The Gateway - Chapter I: The Dream

Have you ever had a dream? Dreams are interesting things; they can be the material of fantasies and surreal horrors, they can also be the type that can be, although rarely, realised that are of a political, social or economic nature. I knew a boy once, named Andrew, who had a dream. I had on occasion pondered it myself – his vision. It seemed then like a blend of the two types of dream - a surreal political dream. However, this dream didn’t ever really materialise, which was probably fortunate as only darkness and grief could of come of it.

I had a dream also, the type that comes to you when your senses shut down for resting. It was surreal but, despite its obvious physical isolation, as I am quite a logical and practical thinker, and it seemed absurd that I would be able to reach it when I was conscious, I was sure that, in some bizarre way, it may actually have existed. The dream came to me night after night, and now with hindsight I can see that as Andrew became to understand his dream would fail, I became closer to realising mine. I am at present standing beyond the gateway. The following is my re-occurring dream:

My eyes fixed on the gateway; flowers had sprung from the ground and had surrounded it and they frolicked in the wind. I suspected beyond the gateway there was a garden, birds could always be heard chirping a sweet tune and I could see what appeared to be a tree if ever I was to peep through the gap between the wall and the gateway. The wall looked timelessly old, but it did not look fragile. It had been built well for there were little signs of weathering or damage. Ivy had grown up the walls, which also gave me the impression they had been standing for a fair while, perhaps since the dawn of time. There was a pond to my right, which had been almost suffocated by the number of reeds that surrounded it. Fish lived in the pond, I had seen them; big, silver creatures that had no concept of anything other than the pond in which they swam as the reeds had created a wall around the pond, which the naked eye could not penetrate. The pond had always been, if ever I touched it, cold; despite the sun was rarely blocked by the clouds and the reeds would keep much of the heat in. I found it refreshing and would sometimes splash it on myself to cool me down. Wild mushrooms grew near to the pond and beside the wall also, I would sometimes taste the mushrooms. I had never actually tasted mushrooms in the real world so I simply imagined what they tasted like. The grass was long and wild, rebellious like my teenage cousin William.

William lived in a village in the country. Me and my mother and father lived in the city but we were soon moving to the country as my uncle had recently died and my aunt needed help running the farm. I had never visited the farm before, but my father had as my aunt was his elder sister. He said it was a nice farm with a village nearby that was a beautiful little place. I looked forward to moving, I liked William and my aunt. They had visited us before but didn’t think much of the city.

However, the gateway, I think, has some sort of relevance to the future. I am not entirely sure yet and I deeply want to find what lies behind these walls. How often I had visited this place and still I am ignorant of what lies behind the gateway? Why was it locked? What was so secret about the place that was cut off from the world I lived in? Why could I only reach when I was asleep - when I was inert?

When I awoke from my nightly consistent dream I saw the sun rising. It was winter so the sun was late to rise; a purple glow filled the sky. I got up dreary eyed with my mind still absent to the world around me as it still tried to grab the concept of my dream, and its meaning, and if there were any relevance. I managed to re-divert my brain to the task of walking down the stairs. The kitchen was cold because there was little insulation. Single paned windows with the wood around them slowly rotting, probably filled with woodworm, had their once-proudly-worn coat of paint chipped and ignored. Frost had grasped and squeezed the plants outside; it had squeezed the life out of them for the trees had lost their leaves. Only the conifers stood strong with their leaves still as green as they were seven months ago. I long to move to the country, the pollution of the city is what I dislike the most, automobiles spurt out thick, contaminating gases and smoke makes you splutter and cough and I can’t imagine it is healthy or good for you. I trudged to the bread bin and inserted bread into the toaster. I then got some milk from the pantry and poured it into a cup. By the time I had put the milk back the toast was ready.

