Written by Isaac Barker
I dreamt twice last night.
A mother wearing a skirt of snakes stood accused in her own home atop a mountain. She stood in front of an army numbering four hundred. The head of this army was none other than her own daughter. No words were spoken. No trial was needed. The Moon and the four hundred Southern Stars had already decided her guilt, and thus, her fate.
Her pregnancy was an offence. For that, they sought revenge. All four hundred stars launched their attack against the mother—but her gift of life was her saviour. From her womb sprung her child, well past infancy. He was born with the might of the Sun, destined to hide the southern stars beneath a clear blue sky and the chirp of hummingbirds. Thus, he was the true South. He was born armed with a round shield and a great fire serpent brandished as his weapon.
The South faced the Moon. His arm and serpent moved with single mind and motion—though an act of violence, his movements were swift and fluid. His eyes seemed lost and blank, not moving to each new target but simply staring into the distance. The display somehow seemed merciful with its grace. The elegance was fitting as his mother’s son. A wide sweep of the serpent, and a slash of fire and fangs was quick to separate flesh and bone as he beheaded his sister, the Moon. He dropped his shield—not in surrender, but to hold the head of his sister. He held it only for a moment, before rolling it down the mountain. Blood splattered and all four hundred stars stared.
It was not in resignation.
The battle was fierce, and the mountain was painted red. The stars grew dim as the Sun rose from the South that morn. Four hundred stars. Three hundred and ninety-nine with another slash. Three hundred and seventy-two with a spit of fire.
Hours turned into days, but the light of the Sun only grew stronger. A new night would be made by the end of the battle. Sparking lights of the southern night sky would not be the same army—the South whittled down the numbers.
Two hundred left. Blood of two hundred and one coated the South, but his mother was safe—another two hundred would do.
One hundred left. Scratches and wounds were scarring, but the son would fight on.
None left. None of the army, but the South still did stand. Four hundred brothers and one sister were painted across the mountain top. A mother wept, but she was safe.
*
My body jolted and sent me away from one dream to another.
*
They split and unify as one and two. They are a binary that exist far beyond nothing—a mother and father of their own being. She is gentle, caring, and doting. Her warmth is responsible for maturity in the developing minds of children. He is strong, protective, and providing. He is a guiding hand who inspires bravery through the hearts of children.
I felt them so far beyond my vision that I almost wept. Yet through their grace, they gifted children that sat upon the horizon. The North, East, South, and West. We would be their children. But there was nothing between, nothing for us to stand on so that we may look up to the skies, and thus they went to work—for us.
With the mature mind of a mother, and the brave heart of a father, they challenged the beast of the ocean. This ocean was far beneath the four children’s horizon, and the beast was vast. It was the idea of a crocodile before a crocodile existed; this idea was even more ferocious. Nothing could be built with it in the way. Every movement it made, cunning and hungry, was made through thousands of teeth. When it turned to face the four children, its joints spoke, as each one was a maw articulating something only it might have understood.
The first child, skin black with the night, was cunning. He knew the great crocodile with maws for joints would not resist the opportunity of flesh. The North severed his own leg to bait the beast. The other three honoured their brethren’s sacrifice, and followed it through by attacking the beast whilst it chewed.
With the beast slain, they began their true task. Using the body of the beast, they created the lands that we would look from. It was not perfect, however. It took five tries to get here; where my consciousness begins to return.
The first was too dark. The second was unfaithful. The third was dried and burnt. The fourth drowned in blood tears.
Now, we live on the fifth. It is still far from perfect.
I look back to the origins, to the true parents. They live as two, beyond our possession of the mother or father, but as both. I try to see them again with fondness and hope, yet I hope they do not see us, too.
I know I only have seconds before these thoughts and memories escape me as I enter the waking world. It lasts in the moments my consciousness lays on the horizon, before it must tip to one side. I’m thankful it happened, but I wish I only dreamt once.
Author Bio:
Isaac J. Barker is an aspiring writer, experimenting and developing his writing voice through attempts at poetry, short stories, longer fiction, playwrights, essays, and more. Isaac’s works are influenced by philosophical activity of all kinds in the moral, existential, and epistemological spheres.