Piracy on the Thames

Dream: I was in London, near the Thames, around dusk. There was a thin layer of fog covering the ground, and the streets were deserted. The lamp posts cast pools of yellow light onto the street, and the ugly smell of the river filled the air. I was running, running for my life.

I would head through alleyways and through deserted shops. The world passed by too quickly for me to truly recognise places, but they seemed to be connected in odd ways - corridors opened out into streets which closed overhead and became courtyards and rooms again. Something was pursuing me. I could hear the uneven steps behind me, heavy and strangely paced, but unceasing. I was never an athletic child, and I could feel myself tiring in my dream. A harsh, cruel laughter filled the air, raucous and bullying, echoing off walls and pavement.

I emerged from a restaurant and ran, unsteady, down some steps. We were at the riverside, next to a large Elizabethan galleon, restored and serving as a museum. I ran up the walkway to it, slipping on the wet wood before crouching behind some barrels and slowly, fearfully glanced out to where I had come from.

Striding towards the ship, huge and broad, was a pirate captain (this was pre-Pirates of the Caribbean, and there are now friendly, kooky pirates in pop culture). No, this man was a giant, with a thick black beard knotted and crusted with sea salt, his face curled in a malicious, gap toothed grin, skin ruddy and blasted by the waves. His tattered coat was filled with rusted knives and sharp hooks. This is the kind of man who would kill you as soon as look at you, slowly and cruelly. In my dreams he is terrifying.

He headed straight towards where I was hidden and, panicked, I started to climb the mast, scrambling up ropes and handholds. I glanced down and see that the Captain had already reached the base of the mast, and was beginning to climb. I had reached the top, a thin pole that seemed to waver 100ft above the deck. I could feel the wind whip at me, pushing me back and forth, freezing me and loosening my grip. Below, the Captain had almost reached me, his smile an evil gash that promises pain. Seeing no alternative, I pull myself tight to the mast then push off, dropping like a stone towards the water. The Thames rushes up towards me, huge and grey and awfully solid looking.

Then I wake up.