Unknown Blood, Unknown Dreams
Antje's strawberry-blonde hair dripped with the blood of the unknown, cascading down her tall, slender frame like melted snow after a morbid spring thaw. As deafening screams mingled with whizzing bullets and rapid gunshots, the unmistakable stench of fear and blood collided within her nose. Nausea and tinnitus set in as Antje turned around, witnessing musicians abandon their instruments and sprint offstage as gun-wielding attackers shouted orders to each other in a language alien to Antje.
To the left of her, a young woman whose chest had been perforated by a large-caliber bullet was bleeding out on a floor littered with handbags, phones, spilled cups of beer, and the bodies of individuals, most of whom were not yet half a century old. The woman's hands uncontrollably convulsed as she attempted to apply pressure to her wound, her very last moments spent gurgling and gasping for air. To Antje's right, were the remains of a man, maybe nineteen, who had been shot square in the head; his lifeless eyes bulging as his mouth hung agape. Succumbing to complete chaos, hordes of people rushed multiple exit doors which were too narrow to accommodate the onslaught of bodies attempting to squeeze through them. The poor souls toward the back of the throngāthe ones who just hours before had thought themselves lucky to be closest to the stageāwere now being picked off one after another by a barrage of seemingly never-ending gunfire emanating from assailants on either side of the stage.
On the rear fringe of the crowd, a man who had been protecting a tanned young woman in frayed jean shorts and a slinky tank top, turned with unabashed rage and began to charge one of the executioners, only to be instantaneously focus-fired by several gunmen. He dropped to his knees less than three feet from Antje; she watched in horror as the life drained from his pained eyes, his limp upper body falling to the crimson-stained wood floor. Antje glanced at the exit door with her tear-laden blue-green eyes, only to see it slam shut behind the woman in the frayed shorts. The thunderous salvo continued as Antje stood in the center of the concert venue, trembling and frozen with fright.
The frenetic honking of a car horn replaced the popping of gunshots. It was then that Antje opened her eyes to find her car drifting into oncoming traffic. Swerving, Antje regained her position in her lane, her face wet with tears, the whole of her body quivering with anxiety. Antje had escaped from the surreal terror she'd witnessed in what felt like a complete loss of mental sovereignty. As her daily commute progressed and she readied herself for the drudgery of bureaucratic meetings ahead, she simply couldn't shake the uneasiness of the events that had nearly concluded her life with a head-on collision.
Antje arrived at the office, absentmindedly taking a seat in her drab half-cubicle, which doubled as an eight-hour-prison every weekday. With a half-turn of her poorly machined, creaking chair, Antje's meddling cubicle-mate, Sarah, encroached upon her personal bubble and now stood a measly six inches from her startled, pallid face. Bending down with her elbows on Antje's desk, Sarah perched her face on her palms, cocked her head with curiosity, and examined Antje's face.
"Good morning, Antje. You look like you've seen a ghost." Sarah often went on information-gathering missions only to have cannon fodder for gossip during her next book club meeting, where nary a book could be found. Typically, Antje cautiously filtered what she revealed to Sarah, but on this specific morning, the prolonged existential terror she experienced overrode her desire to not be the topic of derision amongst a group of bored middle-aged busybodies.
"Morning. Yeah, I had something strange happen this morning, and it's lingering."
"Something strange? What does that mean? Did you have another one of your 'I-can-predict-death' dreams? Ooh, which celebrity is going to die this time?" Sarah said hungrily, grabbing the seat-back of her office chair and rolling it under herself without giving Antje the reprieve of space she so desperately desired. Sarah seated herself and clutched her coffee with both hands, her bubblegum pink acrylic nails clacking against the ceramic mug.
