What Dreams are Made Of_Part Fourteen: Sanctuary of Shadows.

Time stretched into miles and the underbrush compressed and tangled into tripwire that challenged every step. Very little of the landscape could be seen in the grim light that scarcely penetrated the passage.

At last the trail widened and formed an alcove amid the rancid wildwood. The airy night grew cold and apprehensive. Shafts of spectral light wafted through cavities in the brushstroke branches and lit the ground opposite the hollow. Instinct that should have made wings of his feet turned his limbs to stone instead. Each step was an omen. Rotted timbers strained their corrupted talons outward while the dark breach rooted within called him to its menacing embrace.

He stepped cautiously into the clearing. Whatever stars had reached this foul meadow were quickly covered by ink stained clouds. This small hint of conspiracy slashed at his courage. His mind played a verse from a forgotten poem: “A boy sat beside a boundless mere, while shadows shaped like shrouds crept close…to spew veiled venom into his waiting ear.”

He knew this place. It had been painted long ago. The gessoed ground lay grey and cracked under muddy colors that faded into the damaged dead layer. He did not need to see the fevered details and decayed disillusions. He knew this place. It had been a shelter from desolation; an escape into the world for which he’d hoped. It had become a trap with blind eyes and jaws of iron.

To be continued.