Old Friends
Girl falls asleep to find her feet bleeding, and her skin torn by wounds she never saw. She tumbles into a body that already lies on the ground, bathes in dust and surrender. Sandals and armor, torn to shreds. Hair darker than hers, tangled in a net of dew. She cannot recognize this dream – it began before she closed her eyes, she knows the type – but it is hers, she knows for sure it's hers.
She falls into it a few nights later, and she can tell, even though it looks different. The pattern is woven in music and fire, but the melancholy is the same. Girl walks a woollen carpet, dyed in flame, before she can see anything – the smoke around her is thick, tenacious, nourished by flesh and many, many tears.
Three times she dreams it, eager to get to the end. Four times she spots a silhouette that flees her reaching arms. It has a veil of song to hide in – but she is faster, and her hands are pushed by burning love and regret. She will get there.
At the fifth return, the Scythian gifts the shape with her appearance. Girl never knew she was such a good dream singer. All the words and the questions her heart holds shower on her transparent frame, at once – dreams have the power of loosening tongues and minds.
The Scythian does not answer, not this time. She keeps moving to the cadence of the dream world, and hums a perfect tune to complete it.
In the following nights, Girl flies through the beginning in a heartbeat. She always rushes to her, and to all the things they never talked about. But the answers she gets are vague – they won't be clear until she voices the greatest shadow on her heart, a shadow she still cannot identify.
The next dream is the same, and yet another. Her mirrored image is leading her to a path of hard, pointy stones. Her feet bleed and smell of vomit, and her skin shows under wide gashes in the leather.
The image of herself Girl has to follow is neater than she has ever been. Her hair twines with a staff of fine wood, and her dress is flowing and new, like it was the day her mother gave it to her.
She wakes up, and realizes her body wasn't her own, again.
The time she spends until the next night is almost like sleepwalking. Her battered pastoral rod feels like a blade, and her clothes wrap her body in ways she had never imagined before. She stops to taste the traces of magic in the air, ready to fight, at any cost, if they were to grow menacing.
She sleeps, to find the beat of the music has moved to her chest. The Scythian does not stop humming – but her dry lips move, closer to her ears, and finally speak for real.
Don't go, she says, as Girl's heart dreams to stop. That is not your fate.
The words haunt her far into the day, under a cloudless sky. She has watery eyes to fix on that endless blue, as she chases signs on what to do with her dream omens. Logfella's whistling is brought to her by the wind; the sheep, serene and sated, sing her a lullaby with their erratic voices.
She will take a nap. She will ignore Logfella's scoldings, if and when they come – this is more important.
Sunlight filters through the veil of her sleep. The curtains that part Girl from the voice grow softer and thinner, in a melodious breeze that wraps them both.
She sees the Scythian's face clearly for the first time since it happened. Her eyelids are lowered, her throat vibrates – she is sitting, as she never did, and her leather-clad legs are circled by her hands.
Girl does not catch the movement, but it does not matter. She is already resting her head on her knees, and sobbing in the way dreams only allow. It is the first time she finds the words and the meaning, with the Scythian's fingers dancing in her hair.
She still cannot tell why it had to be her.
There are no words between them next, but the hums tell her all about it. The litany shows her the truth of martyrdom, image after image, and reveal it how hard of a choice it is.
The Scythian shows her what raged inside her at the time. It was bravery, yes – but none of it could be born without acceptance.
She couldn't do anything else – just like she can't do more than stroking her head, and singing the story of those who die because they know they have to.
Did she really have to, Girl wonders. She cannot surrender to that. Her eyes are closed to any reason – from pride to divine laws – she might have knelt to. Why she let a curse burn her body, and left the ashes of her memory like seeds of pain in their hearts, she cannot understand.
There is no way she can, the Scythian answers in song. Only the martyrs are entitled to it. But the purpose, she adds as she lifts Girl's head to a sunlight that had never graced their dream, is plain for everyone to see.
With a clarity that never belonged to any of her dreams, Girl raises her gaze to the birth of a small miracle. The warm fabric that imprisoned them thuds to the ground, breaking the cradle of music and doubt they were surrounded by.
Girl watches, and learns. The balance of all things is unfolded just ahead of her, shining a light of truth that just a few are allowed to see – even like this, veiled by the secret language of dreams, it is a rare taste of magic.
Open your eyes and look, the Scythian's hands write on her face. There is a meaning in saying goodbye. I gave up on myself, so that you could be returned all of this.
Girl awakens to meet a whole world. She sees it for what it is – fragile, and given back to its entirety by her sacrifice.
She cannot really be sure of anything. Even so, from the remains of her vision, she can tell she will never need to walk that same dream again.
Quietly, in the gentle shade of the tree, Girl sits to enjoy the rest of the afternoon, and begins making peace with her loss.
Inspired by and named after Transistor music - Old Friends (Hummed version), by Darren Korb, sung by Ashley Barrett.
In honor of those who change our lives by giving their own.