Journey to Unseen Larogyph

Do we dream only within? Are the visions we see in deep slumber only hallucinations of our own mind, conjured by what flaws our psyches possess? Or, could it be possible, that by dreaming deep enough, by tunneling down through the cracks in our consciousness, something more can be reached? Like Dante descending Satan's legs, then ascending to Purgatory from the deepest pit, perhaps a dream is not vision, but a period of transition on our way to some otherworldly destination. A synesthetic journey to realms beyond our understanding of things. Irrational, ludicrous, I know. A pleasant fantasy to romanticize what are only the brain's chemical functions expressing themselves. But, for a night, let me suspend that organ's rationalizing of the unknown with a tale. A tale of a spiraling journey inwards, then out, to a place, and to a person. A retelling of my tale of love, fear, and death. A tale of the mind's eye's limited view of reality, and how easy it can be blinded. A tale of a place. A place called Larogyph.

Before I can tell you of Larogyph, you must know how it was reached. The dream that took me to it's echoing, empty halls and shaded streets was worthy of it's own tale-but it is only the transition from the waking world to one beyond. Often I have experienced strange, otherworldly dreams, replete with flying, malicious tapirs that echo the dream-eating Baku of Japan and the corpses of long-dead mosasaurs rising to once again partake of flesh. Perhaps on these nighttime trips I visited some other realms, but none left such a poignant image on me as Larogyph. One was a towering, brutalistic concrete structure, a museum of hundreds of stories that housed and exhibited a member every organism that currently lives on this planet. An immobile, skyscraper of an ark, it's oppressive beige halls in stark contrast to the vibrant ecologies its enlightened care staff maintained. I have always been a dreamer, since my youth when azure dinosaurs battered their way through the windows of my boyhood home and tried to devour me in my bed in my first nightmare. No, perhaps I was always destined to stumble upon what lies beyond the reality I know. Or perhaps, if you would allow another wild presumption, I was chosen.

The dream that took me to Larogyph was, perhaps symbolically, one of a journey. From where I cannot recall, but I and other travelers were making our way along a desolate road in the Italian alps in an old town car, a classic model from the mid 20th century. Our vehicle bumped and rolled over a wooden bridge that yawned over a snowy chasm as, like the narrator of the Divine Comedy, we took our circuitous route ever higher. Perhaps it is a fitting comparison; the dream, the intermediary point between my world and the other, was of ascending a mountain, just as Dante's vision of Purgatory was a trek up a terraced mountain. The allegory grows chilling when one realizes that would place our reality in the position of The Inferno, and the macabre realm of Larogyph in the place of Paradise. And just like the Italian who made the climb centuries before me, a woman awaited me.

Ignorant of the implications my journey held, we parked our vehicle at a splendid manor house, situated high in the peaks. Friendly faces greeted us and provided us with comfort and lodging, and sadly from here my recollection of things grows hazy. Like all dreams, many details are forgotten upon waking, and our rational mind does its best to erase things that should not be that we see within them. This is why Larogyph will always be more than a dream to me, for it has stayed emblazoned in my conscious thought for months after I awoke from my time there. Of the journey I remember little more than that there was some calamity, some disaster that befell me and the faceless, nameless travelers that stayed at that luxurious place. Something-or perhaps, someone-forced us from the mansion, reduced it to a blazing ruin with an awesome display of power, and sent horrible monsters to dog our heels and hunt us down-or, in hindsight, to herd us like sheep.

One of my fellows-a dark skinned woman with curvaceous hips and wild hair-went tumbling down over the rope bridge we had driven over, as things half mammal and half machine destroyed it and reduced it to scraps of wood and twine. With retreat cut off, the only path that remained for us was ever upwards, higher up the cold, snowy mountain that had become our Purgatory. The car, once a vision of nostalgia and comfort, had been blown to smithereens, its remaining components twisted into an animal snarl that snapped and growled. The journey was to be done on foot, devoid of the tools created by rational minds in the waking world. The trappings of science and reason taken from us by the unseen power, torn away like rags from our bosoms. All we could bring with us was what lied within our minds.

