Chapter 33      Secret Places

 

 

 

In search of Gavin, Thomas picked up a tallow lamp and entered the passage leading to the turret.  The light was feeble and odorous, yet it was infinitely better than no light at all.  The passage turned right and paralleled the massive stone wall behind the main room.  Just a few steps in, nearly all sound from the outside ceased.  He paused and waited for his eyes to adjust, then inched along, shielding the relative brightness of the flame with his hand.  He moved cautiously, lest there be some precipitous descent hidden in the darkness.  The passage seemed longer than it should have been, but that was probably a consequence of the mortar patterns in the stonework.  Silence increased to absolute -- thick silence, the kind by which old places kept secrets.  It pressed uncomfortably on his ears.

The stone radiated cold and absorbed the light.  Breath formed silent, half-lit clouds of vapor which diffused slowly.  Gavin was a strange man, considered Thomas, that he should seek out such a place in mid winter.  In summer, the cool stone might be pleasant enough, but hardly now.  He shivered and walked on.  The passage narrowed until it was just a slot barely wide enough for him to hold his shoulders square.  The Romans must have been much smaller people.  He would have found it difficult to quickly traverse the passage in full armor as they must have done.  How long ago?  He paused again and listened.  The stone remained silent.  It did not resonate with the footsteps of men centuries dead, nor did it conduct any clue as to Gavin's whereabouts.

Reaching a low arch, he stooped and emerged into a close ceilinged, circular room.  The lamp flickered from his movement and cast a shifting, contrasty light.  He saw a stone stair set between the turret's inner and outer walls.  It ascended steeply to the left.  Innumerable feet had worn the steps into saddle shapes.  Those same feet had eroded a shallow trough from the arch where he stood to the stair.  Ancient dust filled the spaces between the flagstones.  The room was empty except for a heap of old sacking piled against the wall just beyond where the stairs began.

Seeing neither Gavin, nor evidence of Gavin, Thomas glanced upwards until his eyes met the ceiling.  Holding the lamp before him, he approached the stone steps.  All quiet.  He began climbing.  Within a few steps, the room below disappeared.  His own breathing echoed between the masonry.  The stairs, narrower than the passage, forced him to climb with his shoulders askew.  The width of the steps were much narrower than the length of his foot and the risers were steep.  This, coupled with the worn purchase, made the climb a thing requiring concentration in its own right.  After making what must have constituted one half of a complete circuit of the room below, he saw a narrow door opening to his right.  The stairs continued upwards into deeper darkness and cold.

Breathing a nebulous cloud of steam, Thomas entered the room.  It lay directly above the one below and was of similar shape.  Rough planking, fairly new, with the adze marks unfinished, covered the floor.  The room stood empty.

He returned to the stairs and turned right, ascending again.  What was Gavin up to in here?  It was as dark as a tomb and as cold as one, too.  Well, he would know shortly.  The next flight must bring him to the top chamber.  The ruined turret could not go much higher.

Another half turn reached the room, but it was uninhabitable.  The ruined stone barely reached higher than a man's chest and the roof beams had been set upon these.  The stairway upwards from that point had been sealed with mortared stone.

This perversely low-ceilinged room must be Gavin's retreat.  He held the lamp into the darkness and peered with expectation.  It took little time, however, to see that this floor, too, lay empty.  He made a quiet sound of surprise.  Where was Gavin?  He saw nothing but several upright timbers acting as queen posts between the sagging floor boards and the roof beams.  The room was barely twelve feet in diameter, and provided no hiding places.

Where was the man?  Had he missed something?  Did the first flight of steps have a counterpart which descended?  No, his memory was quite clear.  The stairs had begun at that point.  A trap door, then?  He had seen everything but the space concealed by the pile of sacking on the ground floor.

He turned from the room and descended.  Upon reaching the ground floor, he immediately turned to the sacking.  The pile seemed to hide nothing.  It looked like what it was, a moldering pile of disused, coarse-woven cloth.  He grabbed a handful and pulled the mass away, half expecting to see a hidden passage or a door let into the floor.  Instead, with an involuntary cry, he found himself looking at Gavin, sitting cross legged, his head nodded forward, looking for all the world, dead.  But, was he dead?

