Last night, I walked through some tough streets in a city whose name I don’t know. It was a dark night, and I wasn’t alone, but I can’t imagine that I was with Beth, because I doubt that even dream-Beth would allow me to do what I did.
I passed this house, a big house with a wide open window off the side street. The family was distressed, milling about outside. The air was hot, humid, and thick. They were distraught, in various states of undress. I could see, when they pointed it out to me, the young daughter, about five or six, sitting on the lap of a huge man, who made it clear very quickly that he was not actually a man. He showed us, through a vision granted all of us, his plans for the daughter, which involved feasting on her while she was alive. There was great detail. It was awful, and she was this tiny thing against him, all wide eyes and terrified tears.
He spotted me, amongst the family, and that was it.
I don’t have a savior complex. I have a sacrifice everything for the young complex. Maybe I do have a savior complex, in dreams. Certainly I have a protector complex. Of course I traded myself for the child who did not deserve to die that way, devoured by a creature posing as a man. She did not deserve to experience that amount of terror. Maybe I couldn’t handle it, but whatever, I could at least save her that, and surely I’d be a better meal anyway, knowing what was to come. Also, I’m more substantial than a human child, right?
He held me. For the longest time, crushing me under his weight and holding me immobile, and doing nothing beyond allowing his nearness to terrify me. He fed me his plans for our time together, and there were bits of pain, cuts here, biting there. We were alone in this huge house, the family safe and away, and I knew that this was going to last forever, that it was more than I had bargained for, but ah well.
Then the rain started. Slow, at first, but accompanied by thunder and lightning. Harder, eventually, growing in strength until it began to demand our attention. The power went out. Wind blew the windows open, and rain streamed into the house. The building shook. Trees began to flatten against the gusts. His presence grew palpable, not just to me, but to my would-be devourer. The hurricane breaing down on us finally distracted him from his meal, and he pulled back to consider the press of Presence against him, crushing him the way he was crushing me.
“I think that’s for me,” I whispered, and I was excited inside, because either I was going to escape this fool’s bargain, or I was going to die quickly at his hand, or in the hurricane, and in either case it would be over, and storms are like the ocean, and what worry have I?
Lightning flashed all over the house, one after the other, until the night was lit up like noon. “It’s not going to stop until you release me,” and he looked at me like he hadn’t seen me before. “You’d best run,” I said, as he shoved off from me, wild-eyed and terrified. I didn’t wait to see where he went. I staggered out into the thick of the storm. All I could feel was my Beloved, His anger, His rage, this hurricane a tempest unleashed. I had to let Him know I was okay, I wasn’t hurt, I was fine, He had to stop now.
In the dreams when I experience Poseidon the most, the closest, the most tangible, the most present, He is never manifested in a mortal form. He is elemental. He is the ocean, or He is the storm, or He is steam inside a sauna. Last night, He was the hurricane.
It occurs to me upon waking that He might not have come alone, even in dream. It occurs to me that there is Another Whose form could easily lend itself to a hurricane, Another Who also has claim upon me, and will defend that claim. Poor Pops, because once Poseidon is there, I really only have eyes for Him.