It
was the weirdest dream I'd ever had. I was flying, literally, soaring like an
eagle right into summer, leaving the New Year frosts behind. A silver cape
streamed behind me. A black mask, slightly askew, had captured an aimless spiral
of blonde hair. Apart from isolated cotton-candy clouds, there was nothing to
see. I thought the world had disappeared until I found myself gliding over a
floating mass of what appeared to be dark brown rocks. I hovered briefly in
order to survey the great bulk of... well, I'll call it rubble for want of a
more descriptive word. I could distinguish some mountainous areas in the
middle, with colourless water snaking in and out, but the majority of the
terrain was flat and sombre, littered with boulders and various markers. I
shoved the delinquent hair behind my ear, adjusted the mask, and then zoomed
down for a closer look. The nearer I got to that spherical island the more
chilled I felt…yet it wasn't cold. In fact, the higher my cape flew the more of
my shoulders the sun found to roast.
The
markers were a diverse array of signposts each pointing in a different
direction. Mostly the posts were constructed from wood, ramshackle and
splintering, but one or two were elaborately created. Those were placed abreast
of wooden stiles, though there was no path upon which to travel when one had
clambered over. I plunged towards the first post and latched onto it by
wrapping my arm around its imposing pointed prong. The letters inscribed there
were huge and I had to tilt my head to read it.
Welcome
to the Forties, it said.
Thank
you, I said.
Slackening
my grip, I drifted in the direction of less elaborate signs. They were branded
with dates, deeply chiselled for permanency, years ranging from 1940 to 1944.
Again I felt that sweeping chill. Vibes of bloody battles made me shudder. A
curious burning smell made me want to puke. Lamentations filled the air and my
cheeks were showered with watery drops. I glanced upwards expecting to see rain
clouds, but the sun was shining as fiercely as before. Hastily, I averted my
eyes, not liking the perception of such acute sadness. Anxious to find more
agreeable surroundings, I pulled my cape closer and wafted away.
Flitting
over a cheerless lake, I advanced towards a solidly constructed signpost, made
of steel with wrought iron digits standing proud, each digit entwined with
withered roses and sprigs of laurel. 1945. Waves of acclamation caressed me,
yet the impression that someone had died was very strong. There were no mortals
to whom I could attribute the echoing sounds yet I definitely heard laughter
and muffled exchanges. And enunciated names: Hitler and Ribbentrop. My own
impression was one of relief though I couldn’t explain why. It might have been
the warmth, or the unexpected peace.
Ahead
of me, descending slowly earthward, was an additional signpost. Enthralled by
the method of descent I watched it alight on the brow of the hill, its
arrow-like arm indicating the direction of the fifties. What lay on the other side?
Would there be chaos, more gunfire and smoke, more flashing lights and
despairing cries? I decided not to proceed. I had seen enough. All I wanted was
to go home. If only I knew the way.
Swiftly,
I arched away from the ghosts that occupied that extraordinarily desolate chunk
of land, gathering about me the cape which seemed suddenly leaden. I panicked
that the exit point might elude me, completely forgetting I could fly. I
whirled round in my agitation and collided with a hitherto unseen monumental placard,
suspended in mid-air, the size of the tract itself. I paced back, tortuously
slanting my neck to behold the colossal red lettering. Red as blood, the only
vivid colour in that dingy brown expanse.
YOU
ARE NOW LEAVING OUR DECADE
WE
TRUST YOUR VISIT WAS INSPIRING
Somewhere
a clock chimed. Out of the remoteness came Ma's piping voice shouting me to
wake. My eyes fluttered open. The silver cape was on the five-drawer chest
where I had left it after the fancy dress ball. The mask was hanging by its elastic
on one of the knobs. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was back home, in our
matchbox-sized house, a bright and cosy property just big enough for Ma and me.
We were unassailable. We were unaffected by past decades.
Or
were we?