Kneeling beside the figure, Thomas touched his hand.  It was warm, quite warm, actually.  The sacking made an excellent quilt, but still, what was wrong with him?  Something about the circumstance made him feel this was no uncommon occurrence, though that rendered it no less extraordinary.  As he withdrew his hand, Gavin stirred, as if waking from a light nap, raised his head, and with but a moment to focus and recognize, said, "Hello, Thomas."

"Hello."  He straightened his back, but remained kneeling.

Gavin smiled thinly.  "Not what you expected?"

"No, hardly," Thomas said honestly.  "Are you well?"

"Yes."

Thomas absorbed the assurance.  If he was well, then what was he doing?  Could he be a little mad?  Old people got that way sometimes.

Gavin smiled again and stretched out his legs, but made no other move to get up.

"I was dreaming."

"Oh," said Thomas, still at a loss.  After a moment, if for no other reason than to break the awkward silence which had befallen them, he broached the reason he was there.  "I came to ask permission to open a keg of your ale, and perhaps some wine.  We would have a wake for our friend."

"I was not asleep," said Gavin, as if Thomas had not spoken.

Thomas looked at him blankly.

"You must understand," said Gavin, "my dreams are not undertaken while asleep."

"Oh."  This was becoming uncomfortable.

"Sleep quenches such dreams."  Gavin paused, waiting for Thomas to respond.

"A day fantasy," said Thomas.

Gavin shook his head.  "Do not understand me so readily, Thomas.  My dreams are unusual.  I perform them by balancing the determination of wakefulness and the limitlessness of a dream."  He formed an apothecary balance with his hands and tilted his shoulder, saying, "One inch to the right, and I awake."  He shifted his shoulder the other way.  "One inch to the left, and I sleep.  No, it is delicate, that balance, like the breath needed to make a gentle note on a pipe.  Do you understand?"

"In part," said Thomas, unsure how to proceed.  "I understand what you say, the words, but I must admit I do not understand what you mean."  The discussion of dreams discomforted him.  Dreams were a subject he preferred to leave alone.

Gavin peered seriously at him.  "That was honestly put, Sir Thomas.  Honestly put.  So many dismiss the difficult with pretended understanding."

Another silence developed.

"Well," said Thomas, rising, "the others will be awaiting me.  May I say we have your permission?"

"Of course," said Gavin gently.  His eyes regarded the young knight with compassion.  "My hospitality holds full measure.  In a bit, I will drink a toast with you to your young friend, but afterwards, we must talk."

Thomas frowned.  The tone had a seriousness which touched upon his well being in some way or another.  "About what?"

"Dreams."

"I do not like dreams."

"I know you do not like dreams, young knight.  That is precisely why we must discuss them."

Thomas stood straight, the position from which Stewart would have said needed a team of horses from which to move him.  Gavin began to rise, also, his injured back preventing a normal, graceful movement.  Thomas reached to help him.

"I require no assistance."

Thomas refrained from saying that was scarcely obvious.  Gavin stood as tall as he was able.  At one time, Thomas gauged, Gavin must have been a commanding sight, and stood a head taller.  Now, pathetically, one shoulder was frozen lower than the other and he peered at most men like a tortoise craning its neck from its shell.  Considering what he had seen, it could be argued that the deformity without had penetrated within.  What fun the villagers of Norbury would have with him.  The thought made him wince.

Gavin detected the pressure of sympathy.  "Do not weep for me, Thomas.  I live in my dreams and they are a fine place.  A very fine place.  I do things there only the angels can do.

"Do not worry, Thomas.  I am not mad.  I am trapped in this twisted body, but I am not mad.  In my dreams, my soul reaches the hinterlands of Heaven, for you see, I ride my dreams as you would ride a horse.  My dreams are well trained."

