the gift ·
3 September 04

When I did sleep, I had this strange dream. It wouldn’t shock me if it was related to the fact that I had watched a lot of Samurai related stuff of late. In any case, the part of the dream I remember was about this man who sits in the middle of a room.

On his left hand side sit two of his wives, and on the left sits the third wife, his last one. The first two wives are dressed in peach coloured gowns, and the third in green, perhaps distinguishing the old from the new. The man in the middle, who is both husband to these women, and the father of their children sits wearing a blue robe over his shoulders, underneath which he wears a traditional outfit which is white in colour.

The room is subdued, the light from the candle minimal and providing enough radiance to show the faces and clothing of those sitting in the room. The ambiance is tense, almost cut throat, and I don’t understand why. Then I see three other figures sitting on mats in front of the man. They’re smaller in size; they are his children.

The first wears a black robe, and his in front of him a yellow box. The second child wears a pure white robe, and he too has a box, which is red in colour. The third child seems to be the youngest of the three, with skin that seems that of a baby; the box in front of the child is white and he wears a green robe, perhaps he is the third child of the third wife. All the children are boys, and all are looking at their father in a disciplined, focused and respectfully dedicated manner. It seems to put a fear in to the sitting mothers, their eyes look down, almost in defeat.

Looking at the first child, the father nods at him, and the child comes forward to sit on another mat which is directly in place of his father. The mat has a design on it which I can’t quite make out, but it seems to have a face which looks like that of a demon. The child carries with him the yellow box, and paces it in front of his father, bowing down, and scuttling back. The father opens the box, and finds inside a flute. He places the flute in front of him, and nods to the the first child. The child returns to his original place.

The father looks to the third child, much to the annoyance of the second, perhaps eldest of the three children. The young one seems delighted and smiles, until his father provides a discerning look in his direction, which promptly resigns the little child to look serious once more. The box seems big for his little hands, small and delicate as he carries it forth. Like the first child, he places it in front of his father, bowing down, his father lets him see a small smile, which quickly disappears. The small child seems to acknowledge this with his eyes, with deep gratitude. It’s a moment shared by only the two, as no one else seems to have paid attention to that nanosecond of bonding.

His father looks down upon the white box, and takes out a writing brush. It’s details is impressive, and the hairs of the brush very fine, presenting a work of passion. The father nods to his youngest, and the little child scuttles back to his place.

He breathes a heavy sigh, looking down at the two items and shaking his head. Is he disappointed, or is he aware that the next child is the one robed in white? Does he not want him close by, or has he always been a disappointment? I can’t tell, nor can I determine any thoughts from the man’s facial expression.

The second child wears a pure white robe, and he too has a box, which is red in colour. The third child seems to be the youngest of the three, with skin that seems that of a baby; the box in front of the child is white and he wears a green robe, perhaps he is the third child of the third wife.

His scalp is bright and smooth, the light from the candles glistening across it like a the moonlight over an icy pond. He slowly raises his right hand and places it against his chin, the wives look in fear, and the second child does not seem too bothered, looking and waiting with a deep focus. The father runs his hand across his chin from right to left, and then left to right, now lowering his hand and sitting himself upright.

A father deep in thought, looks at the child in the middle, and stares at him for a moment. A look of disdain appears. If he was the first child, perhaps he was the first disappointment? Or perhaps his greatest fear? It’s hard to say, but something troubles the father as continues to stare at the boy, and then acknowledges him to come forward. The son nods back, with authority, and moves forward.

Who of the two, on the fathers right hand side, is this boy’s mother? It’s as if all the mothers feel each others pain, or understand one another, the all seem to want to protect the three children as their own, regardless of the person who gave birth. It’s an unsettling feeling, and the father seems to sense this. He looks either side of him, as the mother’s once more look down upon the mat, the Earth that will forever hold their stares.

There seems to be a purposeful hesitancy on the part of the child robed in white. He moves forward, at a pace that is slower than that of the two that preceded him, it’s defiant and yet respectful, almost as if he considered himself greater than his father. The child sits on the demon faced met and stares deep in to his fathers eyes.

Placing the red box carefully at his father’s feet, he moves back slowly, like a snake across grass, slithering back to the demon mat. The box is much longer than those that were presented by the other brethren. The father looks upon the box with fear and intrigue, he looks back at the boy, then at the box, then his eyes fixate on the eyes of the boy, and the boy fixates his on his father.

Open the box he tells his father, and all around gasps are heard. However, the father, almost in a hypnotic trance opens the box and sees before him a beautiful sword. The handle is crafted with an emblem and the design of a dragon. Its blade is stunning, shimmering the candle light at the two other children behind the one robed in white. Even the mothers lift their heads and marvel at the beauty of the blade. It is sublime and entrancing, with a surface so bright it looks almost invisible at certain angles.

White robed, sitting, smiling, he looks at his father’s ecstatic facial expression. A look of wonder and amazement, and then he looks at the boy in front of him, and changes to disgust and hatred. He looks at the sword again, and throws the sword at his son’s feet. Disgraceful his father says, unworthy of me he follows. Everyone watches in silence, as the father speaks the last sentence, spittle spraying from his mouth on to the floor. The son stands up, lifting the sword from the ground, and says, for you father.

The sword is swung in the room, to the cries and yelps of the mother and children, but not the father who looks on unimpressed. The son opens his robe, as the candles flicker from the sword swinging, the air seems to have been cut and displaced, trying to find its path again. He places the nose of the sword on to the right side of his soft belly, and thrusts, with all the might in his small arms, the sword in to himself.

As he does so, blood spills and splatters behind him, on to the spot where he sat. The candles still flicker, but slowly regain their light as he then proceeds to drag the dug sword across his belly. He doesn’t have the strength to do it in one go, and instead has to force the sword many times across, while coughing and puring blood all around him. The mothers look in horror, the other two boys look in fear, and the father, drenched with the spraying of the blood claps his hands, and laughs in the air in a joyous manner, as the red trickles down his mouth, through his beard and on to the red box beneath his feet.

With the sword wedged nearly all the way across his belly, the son falls to the floor, bloody mouthed, and his white robe completely soaked with blood. The father still clapping, laughing, smiling dances around the body of his dead son. He calls in the servants, and asks them to bring the Sake for this happy occasion. The mothers weep, even the sons fail to hold back their tears. The corpse sits their, guts inside out, blood soaked mats beneath the body, and the blade still able to carry the beautiful shine it presented originally. The father asks the servant to remove the sword and pass it to him. The servant does so, with a tear in his eye, with regret, and with shame.

The father holds the sword, and acknowledges its beauty, placing it in the blood splattered box below him. He announces he will look for a new wife tomorrow to bare him a new son, and drinks down the Sake.