I have these visions, these dreams. They come in my sleep unbidden, a swift rider in the night. Whether as a messenger or as a marauder I know not, because I always wake before the dream ends. I cannot yet see whether the rider bears a scroll or a sword. And I fear that if not the sword, the scroll could be worse, a portent and premonition of greater and more grievious swords to come, to pillage and slay.
There is a minaret in the Arabian desert, on a dusty sand-swept hill overlooking an Arabian city. The city is bustling with trade, caravans and merchants and goods and gold, all percolating in one big mess of humanity.
But atop the hill, in the minaret, nothing stirs. All is still.
The silence is overwhelming. Presently an Iman ascends and bows towards the Holy Place. And his eerie ululations that are the Faithfuls' cry to prayer rise upon the desert winds across the silent dunes and into that teeming, throbbing heart of the city.
But no one heeds the call.
It travels through the streets but goes unheeded even as it is heard.
Unheeded by all, except an ancient, whithered straggler on the dregs of a Persian spice caravan.
And there it ends. Abruptly and without further action. I dont think I should read too much into it but somehow it seemed so much more real than any previous dreams I have had.