Thomas stirred, hoping Gavin would end the conversation.

"Do your dreams not tear your brain, as my deformity tears my body?" he asked.  "Would you not make peace with them?"

"What makes you think I need to make peace?"

"I know of your dreams.  All who sleep in the same room as you know of them."

Thomas started to answer with irritation, but caught himself.  Here in this cold darkness, with this man who was once a monk, could he share his secret?  This man knew of dreams, knew of their weight.  Deep within, he had longed for someone to confide in, longed to find some wise man who could tell him how to sweep them away, drive them off like a flock of black ravens.  But wise men were hard to find.  Immature men seek answers, mature men accept that no answers are to be found to some questions.  Yet, what if Gavin were such a man as he had always sought but had given up hope of finding?  Uncertainty, distrust and hope flitted around his edges.  What could Gavin offer him in exchange for his confidence?  What could be gained, or lost?  Could his honesty be used against him?

"Decide, Thomas," said Gavin.  "We may speak as equals.  Where else could you find the scales so squarely balanced?  Let us be honest with one another."

At last, Thomas agreed with a nod.  Yet he remained circumspect.  He would feel out the offer a little further before capitulating fully.

Gavin said, "Cadmon has great respect for you."

"I am flattered."

"He also has great concern for your peace of mind."

"That is good of him."

"Indeed, Thomas, that is very good.  Young knight, let down your guard.  Forbear your defense.  Do you think it was by accident that I speak to you of dreams?  Nay.  Cadmon, before he left, asked me to approach you."

Thomas squinted, defenses rising.

"Cadmon and I share half a lifetime.  He thinks highly of you.  That, in itself, is more honor than most men achieve in a lifetime.  Recognize.  Take his good will, and mine, and profit by them."

Thomas was both stubborn and confused, the former the result of the latter.  But, he was also beguiled.  He did not move to leave.

"I have you here," said Gavin, "and I will speak my mind.  I will tell you about yourself.  Be patient, it will take only a few minutes.  You are skilled, patient and ambitious in the way of your class.  You are a decent fellow and trustworthy.  But you are also troubled.  Do not refute me, for I know.  Rather than erasing the trouble, you wall it up."  Gavin paused and assessed the effect of his words.  Encouraged, he said, "But it creeps out at night, does it not?  It worries its way out between the joints of stone and rides you with a scourge."

Thomas stared at the former monk.  He knew much, uncomfortably much.

"I am pleased my friend Cadmon feels such concern," said Thomas coldly, "however, I will not take more of your time."

"Thomas."

He had turned to go, but the voice struck him as a parent's voice would strike a child.  He turned back again.  The flame of the lamp whistled hollowly, and sent the room reeling with distorted fractures of light.  Again, he faced the knight-monk, this time with a mind more confused than ever, for the call of his name had reminded him of his mother's voice, the voice he remembered solely from dreams.  Suddenly, he felt lonely and small.  Yes, he wanted relief from those accursed phantoms, but to admit it lay beyond his grasp.  Or did it?

"Forebear, Thomas," said Gavin, taking him by the sleeve.  "Sit upon this sacking.  It will be comfortable."

"I suppose you would know."

Gavin smiled.

They sat upon the sacking, the lamp between them.

"Tell me of your dreams."

"I remember little."

"Come, Thomas.  Try.  You must remember much from a dream you have had over and over since you were a lad."

Thomas's eyes narrowed.  Up to now, the interview could have been prompted by the concerns of his traveling companions, as Gavin had intimated, but this reference to the span of years could only come from one.  Stewart.  Had his valet betrayed him?  Stewart, whom he held as close as a brother?

Once again, Gavin sensed the direction of his thoughts, for he said, "Yes, Stewart has told me some of your history with these dreams, but he refused to do more than confirm your many years labor.  He said to me that to learn more, I must ask you.  So you see, Thomas, there has been no betrayal of trust.  What I see is a net of loyalty and affection, of which, you should be proud."

