In dreams...

Song of the day: “Lay lady lay” by Gemma Hayes and Magnet. I know the original is from Bob Dylan, but this is the one I know better. Hah.

So, yeah, I had an awesome dream, which means I’m not going to bore you with daily stuff like gardening, harvesting, editing and all that. Seriously, it was great so I’m totally going to share that.

Right, here we go.

The sound was deafening. A high screech much like that of summertime cicadas resounding across barren hills and valleys. In the distance some green vegetation broke the infinite stretch of gray and yellow. But it was a mediocre change, one that meant little for me as I resided there where heat sweltered, the atmosphere still, yet undulating. Air literally simmering around me, the sun beating down from it’s high perch as I squatted on the hilltop. Below me, deep down a jagged rock wall, a ravine slashed from east to west. No matter which way I looked, it slashed through the land, a physical boundary that would allow no one to pass, no matter how badly you wanted to cross.
With the tip of a snake-leather boot, is send a rock tumbling, watched it roll down the incline and then disappeared into the ravine never to be seen again. While still listening to hear it hit the bottom, I raised a handful of sand from the ground and let it escape from my fist in a steady stream. It made a straight line down, no detour, no sway, just straight down. Not a good sign. Not now. Not ever.
Slowly, careful not to make a sound, I straightened. Brushing my hands off on the faded denim of my jeans, I slowly began my descent down to the ravine’s edge. My hat, a wide-set western affair of some tan material, protected my face from the afternoon sun, but my shoulders, revealed by the sleeveless top that covered my upper body, were bare to the constant assault.
Rubble rolled ahead of me, my feet having trouble finding purchase on the steep incline that barely allowed passage. I managed to reach the ravine’s edge, however, and came to a skidding halt.
Strangely unaffected by my fear of heights, I leaned across the edge to peer down. Nothing. Ten feet down from the top, nothing except blackness replaced the reddish edges of the ravine.
From below an awful stench rose, and though pungent it did not rise higher than about three feet above the ravine.
Without taking my eyes off the blackness, my hand slipped down to my thigh and grabbed hold of the revolver I wore there. The worn grip fit perfectly in my hand, and checked the ammunition before I dropped it back into the leather holster. With a final look around I edged closer to the edge of the ravine and peered around until I saw what I was looking for. There, to the left, was a narrow ledge. It was little more than nine feet down, and yet it seemed an interminable drop.
One last look around. Only barren desert and no breeze to lighten the impact of the sun. With one final breath, I took three leaping steps and jumped down.
Heat and dirt swirled around me. And then a jarring sensation under the bottom of my feet now that I hit the ledge. I went through my knees, cushioned the fall as best I could with flexing muscles and then went into a controlled roll that had me end up on one bent knee, the revolver once again in my hand.
Suspiciously I squinted into the darkness, noted the deeper recesses where the grayish light from above wouldn’t reach and then settled on the ledge that slashed downward at a 25 degree slant.
Knowing, without knowing how, that I had to go that way, I kept the gun in hand and started down the sloping path. It looked hand-hewn to me, sharp edges where chisel and hammer had been used in countless hours of manual labor that would have been back breaking.
Cautiously I made my way down, the gun in my hand unwavering on the darkness ahead of me, and my ears sharpened for anything threatening. My feet, the smooth leather soles of the boots giving little purchase, skid and slide on the steep path, but I manage to hold my course as I descend deeper and deeper into the darkness.
“Thrrrit!”
I jump at the sound, my finger on the trigger almost tightening as I spin around. Nothing. Behind me the path is lit better than before, and there’s no sign either in front of behind me of whatever it was making the sound.
My breath leaks out gradually, silently too, as I lower my weapon just a little and resume my way down.
Ten more steps and then, “Thrrrit, thrrrit.” I ground my teeth, repeat the procedure of before but see nothing, not behind and not in front. Instead, if my guess is correct, the sound appeared to have come from the side, there where the path doesn’t go and where few hundred-foot plunge was my only problem.
Wearily, I pan the darkness, unsure whether to continue downward, or head back up where the light at least will aid me. There is no choice, really. It is essential that I get to the bottom of the ravine, no matter what.
Determined, I once again continue on my way. The ridge, or ledge, appears to go on endlessly, but I am relentless. I hear the Thrrrit sounds three more times, but other than that there is nothing to stop me from going down into the abyss of blackness.
There, some odd hundred feet down, I suddenly see something. A red glow, fire almost sizzles it seems. Like a serpent of sorts, it slithers and crawls across the ravine bottom, its movements lazy and fascinating.
My progress stopped, I can only stare down at where the orange light coils and stretches, and I wonder, once again, if I am doing the right thing. Still no choice. I know it. Feel it. And with a deep fortifying breath I continue on my way.
“Thrrrit. Thrrrit. Thrrrit!” Used to the sound by now, I am almost too late to dodge to the side when something scaly, something huge bursts from the darkness.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I chant, quickly backing up, and bringing the revolved up to aim. I manage only one shot before something sharp slices across my wrist, numbing my fingers to the point that I lose hold of the gun.
It all went to fast, I only have a vague impression of scaly, moth-like wings, a massive almost shaggy head, and a snake’s tail.
My gun thuds to the ground, as I dodge to the side in the nick of time. Rolling under an overhang, I only take a moment to glance at my wrist. Liquid circles it like a bracelet, and though I cannot see the color, I know that I’m bleeding. It doesn’t hurt. Not yet. It will, though. Soon.
Gnawing my lip, I look at the ledge, and my gun, before I take a survey of the surrounding darkness. Nothing. The sound isn’t there either and with a fortifying breath I force myself to get to my feet. I’m a bit dizzy, but I manage to keep my balance as I rush to the weapon and scoop it up. My right hand won’t hold the weapon, but luckily my left can cope in an emergency.
Clasping it tightly, I start to run, my ears primed for the warning sound. This time I’m prepared, at a slight curb the thrrrit thrrrit come from straight ahead and I don’t hesitate as I raise the gun and fire. No effect, it seems, and it, whatever it is, keeps coming at me. Rather than do what every instinct inside me is screaming for me to do, I duck, just as it reaches me, and push away from the ledge. Mid-air I curl my body up tight, and stretch out just as I reach the ground. With bone-jarring impact I land, refuse to go down and spin on my heel.
The thrrrit, thrrrit is right above me, and I go flat out on my back as I fire at the shaggy face just three feet away from my own.
A scream, my own or the creatures, I don’t know, fills my ears and then it’s over. My alarm goes off, and I blink up at the wooden slats of my cabin.

*sigh*
Seriously, I would have liked to know what the curly fire thing at the bottom of the ravine was, but what the heck. Maybe I’ll continue with the dream some other night. It would be grand, wouldn’t it, a sequel dream. Ah well, we’ll see.

Last bit:
Today was mostly about preparing for tomorrow’s canning session, thank you very much. I washed pots while grandpa and big brother washed the basin walls and floor with some sort of acid (we want to paint it two days from now) and then cooked supper with tenant and caregiver. Since we’ve got a big load of cucumbers, we also experimented with gazpacho, which didn’t turn out bad at all.

The melon harvest is doing splendid, by the way. We’ve got more than twenty melons in various stages of being ready and have been eating an average of 2-3 melons a day, for several days now. Yummy.
Well, I’ve got to go.