"This one wasn't a dream. It was more likeā¦ I went into some time-bending trance while driving and had a vision or something. One second I was driving, and the next, I was basically trapped in the middle of a mass shooting at a concert. I have no idea who any of the people in my vision were, and I couldn't understand anything they were sayingāI don't even think they were speaking English. The people being shot at were speaking several different languages, and the people shooting were yelling to each other in another language. It was just soā¦ real. I could smell, hear, and feel everything. I can't get the image of one of the people dying right in front of me out of my headāI stared him straight in the eyes as his soul left his body," Antje lamented.
"Oh." Sarah's tepid reaction was typical, as it didn't involve celebrities or Sarah herself. "I bet you didn't eat breakfast this morning, did you? Low blood sugar really messes me up too," Sarah said, rolling her chair back to her desk with her feet before setting her coffee cup next to her keyboard and carefully placing her headset so as to not undo the hard work of her extra-strength hairspray. "Time to get to workāhello, thank you for calling the Middle Park County Forestry Service, how may I help you?" Antje understood who Sarah was and found no revelation in receiving such a vapid response, but it saddened her nonetheless.
Antje often struggled with facing a harsh truth: her reality was different from most people's. She was persistently disappointed as it became apparent that everyone around her failed to notice the synchronicity and everyday magic that was so obvious in her eyes. They brushed fate off as coincidence and explained the unexplainable by accepting such things as statistically implausible happenstances. The herd focused on the latest shoes and cars, obsessed over pop cultureānone of which was the least bit important to Antje. She knew the iceberg of reality spanned immeasurable depths beneath the surface of the mass-delusion humanity participated in daily. It was as if she saw in color, and the rest of the world, sans her uncle, saw existence in shades of gray. It was isolating for her; she often longed for an intimate relationship with someone who had the ability to peek through the veil as she didāa best friend, a boyfriend, someone she could fully connect with for once. In a world full of Sarahs, she relentlessly pined for the day she crossed paths with another Antje, or even Antje adjacent.
The rest of the day's meetings were an unrelenting slog of, "How do we get the general public to stop setting the forest on fire?" Despite wall-to-wall meetings, somehow Antje just couldn't shake her overwhelming feeling of impending doom. As the day came to a close, she traversed the penitentiary-gray hallways of her cinderblock office building before rushing through the front door. A long pause and massive inhale of crisp outdoor air never failed to reset her mood; suddenly she had a single blissful moment of serenityāalbeit a fleeting one.
Unlocking her car with the key fob and climbing inside, she caught a glimpse of a smudge in the rearview mirror. Upon further examination, it appeared to be some sort of ancient symbol loosely resembling the letter "F," except the short lines were at a downward trajectory. Antje did a double-take, but her second glance in the rearview offered something far more perplexing: a one-eyed elderly man with a surly grey beard, gnarled teeth, raggedy clothes, and a dirty, large-brimmed hat stared back at her, his good eye piercing through her as if he somehow could see her soul in its entirety.
"The Dark Army is assembling, Antje. It is time. Wake up!" The man's Scandinavian accent was unlike any she had ever heard beforeānot quite Icelandic, and not quite Norwegian, but somewhere in between. She swung around, readied for close-quarters hand-to-hand combat, but instead was left in shock as there was no one in her backseat. Antje returned her gaze forward, blinking her eyes twice, intending to reset her clearly malfunctioning vision. Another deep inhale and a slow exhale with her eyes closed soothed her racing heart. As she cracked one eye open, a raven on the hood of her car let out a loud "Grooooooonk!" Involuntarily jumping in her seat, Antje's arm accidentally hit the horn. The raven fled in reciprocal fright. Antje rubbed her eyes and shook her head, as if to rattle it back into functioning order, but as she again looked to her rearview, the symbol was still there in the bottom left corner. Antje wasn't always the tidiest of humans, but she certainly kept her mirrors clean. Using her smartphone to take a photo of the symbol, she pulled up an informational guide to runes.
A rune from Proto-Germanic times used to communicate the word "God." This rune is associated with the deity known as Odin or the Norse All-Father.
Slack-jawed, Antje stared at the screen before setting the phone on the passenger seat and driving home. Two by two, thoughts raced through her head until she arrived home and dialed her Uncle Isaac, which proved to be difficult with her jittery hands.
