The Somnambulist's Dreams Read online

  The

  Somnambulist’s

  Dreams

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance or reference to actual incidents, locales, or persons, living or dead are intended only to give the work a setting of historical reality. Any resemblance to any real life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

  2016 Angry Owl Publishing © All rights reserved

  Copyright © Lars Boye Jerlach

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book please contact Angry Owl Publishing at [email protected]

  Cover design and artwork by Kyle Louis Fletcher www.usklf.com

  ISBN-13: 978-0692746608 (Angry Owl Publishing)

  ISBN-10: 069274660

  The

  Somnambulist’s Dreams

  A novel by

  Lars Boye Jerlach

  For Helen, Amelia, Omi and Louisa

  There was no denying it was lonesome.

  Now that the frost had irrevocably moved down from the north, he found the nights particularly long. He rubbed his hands over the kerosene stove in the galley, before putting on his fingerless gloves and wrapping a thick grey woolen scarf around his neck. His uniform was far from adequate, so to keep warm he picked up his overcoat, put two of the heated stones in his coat pockets and climbed the stairs. It was cold in the watch room, and as he exhaled, small shapeless clouds formed in the air.

  He put down the lamp on a small battered rectangular oak table on which a number of initials and other inscriptions had been veraciously carved, removed a watch from his pocket and flipped open the cover to check the time.

  Not that it was necessary.

  The sun was still dispersing a sheath of liquid fire on the horizon, so he still had some time.

  As usual he had cleaned and inspected the lens earlier that morning. He had also refilled the fuel and checked the wick. Although it was somewhat frayed, he hadn’t found it necessary to trim it.

  He began winding up the mechanism that rotated the Fresnel lens. He counted the revolutions and when he could feel the proper resistance from the weights, he stopped and looked out at the sky that, with its millions of effulgent flecks, stretched above him in an infinite elastic expanse. At least tonight he wouldn’t have to worry about visibility.

  After he had lit the wick and set the lens in motion, the light would be flashing for the next hour and a half, before it needed another rewind.

  He stared into the night and listened to the wind lambaste the waves against the granite, almost sixty feet below. He could almost sense their febrile, liquid tentacles surrounding the belfry as the tide moved in.

  He was fascinated by the facility and seemingly infinite power of the ocean, and in his first few months in the tower he had often devoted his entire watch to gazing at the sea, utterly lost in the immensity before him.

  He unbuttoned the top of his coat to remove a small package that he set down on the table next to the lamp. He repositioned one of the rickety armless chairs and sat down.

  He had found the package earlier in the day, when he had cleared out the small storage area next to the water cistern on the lower level. Something light had been hastily wrapped in an old waxy piece of paper and tied together with a piece of oily twine.

  Due to its lack of substance he had almost discarded it, but then he read the faded fragment: “.....ust acquaint themselves with the working of the apparatus in their charge. Upon any doubtful point questions must be a ….” on the outside of the pallid but dirty paper.

  He recognized it from the booklet, Instructions to Lighthouse-Keepers by authority of The Lighthouse Board. Before taking up his current position he had read it studiously, and he had even brought his own copy of the 1881 edition with him. It was now sitting in the small bookshelf by the bed, in the sleeping quarters on the second floor.

  He had put the small package aside and after he had finished clearing out and rearranging the storage area, he carried it upstairs and put it on the small stool next to his bed. Although he was intrigued by its content, he nevertheless decided to wait until evening to properly examine it.

  He had left it on the stool as he slept.

  Now it was time.

  He put his hands in his pockets and closed his fingers around the warm smooth unyielding surface of the heated stones.

  He realized that he would have most likely appeared deranged to the casual observer, as he had walked up and down the beach picking up, examining, comparing and rejecting a great number of stones until he found four that were as close to faultless as they could be.

  The surfaces of the specimens he had finally selected were completely smooth and when he closed his fingers around them, they fitted comfortably in the palm of his hands. They were all slightly irregular in shape and placed together on the stove in the galley, they very much looked like a small pile of grey tapered potatoes. He rolled the stones around in his pockets until his fingertips started to prickle.

  When his fingers had regained their mobility, he picked up the small parcel, untied the twine and unfolded the paper to expose a small bundle of papers.

  He twice folded the waxy cover paper, pressed it down with his hand, and placed the rolled up twine on top. He put it at the corner of the table and looked at the bundle in front of

  him.

  The papers were small, not much bigger than a regular postcard, and nearly translucent.

  When he carefully removed the top piece from the pile and held it up to the light, he felt like he was holding something evanescent between his fingertips.

