Brock Marsh Runoff wrote:DORGIO, IN DREAMS
The priest looked around around, an expression of relief crossing his face despite the nagging voice in his head telling him that none off this was right. He couldn't possibly be back home, could he? But the sun was bright and the day was beautiful. Why not enjoy it?
Because you're dreaming, fool! Remember, remember!
Whatever that voice was, the voice that sounded so much like his own, he could make no sense of what it said. How could this be a dream? He knew the world of his own dreams, the shadows and nightmares and revisited failures. They were nothing like this. And so, however the priest had arrived, he decided to enjoy his unexpected homecoming.
He knew he had to visit his father's grave. It had been years since he'd payed his respects, and nearly a decade had passed since he'd died. He'd been a priest of the Morninglord as well, and Dorgio had never quite learned the mysterious circumstances around his death, only that the other priests would not let the body be viewed. Dorgio continued down the path, looking for the cemetery.
The most direct route to the boneyard is straight through town.
Dorgio finds the village empty; not even a stray cat in sight. There are no burnt roofs, no broken doors, and no signs of trouble. His nostrils tingle at the familiar sour-but-spicy smell that pours from the open window of a house on his left. Looking in through the open window, he sees that a meal has been laid out on the rough-hewn table; boiled cabbage with paprika. No one answers if he knocks or calls. Through the open door of another house, he sees an empty cradle rocking gently by an idle spinning wheel. The whole village is like this. The only sound not made by the breeze or by Dorgio is the familiar music box tune, which comes and goes on the wind.
After passing through the town, Dorgio emerges in the stone fenced cemetery below Gallows Hill. He hears the music once more, and when he reaches his father’s gravesite he sees the music box set atop the simple limestone marker. It appears identical to the one he left at his house in Pont-a-Museau, the one that Denys gave him.
As Dorgio pays his respects, a shadow falls across him and across the marker. Turning round, he finds himself face to face with three men; a big swarthy tinker with a dropping mustache, a blistered and burned youth, and a deathly pale man with a lozenge shaped wound in his throat. He knows them,
he knows the name they share.
The gypsy speaks,
“You lost the trail of the red-haired slayer, the Beast. You must not fail now. The children need you, child of the Vatraska. Find them, save them. The darkest road will lead you to the truth.”
The dark haired headman falls silent.
The murdered man, Dorgio's first kill, steps close.
“It’s been a while, old friend. You should come to visit more often. Come to stay. “He laughs with a ghastly whistle through his ruined throat.
“But not yet. You’ve got work to do. Go to it. And this time, don’t foul it up. Not like with me, hey?”
The youngest of the three hobbles forward and presses his fire ravaged hands to Dorgio’s face. He cries out in a hoarse voice,
‘"Mama, mama-- the Barovians are coming!”
Dorgio jerks awake, to find himself in the armchair in Benn’s room. Everline is in the corner, talking with a balding man in a black frock coat. Charlotte crouches on the bed, fingertips speckled with dry blood and eyes vacant.
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