Again, my recollection grows indistinct, but who can truly remember a panicked flight in proper detail? Adrenaline clouds the mind, the world becomes a blur and the only thoughts are of going faster and not looking back. The other travelers were picked off or driven over the cliffs by our pursuers, leaving me alone in the chase as I neared the snow-capped summit of the mountain. Things like antelope, but with the black, rectangular plastic that typified consumer electronics of the late 20th century in place of their snouts chased with graceful, bounding strides, the wires that connected their disparate halves rising and falling with their leaps. In the waist-deep snow that covered the mountain, they would quickly gain on me, and I trudged through the soft wet powder that slowed my escape, the distance between us shrinking with every step.

The summit was in view, though it dawned on my that my destination would afford me no escape from the things that hounded me. Surely these machine animals would catch me, no simple gaining of altitude would change that. Among my pursuers I could now see bears and wolves, their thick coats crisscrossed with black cabling connecting what looked like parts of sports cars and VCRs to the spine and joints. The snow hardly hindered them at all, and they stalked me now without urgency, slowly forming a circle and closing in, my escape now impossible. The whirs and clicks of the cheap electronics they were affixed with punctuated hungry growls and predatory barking, the sound of cassette tapes winding and CDs ejecting hauntingly familiar beside the bestial symphony. If the destruction of the mansion and car had been my rationality and reason being taken from me, then these conglomerates of plastic and fur, hoof and metal and tooth and wire were my undoing by those stolen things. Never was I truly the master of the cold, scientific worldview of reality our modern lives evangelize, no, those were but tools to mask the harsher, unpredictable chaos I dared not contemplate, and they were just as dangerous to me as that chaos itself.

Forced on a back-foot, clinging to the torn garments that were all I had left from the waking world, I took ever more cautious steps backwards, keeping my eyes on the encroaching monsters as I neared the nadir of purgatory.

But this purgatory was never my destination, it was only a transient step, a road for which, whether by chance or design, I would reach Larogyph. I stood at the summit and took a final step backwards, my foot landing on nothing but pure air. And then, I was no longer there.

A vision of the alpine peak graced my dreaming eyes, now empty save for the ring of animal-things that were deprived of prey, then I was taken far away, to lower altitudes. The sky was clear blue, and in place of snow wispy strands of cirrus blew through it. Instead of a cold, desolate mountain, I sat upon a grassy hill, overlooking the edge of the forbidding city. The realm of the three-step monster and the shambling formless one. The domain ruled by the monarch of astral fire, and host to the hall of moving pictures. The home of the one who would be my love and what would be her final resting place. Larogyph.

Behind me I heard a voice, soft and calm, but possessing a reassuring firmness, like a grade school teacher's. “Our monarch bids you welcome to his realm, knowing you have journeyed far to reach it,” it said. Cautiously I turned around to face the speaker, and was met with a the sight of a young woman, clad in formless, shifting robes of oily black and green that obscured all but her neck, head and hands. About my height and possessed of slender features and pale skin, she almost resembled a vision of death, an image reinforced by the tall, hazel wood staff she carried betwixt spidery fingers. Of her face I can tell you little, other than that it was plain, ordinary, bereft of both great beauty and ugliness. A short bob of unkempt black hair framed it, and blurred the dimensions of where her body and her cloak separated.

“Before you lies our city, a place not far removed from your world. Our monarch has decreed that all who enter it from afar know some of its history, and so I have been dispatched,” the shadowy woman continued in her relaxing monotone. “It was not too long ago that our city resided in your reality, situated near the mountains you yourself dreamed of climbing. It is only through the secret path hidden there that a traveler can reach us, and few ever find it by chance alone. Some time, perhaps forty, fifty years ago, our ruler decided that his domain would be better suited to a place in the sky, and so it was.” Images of red-brick buildings and marble chapels being ripped from their foundations and rising above the mountains, rubble and detritus falling from their edifices crossed my mind. Century-old gargoyles finally had their chance to fly, and as the woman's story unfolded I began to see that the edge of my hill terminated into fluffy white cloudstuff, and that the sidewalks and alleyways of Larogyph before me did as well. It would be simple to walk off the edge and-presumably-fall to one's death back in our reality. Perhaps those common dreams of perpetual falling are simply that-a descent from the aerial burg I had found myself in back to the waking world.

