Once upon a dreamtime, once within a strong dream, I am using a candle to navigate the long, dark, maze-like catacombs under ancient Rome. Perhaps I’m an escaped slave hiding from the imperial Roman police. Or I’m here for an outlawed Christian worship service. Or to revere my ancestors.
For the catacombs under Rome are vast underground cemeteries: miles upon miles of claustrophobic tunnels carved out of soft volcanic rock, many of them filled with crypts and tombs and stacked bones.
So in this dream I am walking alone by candlelight through dark cities of the dead. But not truly alone. For besides the runaway slaves and God-intoxicated Christians, other shunned and forsaken souls also make use of these tunnels; as do the occasional twisted ones who would prey upon the weak and the unaware.
Which is why survival alarm bells go off when I hear footsteps close behind me.
I walk faster, taking random left and right turns at each intersecting tunnel, going up and down levels in this spooky and deeply disturbing multilevel graveyard.
Pausing to catch my breath, I glance back over my shoulder. All I can see is my shadow, cast by the candle onto the stone passageway behind me. Only my shadow. Then, soft but unmistakable, the menacing sound of approaching footsteps.
I run for my life. The candle in my hand gutters wildly. Shelves full of human bones fly by. Skulls gaze at me impassively as I run, each skull once graced with a face, and having eyes to shape and behold a world.
I run and run and run until exhaustion sets in and I can run no more. My implacable pursuer comes ever closer. Finally, sensing that impending doom is at hand, I impulsively turn around, unwilling to have an unknown assailant take me from behind.
The low flame from the stub of my candle shows me who’s been relentlessly chasing me through the dark underworld of the catacombs. And I’m filled with loathing and disgust.
Because standing before me is a leper.
His skin is rough, discolored, and ulcerous. His hideously disfigured face has collapsed in upon itself. Yet he is gazing at me with almost wistful eyes.
Then he opens his arms.
At first I am only able to focus on the gnarly stumps where several of his fingers once were. Then, suddenly, I know what his open arms mean, and I shudder reflexively. His open arms say that he’s waiting for an embrace.
Oh no! This despicable creature wants me to embrace him?! To hold him in my arms?! May it not be so!
Slowly, though, unbidden wonderings start to arise. How long has he been burdened with leprosy? How old was he when he first caught this curse? Who was the last person to give him a hug?
What kind of life does he have in the so-called normal world? For he does have to keep going there for minimal food and water. And on the busy streets of Rome — 50 or 60 feet above where he and I now stand— most of the people (quite understandably) will fear and avoid and abuse him. Is this why he keeps returning to the underworld? Are these catacombs a refugia for people like him?
And what about me? Why do I keep returning to this labyrinthian city of the dead?
These spontaneous musings last only as long as it takes to sigh deeply; and draw a deep breath. Then, as resignation and compassion surge through me, I embrace my companion.
As I do so, his leprosy-contorted face morphs into my own. I awake from the dream trembling, knowing beyond doubt that who I am really holding is myself.
Light Morning 