Nightmarish Sacrifice (Cardew) (2 page)

                                          It took me several moments to come round – only then did I realize that the sacral rite I had just witnessed had been nothing but a nightmare.

             
A nightmare...

             
So there was nothing about it that I urgently needed to fear...

             
Then why was I dreaming about exactly the same event for the thirteenth time in a row?...

             
‘It’s alright,’ I was tensely repeating in my mind, having closed my eyes not to see the outlines of the furniture around, ominously distorted in the darkness. ‘It’s alright, it all passed –’

             
Then why was I still so realistically horrified?

             
The pillow felt too warm and hard as stone under my cheek, the blanket wrapping me was awaking in me the desire to kick it aside so as to liberate myself from its ailing feverish heat, but the air outside was so stiffening cold I was feeling my breath painfully cut inside my throat.

             
Just like it had been into the misty ancient forest from my dream...

             
Unable to push the appalling memory out of my mind, I decided to go through it again in an attempt to get over it in a more rational way, so I decisively rose to a sitting position into the bed, then quickly touched the cool smooth floor with my feet, and hurried to turn on the lights.

             
Comfortably individual and even rather luxurious, my room was like all the others that hostel of my university was offering, and I was comfortably pleased with it; on the standardized base of living space, the individuality of my dwelling was freely flourishing, my possessions arranged around possibly able to reveal more about my personality and likings that I myself would be willing to.

             
Judging by the titles of the weighty volumes on totally different subjects lingering around the room, one could say that I was at the same time doing courses of study in mythology, occult science, psychology, philosophy, the meaning of symbols, and history of art – but from all those suggestions only the last one was true, although for me, they were all inevitably connected. The threateningly tremendous pile of CD’s, the ink-covered sheets of unfinished lyrics and poems thickly spilled over the whole desk, and the almost ready pencil-drawing resting beside them were only adding to the impression of creativity the room was making.

             
And of isolation – I had ended up with various artistic hobbies and no friends at all – and I couldn’t define which of the two had led to the other one – if they were so directly connected at all. Probably surprisingly, however, this situation of mine was not even the result of extreme shyness or repulsive hostile misanthropy – in contrast, I was generally friendly, kept no open serious enemies, and was always trying to be kindly helpful to whoever happened to be around. Nonetheless, my whole personality – my poses and attitudes, as well as the reactions and opinions – everything about me was involuntarily radiating haughty striking-with-respect coldness – my imposing, majestically august sense of pride preventing me from admitting to being merely a flawed human was setting me apart from the overly plain vulgar crowd I did not wish to belong to, making me distant from all those physically around me...

             
And forbidding me to recognize my own loneliness...

             
However, logical or not, I was content with my current position in – or rather, supposedly willingly out of – society, as, like I was ironically remarking in my thoughts, nobody around seemed good enough to be granted with my friendship, but still, I didn’t even think to compromise with my criteria – after all, I was enjoying overall respect, and more than enough time for all the numerous exciting activities which I was so keenly interested in...

             
Just that there was no-one to soothe me when I was feeling so hopelessly restless like that night.

             
The emollient mechanical light of the electric bulb was imperceptibly throwing its frail golden meshes over the soft wavy blackness of my hair, as if the touch of this frost-like magical net could easily capture the chaotic disturbing thoughts roaming inside my head, and mercifully release my already exhausted being from the obstinately obsessive anxiety they were ceaselessly charging me with. The insolent repetitive appearance of the same troubling dreams was breaking the harmony I was calmly floating in, and was unnervingly shaking the foundations of my cosy stable reality, turning it into a constant restless expectation for something gorily sinister to happen...

             
I sat on the edge of the bed and hid my face in my palms, trying to recall as many details about my nightmare as I possibly could: the man with the black cloak had been standing in front of the sacrificed girl as if he was a leader of the eleven witnesses in gray, like a mighty pagan high priest – but I hadn’t caught a glimpse of his face as it had been hidden.

             
And what could I recall for the victim?... I fiercely bit my lips, as this tranquility-shattering reminiscence was more crystal-clear than most memories of my own past: her insanely horrified face, familiar to me from the last two weeks when I had been constantly dreaming about just the same rite; her straight fair hair so pale it looked innocently white, although she seemed to be still a teenager – like me, probably even younger; her vulnerably-light eyes too shocked to even beg for mercy; her long solemn dress stained with blood...

             
And the slash of the knife that was waking me up every time!...

             
Involuntarily, I shuddered despite the pleasant friendly warmth in the room; how had I found the air freezing?

