You sleep, and while you sleep, you dream a dream.

There is darkness behind you and darkness before you, yet you sense that though the darkness behind is perpetual, if you try, you may find light ahead. You start walking, the only sense to prove your progress, the faint sound of your feet gliding across a barren ground. Through the shoes on your feet, you can sense that this earth is not stone – it is not hard enough for that – but neither is it grass. Hard, packed earth, so dense that no dust rises from beneath your feet, meets every step. The ground is level – it does not rise or fall. As if . . . as if it had no life.

Everything, from the darkness to the earth to the very air – so still yet not stale, more empty, as it were – feels alien, but not in the sense of something other-worldly. No, but this place – if place it may be called - feels instead as if it were un-worldly. You know, instinctively, that it cannot be a world. Merely a place between the worlds or . . . you shiver to think – cut off from them all. Could it be . . . a Beyond? Perhaps, and if so, what might be found in the blank Beyond? Nothing. No light, though you believe it must be there – there is always light. It doesn’t make sense so that, even as your mind rebels, your steps pursue onward, each tread the beat of your heart.

You walk on.

The stories are not always right when they say that a long walk with expectation ahead and dread behind may seem to take forever. One moment, you are contemplating the nature of Beyond, the next, you are standing on the brink of a chasm.

No, the stones on the edge do not slip off and fall into dark emptiness to warn you of its never-ending depth. Remember, there are no stones here. However, there is light. You realize it, suddenly, as if a lamp had just been turned on, though you know the light has always been there. How strange. Did it come into being when you believed it would be so? Or did your belief open your eyes to see that it had always been there? You shake your head. No, it doesn’t make sense – but it does make wonder.

You think, at first, that you are alone. Or, rather, you never dream that anyone might be here with you. But then that is the strange thing about dreams. You survey the chasm, stepping closer to its brink. Something tells you that you will not fall, though you were to walk out upon the very air. The only thing which might cause your fall is . . .

“Welcome, Seer,” a voice says in your ear. Without even a start, you turn to face the speaker. No, you were not expecting the voice, but now that it is here, its presence makes all the sense in the world.

“Seer?” you say, “What does that mean?”

Beside you, there shimmers into sight from the gray-and-black shadows, the form of a tall man. He has a long, silver beard and is robed in a garment of shimmering hue. You think to yourself ‘It is a rainbow’ then realize that though you know it has many colors – like mother-of-pearl – you cannot perceive them. Glancing down at your own hands they appear gray to your visage. This place - this Beyond - has no color?

“No,” the old man replies to your thought, “Color is created by life, and there is no life in the Beyond.”

“But,” you say, “I am alive.”

The old man smiles, and reaching out, waves a hand through your arm.

“Perhaps I should say ‘tangently alive’ then,” he says. Your eyes widen and, involuntarily, you reach to wave your hand through his.

“Impossible,” you whisper.

“No,” the old man replies, “Remember, you are dreaming. Anything is possible.”

You are surprised that he tells you this, but only for a moment.

“If this is Beyond,” you say, “Then what is Beyond?”

“Beyond is the place leading to places. The hall wherein doors to the worlds are found,” the old man replies.

“I thought that was the Wood Between the Worlds,” you point out.

The old man smiles, “Yes and no,” he says, “Each man pictures the Beyond – or Between, as some have called it – in his own fashion. Some use portals, others pools, still others picture-frames, and it all depends on the person’s own mind, or,” and turning his gaze from you to the chasm, he murmurs, “Their destination.”

You follow his gaze and fall into a contemplation of the shadows. If this is your Beyond, then where are the doors? If not – whose Beyond have you stumbled upon? If you were able, you would shiver, but there is no temperature in this Beyond, so you tremble inside as the shadows seem to grow deeper.

“Where are the doors?” you whisper and feel the old man’s gaze return to you.

“That,” says he, “Is for you to find for yourself.”

You consider his words for a moment, then ask, “How do I find? Where do I look? What should I expect?” with the last sentence, you turn to face him, and . . . find yourself alone.

But the sudden abandonment does not strike you as hard as it might’ve for, along the chasm’s brim, you see a thin, faintly glowing path has appeared.

“Do I follow it?” you wonder, even as your steps touch the shimmering gravel, “Is it safe?” you walk down the length, “Maybe this is a trap,” your steps quicken, “I should stop and think,” but you don’t. Such thoughts continue to whisper through your mind, yet not a one deters your from following the path. It feels right, without feeling at all, and makes perfect sense, though you can sense nothing. It is all so very strange.

“But remember,” your consciousness whispers, “You are dreaming.”

You walk on.

Deep gray dusk ahead begins giving way to a paler, colder hue until, at once, the path ends. You are still standing on the brink of the chasm, but now, there lies another road before you.

A bridge, wooden in appearance with ropes binding the stays together and visible nails protruding outward. Pieces of timber are broken off in place and the railing, or the foot-boards, are simply missing in others. Missing, as if they never had been made. Yet for all its brokenness, this bridge appears neither weak nor ugly. It is majestic in a half-built, dreamily imaginative kind of way. Stepping closer, you can just see the intricate carving in some of the pillars and patterns of silvery threads woven throughout the ropes. It is beautiful – in an intriguing and ancient way.

Upon your eyes, there glimmers a sudden gold. You glance, involuntarily, to the right, and observe another bridge. Slowly, your steps lead along the chasm some fifteen yards until you are standing before it. This bridge is solid gold and so bright, you know that if you were to walk on it, the darkness would appear as day, and the empty coldness would become warm as summer sunshine. This bridge is complete, and splendid. Graceful and majestic, it arches across the chasm into a vanishing distance, leaping like a young, powerful stallion. In the gold are set jewels of many radiant hues (though, remember, you have impression of their color, but you cannot really see it) and around them whirl patterns of shimmering gold leaf. Gazing along one shining rail, you see the phantoms of the metal-work seem to come to life, weaving their aura-like figures in a dance. They are telling a story, yet more than a story - a history. There is a tale here – you can see its antiquity and majesty. The bridge is beautiful – in an awesome and ancient way.

But your gaze strays back to the wooden bridge, so small and insignificant as compared to this gargantuan splendor. Slowly, your steps lead away from the golden bridge.

Glancing further ahead as you walk, you see, with little surprise, that the path which brought you here, is gone. You know, somehow, that here is where you must be. That here is where you must choose.

Stopping half-way between the intriguing and the awesome, you wonder which road to take.