IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE
By Dolores J. Nurss
Volume 1: Welcome to the Charadoc!
Aside from Deirdre’s concern for Rashid, overwhelmed by
medical responsibilities beyond his years (in accordance with other, later
dreams) this is exactly how the core dream concluded. In the end, my viewpoint becomes all Jonathan,
watching Deirdre invite the rebels to put her leash back on. And I know that I am dying in disgrace, and
that my little girl, for whom I’ve lost everything, has turned her back on
me. And yet I also know, painfully but
finally honestly, that she, an adult and my girl no longer, has made the better
choice—or so at least it seemed in my dreaming at the time. To this day I remember the devastation.
What part of me, the dreamer, had to die? The part refusing normal teenage
rebellion–and so refusing an essential phase of growing up. The part that wanted to do everything within
the approved system, compromising more and more until I had nothing left, in
denial about how all that I achieved was the contempt of my elders, who would
have actually respected me more if I had shown a little spine. And I had to die to an adoration of parental
authority. When Deirdre turns back to
apparent slavery rather than the “freedom” of being Jonathan’s little girl,
Cyran sets her free. Accepting the
bondage of adult responsibility ultimately liberates one.
In the dream, from Jonathan’s perspective, I did not know
the identity of Cici till the very end.
Oddly enough, even as Dolores I didn’t realize till later,
fictionalizing it, that this explained Cyran’s disappearance from the band
holding Deirdre prisoner. E would have
had to drop out to check up on messages, to see when and if Jonathan would
strike out on his own. E could not have
contacted Jonathan so long as the man traveled with Sanzio, who would have
recognized hir immediately, under any guise.
These characters will always haunt me. I tried to run away from them. I retreated into Tolkien fanfic for eight
years, leaving the story of the Charadocian Revolution unfinished in the middle
of a sentence. But always they come to
me in dreams, saying “Remember me!” Part
of me will be one or more of them, and another part will observe and promise to
They say that writing is cathartic. I certainly feel something powerful, but
whether it’s catharsis I can’t say. Will
I finally purge this story from me when enough people read it? Or is that possible? This story chose me, and I must make the best
The last chapter of this volume comes next week. And then the real story begins.