Title: The dream snake
Author: Howard, Robert E. (Robert Ervin)
Language: English
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                      _A Short, Shuddery Tale Is_

                            The Dream Snake

                          By ROBERT E. HOWARD

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Weird Tales February 1928.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The night was strangely still. As we sat upon the wide veranda, gazing
out over the broad, shadowy lawns, the silence of the hour entered our
spirits and for a long while no one spoke.

Then far across the dim mountains that fringed the eastern skyline, a
faint haze began to glow, and presently a great golden moon came up,
making a ghostly radiance over the land and etching boldly the dark
clumps of shadows that were trees. A light breeze came whispering out
of the east, and the unmowed grass swayed before it in long, sinuous
waves, dimly visible in the moonlight; and from among the group upon
the veranda there came a swift gasp, a sharp intake of breath that
caused us all to turn and gaze.

Faming was leaning forward, clutching the arms of his chair, his face
strange and pallid in the spectral light; a thin trickle of blood
seeping from the lip in which he had set his teeth. Amazed, we looked
at him, and suddenly he jerked about with a short, snarling laugh.

"There's no need of gawking at me like a flock of sheep!" he said
irritably and stopped short. We sat bewildered, scarcely knowing what
sort of reply to make, and suddenly he burst out again.

"Now I guess I'd better tell the whole thing or you'll be going off
and putting me down as a lunatic. Don't interrupt me, any of you! I
want to get this thing off my mind. You all know that I'm not a very
imaginative man; but there's a thing, purely a figment of imagination,
that has haunted me since babyhood. A dream!" He fairly cringed back in
his chair as he muttered, "A dream! and God, what a dream! The first
time--no, I can't remember the first time I ever dreamed it--I've been
dreaming the hellish thing ever since I can remember. Now it's this
way: there is a sort of bungalow, set upon a hill in the midst of
wide grasslands--not unlike this estate; but this scene is in Africa.
And I am living there with a sort of servant, a Hindoo. Just why I am
there is never clear to my waking mind, though I am always aware of
the reason in my dreams. As a man of a dream, I remember my past life
(a life which in no way corresponds with my waking life), but when I
am awake my subconscious mind fails to transmit these impressions.
However, I think that I am a fugitive from justice and the Hindoo
is also a fugitive. How the bungalow came to be there I can never
remember, nor do I know in what part of Africa it is, though all these
things are known to my dream self. But the bungalow is a small one
of a very few rooms, and is situated upon the top of the hill, as I
said. There are no other hills about and the grasslands stretch to the
horizon in every direction; knee-high in some places, waist-high in
others.

"Now the dream always opens as I am coming up the hill, just as the sun
is beginning to set. I am carrying a broken rifle and I have been on
a hunting trip; how the rifle was broken, and the full details of the
trip, I clearly remember--dreaming. But never upon waking. It is just
as if a curtain were suddenly raised and a drama began; or just as if I
were suddenly transferred to another man's body and life, remembering
past years of that life, and not cognizant of any other existence. And
that is the hellish part of it! As you know, most of us, dreaming, are,
at the back of our consciousness, aware that we are dreaming. No matter
how horrible the dream may become, we know that it is a dream, and thus
insanity or possible death is staved off. But in this particular dream,
there is no such knowledge. I tell you it is so vivid, so complete in
every detail, that I wonder sometimes if that is not my real existence
and this a dream! But no; for then I should have been dead years ago.

"As I was saying, I come up the hill and the first thing I am cognizant
of that is out of the ordinary is a sort of track leading up the hill
in an irregular way; that is, the grass is mashed down as if something
heavy had been dragged over it. But I pay no especial attention to it,
for I am thinking, with some irritation, that the broken rifle I carry
is my only arm and that now I must forego hunting until I can send for
another.

"You see, I remember thoughts and impressions of the dream itself, of
the occurrences of the dream; it is the memories that the dream 'I'
has, of that other dream existence that I can not remember. So. I come
up the hill and enter the bungalow. The doors are open and the Hindoo
is not there. But the main room is in confusion; chairs are broken,
a table overturned. The Hindoo's dagger is lying upon the floor, but
there is no blood anywhere.

