04-24-2022, 11:18 PM
His first thought was about the absence of fatigue. In that very revelation, Philip knew he was dreaming. He had been bone-weary tired when his head found its way to a pillow. That the physical constraint of body and mind resisted translation to his new destination was as dead a giveaway as anything else. Though now that he shielded his eyes from the brightness of a sunless sky, he realized that he was surrounded by nothing but sand. Yellow, endless dunes made a wave of the horizon. For reasons he did not bother to dissect, a vast desert had been the place of his spawning. It was annoying more than anything, foot sinking into the sand as he tried to turn about despite the athletic-cut Ascis. Cliffs made a mountain behind him. In their façade were carved shapes undoubtedly etched by human hand. Wherever he was, he was certain it was about as far away from Catholicism as possible.
The cliffs were looming in what felt like fewer steps than should have been possible. Yet he was so accustomed to the oddity of dreams that gave it no additional thought. Why was he here? Was this the manifestation of his subconscious or was this by sophisticated design? He thrust his hands in the pockets of a La Perla cashmere tracksuit, bright white as his papal robes. The cashmere was smooth as butter, but despite the environment, he wasn’t hot. Though when he ducked into the shade of a doorway, a coolness washed his face.
A tunnel burrowed into the rock. The other worldly light extended into the passage, though it was barely enough to see. Carvings were etched into the walls, and despite the many languages he could read and write, the glyphs were unknown to him. A 5,200 year old tablet of pictographs was the oldest writing on record, but it was a crude form of proto-cuneiform. The ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs dating to the 5th Dynasty would fit in the setting of this dream, but the shapes on the walls were far less pictoral and more script-like. They had the scratching reminiscent of cuneiform of ancient Iraq but more elegant. He didn’t claim to read such worthless nonsense, his knowledge was honed upon the languages that built the church, but he knew enough to recognize that this writing was intelligent, sophisticated, and complex.
They were probably a figment of his imagination, he finally decided and continued onward. The tunnel turned to stairs soon after with just enough light to avoid spraining an ankle. At the bottom there was a fresh scent on the air and for the first time there was a sound. He followed an echo of drips to their source, puzzled.
At some point in the journey, the passageway or ancient temple – whatever it was – transformed into a more natural cave structure. So much so that he was careful to avoid smearing mud on his suit. A pool of cave water identified the source of the dripping, and Philip was about to carry on until he saw a glint beneath the surface. At first, he thought it was another key, which would explain the absurdity of this dream. He leaned over the incredibly still water, squinting to discern what was submerged when an unexplained ripple disturbed the surface. He could almost see the shape of it when he turned his face slightly, but the light was insufficient. He could get in the water, he thought, and swim down to it.
An unease touched his brow. There was no one here to explain the hesitation, and ultimately his curiosity stole the better of his senses. It was a dream anyway and he typically tried to not fight the pull of dreams.
He slipped into the water. The chill wasn’t unpleasant but nor was it relaxing. His feet could touch the bottom, but after a few steps they lost the shelf. He was about to gasp a lungful of air and submerge when bubbles erupted ahead of him. Likely from the disturbance of silt, he thought, and slipped under the water.
The dark was deeper beneath, but the glint of something vaguely metallic led his way. He reached out to snatch the curious item, wincing when he found it was sharp to the hand. Surely it had cut him, he thought, as he pulled it toward himself and started to push upward.
Something grabbed his foot and a hard jerk pulled down. He gasped a mouthful of water and kicked at it, but the harder he fought, the lower he was dragged.
The cliffs were looming in what felt like fewer steps than should have been possible. Yet he was so accustomed to the oddity of dreams that gave it no additional thought. Why was he here? Was this the manifestation of his subconscious or was this by sophisticated design? He thrust his hands in the pockets of a La Perla cashmere tracksuit, bright white as his papal robes. The cashmere was smooth as butter, but despite the environment, he wasn’t hot. Though when he ducked into the shade of a doorway, a coolness washed his face.
A tunnel burrowed into the rock. The other worldly light extended into the passage, though it was barely enough to see. Carvings were etched into the walls, and despite the many languages he could read and write, the glyphs were unknown to him. A 5,200 year old tablet of pictographs was the oldest writing on record, but it was a crude form of proto-cuneiform. The ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs dating to the 5th Dynasty would fit in the setting of this dream, but the shapes on the walls were far less pictoral and more script-like. They had the scratching reminiscent of cuneiform of ancient Iraq but more elegant. He didn’t claim to read such worthless nonsense, his knowledge was honed upon the languages that built the church, but he knew enough to recognize that this writing was intelligent, sophisticated, and complex.
They were probably a figment of his imagination, he finally decided and continued onward. The tunnel turned to stairs soon after with just enough light to avoid spraining an ankle. At the bottom there was a fresh scent on the air and for the first time there was a sound. He followed an echo of drips to their source, puzzled.
At some point in the journey, the passageway or ancient temple – whatever it was – transformed into a more natural cave structure. So much so that he was careful to avoid smearing mud on his suit. A pool of cave water identified the source of the dripping, and Philip was about to carry on until he saw a glint beneath the surface. At first, he thought it was another key, which would explain the absurdity of this dream. He leaned over the incredibly still water, squinting to discern what was submerged when an unexplained ripple disturbed the surface. He could almost see the shape of it when he turned his face slightly, but the light was insufficient. He could get in the water, he thought, and swim down to it.
An unease touched his brow. There was no one here to explain the hesitation, and ultimately his curiosity stole the better of his senses. It was a dream anyway and he typically tried to not fight the pull of dreams.
He slipped into the water. The chill wasn’t unpleasant but nor was it relaxing. His feet could touch the bottom, but after a few steps they lost the shelf. He was about to gasp a lungful of air and submerge when bubbles erupted ahead of him. Likely from the disturbance of silt, he thought, and slipped under the water.
The dark was deeper beneath, but the glint of something vaguely metallic led his way. He reached out to snatch the curious item, wincing when he found it was sharp to the hand. Surely it had cut him, he thought, as he pulled it toward himself and started to push upward.
Something grabbed his foot and a hard jerk pulled down. He gasped a mouthful of water and kicked at it, but the harder he fought, the lower he was dragged.
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