Uncle Isaac was an ex-corporate CEO turned yogi; he was often Antje's mentor when she sought counsel, even though he was half a country away. The phone rang once and then connected.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Uncle Isaac. It's Antje. How are you doing?" Antje felt a tsunami of relief as he answered the phone; Isaac's baritone voice and gentle demeanor were soothing for herālike a large glass of wine at the end of a rough day.
"Antje! I'm doing well. So good to hear from you, but...what's wrong? You sound panicked."
"Well, think I had a vision on the way to work today and it totally freaked me outā¦ I was in some sort of daydream or trance state and I almost hit someone head-on. It shook me to the core and then something bizarre happened when I got in my car after work; I hallucinated a man in the backseat, and then this raven was on my hood andā"
"Oh, Antje. I bet that was terrifyingāI'm glad you're okay. Tell me about your vision... Was it a family member or a public figure like your dream premonitions have been?"
"No, this time was different. This time, it was people I didn't knowā¦" Antje explained her waking nightmare in great detail. Isaac reassured her that it was merely a trick of her brain brought on by the banality of her morning commute, and while she quite often had dreams that carried premonitions of death, they typically involved people she knew or public figuresānot random strangers. A renewed sense of safety washed over Antje as she poured herself a glass of wine. After the first refreshing sip, Antje began to share her bizarre hallucinatory experience with Isaac, but he interrupted her.
"Turn on the TV, Antje! Turn on the news!"
"Why theā"
"Just turn it on. Your vision is happening as we speak!"
Antje turned on the TV and heard the female news anchor painstakingly narrating the day's events. "As you can see from the footage we've obtained, several people were forced to flee into the alleyway. Just a horrible sight, Jim. Absolutely horrific. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of those affected."
Footage of injured people escaping from a building in Rotterdam filled the pixels on Antje's wall. Falling to her knees with the phone still pressed to her ear, Antje watched with tears streaming down her face. She recognized several people from her premonition by their outfits as they poured from the exit doors. They lived. They escaped. The brave man in my vision did not. Why was this shown to me?
"Antje? Are you alright?" Isaac gently asked.
"Sorry, Uncle Isaac. I justāI don't know what to say."
"Antje, your gifts are growing stronger. Tell me about this man you saw in the car... Did he speak to you?"
"He was old and had a bum eyeā¦ He said something about a dark army assembling and told me to wake up."
"I see." Isaac paused. "I think it's time."
"Waitāhe said that too. He said, 'It's time', butā¦time for what? If it's time for more death premonitions, I don't want this godforsaken gift! These people are dead. I watched them die before it happened! I almost died!" Antje's voice intensified, her mourning now mingling with a tone of righteous indignation.
"I know, Antje, but I believe the reason your gifts are only related to death is because it is such a huge disturbance in the energy matrix of the universe that it comes through clearly. You're probably getting all sorts of other messages, like the man in your backseat and the raven on the hood of your car, but they just aren't as clear, and you're probably not even perceiving them as messages."
Antje paused and attempted to reel in her emotions. "Time for what, Uncle Isaac?"
"Time to visit the Cisterne. It's a school in Copenhagen for spiritually gifted kids. I have a friend who is a school counselor there."
"A school for gifted kids? I'm 27 years old. What am I going to do? Make macaroni art and learn a spell to tie my shoes?"
"No, of course not. I want you to visit and see what these gifts look like when they're nurtured. You don't have to participate, but I would highly suggest visiting and learning a little more about your gifts. I have to warn you, though, the things you will see at the Cisterne... they don't follow science or common logic. It's a school of mysticism, and the laws of nature and man don't apply there. So, be very careful while you observe. Are you open to this? I'll make an introduction if you are."
"I guess it couldn't hurt. I'm so tired of living this way, wondering why I don't ever feel like I belong anywhere in this world... Other than with you, obviously. Maybe someone at this school can explain why my dreams are always premonitions of death and why I had no control over my mind this morning."
