Shadows of Reality (The Catharsis Awakening Book 1)

by Christian Martin Jr.

  Yeor bowed deeply with military precision before a speechless Matthew.

  16

  THE BANQUET HALL

  “Come Sire, the people await your presence,” Yeor said, while placing his hand gently on Matt’s shoulder.

  “My head’s spinning, Yeor. Literally, I feel dizzy.”

  “That is expected; an awakening—a cognition from one realm to another.” Yeor nodded his head with a raised brow. He leaned toward Matt and said, “Not all who make the transition survive. Unfortunate.”

  “Yeor, I don’t understand.”

  “Understand?” Yeor asked rhetorically. “Or is it a case of disbelief? There are many questions at this juncture. Much to explain, but…” Yeor stopped and turned to his King. “Sire, not all questions can be answered. You will learn a great deal, in time, but all the explaining in the world cannot fix what you need.”

  “What’s that?”

  Yeor grabbed Matt’s sleeve with the same hand he held his staff, “Accept.”

  Yeor’s eyes fixed steadily upon Matt; they pierced his inner core and created what seemed to be an enormous wave that crashed upon his mind. The sands of doubt and disbelief swirled and churned about as the wave receded.

  “I can offer a great deal of explaining; however, Matthew, it is you, and you alone, that must accept who you are.”

  “And…who am I?” Matt blurted out, startling himself with such a question.

  “A man who is more than he gives himself credit for. A man who beats himself down with every breath he takes,” Yeor spoke with conviction. He lowered his voice and spoke a gentle admonishment, “You are more than you let yourself be. Now come. They’re waiting.”

  Without allowing another word of protest, Yeor patted Matt’s shoulder and the two walked into the castle. Yeor guided his newly cognizant King through several corridors toward the banquet hall. As they walked, Yeor explained that from Matt’s youth, at the age of eight to be precise, he was anointed a King in this domain: The Domain of Fjord—one of many that are in Oneiron. As King, he is a protector for the well-being and security of both realms.

  “A man, or a woman, is chosen from the Waking Realm in its particular generation, to be a King, a Queen…a Sovereign, a Protector—appointed by The Ancient who has orchestrated both realms since their infancy,” Yeor hastily explained as they rounded an intricate stone-hewn corner. “It is from your realm, Sire—the Waking Realm—that such a person must be anointed a Protector here in Oneiron. There is a Sovereign over each domain. Each Sovereign is a protector for the people of Oneiron…and yes, even in their dreams: you are the same individual here as you are in the Waking.

  “As a Sovereign, it is your duty to protect, guide, and lead the domain you have been entrusted with. The people of your domain, along with other domains here in Oneiron, help to bring about much needed rest for those in the Waking Realm. I must say, you have done a fine job thus far with Fjord,” Yeor gestured with his hand during his explanation. “Sire…Sovereigns reign their whole lives without coming into cognition as you have. It is a rare thing, and only in rare times is this allowed, as you have now become.”

  Matt flicked his eyes over to Yeor at this, barely keeping up with the sage’s explanation while being overwhelmed. The stone floor with its elaborate and complex mortar inlays, and the walls and decorative arched ceilings provided such distraction in itself.

  “For the rest of the men and women of the Waking Realm, they are dependent upon the people of Oneiron to receive health and restoration in their sleep…and dreams. They walk here, then return to the Waking without memory of this realm but for a small glimpse and fractured memories….” Yeor trailed off as they neared their destination.

  The two approached a wide entrance that led into the great hall where there was an enormous amount of singing, children laughing and squealing, and people talking in a cacophony of voices that bounced throughout the corridor. Bartholomew greeted them at the entrance with a short bow.

  “You will find, Sire, a great deal of familiarity with this place: with the dominion under your care, and with that of the entire Realm of Oneiron…” Yeor continued to explain while standing next to Bartholomew at the entrance to the great hall, “…for you have enriched this place and have fought valiantly since you were anointed, though your memory is vague about such things. So is the way of those who have not entered into cognition, but you…will remember all…in time.” Yeor stopped speaking, and allowed his words to settle upon Matt.

