Dream d3387-s: The Keeper Bends for Wood

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the lane ran to the tower gate and I stood in it at dusk, the notebook under one arm. Lano pressed against my leg, her nose working the cold air. The smell of cut wood came before the keeper's shape resolved: a figure moving slowly at the base of the wall, gathering sticks from a pile leaned against the stone.

Each piece went into the crook of her arm. She did not look up. The gate behind her was closed, one thick panel drawn across the arch, the iron ring dark with age. A lantern hung low on the post beside it, amber, swaying.

The surveyor came up the lane and stopped at my shoulder. Neither of us spoke. Behind us somewhere the relay clerk's boots on the grit. Lano sat down in the lane, ears forward, watching the keeper work.

The notebook had weight I had stopped measuring. I had carried it since the crossroad where the last account ended with no name attached. Kestrelspire was the second night of seven; the tower rose above its gate in a dark that still held warmth at its lower edge, moss on the stone going green where the lantern caught it.

The keeper's arm was full. She straightened and turned toward the gate, and paused in the way that is not a greeting but is not its absence either. Lano's tail moved once across the lane. I remained where the lane had put me and the keeper remained where the kindling had brought her.

No one stepped forward. The tower did not ask. The lantern moved slightly in a draft from within the arch and the wall held still behind it.

The keeper passed through. The wooden panel swung on its pivot and settled again. The amber narrowed and was gone.

Lano looked up at me. The gate was closed and dark.

The distant reader stood at the margin where the lane met open ground, and I felt that presence as I noted the time in my own record: the tower standing, the kindling gathered, the notebook still carried and still closed.

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