"Antje, it will explain so much more than that. I went after I decided that being a CEO wasn't for me. It changed my lifeāand seeing as you're the only other family member who was given the gift of providence, I think it's imperative you go, but I understand if you need time to process everything."
"Alright. Only because I trust you implicitly, and I saw the change in you after your visitāI'll think about it. Let's say I do go visit... what's your friend's name, and where is this school?"
"Antje, here's where it gets weird, so please keep that faith in me... The school is literally in the cisterns under Copenhagen."
"What?" Antje questioned with a breathy laugh.
"Exactly what I said. It's called 'The Cisterne' because it's literally located in the cisterns. My friend will meet you there and escort you to the hidden entrance. A lot of tourists like to visit, so it will be easy to slip in unnoticed until they give you your permanent pass. My friend's name is Kari. She just had a baby, but she should be back at work by now, and I know she would love to meet you."
"I'll let you know. Thank you for everything, Uncle Isaac. I appreciate you more than you know."
"Anytime, Antje. I love you. You know... I think of you as my other daughter, and I want you to live a life of enlightenmentāone where you aren't scared to close your eyes at night."
***
In only two days' time, Antje became resolute in finding the answers to the questions that plagued her. No amount of internet searches or videos could explain the bizarre and impossible experiences she'd lived through. Antje accepted Isaac's proposition via email and began correspondence about her upcoming journey to Denmark.
Antje lived outside a small town in Colorado, at the top of a mountain. She lived for the sound of aspen leaves rustling in the cascading winds, like waves crashing on a beach. But above all, she loved the sound-dampening peace of Colorado's snow-packed winters. Snow brought her a type of silence and insulation from the chaos and cruelty of the world that was invaluable to her. Friends and family persistently questioned her desire to live so solitarily, deep within the forest, but it was her isolation that allowed her to be sociable when she did venture out into the world she despised so fervently. Antje was empathetic to a fault, or perhaps extremely sensitive to the energy shifts around her. In public, she felt bombarded by the internalized feelings and energies of others. Oftentimes, she would leave the sanctuary of her mountain to visit with friends at the bar situated on the end of the 15-mile dirt trail leading to her home. Upon entering the watering hole, her temperament would changeāsometimes into frenzied happiness, and other times into the depths of misery. Uncontrollable and consuming, it left Antje drained and wanting to retreatāespecially because the people whose energy she was channeling were drawn to her for advice and emotional healing. Antje didn't mind being used as a free therapist, although she often found herself embarrassingly blurting out random thingsāthings the advice-seekers typically embraced her for and thanked her for sharing, things she still had no understanding of how, or even why, they popped into her head and out of her mouth. Nonetheless, her solitude allowed for such encounters without draining her spirit to the point of nihilistic exhaustion.
Her existence at 11,000-foot elevation was more than simply a respite from societyāshe felt closest to creation, to the universe, to existence there. It was where she felt at peace internally, and where she felt convinced of something more to the world than working, eating, sleeping, and procreating. There was a reason for existing, and although the reason eluded her, something about the high country convinced her there was one.
As she watched the snow begin to fade off the peak to the far east of her cabin, she heard a ping emit from her laptop. It was an email from The Cisterne. As Antje opened it, she found a rather short message:
"Third of July. 8:00. Wear blue jeans, a black shirt, and carry a selfie stick. See you soon. - Kari."
July 3rd was merely days away. Over the next few days, Antje spent her time preparing for a trip that was essentially one enormous mystery to her. She had no idea what to expect, and while titillating from an adventure standpoint, it was also unnerving for her. Will I see ghosts... or goblins... or gnomes? Will I find out that it's just a bunch of strange people standing in an old water cistern talking about their drug-induced hallucinations? What could this possibly be, that was so enlightening for Uncle Isaac?