             
Or had it been because my soul was feeling stiffly icy with terror...

             
The clock on the wall was ticking rhythmically, but – however strongly I wished to immediately turn the night into a beautifully faint-coloured morning, I didn’t have the force to. The sky had only slightly started fading from its edges, and I stood up by the window to observe the slow but fascinating game of frosted clouds far beyond the distant, never-reachable horizon line.

             
In the direction from which the first sunrays would dash to hazily caress the beloved emerald land, the heavens were gradually awakening for their fascinating celestial life, absorbing the precious glow of the oncoming day and blushing into romantic mild crimson fusing into pale mysterious violet and peach shades like tender light blossoms the bewitching breath of spring was delicately playing with. The dawn was approaching imperceptibly, gently chuckling into the immortal silence with the peaceful joy only eternity could possess, and its carefree liberating radiance finally managed to break the manacles of nightmarish thoughts chaining me into restrictive cold-as-death frustration.

             
Thankfully: because inner – or at least outer – composure was a strict and earnest requirement for me during this newborn day. By habit urging my optimism out of its laziness while I was leisurely dressing up in front of the large mirror reaching the floor, I easily made myself believe that waking up earlier had been a true blessing for me – after all, thus I would have more time before the casting and be completely awake and prepared...

             
The play which students of my university were performing each year was traditionally reserved for those doing courses in drama, but no rules were forbidding the rest of us to participate, so I had decided to try getting in the cast from my first year in that school. Not surprisingly, given my slightly snobbish pride, it was only the leading role I would fight for, and I would instantly turn them down if I was offered anything less respectable, even if it was the second most important female part in the whole piece.

             
‘Your chances aren’t bright at all,’ I had been repetitively told. ‘Even if you’re really good, the best role you can hope for is one that has no more than ten words at all, if any –’

             
But this had only made me laugh haughtily – and it did again, as I stared into the reflection of my eyes into the mirror, and flawlessly repeated the short piece of text everyone who wanted to be the beautiful mythological goddess in the play were asked to learn; I had spent hours and hours in exploring the numerous facial expressions and intonations of my voice I was capable of, then I had chosen exactly the shades in them that would suit the hopefully mine character the best, and had polished my performance up to what I myself was immodestly finding simply brilliant.

             
The role was precisely what I fancied starring as: the new goddess of Fire falling in love with the supreme deity of some inexistent fictional mythology, and I couldn’t imagine anything better for me than it – maybe because of my own real name – Freya, like the Norse goddess of beauty, magic, and death. Reasonably – at least in the light I was seeing it in – this feature of mine had always been making me feel in high spirits about my status of a mortal girl – but with a divine name.

             
In case I wasn’t offered the role in the play, that could only be because they were looking for amateurs, I thought unashamed and giggled noiselessly – my acting had to be the best I was capable of, and that was too far from bad to be overlooked.

             
If only the obscure but horrifying shadow of the nightmare wasn’t still haunting my mind...

                                          “Freya?” a voice from the inside of the hall pronounced my name loudly and I raised my head with aristocratic pride while finding my way through the crowd of fidgeting and gossiping girls and nervous boys who weren’t managing to pretend even that they were calm; as soon as I reached the door of the hall where the participants in the casting were being called one by one, I decisively pressed the door handle and, to the amazement of those surrounding me, entered the premises without displaying any signs of anxiety.

             
The producer – a middle-aged positively smiling man called Mr Shelton – was waiting there to meet me, but when I walked right past him without greeting or even showing to have noticed him at all, he took a few steps after me, trying to catch on with my furiously fast pace.

             
“Is Freya your real name?” he asked patiently and kindly, and I could almost perceive how he was trying to figure out why I was so mindlessly ignoring him, despite the fact that he was the one who would determine if I would have the role or not – a fact logically screaming for underlined demonstrative politeness.

             
Well, this was all merely a part of my plan – it would either succeed instantly, or fail, but in a dramatic and memorable way, leaving a glorious trace behind...

             
Stopping unexpectedly, I turned towards him with a sudden furious jerk and that startled him – just like I had wanted it to.

             
“How dare you?!” I exclaimed in utter over-theatrical fury, and grinned contently on the inside as Mr Shelton instinctively drew a bit back; the unstoppable fire of wrath raving inside my dark eyes was showing him clearly that I had gone completely berserk, and would by no means cherish any foolish vain displays of ignorance. “Didn’t your high priests ever told you to respect your gods?!”