the mortal hand
I dreamed music. I awoke in a strange place. A half-light place. A liminal place where the sun is neither one place or another.
A dark haired woman in red sat on the bed I laid in. Her hair curled around her shoulders in soft waves. She spoke to me in a lyrical foreign language. She was lovely, heavy breasted but not thick around the waist. Long limbed. Her fingers had traces of flour on them. I feel her weight as she stands from the bed, as though the bed itself was sighing. She leaves and I fall asleep again. When I awoke golden light has spread across the room. Sounds of splashing and laughter came from outside. The furniture in the room was old but very well made. All the colours in the room were dark brown wood, green drapes. A shock of white flowers in a cut glass vase. Faded oil paintings.
I moved to the window. A deep blue sky, and in the yard below a swimming pool. A group of girls ranging from 18 to 24 were enthusiastically playing and splashing around in the pool. I turn away.
I dreamed music. I awoke again. A dark place. The window was luminous. The pool was empty but for one girl with very long silver hair. She was combing it and singing to the moon's reflection. During the day there had been many young women but none like her.
The doctor came to see me. She had cool hands and spectacles that balanced on her nose. A cool white shirt and grey trousers held up with braces. She came on a small boat. I saw the angle of her hat. There was nothing wrong with me. I didn't understand her. She spoke only with the woman in red. I don't know who I am, or where I came from. My voice is rough and it breaks from of use. I tried to ask her in my crude way, but she shushed me. I think all the mirrors are covered here. I have not seen my face. I ran my fingers over it to see if it would stir something. But I remember nothing. My voice is a croak.
The house is clean and cool, despite the heat outside. The ceilings are high and it all has a well-made, well scrubbed, age about it. It smells of old wood. The tiled floors on the ground floor are worn, bold but not garish. The upper stories are laid with a hard dark wooden tile. It is fringed by swaying trees, and bordered by a garden. When I felt strong enough I saw some of it. A coastline. Islands, lands in the distance picked out against the sparkling water. Each night the silver haired girl would sing. I watched her from the window.
I was included into mealtimes, a long table filled with delicacies from the countryside, prepared by the matron and her girls. Mostly eaten outside in the sunshine, or under starlight and candles. I stayed mute, not wanting my unfamiliar voice to rasp and grate against the liquid tones of the conversation bubbling around me. I knew nothing of what was spoken, it passed around me like a rock in a stream. A rock with Itβs hard face baked to the sun and dry, untouched. I wished to be a stone like that, in a land far from here. A stone that had never been touched by a mortal hand. Just a stone in a lake. I grew fatter. There was nothing to do but eat and sleep. I could feel the roundness forming under my clothes. Did I have hair once? There was nothing but a shiny pate there now.
There was a day when I could stand it no longer and I spoke. All talking ceased at the table and all eyes fell on me. I felt myself grow red under the weight of the attention. The matron signalled to the girls and they all left. She placed her napkin on the table and departed. I did not see them again. The house is holding its breath. I did not sleep but waited until night. I dreamed no music. I awoke in a dark place.
Jack Hagley 2023
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#Q :: It should be more painful, more personal for you to read. You should be scared to put it out because it reveals too much about you