As she took her uncomfortably small seat on the plane, the smell of sanitizer and heady floral perfume burned through her olfactory system. Attempting to quell the sensory attack, she twisted and turned the bulbous air nozzle until stale refrigerated air cleansed her airways. Lulled into a quasi-state of relaxation by the continuous hum of the engines, she watched the runway gradually fall beneath the aircraft. The plots of land transformed from sprawling lush green meadows to tidy green boxes with the occasional crop circle carved into them. She stared at the sky with headphones on, listening to classical music. The rays of sun beaming through the small window port gently warmed Antje's face, finally pulling her deeper into the state of relaxation she had previously only dipped her toe into; it was now easy for Antje to settle in for her long voyage. She began to doze... Not quite asleep, not quite awake, she attempted to talk with creation.
Will I really learn anything on this trip? Blurred visions of a man flashed before her eyes along with images of an immaculate garden. I'm going to meet a man and go to a garden? Is this seriously something important for me to know?
"Yes!" a stern female voice from behind her left ear bellowed with such force that it jolted Antje awake. She awoke with a jerk that startled her elderly seat mate: a small, hunched woman with silver-gray hair and knobby-knuckled hands.
"Are you okay?" the old lady questioned. She had tired blue eyes and a kind smile that peeled her well-earned wrinkles back like velvet curtains folding into each other at showtime.
"Yes, sorry to disturb you. I just had a bad dream," Antje sheepishly replied.
"Well, life seems like a bad dream lately, so maybe you were actually awake. What happened in the Netherlands... I just can't even talk about it," the woman quietly moaned while her age-spotted hands turned the pages of the newspaper she was reading. The front page read "TERROR IN ROTTERDAM: 50 dead, 100 wounded in concert attack." Antje cringed.
"It's very sad. The way those kids died and the memories the survivors will have to live with... No one should have to go through that," Antje said, sinking down into her seat as a surge of depression crashed down on her like an avalanche.
"My grandson... He was killed. According to his girlfriend, he tried to stop the terrorists but was shot."
Antje's heart sank even further. "He is a hero. Acts of bravery like what your grandson did are superhuman. He went out a hero on his own terms... but I am so very sorry for your loss."
Antje embraced the elderly woman as she started to weep. "I am sorry for crying. I just can't imagine the suffering my poor grandson went through. I'm on my way to Amsterdam for his funeral. His girlfriend lives in the Netherlands, and they had been searching for their first flat to move into together. He was living with me, but was so excited to start his life abroad." She continued to sob.
"I am sure he didn't suffer. He had a quick death and likely saved a lot of lives in the process because it diverted their attention." Antje paused and then blurted out, "Gam Zu L'Tova."
The elderly lady stopped crying and stared at Antje in astonishment. "You speak Hebrew?"
"Not that I know of. I don't know why I said that. I'm sorryāsometimes things just fly out of my mouth," Antje nervously backpedaled.
"No! Do not apologize! Thank you for telling me that. I'm Jewish, as was my grandson, and whenever something bad was happening, he used to remind me 'Gam Zu L'tova.' In Hebrew, that means 'this is for the good.' It was his favorite principle to live by. How did you know?" she marveled.
Antje smiled and replied, "You'll think I am crazy if I tell you."
"I won't. Please tell me," the woman pleaded.
Antje proceeded over the next several hours to share everything she saw with the old lady, including her lengthy history of premonitions and unexplainable experiences. The old lady remained silent, mostly blotting her tears away and occasionally breaking down until Antje stopped speaking and simply hugged her.
The aged woman grabbed Antje's hand and cupped it between hers. "Thank you. You do not know what a mitzvah you've just done. You're a real mensch. I'll share with the rest of our family at his funeral, and I know it will bring much needed healing."
As the plane landed in Copenhagen and Antje readied herself to exit the plane, the elderly woman again smiled at her and warmly said, "Thank you. This meeting was kismet."
"I really am so sorry for your loss, but I'm grateful I was here to give you some closure." Antje embraced the woman one last time before stepping into the aisle and exiting the planeāunsure of what the journey ahead would bring.
