I dream of the green bog in summer, under the blue sky and the mist that shows in the distance even on a clear day. They’re like the eyes of the earth, reflecting the sky and its drifting clouds. One becomes confused about up and down, sky and water. No wonder our ancestors found them sacred places, criss-crossed them with plank roads, the better to reach the watery depths.
The modern pathway is a sort of floating dock, a pontoon bridge that undulates with every step. I’ve long since stopped being disconcerted by it. I dream about crossing it by moonlight; I dream the sacrifices.
Ordinary dreams, too: I dreamed of Elsa Felix, black-haired and white-skinned under blue moonlight… in my bed.
More of the villain’s character interview. Weekend Writing Warriors offers eight-sentence excerpts from a variety of writers; see the other excerpts here.