All characters belong to the people who own them; which isn't me.
The dreams were back. They weren't nightmares; he didn't wake up screaming, covered in sweat and tangled in the sheets. However, they weren't pleasant and they always returned when shit got heavy, when his family were in danger when his world was on the verge of being swept away in a tsunami of greed, power, blood, death and love.
He was the same man inhabiting different bodies in his dreams. A common theme, regardless of the guise, was a feeling of obligation, of his destiny not quite being his own to mould. There was always an overriding feeling of connection to another, not sexual, more brotherly a strong camaraderie, but he could never pin point its origin or focus in the brief flashes of the visions.
Sometimes he was wearing a woollen tunic. It was well woven for something unsophisticated and hand made, but he could still feel it scratching against his skin. It was fastened with a wide leather belt at his waist, a dagger rested on his hip in its scabbard. A length of cotton cloth was wrapped firmly around his neck and tightly knotted.
We would be stood at the entrance to a large tent, in an endless forest full of towering black trees large enough to rival the Redwoods of North California. The reverie would start with scenes of camp life. He could smell cooking meat and the mustiness of the sweat of many unwashed bodies. He would hear the friendly banter of the soldiers and the clank of their armour and weapons as they moved between the rows of uniform canvas tents. The air would be filled of the clamour of a large number of busy people occupying a crowded space.
Then the perspective would shift and he would find himself observing a deafeningly fierce battle. He would hear the call of commands from the generals, the battle cries of the soldiers and the screams of the wounded and dying. He could smell the metallic tang of the blood over the fresh pine scent of the forest and the damp peat of the earth as it was churned up by stamping horses and marching feet. He would hear the clash of blades hitting armour and the thuds as their blows landed on shields. He could hear the blades cleaving through flesh as they completed their grisly tasks in the hands of their owners and he would hear the whistling of the arrows as the archers let loose their volleys. The waves of air born death were so thick that they would momentarily block out the insipid sunlight as if a cloud passed.
Always it was bitterly cold, cold the like of which California would never match. The snow would be swirling, the delicate dancing flakes adding a balletic beauty to the horrific vision in front of him.
In other dreams he would be dressed differently, again scratchy homespun wool, but formed into a length of plaid wrapped around his hips and twisted around his upper body and shoulders as a feileadh mhór, a great kilt. Sometimes, in his waking hours, he wondered if he was ever going to dream of being dressed in finer fabrics, or at the very least comfortable cotton and denim.
These visions would begin with him staring after a horse; the innocent woman he loved sat behind the armoured rider, fear writ large on her features as she turned to watch him as she was taken away. He would be blind and dumb to the crowd at his back and the scents of the spring flowers and fresh grass. He always felt the crushing powerlessness and burning frustration of his predicament as strongly no matter how many times the dream repeated.
These scenes would morph and he would find himself maddened by bloodlust, oblivious to his senses, swinging a heavy iron flail over and over again into a prone body until it was an unrecognisable puddle of blood, mashed flesh and splintered bone. There would be a sense of vengeance not quite fulfilled and when he woke his arm would physically ache.
He always knew when the shit was really going to hit the fan when he dreamt of the dark night illuminated by a full moon. He knew he was the same man who watched the battles in the frozen forest. He could feel the horse nervously shifting beneath his feet and the rough hemp of the rope around his neck. He could smell the musk of the animal and earth that had been baked dry by the harsh sun in the daylight hours. He could hear the creak of the branch in the false silence of the night and would be overwhelmed by a feeling of wanting something to be closer and yet simultaneously willing it to be further away. There would always be a feeling of acceptance and of pride that he had tried his damndest to do his duty and that no one could have asked him to do more. However these emotions would be countered by a depressing sense that no matter what he did, it was never sufficient.
That was the feeling that haunted him on waking; the feeling that his best was never going to be enough, enough to save his family, his beliefs or himself. He would chase it away with the feel of his hands rubbing over his face and through his hair and with the acrid smoke of the first cigarette of the day. Then he would rise, prepared to give it his all yet again, defiant in the face of the fates that had apparently written his endless doom in the stars.