Tent Flap V
There were dreams then. Or what Gordon presumed to be dreams, for his world had long ago ceased to touch upon what he considered reality.
A tree made of butterflies, skeletal at its heart but feathered with a million wings the size of his head. He would have dismissed them utterly had not the trembling earth with its sulfurous exhale sent the host of insects fluttering skyward in a cascade of creams and greens.
The grunts of great beasts. A herd of them from the trumpeting, crashing through the undergrowth and causing the ground to stir with each momentous footfall. A scream in the distance, fierce and animalistic, caused the herd to accelerate. Their booming footfalls receded with the pomp of a vibrant marching band.
A great shadow passed overhead, and Gordon believed the buzzards had finally found him, had started circling their aerial signals of a feast. But no. There was only the one shadow and the wingspan of the great bird was vast as the image drew nearer. Serpentine and reptilian memories slashed through his memory as his eyes conveyed data he would not believe. Leathery skin. Menacing taloned feet. A long saber of beak.
Gordon refused it all and closed his eyes. In that action, he slept again, another crossing to an unknown reality. When his eyes opened once more, he was covered in a fine spray of ash. He sat up to find the world around him was barren and stark, the sky a bleeding filter of light. Between his knees not two feet beyond his bodily impression, a sprout climbed from the splotchy array of mosses and lichens.
“The first of the great trees,” a voice said behind him.