I could still see a tyrannosaur wandering before my very eyes, as I observed it from a hidden natural terrace.
I climbed down only at daylight, feeling stronger, ready to explore and understand the true nature of things; my mind was open to all possibilities: discovering new creatures, interpreting odd dreams.
Dreams had always been everything to me; they were the realisation of all my desires, the perception of events before they occurred. On one memorable occasion, it had been the awareness that my plea for help would be ignored by a beloved friend who had never understood me as a human being.
My dreams had predicted this betrayal, but I had ignored them in my stubbornness to go on with my life. I had slammed the door to my naturally sensitive inner voice.
The first time I had sensed the presence of this voice I was only a child; only recently had I truly become aware of it, only now that I was escaping and fighting monsters.
I started walking across an ascending valley. It was autumn, with red oak leaves everywhere, falling from the trees, and in the air smells of freshly fallen rain, wild moss.
In my close proximity a secluded spot came into view; I could finally light a fire to warm up. Fortunately I still had a reserve of dried meat in my bag. I built the fire and comfortably enjoyed my camping; then I lay down to assess the night.
It seemed to last forever; I dreamt of crossing the seas on clunky sailing boats.
__________
Upon awakening, everywhere only dew and frost. It must have been mid-September. As I walked, my boots sank into several inches of leaves that covered the ground womens boots, refined yet comfortable like old cowboy ones.
These musings diverted my attention from a cold and deep sting of nostalgia, loneliness and other sad, intimate thoughts. It was the same intimacy I could feel in the depths of that curious red oak forest, whose falling leaves were blood red.
I soon felt I was being followed, though.
This feeling of being spied on the perception that something obscure was crowding me and planning behind my back had been a recurring concern in my late adolescence, when someone had been leaving anonymous messages in my letter box. They seemed to be love messages, but were so ambiguous as to be disturbing.
Despite my foreboding I advanced in the woods, frequently looking over my shoulder since I still didnt feel at ease; I perceived the mist, the dew and something else I couldnt entirely identify.
And suddenly, my erratic feelings became nearly tangible; it was real fright then, horror the like of which only children can experience.
I felt helpless and ran away from the man in black boots who was now chasing me, asking like a maniac: Why?
...Why? Rather, why are you asking me this question? I wondered.
While running, so as not to give in to panic, I was planning out my enduring survival: it was raw instinct, a sort of natural, prideful detachment that spurred me.
He might kill me, but he would never get inside my head; my mind fought while my body fled.
Running through tree roots, I hoped my merciless pursuer would fall. Not once did I look him in the eyes. Crocodile eyes, focussed and stealthily controlling their prey from under the surface of the water.
Intuition told me that the man was diabetic; intuition, and voices coming from other dimensions, far, far away. But I also knew it by simply looking at his foot wounds; his feet would have to be amputated soon.
My hope came from my determined spirit: the hope that he would tire himself out, that his disease would strike him suddenly while on the chase, that he had a crisis and collapsed to the ground.
I ran, as the tree branches grew lower and more tangled. I bent down then, trusting his tall stature to make the path all the more difficult for him; whenever I could, I grabbed the branches that I left behind me, wishing they would slap his face.
I loathed what he was doing, particularly because of the despair he instilled in me. It was also pride, in part I admit it: who was he to force me to flee, to gnaw at me when already in the grip of fear?
Meanwhile I went on running, but the speed race had soon become an endurance race, and his strong body seemed to tolerate it rather well.
As for me, my sweat was falling to the ground along with big tears and I could feel my hope crumbling, until I saw someone new in front of me: my grandfather.
I was certain that, sensing my worry, he would project me into another dimension, perhaps a much more intimate and less dangerous situation, and would reassure me.
My certainty would soon prove either reliable or not.
SOLACE AND TROUBLE
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.5
It was really my dear grandfather affectionate in his old age, mischievous in his youth.