As I ate I started thinking about the farm, I had never visited a farm before, there would be many animals unless they were arable farmers. I went up stairs, got dressed and walked out the door to enjoy the last day in the town. It was eight in the morning. Dimly lit streetlamps cast an orange glow on the pavement, factories heavily exhaled smoke from their core and mist gave the city an aura of mystery and, for the young and inquisitive like myself, it was irresistible to explore. Besides, as it was my last day I wanted to say goodbye to the city and the places I had loved. I jogged at a steady pace to the park. I walked upon the grass. It was damp because it had rained during the night. I sat upon the swing and started moving to and fro using my momentum to keep going. I gradually became less aware of the world around me and started thinking. I wondered what the farm would be like, would there be a big farmhouse and a stable? Or acres and acres of fields filled with winter crops and maybe some that were bare which I could play on, unless of course they were recovering from summer or my aunt was using a farming method my father had told me of called crop rotation. He had also said in the olden days farmers would have strips of land all scattered around on a field, so farmers would have a strip there and then a strip somewhere else and not next to each other. He said they started trading strips with other farmers and then they would plant hedges around their land. The country back then seems very complicated, business wise anyhow but I anticipate life will be much more simple out there than in the fast-paced and stranger-filled city.

By sending a telegram, my aunt had been a lifesaver for my father, for he had been recently put out of work. We were a working class family and now the city has become so industrialized there was no need for my father in his workplace as a machine had taken his place. His boss had told him, (apparently with great regret and sympathy) that machines are more efficient, and they don’t need to be paid wages (not that his boss Mr Turpin needed to save cash, he was a very wealthy middle class business man after all). Now we are moving to the country my father, my mother and myself need not worry about money much anymore as we could always eat our own food that we produced on the farm.

When I had stopped thinking of the country I realised that I was going to be late for school. I ran through muddy puddles, I knew the punishment for lateness would be the cane. My teacher Mr Craig had always said, ‘Fail to prepare to be punctual then prepare for punishment.’
I became nauseous with worry, I had never had the cane before but I had seen people being struck with it. Even the toughest of class came close to tears, but then at twelve years old I don’t suppose you could expect much more.

There was a slight fear in the back of everyone’s mind in my community; there is gossip our country might be going to war with Germany. Today is Tuesday 19th of November 1912. I do not know what is to become of this gossip and if there is any truth in it. I have been told that Britain has the best navy in the world, but then how reliable the information is questionable as I heard it from one of my fellow, young and impressionable classmates. Raindrops started to fall from the looming clouds above. I was not particularly worried about the prospect of war, I had never experienced it, but I have heard about it from my recently deceased grandfather-the wars between France and England in particular.

When I arrived at school I was, for the first time in my life, late. My classmates stared at me as I walked in; I could tell they were relieved that they were not in my shoes and they felt pity for me, and distinct bitterness for Mr Craig.
‘John, come to my desk,’ said Mr Craig as I looked at him and bit my lip, “hold out your hand”.
Mr Craig was a broad man with black hair going all round his head but his crown was a bald as a vulture’s. His eyes were brown and they fixed on me with a devilish joy in knowing what he was to inflict on me. His teeth formed an anticipating smile; you could tell he enjoyed punishing us. He would often look for an excuse to give someone the cane; he would tend to pick on the bullies, waiting for them to sin. I think this is because he was once bullied at school.

The cane came down swiftly upon my hand, I screamed and Mr Craig laughed to himself in satisfaction. He loved to see the reaction. My eyes welled up and my hand throbbed. Tears fell from my eyes and I moaned a low cry as I sat back down in my seat. I hated Mr Craig; he would intimidate us. He did it because we were younger, weaker and would dare not stand up to him. I started to daydream of a rebellion where the children start to fight back against the adults and turn the tables on them so the children would be in control of the world; that would be great, wouldn’t it?

I walked back to my house after school, our last lesson had been Latin; a subject I find very tedious and repetitive. My hand had a scar on it from where I had been struck. I hope I don’t have to go to school when I move to the country, not if it’s like the school in the town in which I live. I knocked on my door when I got home. My mother opened the door.
‘How was your last day of school dear?’ She asked mindlessly.
‘Fine,’ I answered her quickly not wanting to get into conversation for fear she would see my scarred hand. I had intentionally lied for if she or my father found out that I had been punished at school then they would punish me also with the whip of a cane.

I managed to hide my scar for the remainder of the day and clambered in to my bed for my last few hours in it. I began to think about the country again as my head lay on the pillow and what would it have in store for me. Swiftly I had again found myself in a world where a huge wall and a gateway hid a secret, where flowers, mushrooms and fish were born, grew and died together. One day I would find what may lie beyond that door; but for now it will remain a distant dream that has visited me since I can remember and the gateway luring me to try and open the door but alas I could never open it. I, for now, will wait eagerly to see what lies beyond the gateway.