"Now, in my dreams, I never remember the other dreams, as sometimes
one does. Always it is the first dream, the first time. I always
experience the same sensations, in my dreams, with as vivid a force as
the first time I ever dreamed. So. I am not able to understand this.
The Hindoo is gone, but (thus I ruminate, standing in the center of the
disordered room) what did away with him? Had it been a raiding party
of negroes they would have looted the bungalow and probably burned
it. Had it been a lion, the place would have been smeared with blood.
Then suddenly I remember the track I saw going up the hill, and a cold
hand touches my spine; for instantly the whole thing is clear: the
thing that came up from the grasslands and wrought havoc in the little
bungalow could be naught else except a giant serpent. And as I think
of the size of the spoor, cold sweat beads my forehead and the broken
rifle shakes in my hand.

"Then I rush to the door in a wild panic, my only thought to make a
dash for the coast. But the sun has set and dusk is stealing across the
grasslands. And out there somewhere, lurking in the tall grass is that
grisly thing--that horror. God!" The ejaculation broke from his lips
with such feeling that all of us started, not realizing the tension we
had reached. There was a second's silence, then he continued:

"So I bolt the doors and windows, light the lamp I have and
take my stand in the middle of the room. And I stand like a
statue--waiting--listening. After a while the moon comes up and her
haggard light drifts through the windows. And I stand still in the
center of the room; the night is very still--something like this night;
the breeze occasionally whispers through the grass, and each time I
start and clench my hands until the nails bite into the flesh and the
blood trickles down my wrists--and I stand there and wait and listen
but it does not come that night!" The sentence came suddenly and
explosively, and an involuntary sigh came from the rest; a relaxing of
tension.

"I am determined, if I live the night through, to start for the
coast early the next morning, taking my chance out there in the grim
grasslands--with it. But with morning, I dare not. I do not know in
which direction the monster went; and I dare not risk coming upon
him in the open, unarmed as I am. So, as in a maze, I remain at the
bungalow, and ever my eyes turn toward the sun, lurching relentlessly
down the sky toward the horizon. Ah, God! if I could but halt the sun
in the sky!"

The man was in the clutch of some terrific power; his words fairly
leaped at us.

"Then the sun rocks down the sky and the long gray shadows come
stalking across the grasslands. Dizzy with fear, I have bolted the
doors and windows and lighted the lamp long before the last faint glow
of twilight fades. The light from the windows may attract the monster,
but I dare not stay in the dark. And again I take my stand in the
center of the room--waiting."

There was a shuddersome halt. Then he continued, barely above a
whisper, moistening his lips: "There is no knowing how long I stand
there; Time has ceased to be and each second is an eon; each minute is
an eternity stretching into endless eternities. Then, God! but what is
that?" he leaned forward, the moonlight etching his face into such a
mask of horrified listening that each of us shivered and flung a hasty
glance over our shoulders.

"Not the night breeze this time," he whispered. "Something makes the
grasses swish-swish--as if a great, long, pliant weight were being
dragged through them. Above the bungalow it swishes and then ceases--in
front of the door; then the hinges creak--creak! the door begins to
bulge inward--a small bit--then some more!" The man's arms were held
in front of him, as if braced strongly against something, and his
breath came in quick gasps. "And I know I should lean against the door
and hold it shut, but I do not, I can not move. I stand there, like a
sheep waiting to be slaughtered--but the door holds!" Again that sigh
expressive of pent-up feeling.