  The paper flowed against his skin like a thin membrane and the words decorated the page in a fluid, intricate pattern.

  He thought of the wings of a butterfly as he gingerly placed it on the table and read.

  The Dreams of

  Enoch S. Soule

  My Dearest Emily,

  When we were young, you often asked me what I dreamed about in the night and though I was always reluctant to tell you, mostly because I was embarrassed and fearful of your response, I have finally decided to write to you about my dreams, and trust that you will recognize and know the true me and not be abhorred by the fantasies of my mind, over which I have no control.

  I am, as far as I know, compos mentis and yet I cannot explain, even to myself, where the figments originate. Beside their esotericism, I do not know if there is any other significance to them.

  I have chosen to share my dreams with you, so that you can better understand and perhaps accept why I could not share them sooner.

  The dreams have always been the same, and despite some slight variations, they have not changed for as long as I can remember. I have attempted to name the places that I visit, though without proper research, I cannot be sure if they hold true. I have not ordered or dated the dreams, as it seems that there is no beginning or end to them. They flow into one another, like a stroke from a painter’s brush, to form one complete but enigmatic picture.

  However, before I tell you what transpires in my somnambular state, I want you to know, how truly sorry I am to have left you lonely all these years. It was never my intent for us to be apart for such an extensive amount of time. I hope you can find it in your heart to
forgive me.

  Although you have said in jest many times, that I was in love only with my tower, you should know that, from the depths of my heart, there has never been anyone else on this earth that I loved more than you.

  Blessed Mary herself has but a morsel of the affection of my heart as you do.

  You have always been and will always be my one true love and our beautiful girls my eternal inspiration.

  Sitting here overlooking the expanse of the sea, I wish that I could rewind time, so that I could have devoted more of it to being at home with you and the girls, instead of being locked away in this tower, listening to the eternal thrashing of the waves.

  Alas, that is not possible.

  In the end we all must accept and live the life we have chosen with the happiness and misgivings that follow.

  You have never complained or lamented your lot in life, however, I am deeply sorry if I have brought you more heartache than joy, both in our time together and apart.

  I would like you to know, that I believe my time here is coming to an

  end. These days my body is in near constant agony and my mind has started to wander, even more so than usual.

  I miss the sight of the trees in the street, the smell of flowers in the garden, the sound of small songbirds and the laughter of our girls. But mostly I miss having my arms around You in a loving embrace.

  I bide my time until we meet.

  Please pass on my everlasting love and affection to the girls.

  I will forever be yours.

  Your Loving Husband,

  Enoch

  He turned over the page; it was blank.

  He looked through the window into the darkness and searched the horizon. Nothing was moving but the sea.

  He wondered how the package had found its way to the tool cupboard in the storage area.

  When he looked down he realized he was still holding the letter between his fingers.

  He carefully placed it face down on the table next to the bundle and picked up the next sheet.

  Kenya

  I was standing under an unusual tree that, as far as I could tell was the only source of shade for miles around.

  The air was tremendously warm and very dry.

  I was hot, but not uncomfortably so, as I was wearing very little clothing. My body was completely bare, but for a kind of loincloth tied around my waist and a vivid red blanket slung over my shoulder.

  I could feel a heavy necklace of beads around my neck and I was holding a spear in my right hand.

  As I looked at it, I noticed that my skin was dark and that my fingers were extremely long.

  I opened and closed my left hand, stomped my naked feet on the ground, and created a small cloud of dust that quickly dissipated.

  Apart from some erratically distributed brushy vegetation and the giant tree under which I stood, the surrounding area looked completely barren. I could hear the familiar call of a crow or a raven in the crown above me, but even as I shaded my eyes with my hand to search the treetop, I couldn’t see it. As I lowered my hand a small white bracelet slid down my wrist. It seemed the beads were made of some kind of bone.

  I looked into the horizon.

  The heat made the entire landscape seem like a mirage and I found it difficult to see if anything moved in the distance.

  Beside me on the ground lay a strange looking creature. It mostly resembled a bull, yet not a breed with which I was familiar. It was a whitish sandy colour with a peculiar hump above its shoulders. Its curvy horns were sticking up about a hand’s length from its long, narrow head and its ears, pointing downwards, were swatting at the flies crawling around its head.

  It swung its head from side to side and looked up at me.

  “Who are you?” it said.

  I jumped in surprise, and quickly looked around to see where the voice was coming from. There was nobody else around. I thought that the conditions might be playing tricks with my mind.

  I looked at the bull on the ground.