Slowly, Thomas agreed.  If they approached Stewart and could wheedle no more than that from him, then Stewart had a staunchness he heretofore had little credited him.  Very well, the vote of his friends had been true.  If it meant so much to them to afford him relief, then he could do little but bow before their will.

"Ask, Sir Gavin, and I shall answer as best I can."

Gavin winced at the title, but upon reflection, understood.  Thomas would reveal himself to an equal, not a priest.

"When did the dreams begin?" asked Gavin without preamble.

Thomas answered just as forthrightly.  "I have always had them."

"You do not remember a time when you slept free?"

"No," he said immediately, then hesitated.

Gavin waited.

"In a sense, I can say `yes' to your question.  There is another dream.  In it, I am a child.  My mother is in it.  It is cold, mist beyond the window.  My bed is warm and secure.  She awakens me and says I must meet someone important."

"And, did you?"

"The dream ends there.  Of it, I know nothing more, but I believe it is from a time before the nightmare."

Gavin leaned forward, the lamp eerily illuminating his gaunt features.  "Have you ever considered that these dreams are connected, that the bad part is but the ending of the good?"

"No, they do not come one upon the other."

"They are separate?  You are sure?"

"I am not certain, but I think they are."

"What was your mother like in the dream?"

Thomas looked suspicious.

"Remember, Thomas.  Remember the dream.  Was she happy, sad, worried?  Leisurely or in a hurry?"

"In a hurry.  Her voice is tense.  But she looks at me."

"With a mother's love?"

"Yes."

"Were you often awakened in that way?"

"I remember little of her, but I do not think so.  She was upset."

Gavin nodded appreciatively.  "What was she upset about?"

"I have no idea.  The dream ends there."  Thomas looked inward.  It had been a long time since he had thought about the dream, really thought about it.

"What about the dream?  Is it always the same?"

"Yes, nearly.  It shifts about.  It is cloudy."

"Your memory is cloudy or are there are clouds in the dream?"

"There is grayness and mist.  The clouds are in my mind."

Gavin's eyes tightened encouragingly and waited for more.

Thomas had a sudden, intense wave of suspicion.  Who was this who questioned him about his dreams, who said he rode his own dreams as one would ride a horse?  He straightened.  "What of your dreams, Sir Gavin?  Tell me of your dreams."

Gavin looked long into Thomas's eyes.  Thomas did not flinch or look away.  The eyes measured him and decided.

"What would you like to know of them?" asked Gavin, at last.

"What are they that you can ride them?"

Gavin smiled.  "A figure of speech.  By that, I meant they transport me but not with the bit in their teeth.  I control my passage with hands firmly on the reins."

"You are awake within your dream?" asked Thomas.

"Exactly."  Gavin seemed pleased.  "You grasp the essence, Thomas, as no one else has done.  Your dreams have given you insight."

Thomas smiled ruefully.  "At least they give me something for a thousand lost nights."

"That is something," said Gavin with a brief smile.  He waited until the mood settled, then said, "My dreams, at first, were nothing more than vast landscapes."  The words loosed a touch of enthusiasm.

Thomas sensed that Gavin, too, longed to explain himself to someone, and suddenly, he warmed to the strange monk-knight.  For the first time since the monk's greeting with Cadmon, he spoke with warmth.  The dreams connected them, formed a bridge.

"I first discovered these dreams at the brink of falling asleep on odd occasions.  They came, rare as an eclipse, without warning, but full of gloriously bright colors.  And I flew, as a bird would fly.  The fields and forests, the sky, the mountains, all seemed to glow from within, like summer sun streaming through a stained glass window, but brighter.  My emotions flew also.  Everything I could see or feel, taste or breathe, overflowed with emotion.  And it was good."  He emphasized the last word just as a priest emphasized the revealing of God's grace on earth.

Gavin paused and Thomas noticed the glisten of tears in his eyes.

"You flew?  Like a bird?" asked Thomas.

"The most graceful of birds."

"You had wings?"

"No.  There were only my senses, my eyes.  I had no body, only a point of view, like seeing the country from a cliff edge."

