Archive-name: Dreams/november.txt

Archive-author: Stephanie Kay Buffman

Archive-title: Forever November





         I met him one November.  Think about it.  November.  Even  

the month itself abounds in mystery.  When I think about it now, 

I realize that i really didn't meet him.  I'm not even sure what 

you would call our acquaintance.  Maybe fate.  Definitely a precedent 

for the future.

         It was late and I was making my way home, through the fields 

that lay between the Vicar's house and ours.  I first spied him between 

the trees that lay at the edge of the surrounding grove.  At first 

glance all I could see was a tall dark shadow of a man.  My heart 

jumped, yet I continued to walk.  I passed the area where he had 

been and walked quickly beyond the vicinity.

         I entered the scruff of foliage at the edge of the fields 

and passed quickly through it to the next stretch of pasture.  As 

I entered the circle of grass, I stopped to pull my cloak tighter 

around my shoulders.  The November wind was a bitter one.  I bowed 

my head for a moment as I adjusted my clothing, and when I looked 

back up, there he was.  In front of me, not more than ten feet away, 

the shadow man.

         I was struck first by his extreme pallor, accentuated by 

his ruby lips.  His hair was slicked back, away from his ghostly 

countenance.  

         Don't look into his eyes, something whispered in my ear. 

Perhaps my conscience, perhaps an angel of some sort.  Either way, 

I disregarded.

         I lifted my head upward to gaze into his eyes, strangely 

intense.  Black with an underlying aura of violet.  He stared back 

and his lips slowly curled into a sly half smile.

         I half smiled back.  He extended his hand, and I walked 

forward to meet his grasp.  His hands bore white gloves.  I noticed 

he was a fine dressed gentleman, of probably fifty years.  The most 

captivating aspect of his attire was a jet black cape, lined in crimson 

brocade.

         Our hands met and he raised mine to his lips and kissed 

it gently, never losing eyecontact.  No words were needed.  We began 

to waltz.

         The beat of my heart provided the music, and the gentleman 

followed it gracefully.  We circled and twirled until the pasture 

became a ballroom, we two being the only dancers.  My heart became 

a violin, uttering forth the sweetest fragile tune.

         The rhythm got stronger, until I thought my heart would 

explode for intensity of it.  The room began to spin and whirl, yet 

we two dancers kept time with the waltz.  Suddenly, through unspoken 

words, the gentleman asked politely, "May I?"

         To which I firmly answered "You may..."

         Our lips met and I was overwhelmed with passion.  Not unlike 

the dance, the kiss seemed to breathe life eternal.  The room spun, 

the dancers whirled, and my outstretched mind circled them both. 

I could no longer breathe and tore my mouth away from his.  

         He bent close to my face.  I could feel his breath, hot 

on my cheek.  He turned his face ever so slightly and kissed my hair. 

We kept turning and his lips travelled down.  My cheek, my ear, my 

neck...  

         He nuzzled my neck with his cheek and began to kiss again. 

I was astonished at how such an aged gentleman could awaken such 

fires within me.  I felt his mouth open the slightest bit, as he 

nibbled ever so slightly.  We twirled and I caught a glimpse of us 

in the ballroom mirror.  I was dancing alone.

         Twas then that it happened.  I felt a sharp stabbing pain 

in my neck.  Vertigo consumed me.  I felt a warmth trickle down my 

neck, followed by an eager tongue.  At once the music ended, the 

beat stopped, my heart ceased.

         I awoke in the pasture once again.  My cloak was lying bundled 

next to me.  

         A dream, I thought.  Only a dream.

         I gathered my cloak and scrambled to my feet.  It had seemed 

so real.  I raised a trembling hand to my throat, only to meet a 

warm, sticky wetness.  I pulled my hand away and in the pale moonlight, 

I gazed upon blood.  Red, dark, my own.

         I looked around frantically for some semblance of the dream 

from which I had come, but there was none to be found.

         I closed my eyes and seemed to hear the wind whisper unspoken 

words.  I opened them again and found nothing.

         I gathered my cloak around my shoulders and began the remainder 

of my neverending journey.



---Stephanie Kay Buffman, March 4, 1992.

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