The Key

A gentle wind blew softly through the shifting leaves, the early morning sunlight of June came in the gaping window by the boy’s bed, making its way under the shads, across the shadowy white room and danced a noiseless dance of youth and springtime freshness against the opposite wall. His head stirred quietly on his pillow as the wind tousled his hair. He spoke a sudden word from his dream. “The key?” he said questioningly, and the sound of his own voice awoke him. Dark, drowsy eyes popped open, and he stared half blinded by the unwavering light pouring in from under the blind. Was it a play of the wicked sunlight or the dream that still lingered in the world of reality not knowing that it should have left him with the fantasy world of his dream? He knew the picture line for line stroke for stroke. There was no figure hiding within it. It was an old picture of Fairfield, the Southern home of his mother’s ancestors. He remembered it always hanging there, across from his bed, his first sight at awakening and last before falling into the mystical world of dreams. He knew with utmost certainty that there were no figures hiding within it. But here there appeared to be this strapping little lad, in his outdated costume like attire of plaid and velvet that stood now proudly in front of the grand old house with an ownership unknown. Could it be a dream that remained not knowing that it had entered the world of reality? Could it be that this little ghost of sorts had wandered naively into the conscious world with him through the heavenly fields of illusion? The boy put his fists to his and rubbed them disbelievingly he looked again but still the image remained. He stood proudly within the picture on sturdy little legs and a daunting face as if he were saying, “come here, come with me.” He laughed and danced around merrily holding toward the boy an old key attached by a scarlet ribbon. He knew the key was for him and reached for it bravely stretching his arm as far as it could reach. Just out of grasp he blinked and leaned forward but when he opened his eyes he knew he was awake and the room was empty again. The house stood empty and pompous, no cheerful boy dancing in the garden and certainly no key being offered to him from a dream world. He was so confused, was it just a dream or was it real. It had seemed so existent but it couldn’t be so. He carried on with his day but found the dream had followed him and drew him aback from his studies, from his play he thought of this dream for so many days. It drew him back to the strong current of enthrallment his attachment to the dream was unceasing.

The first time Randy Dorian had this dream was only twelve years old, and withheld by the deep detachment of a troubled childhood. HE told not even his mother about his dream though he lived in its shadows for days and remembered it vividly for days to come. A year after it came again; and again it was a June morning when the little boy appeared in the garden of that old house, holding out to him the key. The dream was a pleasant one and Randy welcomed it enthusiastically from his dream as though it were a life long friend. Seeming something sweet and familiar, never to be forgotten or discarded. In the presence of the merry little child he half consciously reached for the key but didn’t try to hard in hopes of prolonging the vision, trying not to wake entirely for fear of losing it. But the picture faded steadily from his mind as the real world and consciousness took its hold over him. It was as though the happy spirit had tried to follow him, from a land not far yet separated; as if the two were common by childhood existence but unfated for meeting. Like a message not yet delivered was almost spoken.

The third time the dream came it was a December morning when Randy was fifteen, falling snow made flickering light and shadows dance as one where the picture hung. This time his eyes wide open, the dream came upon him strongly, he lay barely awake and dazed staring at the odd yet unmistakable attire that he knew in great detail now. The bright faced child swung toward him always from the garden of that old place always trying with merry efforts to reach Randy from out of the bearings of that old picture, always holding out that mysterious key with the red ribbon. Like a wary huntsman the big boy lay knowing it unreal, yet living the moment tentatively, awaiting his chance to grasp the long awaiting key. As always there was a flash of time and the vision was gone. Baffled he doubtfully believed that the two worlds might never meet.

Running down the stairs Randy hears his mother beckoning him “Randy of you don’t want to walk to school you had better hurry!” He sauntered into the study where his youthful mother was standing in front a gigantic mahogany desk cleaning the top drawer that was filled to the brim with old photos and daguerreotypes. She sifted through the old pictures lovingly looking sweet and innocent while she carefully sorted them with admiration and respect for her heritage. He selected an old silver frame with a daguerreotype in it. When he flipped it open he found quite a surprise. It was the boy from his dream. He recognized him easily with the plaid and velvet wear that he was so accustomed to seeing. Drawing in a deep breath he looks to his mother and in a ghastly tone asks “Mother- who is this boy I believe I know him though I have never before met him.”

She calmly replies with a sort of jolly laugh “My dear son, I must have shown this old photo before… this is Phillip… my younger brother, he died at only five years old. A true tragedy.”

Randy drew aback he didn’t know if he should tell her about the recurring dream. She might think he was crazy. He instead chose to ask about how he died. A tormented look crossed his mother’s youthful face and all beauty seemed drain with the color of her usually rosy cheeks. She sat down upon the sofa began in the horrific tale of a death to early and loss of a family member.

“My son, I am afraid the story of my young brothers’ death is a tragic one. Shortly after the war in 1920, my father died of a stroke. Poor mummy she was so heart broken, she had never wanted the plantation, and she loved Fairfield but didn’t want to have to run it. You see that was daddy’s love in life. And Daddy was mummy’s love in life. She loved him regardless of his love for the plantation . . .. Well back to the story. Mummy sank into a depression and no one could help her to come out of it. One day while she lay in the rose garden drifting