Thomas stared into the flame momentarily, then raised his eyes.  "You said these -- flights -- were your first experience?"

"Yes.  My first waking dreams."

"Waking dreams," repeated Thomas.  He thought about the phrase.  It was an odd combination, yet how much odder than the utterer himself?  "And now?" Thomas prompted.

"Now?"  Gavin stopped.  His voice had an edge suddenly.

Did his question trespass on private preserve?  Thomas watched the monk-knight take a deep breath and decide whether or not to go on.  Thomas wanted to go on.  He wanted to know more.  What had the monk-knight done with dreams?  Had he controlled them?  Yes, he was interested!

"Thomas, you ask my innermost parts."

"Do you not ask the same of me?"

Gavin lowered his eyelids.  Thomas knew full well that Gavin's interest had been invoked by Cadmon, but if the monk-knight would not divulge the innermost recesses of his own dreams, neither would he.  A sympathy had developed between them but how far would it span?  How far did Gavin appreciate the kinship which had so recently grown between them?

"Very well, friend Thomas," answered Gavin, his high brow and dark eyes as cold and ascetic as a painting's.

This was the laying bare, thought Thomas, the lowering of the shield.  Now, Gavin would be vulnerable, too.

"In the years since my first dreams, they have become more real, more valuable than this."  He swept his hand around the chamber.  "Here is misery, pain, hopelessness.  In my dreams, there is light and warmth, a wisp of the eternal."

When Gavin failed to go on, Thomas asked a question:  "What do you see there?"

"Whatever I wish to see."

"People?"

"Yes."

"Towns?"

"Yes."

Thomas waited.  Slowly, Gavin expanded his description.

"It is a world as complete as this," he said, "but without the gray.  There are towns, people, cattle, and there are trees, sunrises and planted fields."

"As we see them?"

"No.  Everything glows from within, as if by pure spirit."

"What happens there?"

"It is a living world.  I am there.  So is Una.  And we are whole."

Inclining his head slightly, Thomas said, "It sounds like -- paradise.  But, is it not boring to be there, puppet, puppet master and audience all in one?"

"That is one of the beautiful things about it, Thomas.  There are surprises.  It is as close to paradise as I can journey this side of death."

"Does Una also dream?"

"No.  Unfortunately, she does not."  This hit a nerve.  "I have tried to teach her, but the soil is not right for the seed."

"Does she remember your dreams?"

"No.  That is the saddest part.  I escape with her, but she never escapes."

Thomas reflected, remembering something he had heard once.  "Do our souls fly from our bodies when we sleep?"

"Yes, I think they must.  Being spirit, I believe they are sometimes drawn heavenward at night while our bodies sleep.  That is what I saw when I first began to dream.  My spirit saw Heaven's rim."

"Priests say only prophets see true visions," Thomas countered.

"Perhaps."

"Are you a prophet?"

"If so, I am a very minor one."  Gavin smiled sadly.  He did not continue.  He had reached the limit of his tithe.  It was time for Thomas to speak.

At length, Thomas said, "When I dream, I see sad, dark things, not spiritual light.  I fear my soil will not take the seed either."

"Perhaps not.  But that is no reason to keep such close clutch of them."

"You speak too easily.  They hold me.  It is not the other way around."

"Are you sure?"

"You doubt?  If dreams are what my soul sees on its nighttime journeys, then I am damned.  Your dreams take you to Heaven, but I awaken sweating and afraid.  If what you say is so, then by night, my soul flies to Hell!"

Gavin shook his head in a calming way. "It is not so simple.  I have lived in dreams for years.  I know the country.  Some dreams are soul journeys, but most are not.  Nightmares are the fever signs of a tormented soul."  Gavin glanced down to the lamp.  The flame rose steady and unperturbed.  "Enough of my dreams," he said, straightening his back against his deformity and apparently finding little relief.  "What torments your soul, Thomas?"

"I do not know."

"Your dreams have no rider.  Let us give them reins.  Are you agreeable?"