  “Who are you, and why are you here?” it asked. The voice was as clear in my head, as if the bull had actually spoken.

  I continued to look at it in disbelief. “You are no longer Sironka,” it said, “so you must be someone else. Who are you?”

  “I am Enoch Soule,” I said, when I had gotten over my initial shock.

  Actually, I wasn’t sure if I had spoken the words aloud.

  “What are you doing here?” the bull asked again.

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking around, “where are we?”

  “We are here,” the bull said, licking its muzzle.

  “Where is here?” I asked.

  “This is here,” the bull replied, shaking its ears to repel the flies.

  “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

  “In what way does that not that answer your question?”

  The bull looked at me.

  “Because I am not any closer to making sense of where I am.” I looked around. “Does this place have a name?”

  “The name of the place is here,” the bull said, “and here is where we are.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said, “this place must have a name, otherwise how would you know the difference between here and there.” I pointed in direction of the horizon.

  “That is simple,” the bull replied, “when you are in motion, everything changes. There is always where here is not.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said, “that’s just saying that we are always here.”

  “That’s what I just said,” the bull replied, without a hint of irony.

  “So what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Lying on the ground, talking to you,” it answered.

  “That much is obvious” I said, more than a little annoyed, “but how did you get here?”

  “I followed Sironka, who led me here,” it answered.

  “Do you know why he led you here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” the bull replied, “here is the place I cease to exist”.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because it is time,” it replied.

  “How do you know?”

  “There is no knowing, only culmination,” the bull said swinging its tail.

  I didn’t reply. Instead I looked into the distance.

  “What do you think you are you doing here?” it asked.

  “I haven’t got the faintest idea,” I replied. “It is a mystery to me. I am the keeper of a lighthouse.”

  “What is a lighthouse?” the bull asked.

  “It’s a tall tower that is built in or near the ocean by the coast.” I answered.

  “It is normally white and lit up in the night to warn the ships that land is near.”

  “What is the ocean?” it asked.

  “It’s a tremendously huge amount of water, that covers most of the surface of the earth.” I answered.

  “What is the earth?”

  “The earth is where we are.”

  “It can’t be,” the bull replied, “you said that the ocean covers most of the surface of the earth, yet here it is completely dry.”

  “Earth is an enormous place, with many different variants. Just because it is dry here, doesn’t mean it is dry everywhere else. Did you not say that everything changes when we are in motion? I have traveled far and experienced many changes, yet I have never encountered what you describe. The place that you call earth must therefore be very different from here.” The bull looked at me and cocked its head.

  “Although It is different from here, it still belongs to the same entity,” I said. “Everything around us is just smaller fragments of a much, much larger whole.”

  “It cannot be different from here and part of here at the same time.” The bull looked at me. “Everything cannot be the same.”

  “I didn’t say they were the same, I said they were small fragments of a larger whole.” I said somewhat exasperated.

  “But if the ocean is tremendously huge,
it cannot possibly be a small fragment.” The bull dragged its front legs underneath its body.

  “It’s difficult to explain.” I said, scratching my head, that I then realized was clean shaven. “The earth is an immense and very complicated place that consists of a great number of elements that in combination make our lives here possible.”

  I looked at the bull to see if he understood.

  “It is good for us that we are here then,” it said shaking its head.

  I heard the sound of an engine in the distance and turned around to see where the sound was coming from. I spotted a cloud of dust moving towards us and before long a moss coloured automobile with an open top, pulled up and skidded to a halt about twenty feet away from the tree.

  The driver turned off the engine, jumped down from the vehicle and walked over to where I was standing. Although my time with the bull had been sufficiently surprising, I was nevertheless taken aback by the fact that the driver was a fairly young woman. She was probably in her late twenties to early thirties. Her face was elongated with sharply defined features. She had a somewhat pointy chin and high cheekbones and her dark, deep-set eyes were bright and alert. Her long brown hair was tied back and covered under a large-brimmed hat. She was wearing a slightly oversized sand coloured safari outfit that looked like it had been fashioned at the beginning of the century. She had rolled up the sleeves on her shirt exposing her slender but strong arms. A small white kerchief was loosely tied around her neck and her long shorts were held up by a heavy leather belt.

  A pair of brown dusty leather boots completed her outfit.

  She strode up to me.

  “Good day to you Sironka,” she said, “I saw you from the car. What are you doing out here?” She looked at me searchingly.

  I did not know what to say or what to do, so I looked at the bull instead. It looked back at me.

  “She is a friend of Sironka’s,” it said. “Tell her why you are here.”