That night he dreamt again. The past swirled around his legs, dragging him backwards through a gauntlet of faces and voices. In the hot night he twisted and turned in the rough sheets, calling out to the smoky folk of his dream world.

This ratcheting back in time was taking its toll on the frail traveler who had to deal with more realities than just one. What about his brother and the tragic circumstances that led to this moment? Why could he hear the tinkling of piano music and smell the cloying aroma of pipe tobacco and camphor?

And even further back, like a mirage, was the spectre of a gloomy inn sunk into black cliffs, half obscured by sea spray and devious minds. This nightmare propelled him through layers of Hell into the arms of a ferocious storm and a city that rained light. Once before he had escaped an asylum and driven across the desert to an ambiguous destiny.

Nothing was solid anymore. The ambitions of his youth had given way to inglorious survival in the ramshackle rooms of his remaining years. Could anything break this forlorn cycle of predictability? He longed to wake up and breathe.

Nothing is ever without consequences. He was exiting the dungeon when he realized that he was being observed by the guards. Had they deliberately let him think that he was alone or was this just a coincidence? Now he really had something to worry about after the Directeur’s veiled threats about any transgressions of the rules.

He had so far refused to answer his questions but time was running out. He suspected that torture was not out of the question and had heard the whine of a magneto being tested and had seen lights dimming, drained of electricity.

The other inmates shunned him, concerned that his presence would involve them by association. Somehow things were being drawn to a conclusion or perhaps a turning point. He was trapped on a crumbling island in a sea of sand.

Something else was intruding on his thoughts. Ever since the incidence with the young woman and the birds, a feeling of déjà vu had been growing in his mind. Had he dreamt this before, or was he trapped in a terrible loop, destined to endure endless repetitions? It was impossible to believe that fate would replay his life story. Surely once was enough.

Being a non-person to some extent, he was free to move around the fortifications and he wandered aimlessly, if only to lessen chance of encountering other captives. The old stone stronghold was a maze of steps leading to more steps and dark passages. It was during one of his explorations that he discovered a dungeon of sorts, musty and dripping, with low rooms secured by metal grills.

He edged along the central corridor, negotiating the mossy flagstones with care and was on the point of turning back. A shape moved in one of the alcoves and hands gripped the bars. He froze, as though confronted with a wild animal.

A pale, angular face drew close to the bars. Even in the gloom he could see that it was the woman who had attracted the birds several days before. He remained immobile, fearing repercussions from the unknown as much as the opprobrium of authority. She was silent but regarded him intensely and the simile of a captured animal strengthened in his mind.

Their unspoken words in no way diminished the communication between them. Her active imprisonment was in marked contrast to his passive freedom. He keenly felt the pain of her being caged within a cage, sensing that it could be his turn one day. Instinctual selfishness guided their motivations and linked their lives.

Days passed in the compound or it could have been one day. Filled with lassitude, he spent his time cowering in the shadows, pillaging his memories for specks of pleasure. At irregular intervals he was seized by guards and brought to the green room for more interrogation.

Because he had no passport or identification of any kind, the Directeur, as he was known to all, took a special interest in him. The sessions were probing and sometimes painful but the prisoner refused to divulge any incriminating evidence, although he was unsure of the alleged crime.

“Ah, my faceless friend, you have come to visit me again. Please sit down and explain yourself.” His accuser was circumspect. “You refuse to give your name but perhaps you have forgotten who you are. Surely you are more than an empty shell filled with other people’s expectations. Did your personality crawl away from you during that long night in the dunes?”

The questions left no room for answers and the aging man hunched over the desk, willing himself to wake up. The ghosts in the room had multiplied and he even thought he saw his brother during one torrid session with monsieur le Directeur. He carefully avoided any reference to his sibling, fearing that his quest would be discovered and belittled. Now was not the time.

He left the courtyard after the fracas, hoping to remain invisible under the glare of authority. In a dark alcove he was startled to feel a hand grasp his shoulder. A young man with intense eyes bailed him up, demanding his full attention.

“What are you really after? This isn’t even your dream, yet you walk among us. Le Directeur will make short work of your ambitions” The aggressor stood closer and examined his face as though trying to find fault with it. “You believe that it is your imagination that is playing havoc with your state of mind” he hissed. “But your true nature has been dormant and now instinct is taking over.”

The older man staggered back, feeling each word sting his heart. Nothing made sense on the surface but the subtext was rich with meaning. As always he had nothing to say in his own defense.

The young man pressed closer and whispered “In time you may fly with the others but you must learn to unchain the past. You saw the girl just now. Was that just your imagination?” He stopped, looked around furtively and scuttled away. Faced with such madness, the man reeled back and gripped the wall. Beads of truth dripped down his face.

On the parapet above their heads a young woman was gesticulating to the same flock of birds that the old woman had seen. She called out as if recognizing them and her words were strident and indecipherable. The birds wheeled around and called back to her.

He dreaded interacting with other people, yet it seemed inevitable in this furnace of emotions and dysfunction. Grimly aware that he was vulnerable, he tried to put the maximum distance between himself and the others, avoiding eye contact.

Dismissed from the interview room, he descended the stairs taking some note of his surroundings. While still not entirely convinced that he was not in a fugal state, he had to admit the whole set up had a strong flavour of reality about it, although some particulars were pointedly metaphorical. Like the portrait of the woman piano player on the wall that referred obliquely to his own past.

The reiteration of his dream was more intense than a vague feeling of déjà vu. It was as though he had stepped onto a film set, surrounded by creatures of his own creation but was powerless to control them. Passivity had always been a disability, tripping him up time and again and now his hyperactive imagination had stepped in to fill the void.

The two security officers ushered him into the main building and along the corridor towards some stairs. He could tell that he was being watched, not by those in authority but by the some of the underclass whom he had observed haunting the shadows. Like a truant delinquent paraded before the reformatory, he could sense their eyes weighing him up.