He drew a shaky hand across his brow. "And all night I stand in the
center of that room, as motionless as an image, except to turn slowly,
as the swish-swish of the grass marks the fiend's course about the
house. Ever I keep my eyes in the direction of that soft, sinister
sound. Sometimes it ceases for an instant, or for several minutes,
and then I stand scarcely breathing, for a horrible obsession has it
that the serpent has in some way made entrance into the bungalow, and
I start and whirl this way and that, frightfully fearful of making a
noise, though I know not why, but ever with the feeling that the thing
is at my back. Then the sounds commence again and I freeze motionless.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Now here is the only time that my consciousness, which guides my
waking hours, ever in any way pierces the veil of dreams. I am, in
the dream, in no way conscious that it is a dream, but, in a detached
sort of way, my other mind recognizes certain facts and passes them
on to my sleeping--shall I say 'ego'? That is to say, my personality
is for an instant truly dual and separate to an extent, as the right
and left arms are separate, while making up parts in the same entity.
My dreaming mind has no cognizance of my higher mind; for the time
being the other mind is subordinated and the subconscious mind is
in full control, to such an extent that it does not even recognize
the existence of the other. But the conscious mind, now sleeping,
is cognizant of dim thought-waves emanating from the dream mind. I
know that I have not made this entirely clear, but the fact remains
that I know that my mind, conscious and subconscious, is near to
ruin. My obsession of fear, as I stand there in my dream, is that
the serpent will raise itself and peer into the window at me. And I
know, in my dream, that if this occurs I shall go insane. And so vivid
is the impression imparted to my conscious, now sleeping mind that
the thought-waves stir the dim seas of sleep, and somehow I can feel
my sanity rocking as my sanity rocks in my dream. Back and forth it
totters and sways until the motion takes on a physical aspect and I in
my dream am swaying from side to side. Not always is the sensation the
same, but I tell you, if that horror ever raises its terrible shape
and leers at me, if I ever see the fearful thing in my dream, I shall
become stark, wild insane." There was a restless movement among the
rest.

"God! but what a prospect!" he muttered. "To be insane and forever
dreaming that same dream, night and day! But there I stand, and
centuries go by, but at last a dim gray light begins to steal through
the windows, the swishing dies away in the distance and presently a
red, haggard sun climbs the eastern sky. Then I turn about and gaze
into a mirror--and my hair has become perfectly white. I stagger to
the door and fling it wide. There is nothing in sight but a wide track
leading away down the hill through the grasslands--in the opposite
direction from that which I would take toward the coast. And with a
shriek of maniacal laughter, I dash down the hill and race across the
grasslands. I race until I drop from exhaustion, then I lie until I can
stagger up and go on.

"All day I keep this up, with superhuman effort, spurred on by the
horror behind me. And ever as I hurl myself forward on weakening legs,
ever as I lie gasping for breath, I watch the sun with a terrible
eagerness. How swiftly the sun travels when a man races it for life! A
losing race it is, as I know when I watch the sun sinking toward the
skyline, and the hills which I had hoped to gain ere sundown seemingly
as far away as ever."

His voice was lowered and instinctively we leaned toward him; he was
gripping the chair arms and the blood was seeping from his lip.

"Then the sun sets and the shadows come and I stagger on and fall and
rise and reel on again. And I laugh, laugh, laugh! Then I cease, for
the moon comes up and throws the grasslands in ghostly and silvery
relief. The light is white across the land, though the moon itself is
like blood. And I look back the way I have come--and far--back"--all
of us leaned farther toward him, our hair a-prickle; his voice came
like a ghostly whisper--"far back--I--see--the--grass--waving. There is
no breeze, but the tall grass parts and sways in the moonlight, in a
narrow, sinuous line--far away, but nearing every instant." His voice
died away.

Somebody broke the ensuing stillness: "And then----?"

"Then I awake. Never yet have I seen the foul monster. But that is the
dream that haunts me, and from which I have wakened, in my childhood
screaming, in my manhood in cold sweat. At irregular intervals I dream
it, and each time, lately"--he hesitated and then went on--"each time
lately, the thing has been getting closer--closer--the waving of the
grass marks his progress and he nears me with each dream; and when he
reaches me, then----"

He stopped short, then without a word rose abruptly and entered the
house. The rest of us sat silent for awhile, then followed him, for it
was late.

       *       *       *       *       *

How long I slept I do not know, but I woke suddenly with the impression
that somewhere in the house someone had laughed, long, loud and
hideously, as a maniac laughs. Starting up, wondering if I had been
dreaming, I rushed from my room, just as a truly horrible shriek
echoed through the house. The place was now alive with other people
who had been awakened, and all of us rushed to Faming's room, whence
the sounds had seemed to come.

Faming lay dead upon the floor, where it seemed he had fallen in
some terrific struggle. There was no mark upon him, but his face was
terribly distorted; as the face of a man who had been crushed by some
superhuman force--such as some gigantic snake.



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