




                      _A Short, Shuddery Tale Is_

                            The Dream Snake

                          By ROBERT E. HOWARD

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Weird Tales February 1928. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The night was strangely still. As we sat upon the wide veranda, gazing
out over the broad, shadowy lawns, the silence of the hour entered our
spirits and for a long while no one spoke. Then far across the dim mountains that fringed the eastern skyline, a
faint haze began to glow, and presently a great golden moon came up,
making a ghostly radiance over the land and etching boldly the dark
clumps of shadows that were trees. A light breeze came whispering out
of the east, and the unmowed grass swayed before it in long, sinuous
waves, dimly visible in the moonlight; and from among the group upon
the veranda there came a swift gasp, a sharp intake of breath that
caused us all to turn and gaze. Faming was leaning forward, clutching the arms of his chair, his face
strange and pallid in the spectral light; a thin trickle of blood
seeping from the lip in which he had set his teeth. Amazed, we looked
at him, and suddenly he jerked about with a short, snarling laugh. "There's no need of gawking at me like a flock of sheep!" he said
irritably and stopped short. We sat bewildered, scarcely knowing what
sort of reply to make, and suddenly he burst out again. "Now I guess I'd better tell the whole thing or you'll be going off
and putting me down as a lunatic. Don't interrupt me, any of you! I
want to get this thing off my mind. You all know that I'm not a very
imaginative man; but there's a thing, purely a figment of imagination,
that has haunted me since babyhood. A dream!" He fairly cringed back in
his chair as he muttered, "A dream! and God, what a dream! The first
time--no, I can't remember the first time I ever dreamed it--I've been
dreaming the hellish thing ever since I can remember. Now it's this
way: there is a sort of bungalow, set upon a hill in the midst of
wide grasslands--not unlike this estate; but this scene is in Africa. And I am living there with a sort of servant, a Hindoo. Just why I am
there is never clear to my waking mind, though I am always aware of
the reason in my dreams. As a man of a dream, I remember my past life
(a life which in no way corresponds with my waking life), but when I
am awake my subconscious mind fails to transmit these impressions. However, I think that I am a fugitive from justice and the Hindoo
is also a fugitive. How the bungalow came to be there I can never
remember, nor do I know in what part of Africa it is, though all these
things are known to my dream self. But the bungalow is a small one
of a very few rooms, and is situated upon the top of the hill, as I
said. There are no other hills about and the grasslands stretch to the
horizon in every direction; knee-high in some places, waist-high in
others. "Now the dream always opens as I am coming up the hill, just as the sun
is beginning to set. I am carrying a broken rifle and I have been on
a hunting trip; how the rifle was broken, and the full details of the
trip, I clearly remember--dreaming. But never upon waking. It is just
as if a curtain were suddenly raised and a drama began; or just as if I
were suddenly transferred to another man's body and life, remembering
past years of that life, and not cognizant of any other existence. And
that is the hellish part of it! As you know, most of us, dreaming, are,
at the back of our consciousness, aware that we are dreaming. No matter
how horrible the dream may become, we know that it is a dream, and thus
insanity or possible death is staved off. But in this particular dream,
there is no such knowledge. I tell you it is so vivid, so complete in
every detail, that I wonder sometimes if that is not my real existence
and this a dream! But no; for then I should have been dead years ago. "As I was saying, I come up the hill and the first thing I am cognizant
of that is out of the ordinary is a sort of track leading up the hill
in an irregular way; that is, the grass is mashed down as if something
heavy had been dragged over it. But I pay no especial attention to it,
for I am thinking, with some irritation, that the broken rifle I carry
is my only arm and that now I must forego hunting until I can send for
another. "You see, I remember thoughts and impressions of the dream itself, of
the occurrences of the dream; it is the memories that the dream 'I'
has, of that other dream existence that I can not remember. So. I come
up the hill and enter the bungalow. The doors are open and the Hindoo
is not there. But the main room is in confusion; chairs are broken,
a table overturned. The Hindoo's dagger is lying upon the floor, but
there is no blood anywhere. "Now, in my dreams, I never remember the other dreams, as sometimes
one does. Always it is the first dream, the first time. I always
experience the same sensations, in my dreams, with as vivid a force as
the first time I ever dreamed. So. I am not able to understand this. The Hindoo is gone, but (thus I ruminate, standing in the center of the
disordered room) what did away with him? Had it been a raiding party
of negroes they would have looted the bungalow and probably burned
it. Had it been a lion, the place would have been smeared with blood. Then suddenly I remember the track I saw going up the hill, and a cold
hand touches my spine; for instantly the whole thing is clear: the
thing that came up from the grasslands and wrought havoc in the little
bungalow could be naught else except a giant serpent. And as I think
of the size of the spoor, cold sweat beads my forehead and the broken
rifle shakes in my hand. "Then I rush to the door in a wild panic, my only thought to make a
dash for the coast. But the sun has set and dusk is stealing across the
grasslands. And out there somewhere, lurking in the tall grass is that
grisly thing--that horror. God!" The ejaculation broke from his lips
with such feeling that all of us started, not realizing the tension we
had reached. There was a second's silence, then he continued:

"So I bolt the doors and windows, light the lamp I have and
take my stand in the middle of the room. And I stand like a
statue--waiting--listening. After a while the moon comes up and her
haggard light drifts through the windows. And I stand still in the
center of the room; the night is very still--something like this night;
the breeze occasionally whispers through the grass, and each time I
start and clench my hands until the nails bite into the flesh and the
blood trickles down my wrists--and I stand there and wait and listen
but it does not come that night!" The sentence came suddenly and
explosively, and an involuntary sigh came from the rest; a relaxing of
tension.