3.
Living in the city, Thor realised, you forgot how dark the night could be. Even without a moon to be seen, the city night came in amber and red and green from the lights and the buildings outside and then the sky itself purple and red and silver, throwing a dark rainbow of shade through every attempt to block out the world. But here. Here he could see the moon and see it silver and white in the sky, through the crack in the curtains that he left there just to regard this strangeness the better. But then again the moonlight coming in through the windows was the only light, and it threw the shadows into more frightening relief than if it had been pitch dark in the room.
Lying at first on his side, towards the window, he could see the long shadows crawling and lurching towards the bed from all corners of the room. The wardrobe on the other side of the window from the bed cast a fat black pall that crept up the bedsheet and stole squarely beneath the window. Thor turned away from it, uneasy, wondering if having his back to the window instead would help. It did not. Not only was there the creeping awareness that something could perhaps come through the window to stand behind him, but the shadow of the bedroom door now cut out towards the bed like a great sharp wing. His hand, which he had foolishly let drop over the side of the bed, fell right into this shadow and he whipped it back quickly, cold with the sudden horrible idea that he might lose that hand to the cutting shadow.
And then, as his eyes helplessly roamed, he could see the patterns on the floor from the grilled window in the corridor; a criss-crossed net of black diamonds marked out by the old panes. As he watched the floor in a growing sort of primeval fear, it seemed to Thor that he saw a silvery patch of light extricate itself from the diamonds and creep, out across the floor and into the bedroom, sliding across the shiny boards like a swimmer. As Thor watched, mesmerised, the white milky light seemed to catch in his eyes and the pale shadow stretched and lengthened, slithering forward until it lapped around the foot of the bed. For all their lurching and creeping the other shadows had been undeniably still, and those phrases grew redundant in the face of what now crept in all animate honesty up onto the coverlet near his foot. As it crawled towards him a kind of understanding latched on to Thor that made him bolt for the light switch.
There was nothing in this room or beyond that could possibly be throwing this shadow.
Thor's spine prickled cold from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, chilled by a wind that could not possibly be making it through the bolted windows. He could not take his eyes off that streak of lucid silver that was not almost lying across his leg. Too intimate; too terribly intimate. Thor whacked the light switch, drew his legs to his chest and snapped himself into a sitting position, panting in the bright light.
The brightness dashed all the shadows away and they fled with an almost audible sigh of disappointment. Just about hearing that sigh, Thor felt a curious sadness even in the midst of his relief.
Nevertheless he turned the corridor light on before turning his own off and endeavouring to sleep again.
Somehow – it was not so mysterious, he was very tired – Thor did sleep, and before he woke again he dreamed. The dreams came at him fractured and in pieces, like highlights from a story. It was not his own story, he could tell, but in the dream it felt as if they were or at least that this story he was just receiving pieces of was linked now to his own.
In the first he stood within a dark cold cave. He touched all the walls, turning, looking for a way out. But there was no way out and the walls were smooth and shiny. They pulsed beneath his hands and moved. In the seconds before the dream moved on he knew that this was no cave and that the feeling beneath his hands was one of snakeskin.
In the second dream he was running along the clifftop. All of a sudden he rounded a corner and stopped dead on the edge of a field of waving grass. Across this raised expanse stood a stunted tree, grey against a grey sky. Beneath the tree a group of men huddled, four, maybe six, arguing in muted voices. He could not help but think of conspiracy. They too were grey against a grey sky. He froze at the edge of the dream, terrified that the men would turn and see him.
In the final dream he was coiling around himself in cold water growing dark, reaching up to where the light was, so far away. He was scrabbling at the ice, beating on the roof of the sea and could you die in a dream? He had no sooner wondered this than he woke up.
He took a deep breath waking up, feeling very much to need it. A watery sunlight was sifting through into the room, a closer reflection of that light he had been so desperate to reach in the final snippet of dream. He ran a hand through his hair and held his head for a long time. When he finally opened the curtain and saw chinks of his garden winking up at him he felt almost instantly better. It moved him to get up and get dressed, open the bedroom door and step out into a corridor that seemed startlingly light. Of course, he remembered, he had left the light on all night. He shook his head at himself as he turned it off; now he would have barely any electricity all day. He would not be able to do that again.
In the bright optimism of morning he wondered what had ever made him feel so spooked. Light and shadow that was all. He had never even seen the moon before last night – not since he was a child – how was he supposed to know how moonlight might behave?
Moonlight falling onto his bed, that was all; really it should have felt romantic.
He made tea in the kitchen, not even surprised to note that the food he had left out was gone. He was more touched, even a little pleased with himself – and making the brew was quicker than yesterday. He slouched off to drink it in that wonderful armchair in the front room. He put the tea down as he reclined and let the softness soothe him. In fact, after a short night's sleep of faintly troubling dreams it lulled him all the way back to sleep.
Someone was kissing him. The press of soft lips on his forehead, in the corners of his eyes and mouth, the top of his neck. A voice whispered –
"Shhh, shhh, I'm sorry – I'm sorry –"
"Sorry?" he tried to say – "Sorry for what?"
But maybe he really had seen it for the voice replied;
"I wanted to show you – but it was too soon, too unkind – too soon but I've waited so long –"
Dream Thor felt as though his heart could break at the yearning he heard in those last two words.
"Who are you?" he asked. That voice against his skin was like a kiss, a warm breath, the speaker's fingers running through his hair as if in awe.
"So close –" they murmured – "I never touched before – I tried – I know – this isn't really it but it feels so close. I waited so long."
"So long for what?"
"Your hair is so bright –" the speaker laughed suddenly, as though it had not heard Thor's question or focus its own thoughts. It whispered teasing, spilling words like kisses –
"So golden. You hold sunbeams in your hair. So many. How could I –" it sighed then. Thor felt, suddenly, as though the speaker were losing connection and the idea made him nearly panic. He felt himself reaching out.
"Wait!" he was begging – "Don't go!"
"How could I ever –" the voice went sad, it was breaking Thor's heart and came from far away now, too far for him to reach – " – ever be anything but a shadow?"
When Thor awoke his eyes were sharp and wet and his hands were still reaching out just a little. And he was alone.
The tea was almost cold. He drank it anyway. It was still good. He got up, went upstairs and had a shower. It was cold. He added it to the list of things he needed to sort out.
Less dampened than he supposed he should have felt Thor knew what he wanted to do next. The garden waited for him as much as the house and he suspected he was in for a lush wilderness of exploration akin only to stories of adventure he had found in books.
The bright red back door that led off to the garden was calling him and he bounded back down the stairs to greet the call with enthusiasm. But someone had been there already this morning. The larger part of the upper part of the door consisted of an old glass panel, beaded with the fresh condensation of the early morning. Condensation in which someone, with a trembling finger had clearly trailed out the words –
THE YOUNG -
On looking closely Thor could see the markings of a third word that had not quite made it through. As though the writer had struggled to get what was there and the finger had fallen exhausted on the final word.
Thor tried to shake off the chill and stepped out into the misty garden.
_x_
Heee, well I hope all this was fairly creepy and will upset someone in bed tonight! Of course, it's only Loki, how scared could one be? Eh heh. Heheheh. :-)