“It was in those early years after our ascent that the city's ruler brought the first travelers to us. Each and every one of them was taken here by his order, make no mistake. We do not get visitors. Some of our city's residents, young men filled with vigor and vitriol, were given power by the ruler. One could take control of foreigners' bodies and, to his glee, tear them apart like dolls. Such atrocities were commonplace in our city's early ears, and many were empowered by the ruler to commit them.”

“Is that why he sent you?” I asked, the grisly image of my arms being torn from my chest with invisible force shoved to the forefront of my mind. I saw a brawny young man, dressed in bright, loose fashions, reveling in the viscera and eating fistfuls of gore and blood with relish. From behind his broad black sunglasses, a red glow shone from his wild eyes.

“I am not your tormentor,” the woman replied. “I am simply your guide and chaperon through our streets, for as long as you remain. If that comforts you, than I am happy.”

“But your ruler still sends assassins to eviscerate me? What comfort is there in that?”

“What our ruler intends by ordering my presence I can not divine, but the atrocities committed in our early years have not been repeated for decades. Those the monarch lent power to never returned it, and while they once walked as men, they soon began to change. Men no more, they have taken forms more reflective of their deeds. Our monarch now hoards his power, and lives a forgotten recluse in his ministry. It was his will that I bring you to him.”

“You haven't done much to make me feel safer,” I replied, crossing my legs and folding my arms in stubborn denial of her and her master's goals. “And as much as your city's history astounds me, you have not even told me its name. Or yours, for that matter.”

The faceless woman stood silent for a few moments, the only noise the wind whistling between the empty streets of Larogyph, its constant timbre like the snoring of a colossus. Her skeletal fingers clasped tightly to her staff, and though expressionless plane of her face betrayed nothing, I could sense conflict in her.

“I can give you none of what you ask,” she said, her pitch wavering a little, “and should that cause you discomfort then I share it with you. Our city, whose name I cannot share with you yet, is indeed still a dangerous place. The things that the ruler's chosen have become never venture this far out of the city center, afraid of the light and clean air as they are, so should that provide you some relief then I am happy.” The guide approached me, her amorphous body sliding over the grass with not a hint of movement of her legs. “I am a guide, an escort, if you will. I know this city, its crooks and crannies and secret places. Deep within the city are frightening things that will not hesitate to rend you to bits, but they do not tread upon the path I will show you, this I guarantee.”

“And should I refuse to follow you? I have no obligation to obey your master's will, nor any reason to trust you other than your word.”

The guide cocked her head at me, seeming to regard me with quizzical bemusement. Then, without a word, she walked on ahead of me, gliding with otherworldly grace along the grassy hill toward the streets of Larogyph. “Wait,” I called, rising from my squat. “You aren't going to just leave me here are you?”

“If you don't wish to follow, I am under no compulsion to force you to. But my warnings were not empty, and you are more than welcome to brave the streets of our city on your own. It would be but one more atrocity befalling an outsider, the monarch would scarcely notice. But should you value your safety, then stay close.” The black-clad woman continued, irreverently tapping her staff against her shoulder as she walked away from me. As she turned more and more into a vanishing black spot in the distance the reality of my situation began to take hold. Even without the threat of lurking murderers and fiends, the prospect of being lost in this foreboding dream-city filled me with dread. There was no way back for me to return to the world of the day; the mountain I had climbed was far away and far below, and for all I knew the monsters that stalked it still did, restless, hungry and angry for having been cheated of their prey. Swallowing my pride, I hastily jogged to catch up to her, finally setting foot in Larogyph.

