I often dream in stories. That should not come as a surprise to anyone, but most of the time I can barely remember so much as an outline. It had something to do with water … and melting vinyl records … and I … no, sorry, forgot the rest.
The dream I had last Thursday night was different. In it, I was a private eye, a hard-nosed film noir detective. The type that only puts the whiskey bottle down to light his next cigar. And calls girls dames.
Yeah, I know.
Anyway, I got called out to investigate a murder in a seaside town. Someone had found the lifeless body of the blacksmith by the side of the road, near the cliffs. I spent most of the night investigating, and discovered many fascinating and surprising sub-plots. None of which I can remember. Using the facts that I had painstakingly gathered, and my famed powers of deduction, I came to the startling conclusion that the blacksmith had feigned his own murder.
I moved to arrest him, but the masked scoundrel fled to the local castle. The villagers feared for their lives. Don’t ask why, I can’t remember. I chased him through corridors and banquet halls, dungeons and courtyards, and over the battlements. By now he was wearing a mask, and he carried a weapon. The game got dicey. A few times he nearly got me, the bullets ricocheting off the ancient stonework. I got him though, and tore off his mask to find, as I had expected, the blacksmith underneath.
Then the scene shifts and I’m sitting at a camp fire with some of the villagers. Coals and wood from the blacksmith’s shed fuel the fire. We talk, share secrets and tell tales. I notice something shiny in among the leaping flames. I reach in (apparently I’m fire-resistant in this dream) and my hand comes away covered in gold dust. I open the palm of my hand and in among the soot lie two solid golden nuggets. One of the villagers whispers in my ear:
‘Wow. Do you have any idea how valuable that is?’
I smile and wake up.
I’m not really looking for help to interpret the dream, because a) that’s something I have to do for myself, and b) I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it means to me. I just wanted to share, because I am amazed at how often our subconscious talks to us through our dreams and by the metaphors it uses.