the crone

she lies in bed afraid to open her eyes. Afraid that when she did she would still be there. It was all still so fresh, not the norm for most of her dreams which would begin to fade as soon as she woke up all the way. This one had seared it self indelibly on her brain, it had had so much vividness.In her dream she was in an old house. she could still smell it's musty and dingy smell that was hanging all around her and she had made a mental note that it had to have been the black drapes that hung in the room. The walls were a dead color of gray, they must have been white at one time. Huge walls that stretched high up. it was a big room. But for all its strangeness and its seemingly bleak countenance she didn't feel afraid. she felt as though she belonged there.
The only other thing in the room , besides the curtains and her, was an old wooden rocking chair. She went and took a seat. she some how she knew that she was waiting for some one or something as you do in dreams. You just know things. She sat rocking and staring at the door. She would not go to the door, again it was a certainty that whatever lay beyond that door wasn't for her to see. Nor did she care to. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the old door knob began to move. She waited breathlessly. The door cracked open and in stepped an old crone. She dressed in old clothes from a time long past. It was her idea of 1800's garb. The crone's white wiry hair was wrapped up in a tight bun on the back of her head. She stood hunched over and the dreamer knew why. She had a severe curvature of the spine, like her grandmother had had but much worse.
She looked Hispanic of descent and her eyes had a strange quality to them. They shone like a cat's eyes in the light. all this and yet the dreamer remains smiling. She knows this is who she has been waiting for. The crone points a gnarled hand to the floor next to the rocking chair and so she bends down and picks up a ball of yarn and knitting needles and begins to knit. She doesn't really know how to knit but in this dream she knits very fast. She knew this is what the crone wanted.
So she knits and smiles at the crone standing across the room. The crone looks at her busy hands and then back at her face. She moves jerkily. it scares the dreamer but she continues to smile at her. The crone quickly walks closer to her and stops to look at her knitting again. Dreamer keeps on smiling because she knows if she doesn't the old hag will bite her or hurt her in some way. The crone moves again and now her face is directly in her face, her breath stinks like old musty rags. and the dreamer thinks this is what a witches breathe smells like. She thinks that she is not bad but she is not good either. There is a look in the crones eyes that says she has all the potential for savage cruelty and animalistic insanity and yet the dreamer holds her smile.
finally the crone approves of what she is knitting enough to preform the ceremony that the dreamer has come here for. the crone reaches into her pocket and produces a very normal looking brown egg. She puts it on the dreamers forehead and rubs it there. She continues by moving the egg all over her body, all the while the dreamer keeps on knitting.
The crone produces a bowl. She doesn't remember a bowl being there but it just is there, like things are so often in dreams. The crone then squats down on the floor like a vulture on limb. She uses her knobby thumbs to break the egg and spill its contents into the bowl. It pores out black ichor. The dreamer is some how not surprised. she stands and walks over to the crone who quickly scrabbles like a crab to the other side of the room.
The dreamer has knitted a scarf. she reaches it out to the crone. The crone , with ungodly quickness, snatches it from her hand. and then she disappears. as the dreamer slowly emerges from the dream she recalls a thought she has just before waking up entirely " a scarf for a cure," when she does pluck up the courage to open her eyes, the damned migraine is gone. She silently thanks the crone.