“I hoped you would follow,” she said as I approached, inclining her head and offering an almost mocking curtsy. “It would have caused me great discomfort to abandon you and my duty.” She led in silence, following the outermost street of the city, the cloudy terminus of this realm only a few feet from our left. The buildings here were a strange parody of contemporary design; they possessed most of the outward qualities of a structure in reality, but they lacked some essential spirit, as though the person that had made them didn't understand what they were for. Squat, single-story buildings of faded red-brick crowded the other side of the street, empty windows gazing almost longingly at the landscape far below. While freshly painted roofs of vibrant green spoke of care and craftsmanship, I could see no doors on the structures, not a one. Furthermore, the broad, dark-glassed windows betrayed the interiors of these silent structures; emptiness. Nothing was within the buildings of outer Larogyph, not floors or ceilings or chairs or walls. They reminded me of so many titanic mushrooms, seemingly without function, having sprouted out of the ground one day with no consideration for what was around them or what they would be used for, just taking up space because it was there. The windows though, they added some sinister sense of intelligence to them, like eyes eternally watching the edge of the city like cyclopean sentinels, or mouths gaping wide for something to fill their emptiness. I quickened my pace as we passed ever more empty, yawning windows, forever guarding Larogyph against some calamity from the ground beneath.

“Excuse me,” I said, tapping my guide on the shoulder. The material of her cloak was soft and porous, and slightly damp as though with morning dew. “These buildings, I cant quite imagine what they were used for. Who builds a hundred identical houses with no doors or interiors, but gives them huge windows like those so that any could see their nakedness?”

“They were built so there would be a city.”

“Excuse me?” Was my blurted out response, the coolness of her answer throwing me off.

“The ruler enjoyed the way the tops of certain tall buildings-skyscrapers specifically, looked, but did not wish to create hundreds towering structures. His solution was to commission the creation of these tower-tops you see, and place them around the older city.”

“You say that as though it should be obvious,” I said, gesticulating at the yawning, decapitated heads of skyscrapers. “But it sounds like complete nonsense to me.”

“This realm does not stay in but one place,” she replied, pointing her staff out over the clouds.  “But drifts upon the winds, taking us over, and sometimes even through, all countries of the world.” My eyes followed her staff and, to my surprise, the mountains I had just summited were far away, and we were quickly encroaching on the airspace above a small hamlet in the foothills below.  “It was our ruler's wisdom,” she continued, “that, should our city pass by one that was more modern and advanced than our own, his subjects would grow despondent at the antiquity of their dwellings. The tower-tops were created to mirror the facades of buildings that our city passed by that caught our monarch's gaze, so that any who gazed upon us would see the image of a modern, amicable city drifting by.”

“I hope this doesn't come as a surprise, but this,” I waved my hand at the city before us, looking smugly at my guide, “cannot be seen by those in the world I come from.”

“In your waking hours,” she chided, leaning her staff against the inside of one shoulder, ”no, you cant. But in dreams, who knows?” I nodded in slow realization, grasping at what she was alluding to. That Larogyph may not be the only realm that drifts invisibly and intangibly through our own has crossed my mind many times, and after what I had seen in this dread place, knowing what cruel intellects lurked here, the thought that more were voyeuristically watching us haunts my sleep to this day. That I, or others might stumble through the realms of sleep into a place like this, that some may not come back, or that something may stumble out.

“It's hard to imagine the things you've told me taking place here. It all seems too quiet, to peaceful for butchery on that scale.” I paused, eyeing her expressionless face for any clues that might manifest, but none came. “Were you alive when those took place, um, 'ma'am'?”

She chuckled, the hint of emotion I had drawn from her bringing forth some pride in me. “I believe you asked about a name?” She said with a coy tone.“Why would you care for that?”

“I want to know what to call you,” I said, looking over the clouds. “Where I come from, it's polite to tell others your name when introducing yourself. I don't mean to say you've been rude or anything-knowing that the only conversation partners you'd have would be more likely to devour you I wouldn't speak much to others either. However, I do not know the name of where it is I am, or why, or by whom I am being led. At the very least, it would calm my nerves a little if I had something to know you by. ” I told my guide my name, thinking extending that courtesy would incline her to do the same, and she nodded patiently, as if listening to a child.

