circle around the two in the center, are twelve other men. Each of varying size, shape, dress, and demeanor. Some of them seem to be quite calm, a few of them look to be scared, and the rest are doing their best to hold back excitement. All of them, however, are holding weapons, swords to be more precise. Standing at least six paces distant from the men in the center, as if to give the two plenty of room.

The sinister man is speaking to me. Yet, I can not hear anything that he is saying. As I watch his lips, face, and tongue move, something seems out of place. I can not seem to follow his lips to make sense out of what he might be talking about. I realize that his movements and patterns do not match with English speech, he is using a different language. Throughout his monologue, his eyes continued to dart around and squint as if looking for a reaction. His hand also never left his sword, stashed neatly in its scabbard upon his hip.

We never moved, not so much as a twitch, while listening to the accusing man. Accusing, that is what he is doing. Not that I can hear him, but more like an understanding filtered through my host. The man is accusing us of something that we did not do. We do not say a word as he lists the false testament. Initially, I believe he is here to arrest us, but more understanding comes filtering through. He never intended on making an arrest, the man was indeed waiting for a reaction. Finally, he finishes his monologue and we utter a single word. I can not hear it, but I know what it meant, “No.”

All Hell breaks loose as the man explodes into action. The sword comes free of its scabbard in the blink of an eye, he leaps forward and swings the sword in an arc to where our head rests, all in one fluid motion. At the same time we leap back, reach inside our cloak, and rip our own sword out to join the battle. The mans sword zips past our neck, missing it only by inches. Our sword, free of its sanctuary, vibrated with need for combat. The sword was a hand and a half with a full fuller. The balance was remarkable and fit comfortably in the hand. The hilt was bound in cord and had a simple pommel and cross guards.

The man continued his attack on the same momentum with another wild swing. Our blade came up swiftly to intercept the mans blow, deflecting it safely to the side. Before he had other chance to bring his blade around for another attack, we stepped forward with a vicious kick to his chest. The man started windmilling his arms as he stumbled backwards. Just as fast, we leaped forward bringing our sword around in a blinding arc, the mans chest left rent and his life spilling out before he hit the ground.

Everybody else started moving at once, as if this is their signal to join. Using our momentum and speed we already set in motion, we closed the distance to the closest of them in a flash. Knowing that we do not stand a chance surrounded, we need to make sure we break out of the circle. That man did not have a chance, as he was cleaved on an angle from neck to his opposing arm pit before he could even lift his sword to defend himself. Immediately we pivoted to the right, anticipating the movement of the next assailant looking to spill our blood.

He was moving slowly, trying to guess our next move to his advantage. As he raised his blade to attack, we quickly dove forward with a sweeping slash from left to right, spilling his guts into the dew. As we leaped forward we felt a quick tug at the left side of our back, followed shortly by a burning sensation. We quickly reversed our swing and spun full around to address our new threat. The blade caught him just under the left armpit and buried half deep into his chest. His arms were both raised to deliver a chopping blow in order to carry out our sentence.

We pull our blade from his chest as we quickly back towards the west. We can see all of them now, no chance of them sneaking behind us. We are right where we want to be, with the only disadvantage being the morning sun in our face. Three of them are down leaving nine left to deal with. The rest of the attack was clumsy at best, tripping over their fallen friends and losing their own life in the process. The battle was quick, lasting maybe slightly more than a minute in total. Nevertheless, it felt like an eternity.

Afterwards, we are left standing alone, staring at the product of the violence. The man is very angry. Confusion, pain, sorrow, and fear are all strong emotions present within him, but the most powerful is his righteous anger flowing through his soul. He is very tired, but he knows that this is only the beginning.

This is where my dream always ends. I am left laying in bed, flat on my back, thinking about what had just happened. My body aches as if I was actually there. I feel confusion, pain, sorrow, and fear. But most of all, i feel the ever present anger, it is overflowing, saturating to the soul. The anger is righteous. What I have yet to figure out is what the anger is directed towards. The anger that he felt and I feel is not towards the attempt to take his life, it is against something much greater. Something hidden from me. Something he knows.