  Stunned, Matt said nothing and could only stare at the sage who seemed to burn his words deeply into Matt’s being with his potent emerald eyes.

  Yeor raised his arm, gesturing for Matt to enter the banquet hall before them. He walked in and the entire place erupted in cheers with yelling and whistling. Two men, who Matt recognized as the same who had fought alongside him on the grassy knoll, ran over to him carrying wooden mugs.

  “Welcome! Here, here!” One of the men said while the other thrust a mug into Matt’s hands. They escorted him to the end of one of two boards that were already setup with a bounty of meats, cheeses, and breads. Yeor and Bartholomew followed quickly behind the trio. The hall was filled with men and women, young and old; all gathering for a feast in celebration of their King’s cognition.

  Matt glanced down at the board—a long, solid piece of dark wood. The Great Hall, or Banquet Hall as Yeor referred to it, was a large room with two fireplaces—one at each end—and both burned brightly. The hall was spacious enough for the 60 or so people that filled both boards with a smattering of folk going to and fro.

  “Drink,” Yeor told Matt, nodding to the cup in his hand, “you will find it to be very pleasant.”

  Matt looked around the board where he had been led to, and peered over to the other one set up nearby. Men and women took their place as though each had a particular order and status. A child ran behind Matt and brushed up against his backside. Matt arched backward with the cup raised in his hand, and turned and smiled at the youth who scurried off giggling.

  The whole hall erupted in cheering again and all raised their cups and took a deep drink before sitting down.

  “I suggest you do the same,” Yeor whispered to Matt.

  Matt nodded and took a sip of the liquid in his cup. Sweetness of honey, a hint of cinnamon, and the mild burn of alcohol washed over his palate. Matt followed the sensation inside as the liquid descended, leaving a burnt chocolate aftertaste.

  In spite of the ruckus of children and the tumult of voices in the hall—like the gnawing of a splinter in the back of his mind—Matt was mindful of Yeor’s word ‘accept’ as he began to study the entire hall, from top to bottom, investigating every detail with his eyes. It was two stories high with a vaulted ceiling made of stone and oak, the apex of which ended in a large unhewn timber running the length of the ceiling. The beam gave the appearance of a tree growing horizontally into the stonework of the roof.

  Matt’s eyes traced the boughs to the gable end of the ceiling and followed the stonework down to a walkway that jutted out of a wall on the second level. The width was such that two could easily walk abreast along it, hemmed in by an intricate balustrade.

  The balustrade was made of stone newel posts that seemed to be an extension of the floor itself. Thick boughs of dark wood stood as the balusters and appeared as if they were planted for such a purpose. A hand-carved rail made of the same dark wood extended out from the balusters.

  His eyes inspected the entire length of the rail as it wrapped around the walkway. He could not find a seam in the ends of where the rail might be adjoined. In the process of his inspection, he saw two brightly lit passageways on either side of the walkway on the second level, perpendicular from the fireplaces on the level below it.

  Individual flames that seemed to dance asynchronously from candles caught Matt’s attention as he scanned the banquet hall. Two-dozen candles filled an intricate candelabrum on the board he was seated. Another was placed on the second board. Th
e candelabrums—hand-carved from bone and antler, with thin lines of pure gold inlaid into both masterpieces—ran just short of the entire length of both boards.

  Now, flummoxed, he stared at a single, flickering candle. His astonishment was only heightened by the inner dialog: Am I dreaming? He had no remembrance of the detail to this extent before in any of his dreams.

  Who am I really? A King? Crap, I can’t even lead a small handful of deputies. A failure as a husband. I feel like such a loser, and the day to day decisions seem to be too much for me anymore.

  Matt let out a sigh and hung his head. An ache crept up his backside from sitting on the bench with a stiff posture. He stretched and repositioned himself.