“While I would be happy to oblige you, I am afraid I have no name to offer. While our monarch has always commanded me, he has done so without granting me a name of my own. However, in the early days, when we first took to the skies, one of the short-lived visitors would call me 'Daena'. If knowing me by that name should comfort you, then I will not deny you that.”

“So you were around when those things happened,” I said, nodding solemnly. “I'm sorry you had to see those, Daena. The name seems to fit you, regardless.” My guide paused mid-stride and, inclining he head toward me in a satirical nod. I smiled, the joviality of her actions momentarily relieving me from the oppressive tension that the alien cityscape around me enforced.  While somber and reserved, the spark of satirical wit behind Daena's etiquette comforted me. Strange as her shape and mannerisms might be, I could appreciate anyone, from any plane, that can make light of a dire situation, and lift spirits from those mires of fear. She was an excellent guide, not just for the body, but for the soul, able to lead it away from the darker places of the mind.

We came upon a gap between the tower-tops, an alleyway of cobbled stone worn smooth that joined with the street we followed. Daena pointed her staff towards the egress and said “Here, this will take us to the interior of our city.” The sun suddenly began to fall as we embarked down the cobbled path, the blue sky becoming orange and shadows lengthening menacingly. It was as though the city, having lured me past its plain exterior, had dropped some disguise and let its true colors show. This sudden passage of time did little to shake me; these things were commonplace in the lands beyond sleep, but I couldn't help but feel like a fly, not realizing his predicament when entering a spider's web. Still, there was no option but to follow Daena if I wished to return home, so unless I wanted to wander this foreboding burg alone I had no choice but to follow her. Shifting a little closer to her, I eyed the buildings that now watched our progress in silence. Unlike the cyclopean tower-tops, these seemed lived-in and used, though by people with sensibilities far removed from my own. Crooked, narrow and tall, with dark facades, eerie yellow windows and steeple roofs, malevolence radiated from them like a miasma. Gone were white fluffy clouds, replaced by the arms of gnarled black trees, their branches forming arches overhead. Shutters flapped against boarded windows, and unlit streetlights gazed at us like eyestalks.

“People lived here once, I assume?” I asked, looking over my shoulder from one menacing doorway to the next. I take no pride in it, but the emptiness of this avenue was far more frightening then what I had expected. The creaks and groans of the aging structures, the long, distorted shadows and the claustrophobic embrace of the trees nearly obscuring the sky would conceal any number of dangers in an earthly city, and I shuddered at what could be hiding in the gutters just out of sight. As if to confirm my fears, a screech that surely came from a weather vane rasped sharply over the roofs, the silence left in its wake all the more haunting.

“Once, yes. Some may still, barricaded in basements and attics, but cast them from your mind, for they have hidden themselves for good reason. Artists and scribes called this street home, and as our city's population changed so to did their output. Poems turned to curses, portraits became grotesquerie, and songs became tormented screams.”

“I thought you said this path would be safe!” I hissed under my breath, incredulous Daena had led me to this cursed street. “You guaranteed me none of those things would find us!” Daena halted and turned about to face me, her featureless face shadowed and unreadable. All at once I felt very small, her silent judgment more terrifying than any imaginary horror my mind could conjure. In the shadows of this darkened street, her formless figure seemed much, much larger, her dimensions filling the alleyway and dwarfing me in their amorphousness. What was her human head was simply the fleshy tip of a great being of darkness, the comely lure atop an umbral anglerfish. Then, the moment passed, and Daena stood before me every bit a womanly figure, resting her weight against her walking stick.

“You are not wrong, those were my very words,” she said, her voice almost melodic in tone. While I could not see her eyes, I felt that they would be squinting “But make no mistake, while the dangers of our city will always be near, I did not lie to you. Our path will take us very close indeed to the things you fear, but should you follow my directions without question nor hesitation, we will pass them by unscathed.”

“Very well,” I exhaled, looking over my shoulder again at the leering windows. Did they relish in the momentary panic I had suffered, I wonder? Drinking in the terror of the city's latest victim like bloodthirsty spectators at a Colosseum?