Copyright © by
Paul Brandon 2004
The smyler
with the knyf under the cloke.
— Geoffrey Chaucer The Knight’s
Tale
DREAM IN A FIELD OF
WILDFLOWERS
He comes for me when I sleep.
Resplendent atop a huge, ebony-skinned charger, its mane
and tail rippling with white fire, he rides surrounded by
the squalls of the seasons. I feel the gentle fingertip
touch of midwinter snowflakes against my cheeks, the dusty,
summer-dry sound of the beach swells in my ears, the
bright, sun-sparked aroma of spring’s early blossoms fills
my nose, while the russet and ochre leaves of autumn skirl
around my feet.
I am in a field, a field of such incredible beauty that my
mind cannot possibly hope to comprehend the depths of the
emotions my body is experiencing. I long to paint it, to
somehow capture this scene I hope will live with me
forever. I stand waist-deep in wildflowers and tall-stemmed
grasses that hiss and sigh gently in the playful evening
breeze. The small rise before me is crowned with a ring of
ancient oak trees, their lower limbs reaching out almost
lazily to shelter the close-cropped grass beneath. I fancy
I can see figures there, almost-human shapes dancing within
the coruscation of suggestion and shadow. The sky seems
impossibly near to me; an unfathomable sea the color of
moorside heather with vast, ever-changing clouds of burnt
sienna floating directionless upon it. I’m clothed only in
a thin white dress that drops away alarmingly at the front
and barely reaches my thighs. My feet are bare, nestled
somewhere in the grass. The ground feels soft, like moss.
I hear the horse’s hoofbeats pounding the rich soil of the
slope, echoing the distant drums that throb at the edges of
my perceptions—or perhaps it just mirrors the deep, erratic
pulse of my heart—yet the horse dances over the tops of the
flowers, without even stirring the fragile blooms.
Trappings stream from its body, like liquid twists of vivid
silk, caught in the eddying currents of the wind.
The rider reins in, the magnificent stallion snorting and
tossing its head, angry that the run is over. There is no
saddle, no bridle, and I wonder at the balance of the man
that he can stay seated so calmly. Fear catpaws up my
spine, fear and a strange sense of arousal, as if I were
reacting to the sheer masculinity of the image. It does not
look real; the juxtaposing of the ebony stallion and
scarlet rider against the pastel colors of the hillside and
sky. I stand still, my breath ragged in my ears, my arms
hanging loosely by my sides as I regard my pursuer.
He is tall, perhaps as much as seven feet, maybe more.
Wet-looking plates of crimson armor are attached to his
body like a second skin, realistically fashioned with the
details of the powerful body enshrined somewhere within. It
looks like metal, yet at the same time it is alien, almost
like a carapace, but there is only a fraction of doubt to
me that this is anything but a man. My eyes are about level
with his feet, and even they are encased in dozens of small
circular disks that glimmer in the evening sunlight. My
eyes travel slowly up his body while my mind, and my heart,
try to take in every detail. The mail between the plates is
also red, red as if freshly dipped in paint, or blood. The
codpiece would be almost comical if it were not for the
power of the image. Long-fingered gauntlets hold a pair of
thick, course-woven braids of the horse’s mane loosely,
with just the barest suggestion of control, yet it is
obvious who is the master. Not an inch of skin is visible,
except for the two eyes that look down on me from within
the stag-horned helmet. Two pits of violet flame, they seem
to bore into my soul with an intensity that truly terrifies
me. He knows me; all I am, all I am to be. My deepest
dreams and my darkest fears.
I cannot move. My feet are fixed to the ground as if
rooted. His gaze travels slowly down then up my body, a
physical caress more intimate than that of any lover I have
ever known. I feel naked before him, no, more than that. I
feel emotionally stripped bare too. Goosebumps rise over my
skin, though the afternoon is bright, and the breeze warm.
I feel sick in my stomach, not unpleasant sick, but rather,
ill with anticipation.
He drops the braids and slips off one of the huge gauntlets
as if it were no more than a silk glove. The hand within is
pale, tipped with black-painted fingernails that look oddly
effeminate. He slowly raises the bare hand and removes his
helm.
My breath is caught in my throat. I can hear the dulcet
chirp of the crickets, the almost silent murmur of the
breeze, and the faint tattoo of the distant drums. My nose
is filled with the smell of him; the smell of the seasons
and the drowsy fragrances of patchouli, sandalwood and
something else, something like the musky aroma of sex.
I feel the spring coiling, tightening within me. I can’t
believe how aroused I am. He lifts the helmet clear and
shakes free his long, impossibly black hair. His features
are as pale as his hand, but despite the fine, almost
aquiline cast, he could in no way be called delicate. He is
timeless; as old as the earth but as young and vibrant as
the fresh spring winds. His face has been painted a
thousand times down through history, in a thousand
different ways. He smiles at me, revealing a blaze of
perfect, star-bright teeth, but there is a formidable,
almost cruel twist to his lips, as if I am but an object.
Those violet eyes lock onto mine, gripping my soul like a
vice. Mentally, I struggle against him, though I know it is
futile, and I myself am unsure why I resist. A
pencil-perfect ebony eyebrow raises questioningly, almost
mocking, and I brace myself as he leans down toward me,
reaching out with his ungloved hand.
I want to close my eyes, but I can’t. The feeling of
expectation is too much for me. I have never felt such
attraction, such raw animal desire. I want him to leap from
the horse and fuck me here and now, and yet, in some small,
rational part of my mind, I am screaming.
His fingers are inches from my face now. My breath is
shallow, rapid, and as my chest rises and falls, I can feel
the agonizing brush of my erect nipples against the
gossamer thin cotton of the white shift I am wearing.
He pauses, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as if
he knows what he is doing to me.
I stop breathing, unaware at just how much noise I had been
making. The silence that engulfs us is profound. The
birdsong stills, the insects are hushed, even the wind has
paused in its travels to watch.
He brushes my cheeks with a feather-touch caress, nothing
more than the barest tips of his fingers, but it is enough.
The orgasm explodes from me with a frightening fury of
sound and motion. The scream that rips from my throat
shatters the sudden stillness like a hammer against glass.
I flail backwards, my cheek burning as if it were on fire,
and fall. Instinctively, I reach out my hands, but the
wildflowers cushion my tumble. Straight away I’m on my
feet, and like a wild, released animal, I run.
Behind me, I hear the stallion bellow, yet over it, like
the crash of the sea against the black rocks, I hear his
laughter.
And the chase begins again.
Onto Chapter 2 -The Artist's
Craft