The Oracle’s Tale - Part 9

(Beep. Music fades in.)

This may be hard to believe, but generally, I am not all that open of a person, even though I have now created a scenario in which I am now pouring out my story to strangers on the internet and to those who are not quite strangers but who inhabit my dreams. 

It is what it is, I suppose, and here we are.

Back then, much the same thing could be said. It is what it is. Specifically, a situation I was thrown into. Back then, when I was sleeping in the back of the church, suffering through a familiar nightmare for the sake of something that would vaguely resemble slumber... Well, I didn’t want to speak up. 

I didn’t want to talk about the dream. A dream in which I left my home in the early morning hours of a day not otherwise specified and wandered a familiar path to the back of the church, creeping around a corner to see someone gripped by death, bound to the floor behind the altar, seeming trapped there as his body writhed in what could have been futile attempts to rise up again.

Once again, I woke up screaming. But before that, before a moment in which I would have been expected to provide an accounting of my fears, the dream took a turn. Or it gained a piece. A piece that would not seem like much at first glance, but it was the first deviation there had been. And by then, I had learned that details do matter. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

And that might be hard to explain. But think about Sherlock Holmes. His adventures take place before forensic science was the thing we see on TV, but that doesn’t stop him. Sometimes he finds that one little shred of evidence that makes the investigation and reveals the culprit. In so many steps. 

A detail is a little thing in the grand scheme of things, yes, but so is a brick. Bricks when brought together becomes home. Details when brought together become truths. 

In the dreams, it was harder to find bricks, but that meant that once I have them, I really couldn’t let them go.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

In the dream, I walk passed the neighbor’s home. Or my body does. This representation of my body does, and my mind sits as a helpless passenger. On the ground is the newspaper for that morning. It must have just arrived, all things considered. For one, it looked fresh, but don’t ask me how a newspaper on the ground can look fresh. That’s not something I’m all that prepared to answer.

My body kneels down. Fingers reach to the small line of text that bears the date. I read the date The date was a week in the future. And that’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? This day of reckoning is coming in a week. Only a week. A week to do something, anything. For a person who does nothing. Or nothing right

Maybe now it’s obvious why I was screaming. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I mean, maybe Father Thomas would have agreed, right. I… (Breath)

He came to my side as I awoke and sang me some sort of hymn to me. No, it wasn’t some sort of hymn. It was my favorite: Be Thou My Vision. Irony of that aside. I mean some visions are truly terrible, right? We don’t need to debate that because I was clearly knee-deep in one.

Waking up from a nightmare--no matter the contents of the dream--is a universal experience. You come into your body fixated on your sense of terror and dread. Your fear fills your senses and prevents you from feeling a sense of physical grounding, which leads to the assumption that you are falling, which is yet another thing to be afraid of. It’s the sort of thing that compounds and swallows you up in its wake. 

For your nightmare to stop, something has to break through the encasing you have been trapped in. And that is no small feat. It’s hard to do. But I’ve found that something familiar like a name or a hymn can do it. 

Father Thomas had a weak singing voice. But he still sung to me. He brought me back. And then it was like he cast me out again. Or did I do that?

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I couldn’t tell him everything. I don’t know why. The most obvious reason was that--in the context of that or any church--something like this is a delicate subject. So it started as a hypothetical, a problem whose true traits were carefully hidden from prying eyes. Father Thomas had bad eyes but good vision, and he saw through my defensive facade. Though he didn’t call me out on it right away. Instead, there was a gentle unwinding bit by bit by the patient hands of a soul that--I swear--could never utter a hurtful word.

Some people grow more bitter with age. He grew more kind. And that made everything worse.

Of course, his solution… Well, it wasn’t worth anything. His idea of telling someone. I mean, it was an idea I had before, but it hadn’t worked out for me. I could have told him that, I guess, but I was reluctant to. It was like I didn’t want the truth to be real. I wanted to believe what he was telling me. I liked the appeal of it. I wanted to keep the illusion alive. 

After all, he seemed to believe me. Maybe not in the dreams. Maybe not in mysticism, but he believed that I believed. That I was telling the truth as I knew, and he was one of the few who believed that.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

In hindsight, there was a lesson in that moment. To be heard is one of the greatest gestures of love someone can receive. It’s not a single act or something encased in a moment. It spreads forth. It changes quite a bit. Not everything. I mean, it can’t touch the outside world, but it is more like an inoculation, strengthening the body of she who receives it.

Or so I’ve come to think.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

Father Thomas sent me home with his nurse. But not before he wrote out a note. Ms. Pat was not so thrilled. She didn’t like the wait, but she was impressed that he was able to grip a pen. His hands had been shaky the past few weeks, and though his lettering was clumsy, the fact he could do this much was promising. 

He gave the note to her. With the instructions that she was to give to whomever was at home when I arrived. And someone would be home. This was not the sort of night when I had to stay late and out of the way… (sigh) the way of certain events. In fact, all had been peaceful at home as of late. Sure, the lock had to be replaced again, but that was relatively tame. We had all seen worse. We had all known worse. Which also meant that the house wouldn’t be empty when I got there. 

Father Thomas knew this. Uncle had told him about the workings of my home. Before he left, that is. Not permanently. But Uncle had to take a trip someplace. I don’t remember the details. And I’m surprised that I don’t. He seldom travelled, so each trip was noteworthy in and of itself. And yet, I cannot remember where he was. He was just gone. And Father Thomas and the staff were left to see to things. 

And they did okay when it came to the church. But when it came to Father Thomas that was a very different matter. One that mostly was for me and Ms. Pat. 

Uncle had said so before he left. He didn’t mean anything by it.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

Stepdad was there when we got there, and not knowing better, Ms. Pat gave him the note. As she was told to do, in her defense. He was cold when he took it from her. I don’t imagine he meant to be rude; he just did not care. Not about religion, not about Father Thomas and not about me, especially not about my fears or anything that was the least bit complicated.

I knew this. He had even said it to me, but it was so easy to forget, to live in a dream. Father Thomas told me to tell him, so I did. And hey, Stepdad went running every morning anyway. He ran the church. He-- He told me he would look into it. He promised. 

(Music fades out. Beep.)

The Oracle of Dusk is a Miscellany Media Studios Production. It is written, produced, performed, and edited by MJ Bailey with music licensed from the Sounds like an Earful Music Supply. If you like the show, please consider leaving a review or telling your friends about it. And check out Aishi Online, the story of the voice you know all too well.