What is he angry for? Why is that anger so powerful that I can almost feel the energy from it in the air? Who is he? Who are the men that are attacking him? Where does he go now? Maybe next time I dream the answers will be revealed to me as each time I do there is something new. Today the revelation in my dream was his name, Brendan. Goosebumps. 


About brinkmanb47

About Howdy! Let me introduce myself! My name is Brandon Bedell, as you must have already surmised. Some also know me as Colonel Cane, Brinkman, or just simply Brink. I am 29 years old. I grew up in a small town called Grant in the State of Michigan. Living most of that time on the wonderful waters of the Muskegon River. Small towns are great to create a mixture of emotions and experiences that inspire creativity. I have always loved to write and have been creating various different pieces for some time now. I have been out of the hobby for a significant season but am ready to jump back into the ink. Over time I will post some of my older pieces and add the new. I hope that you all enjoy it and feel free to comment as you wish!
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2 Responses to Dreams of the Past?

  1. Lillie coster says:

    Sounds like a novel to me……it’s about terror trying to take you to his side…you have to destroy him and take the path the good man has layed out for you…..the bible says the way is narrow…it sounds like he’s trying to prevent you from taking the narrow road……just my idea

    • brinkmanb47 says:

      That very well could be. It just startled me how I keep having the dream and how it really is not me as the focal point. Several things run through my head for possible meanings, each of them bring up new questions. 1) This is a vision of a past battle, somehow history has been presented to me in a dream. If it is why is it being shown to me? What am I to do with that knowledge? 2) This is completely fiction created by my overactive imagination. Maybe for a part to a novel my creativity is craving to write. 3) This is a message from God. God works in mysterious ways and with my personal experience with Him through previous messages sent, He never likes to take the direct route. His messages are usually obscure and metaphorical with me, well, mostly that way. I have had a few more direct “in your face” here is your answer messages before. But, this dreams bespoke of extreme violence, with a foreboding feeling of much more to come. Even with it being a metaphor I have a hard time connecting it to that. I am in a sense waging a battle with my ex through our divorce. She did provoke with her actions, in a sense drawing her sword, and I did in a sense strike back and filed for divorce. The battle just starting with much more to come until the final divorce decree. So, I could see it being metaphorical in that way as well.

      But, I am left confused. The amount of detail in my dream is absolutely insane. Not only am I able to see everything in the vicinity, but I know what the regular climate for the season should be. And if it is metaphorical about my life events, then why am I not the focal point in the dream? Who is this other man? I find myself wanting to have the dream again to see if there are new events that unfold or if any new details are presented to me. On the other hand, I am terrified to experience it again because of its reality for me. Every time it happens it is as if I am really there and it is happening. I can see, hear, smell, and feel everything. I have never before seen someone actually die. I have seen dead people before that have been injured, but never before have I actually seen someone die. Let alone, so violently. And to have my hand, because I experience the physical aspect of the dream, be the one that ends these lives with such precise skill is beyond explanation. I left the fine details of the death and gore mostly out as I do not think anyone should see something like that anyways. I do not think I could describe it accurately anyways. Let me just say that no movie has ever captured an image of death like I witnessed. Television can not trigger your sense of smell or touch. I can tell you that the man that I inhabited was just as terrified and repulsed as I was, even for a man skilled in the dealings with death. Death holds no Glory.

      There is something to be said about that anger as well. I have been angry plenty of times before and I do not like to be. There are many different types of anger. The only type that should ever exist, in my opinion, is righteous anger. This is anger inspired by wrong doings and evil that comes from one that is of a good nature. Do not misunderstand me though, I do not believe that if someone has this anger that it should be acted upon. This mans anger though is overwhelming. Whatever act that has inspired this anger must have been something very bad, because the anger that he was feeling was not towards those that had tried to kill him. In fact, he was really not that angry that had happened, almost like he expected it. It seems obvious though that whatever is causing this righteous anger and the “arrest” is closely linked. Personally I would be furious about the attempt on my life, but apparently there is something that is much worse. Can not imagine it. I am curious and terrified at the same time.

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