Posted in:   From the Tale
The vision zooms in on young Kayla’s mid-brow, and then we are inside her head, witnessing the disturbing dream written so plainly on her sleeping face. For a second this abrupt change in perspective disorients me, but my eyes adjust to the dim, murky light, and I see young Kayla wandering in a dingy maze of backstreet alleys. Graffiti-scarred brick walls enclose her on either side, as she fumbles her way through endless, monotonous twists and turns. Her breath is quick and shallow, and her wide eyes dart from side to side, like those of a hunted animal.
Snarling, demon-like voices nip at her heels, “You better get going on that new-client presentation. You’ve barely looked at it, and the whole thing is way over your head. John doesn’t like you. He’s sure to trip you up. You’d better be perfect, don’t screw up like last time. Your father is going to really hate those leather gloves you bought him. And perfume for your sister? Again? When was the last time you went to the gym? Did you notice the jiggling fat on your thighs? No Christmas treats for you . . .” On and on the voices drone, voraciously buzzing around in her brain, like mosquitoes after blood.
In the spaces between their words, other voices whisper a counter-melody message, “This is your life, Kayla — all that really matters — all you’ll ever deserve — you’ll never get out of this twisted maze — we won’t let you go — there is no escape.”
Young Kayla stops still and sniffs the air. There’s a breeze that wasn’t there before, lightly blowing back her disheveled hair, and clearing the stale, fetid air. Her scowl fades and the hunted look leaves her eyes.
“You lie!” she says, “There is a way out of here. This is my life! Mine! And I’m not going to listen to you anymore!”
The demons are silent; the twisted maze of backstreet alleys is gone. Another voice arises in this empty space, with rich, compelling, feminine tones that squeeze my heart tight with yearning. Whether this voice emerges from young Kayla’s dream, from my own inner depth, or from the midnight folds of the Winter Solstice magic, I cannot tell.
“I am waiting for you, sweet one,” She calls out softly, “Come, it is time. You are ready, you are ripe.”