Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day

a dream about something that wasn't a goose and a disappeared vicar

Dreamed I was walking in an park, one of those old decaying Victorian pleasure gardens with decorative bridges and tunnels and bandstands and walks. We went into one of the tunnels (light and pleasant, sun from the entrances falling across golden stone) and from behind one of those mysterious little doors you often find in such places was coming a muffled desperate thumping, like a trapped animal. We exchanged glances; should we investigate? He thought yes, I was afraid of what we might find and hurried him along, the park was crowded, someone else would surely deal with it, the authorities perhaps. At the end of the tunnel he turned and drew me back; we had heard it, it was our responsibility to help. Already a few people had gathered and somebody had forced the door and got it out. "It's a goose," said someone but it was not any breed of goose I knew. Its feathers were dark brown and barred, its beak a primitive rounded triangle; and on the bend of its wings (it sat quiescent in its rescuer's arms, eyes wide, wings half-spread) were tiny appendages, thin and pale as bone, tippped with claws which clenched, unclenched as I stared. I wanted to look at it more closely but my companion wouldn't let me, and pulled me away; look, someone's sorting it out now, we're not needed.

Investigating in an old church. The authorities trying to get through a secret door on one side of the passage, didn't need our help, all under control little ladies. An alcove on the other side of the passage, the vicar's daughter levering wood and stone with a crowbar, there's something back here she says. I check the authorities haven't seen us and step in to help her. She won't let me take the crowbar, slow work. Eventually she lets me help; stone is plywood, wood cardboard, it lifts and it's a sort of tool cupboard back there, ordinary stuff like rakes and overalls but why boarded up like that? There's a strange tool I don't recognise, like a round medallion on the end of a stick, maybe it's a vicar thing. There's also a window in the back wall, covered with an iron grill; on the other side of it, an ordinary office, beige and grey, with a computer, cluttered desk, filing cabinets and fan. No other way in or out of this tiny concealed space. Torn between disappointment that it went no-where and curiosity at the increasing strangeness.

Cheerful thug in the road checking there were no police around, me walking across the road towards him, happy. He turns back to the road and waves his villains forward, the coast is clear! Behind him I see a little old-fashioned Police van bristling with cops, like something out of an old comedy, drive onto the bridge over the road and suddenly stop -- I almost said screech to a halt, but it moved completely silently! I walked over to the thug and pecked him kindly on the cheek, amused that they all would very shortly be caught. I am not sure but I think he was completely unaware that I was there.

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