He had always been a sharp, troublesome person; he was to some extent the typical Italian macho. Dark hair, dark Spanish eyes, sunburnt olive skin, broad shoulders, he wasnt very tall, roughly my height, but much stronger. Only the hands we had exactly alike, with long and slender fingers; the hands of a baker this had actually been his lifelong job. He used to get up even before cockcrow to start his work, and he needed nothing but his full, warm baritone voice as company, one that was friendly and reassuring, and which I heard again on my dreamlike journey.
Our meeting was really comforting. He put his calloused hand on my shoulder and whispered not to worry, that everything would work out: he understood me, and knew how difficult my days had been so far. Indeed, thorns and weeds grew along my emotional path, and blisters formed on my feet. I was very dejected.
He knew what I was going through. He had been a partisan leader and had fought Mussolinis regime. He loved freedom and this was why he had been given his name: Libero. He was free; he was ethereal. He was a spirit now, claimed by a sudden heart attack in 1996.
So sudden that at the time I hadnt even had the strength to see him before the burial.
Now, though, he was in front of me, just as I remembered him: olive skin, still dynamic and concerned about his granddaughter quickly becoming a young woman.
Yes, a woman; on the inside I would become a woman. I still perceived myself as harmless and naive, but I knew that much had still to occur and that life could be long and full of troubles.
It seems that for each of our talents, God gives us a whip for self-flagellation: mine is guilt. And it was guilt, alongside my tolerance of children, to result in another nightmare.
__________
My pupils focussed on a child appearing out of thin air and instantly running after me; not even a smiling child: he had fangs and claws that could devour and tear into flesh. The little creature might literally rip me apart. He was also crying a rather blood-curdling howl which simply terrified me; it made me sweat and shiver uncontrollably. I had always been very emotional, a true feeler in fact experiencing fear, in this case.
Feelers are sensitive and empathetic people. They love a quiet life, smiles and children; suffer from guilt; keep to themselves.
But I couldnt shut myself away now since the angry child was chasing me and crying, screaming like the howling wind.
I was afraid to face the beast and, with it, the loss of innocence it stood for. I hadnt once saved what was worth saving, so my conscience still hounded me. I could do nothing but escape, again.
I was afraid to face the beast and, with it, the loss of innocence it stood for. I hadnt once saved what was worth saving, so my conscience still hounded me. I could do nothing but escape, again.
And I didnt have the heart to harm a child, so I just ran, despite my uncomfortable heeled boots. They caused a dull pain at my every step, along with skin wounds and blisters. It was a constant torment.
I then fell on my elbows, and was forced to crawl with even more effort on the brown wooden ground; slippery and hostile, it was as cold as the childs eyes. I knew I deserved this coldness since I hadnt sufficiently protected children in my life nor loved them enough, and that was why they were all coming back to me in the shape of this monster. A bitter yet productive meeting: I had to pay for my mistakes but I was also ready to admit them.
At that moment another upsetting vision came forwards, of a little girl bound in a rope and being bounced against walls; what was worse, I couldnt prevent her from getting hurt. She was slippery, seemingly covered in oil going in all directions, unpredictable.
She was the very picture of the confusion I felt inside my head.
I didnt know whether to protect her or save myself from the monster that was still chasing me, the little boy trying to grasp me and howling: Why, mum?
The word paralysed me, since although I love children I have never seriously entertained the possibility of being a mother and starting a family myself. I have always regarded it as something too far in the future, far from me; a limit to my expressiveness and I hate to admit it a loss of elegance for the female body. Although taking care of a child may be rewarding, each time I had my friends daughters toddling around I feared that the pests would break something or hurt themselves.
But then, there are children and children. There are babies who are peculiar since birth. I mean, we all have our quirks; but children abusing animals, for example, is a clear warning for everyone. It is a fact that some serial killers used to mistreat animals as children, and I thought it was the case of the child chasing me in what had become a dirty woody cabin full of chambers.
From his violence in breaking random objects I could sense that he had never received love, but also that he carried evil within: having been abused, he now enjoyed abusing. It was a kind of evil that spread by touch like an illness without chance of survival, that would chase you down relentlessly and destroy you slowly, in the end. It was as dreadful as it was persistent.
I knew I shouldnt keep on running away, but react sooner or later, yet I still didnt feel sufficiently strong myself to make such a decision.
