This afternoon’s dream, 1 PM:
The Viking’s Sachet
I’m a member of this tribe, they seem to be from a Dark Ages period, tunics and rough clothes and weapons. We are fighting a group that reminds me of the Vikings, but we keep calling them “The Spanish.” We know that they will be attacking, and we have gone into this fortified building that has concrete on the outside; I know that this is so that it won’t burn if they fire flaming arrows at it. It looks like a big barn, but with small doors. There is another barn next to it, looks like a classic red farm barn, with huge stock doors and windows. It’s not concreted at all. We climb up inside the concrete fort, and are all hidden in there, but a few people are hanging out in the red barn. When the Viking people come boiling out of the woods into the meadow where the barns are, they think that we are in the red barn; our people who are in that barn make a lot of noise, then the Vikings run in there after them. Our people close the doors behind the Vikings, light the fuse on what appears to be a barrel of whiskey or something else explosive, and then roll it through a small hatch into the red barn. It explodes, and flaming Vikings run out of the burning building. We shoot at them with our longbows, and I know that they are unprepared for our weapons superiority… I mention to someone that the longbows will do that the first few times, and then they’ll be replaced by the cross bow, and so on. I’m apparently from the future; I know that I’m at a battle where the longbow has turned the battle tide.
As all the Vikings are running, burning, and dying in the field, I grab hold of one. I call him “Gunny,” and I know that it is a short form for something like Gunnvar or Gunnarson. I want to keep him; I like him. He has a blue tunic and reddish-gold hair, and is very large. People question my right to keep him – he is one of the Enemy, but they eventually relent. I remember women with painted (like solid red, or solid blue) faces in long black skirts talking about whether I had the right to keep him.
I decide that I need to make a sachet for Gunny. I go around the village, gathering a pinch each of lots of different herbs from different people. Each herb represents what that person thinks is a good quality about Gunny, and I put them into a tiny bottle, about two inches tall. I remember picking a bunch of other herbs besides what people have given me, and also pulling a seed out from a pine cone, and other things. As I’m getting close to finishing the sachet, I remember sitting in a room with several people, possibly one of the rooms in the concrete fort, and talking very seriously with Gunny about the sachet. I ask if he wants to be bound to the tribe – I explain that it wouldn’t bind him from leaving, but that he would always have a tie to us, and it was important for him to consider carefully. He thinks a while about it, then nods, and I reach to take a hair from his head, telling him what I’m doing so he won’t be startled. He reaches out and pulls the front of his tunic open, exposing the hair of his chest, and says to take it from there instead. I pull out a couple of hairs, and put them into the bottle with the rest.
I get a message, or perhaps a call, from my Dad, saying that he wants me to come see his theater seats. I head off to find him, still carrying the sachet bottle. I am walking along a concrete path through a semi-wooded area; it reminds me of some of the greenbelt trails through Kingwood. Dad is walking along with me now. I drop the bottle at one point, and have to pick up all the stuff that goes into it – I also pick up a bunch of other things that are beside the trail, and have to sort them out. I remember getting the hairs back into the bottle specifically. Also, it seems like the bottle broke, and I am putting bits of broken glass back into the bottle – but it must be a new bottle. When I finish getting the bottle back in order, I pick it up, and also pick up a short-handled shovel; Dad seems to think I shouldn’t be carrying the shovel, like it’s beside the point.
We finally get to Dad’s office. He hands me a loaf of bread in a box, and I realize that this is why he didn’t want me to carry the shovel; it’s hard to carry both at the same time. He shows me a seating chart, it looks like a traditional music hall, like the Meyerson – it’s got colored sections and some are just white; I remember some being burgundy colored, and some having little letters and/or numbers. I am looking at it, and can’t see where his seats are; finally, I find them, at the front of the chart, on the Choral Terrace. I think it’s very strange to see theater from up there, because you’d only see the backs of the props and scenery, and you’d see people before they entered.