  He let out a quick, quiet groan after striking his shin on the cross beam of the trestle underneath the board. Matt grimaced and while reaching down to rub his shin he noticed Yeor seated directly in front of him, looking intently at him.

  “It is time for you to return to the Waking, “ Yeor stated with a slight nod. “Remember, accept. No one can do this for you.”

  “There’s much I don’t understand,” Matt said in a lowered voice while watching others nearby eat, drink, and carry on in merry conversation.

  “You will shortly,” Yeor replied with a stern look. “Go. It is time.”

  Bartholomew raised his cup and proclaimed, “To King Matthew!”

  The hall burst forth again into cheers. Cups were raised and drained. Then the gathering began to beat their cups rhythmically on the boards, and the cheers turned into a continuous chant, “Matthew…Matthew…”

  Matt placed his hands on the table to stabilize himself from a sudden onset of vertigo. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he swore the people pounded their cups louder, and were now yelling his name. He opened his eyes and flinched at his surroundings.

  “Matthew!” yelled a familiar voice.

  Looking around quickly, he fixed on the source of the yelling and pounding: his bedroom door.

  “What?” shouted Matt while breathing heavily and looking around his bedroom—the confusion set in from the moment the vertigo had taken hold; he wildly scanned his bedroom for the pleasant hall, laughing children, and…

  “Are you okay?” shouted Trish.

  “Yeah,” Matt answered as he slowly got out of bed to open the door. He found Trish on the other side, half-dressed, and looked like she was getting ready for work. “Why are you knocking?”

  “The door’s locked, and it’s nine-thirty. You don’t usually sleep past eight. And you never lock this door.”

  “Well, I do work at night, Trish. Sorry about the lock,” Matt stated blandly, as he looked down at the doorknob.

  “I’m scheduled to go into work in an hour and I wanted to talk with you.” Her tone was flat and businesslike.

  “Okay, what about?” Matt asked, while holding onto the door for support and puzzling over her demeanor.

  “I’ll wait for you to get dressed, and maybe we can talk at the kitchen table.”

  “Okay…be right there.” Matt nodded and ran his hand over his head several times, yawned, and stretched. As he got dressed, he recalled every detail prior to waking. The taste of the sweet liquid lingered in his mouth while he smacked his lips together after yawning. He remembered every word of his conversation with Yeor. He could still see the banquet room in his mind, and hear Yeor’s voice: ‘Accept’.

  17

  BURNT AFTERTASTE

  Trish was sitting at the kitchen table when Matt sauntered into the living area. Rubbing the back of his neck, he wondered if the stiffness was from sitting in a state of shock at the banquet board or from just sleeping in an awkward position.

  Her hands were folded and her legs crossed. He slid his hands onto the table for support and glided into the nearest chair. A test of sorts: the sensation of the wood on his hands, and the act of sitting down, was no different than what he had just experienced in the banquet hall.

  “Feeling okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Matt replied as he continued to rub his neck. “I’m just a little sore. Long night.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking…” Trish stated with her eyes fixed on his.

  He stopped rubbing his neck, and even though he attempted to keep his back relaxed, he repositioned his shoulders and sat more upright than he meant to.

  As quickly as he noticed her attentiveness, the reoccurring thought passed through his mind: Why is it that the only time she’s tuned in is when she has some earth shattering thing going on? This should be good…

  “Sorry, little stiff here. Please continue,” he said after moving about in his chair.

  “Do you think this can work?” she asked, her eyes unwavering.

  “What do you mean, ‘this’?” Matt scanned her expressionless face.

  “Us.”

  “As long as we don’t communicate, no, I can’t see how. Trish, last time I opened up to you—gave you a little glimpse into my heart—you totally blew me off and went to…” Matt caught himself—frustrated that he even went there again. His anger began to surface, he paused, and then took a deep breath. His shoulders slumped when he exhaled and said, “Sorry. I think it’s an easy fix, but I can’t teach you how to communicate and I’m sure it’s my fault that you don’t. I probably don’t articulate well enough to get my thoughts out.”