I had to prevent the boy from harming me, and the girl from harming herself. I needed a plan, a strategy to subdue the monster and save her.
Meanwhile, my shoulders hurt too: it was my usual reaction to stress. For instance, anxiety before exams had always led me to contract my shoulders inadvertently, with negative repercussions on my shoulder blades and cervical muscles.
Still, I had to act now.
I moved so that the little girl wouldnt collide with the wall but with me; I hoped that the push would soon decrease. The rope that bound her was torn but very resistant. I tried to grab it, but the child still covered in a thick layer of oil slipped away from my hands each time. It was a dark substance, like tar, and it cost me further exertion.
I felt dissected by my pursuers eyes, and feared death coming any instant, with each single breath. The little boy was my conscience, and as such he gave me no peace.
Conscience is what keeps you awake at night, looking endlessly at an unchanging ceiling. It makes you go through your whole life past and future in an instant; then you have to choose.
I chose to save the child. I might die, I might be torn to pieces, but I had to pass this test.
I hoped I would gain strength on my way and learn not to flee any more, unless it was strictly necessary. Something within me was changing, and maybe it was for the best. What encouraged me in my fight was paradoxically a wish for peace and justice, that innate conjunction of goodness and dignity of the heroes in the stories they told me as a child.
On my part, it meant never accepting evil, without any compromise, because previous compromises had led to fleeing, to humiliation and low self-esteem. I couldnt stand depression any more, I needed to fight it. In fact, I wanted to save the girl also because I saw myself in her uncertain sway, torn between one decision and another, confused and insecure.
I had to act on impulse when she was in my proximity. I would try to cut the rope, but by what means? Maybe the penknife I used to slice my reserve of dried meat, as well as the berries I was so fond of. It was small and rather ruined, but it would serve its purpose, since the monster wasnt far from me.
I launched myself head first, thinking that she could be my daughter and that it was my moral duty to save her or to try at least. The knife easily cut through the first part of the torn rope, then got stuck.
The more I tried, the less I could move it.
When I heard laughter behind me I felt a sudden chill inside my chest, a shiver running down my back and making my arms tremble not my will though. At that moment, my little pursuer appeared in front of me, his eyes green and terrible.
He had hidden small tacks inside the rope.
Livid with anger I set to removing them, while trying to counterbalance the ropes motion with my weight. I desperately tried again and again, pricking my fingers and cursing at the sharp pain.
And finally the rope broke. The girl could only fall to the ground, but at least her incessant sway had stopped.
Looking at those horrible green eyes for what I hoped was the last time, I mustered up courage and pointed at the child lying on the ground. Then I yelled at the monster, since I had nothing but my voice: Thats your doing, now I have nothing left, nothing! We were meant to share a bond in the future, so you took her away from me! Now kill me if you wish... What else do you want, my blood?
I challenged him fiercely, but in the meanwhile he had changed. Clasping my hands, he told me I had done the right thing: I had passed the test; I was getting stronger.
My strength I had forged and sharpened with patience, as a blacksmith hammers iron and shapes it into swords and pieces of rare value. But even hard workers make mistakes, and that is perhaps humanitys common ground: that shuddering breath of insecurity which compels us to flee or to fight, capitulate or win.
This time I had won, but the journey continued and other challenges would arise. On the one hand I looked forward to it, yet on the other I still feared the unknown.
Nevertheless I went on in my worn boots, to other challenges and other places.
__________
Behind me lay barren lands typical of the Arctic tundra, with a pungent birch smell and tall spruce haunted by winter snow. The evergreens which were previously all around me now receded and gave way to a curious labyrinth.
I approached some elaborate ruins that bore the weight of as many years as the layers of lichen covering them. Although collapsed, their contours still stood out against the background. If I was to go into the labyrinth, I would have to follow them; so with patience, tenacity and spirit of sacrifice I bent my will to fate.
In fact, fate hadnt been very generous so far given the sequence of challenges I had had to endure, which had hardened my spirit and my skin, strengthening my body but tiring me out completely.