I Dream of Heroes
Posted by Charles Gramlich on Jun 22, 2011 in News | 15 commentsI dream of heroes—not of superheroes like Spiderman or Batman, but of ancient warriors with bloody axes and scars. Most times in such dreams, I am myself or some variant of myself. And whatever happens to the character happens to me. At other times I’m merely an observer, looking on as if I’m some invisible traveler exploring lost times and parallel worlds.
Not long ago in a dream, I observed what many would call a skirmish. An army marched, its baggage train straggling behind it. Warriors guarded the train, but most were older men, or those already wounded in battle. Too, there were many women and a few children. One of the guards was nearly a giant, probably 6’ 5” or so, with hair gray as an old grizzly’s back. He wore that hair in Viking braids and limped slightly on his left leg. He carried a strange axe that he was working to repair. I could tell from the way he muttered curses that he was angry at missing the coming battle. He was angry, and a bit depressed because he knew his advancing age would soon keep him out of all battles.
The warrior’s weapon deserves mention. It consisted of two axes fitted together, the haft of one inserted into the head of the other. But the joining between the two had been broken, with only a silver chain to hold them linked. The big, gray warrior was trying to fix the break, and having no luck. That was when the attack came.
A horde of enemy soldiers, mounted on horseback, found—through accident or design—the pack train, and they descended in a cloud to the slaughter. The guards ran to fight but were badly outnumbered and weakened by age or injury. The gray warrior cursed at his useless weapon, but then used one axe to hack through the chain binding the two and leaped into battle with the bigger of the axes locked tight in both hands.
The enemy surged toward him and he sheared through the first attackers, sundering armor and hacking through bodies in a berserk rage that carried him straight into the face of the horde. The momentum of the enemy charge broke. Horses milled. But the warrior was surrounded now and men lunged with lances and curved blades to tear him down. He did not go down. His axe flashed. Sprayed red once. And again.
Some of the enemy began to back away, but one rode forward and threw a wineskin of some amber liquid onto the braided warrior. In an instant, the man was on fire, was an inferno. I heard him roaring, in pain and anger, but he charged the foe who’d set him aflame. The fellow’s horse reared back from the fire, hurling his rider to earth, and the big gray warrior smashed that rider’s skull open with his axe.
Wheeling about, the burning man leaped into the crowd of his attackers. Horses screamed and reared. Men were thrown and trampled; others were bitten by their own fire and began to flail madly about. Within a moment the enemy force shattered and began to flee, leaving the hero on fire but standing with legs braced wide upon the bloody field.
The remaining warriors who had been guarding the baggage train rushed forward. Someone screamed to “put him out, put him out.” The burning man collapsed to his knees; the flames snuffed themselves, as if their fuel had been exhausted. I could see the old gray warrior plainly now. He was horribly burned, but his left eye was open and it was a perfect blue within whorls of cooked flesh.
From his knees, the man fell face first to the battle-churned soil. I knew he was dead, but his one good eye did not close, and in it there was no terror or pain, only a quiet satisfaction that he had not fallen prey to the straw death. I felt it then, that somewhere or somewhen this man had lived. I felt that he must have been remembered as a hero long after he had fallen. And when he was no longer remembered, he came to visit me where my spirit walked along the night ways.
I dream of heroes. And I am grateful.
That’s a really cool dream. I envy you. I tend to dream about things like being overcharged for ice-cream or having my car stolen.
Can I have your dreams just for one night?
Charles,
Through your blog, I’ve come to envy the vividness of your dreams and how they can directly relate to your writings – inspirational or actually have a dream (like this one) that can practically be taken wholesale for plot & character.
Pressfield talks about the Muses, even in this modern age. Surely something speaks to you .. whether a single Muse or spirits that want their stories told.
Very reminiscent of Robert E. Howard stating that Conan seemed to just appear fully formed, and dictated his adventures over Howard’s shoulder while Howard typed.
A terrific piece of writing, Charles. Hope you don’t mind an attempt to analyze this dream. As a one-time astrologer the symbolism is too rich to ignore.
The weapon seems the most potent, if mysterious, symbol. Two axes fitted together, blades at either end, facing different directions. It reminds me of the astrological symbol Pisces, two fish tied together facing opposite directions—the past and the future. Pisces is the sign of dreams and imagination. The weapon could be the symbol of a powerful, vivid imagination, used as a creative tool. Keep swinging that axe, Charles.
Jack, I often wish I could film my dreams. This was a good one.
Paul, this was just a really great scene to dream. I have always figured it would make a good scene in a bigger novel, if I ever write a sword and sorcery book. I have ideas for one.
John, the axe was certainly interesting. The linkage between the two, with the chain. I don’t know but it was very salient.
Charles, this is simply awesome. If you don’t use that for a scene, eventually I’m going to steal it from you.
Ty, thanks. I appreciate that.
That was excellent Charles, I love your prose.
David, I appreciate that.
Charles,
That one deserves a ‘Huuuah!’ and a horn-raising toast.
Rob
Rob, I’ll definitely drink to that.
Beautifully written, Charles. Very vivid dream. I’m jealous — my dreams are usually horror stories without a beginning, middle or end — I’m just always running from something. (Good case for head shrinking, eh?) Wish I’d have a dream I thought made some kind of sense after I wrote it down. Very poetic job on yours, too.
Funny, I used to have dreams like that when I was a lot younger. Now when I could use them, I typically dream of falling off buildings (and surviving) or paying bills. It’s not fair!
Thanks, guys. I’m very happy about my dreaming. I really consider it a gift and I value it highly.
Great stuff, Charles. A little late to the dreamfest here, but to all your visions of heroic purpose, I toast as well. Congrats!
Thanks, Lyn, I appreciate it.