  “Well then, I’m moving out,” she said flatly without acknowledging his statement. “I found a small house in town to rent a few days ago.”

  “When?” he asked, looking down at the table.

  “I just called off from work today, and I’m moving this afternoon.” Her eyes were unflinching. “I plan on taking all the furniture in the living room, the bed I sleep on in the spare bedroom, and you can have the rest. Oh, and a few kitchen items.”

  Matt nodded slowly while still looking down.

  “And,” Trish continued, “I think we should just go ahead and file the divorce. This is the second time we’ve decided to split up. Maybe it’s time. I was thinking we could file the papers next week after I get settled into the new place.”

  Matt continued to slowly nod without saying a word.

  “You have anything you want to say?” Trish asked.

  “No ma’am,” Matt replied with little more reaction than a shake of his head.

  “Okay, I’m gonna go finish packing. Rob and Jenn are coming over to help me move my stuff in Rob’s truck. We should be able to get everything in it and my car.”

  “Okay. If you want, I’ll give you a hand when they show up.”

  “Thanks,” Trish said, and headed off to her room.

  Matt sat at the table while Trish finished packing her belongings. The news, inevitable, was crushing. Like a terminally ill patient that finally passes, everyone knows the end is coming but it doesn’t alleviate the pain, frustration, guilt, and the mourning of the death of a relationship—even though it was dead long ago.

  Rob and Jenn arrived a little before noon. Trish’s work acquaintances were always amicable with Matt, although he didn’t have much in common with either. The hour or so it took to load up both Rob’s pickup and Trish’s car seemed to go in slow motion. Even Matt’s hand movements appeared to be slower and more sluggish than usual.

  Matt packed the truck while the others placed boxes and items on the tailgate. It was almost a game for him—those little blocks of boxes, an oblong package of clothing, or kitchen items, that streamed in at the tailgate and moved down along the bed to their final resting place. Matt had a knack for fitting everything just right until the pickup was loaded and tied down with all that Trish desired to leave with. Then, without any fanfare, Rob shook Matt’s hand, Jenn gave him a quick hug, and Trish gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Call if you need anything,” Trish said as she got into her car.

  “Will do,” Matt replied. Without moving, his eyes followed the small procession of Trish’s car and Rob’s loaded pickup down the long driveway.

  B
efore they turned onto the county road, Matt had already switched his attention to getting ready for his shift, and walked back into a house that had been hastily vacated. He perused the living room—the only indications of missing furniture were the square and round indentations left in the carpet.

  Matt passed the spare bedroom on his way to the bathroom to take a shower; he noticed the same indentations left in the carpet where her bed and dresser had filled the room. It had been a few months since Trish took up residence in that room, but really it had been years that they operated as roommates instead of a married couple.

  Thoughts of a happy marriage ceremony, raising kids, and then the ugly disjointed communication snafus that led to horrible blowouts all came crashing down on him—he fell to his knees in the hallway before the two doors of the bedroom and bathroom, and wept. His stomach churned in the process; crawling, he barely made in time to the toilet to vomit what little was in his stomach.

  Weak, dizzy, and exhausted from the convulsions his body just forced upon him, he kept his eyes closed and sat in quiet stillness after the spasms had past. His mind was as empty as his stomach, and when he opened his eyes, he looked into the porcelain bowl: a dark colored liquid peered back at him, and a burnt chocolate aftertaste filled his palate.

  18

  FIERY VISAGE

  Refreshing, he thought after his shower. He had emptied the hot water tank, standing with his back to the shower faucet and his head tilted forward allowing the hot water to rinse off the grime of life until the water turned cold. Now, he stood in front of his uniform hanging in the closet, and attempted to muster up the effort to don it for another shift.

  The taste of liquor was still in his mouth, and although it no longer burned, it added to the state of perplexity. Dreams. Reality. Which is it? Reflecting on the last 24 hours was surreal. A land in another realm, which seemed more real than ever, especially with this aftertaste his mouth; and now, the unavoidable collapse of his marriage. Then another wave of emotion.