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  Goes Back, b'y    Tales and Yarns - Dream Life Series # 12

Author: Don R. Wilkins

It is sometimes difficult after you awaken from a dream to remember all the details, especially the beginning.

Apparently I was living somewhere on the East Coast, of Newfoundland, at least visiting there. The town was a Fishing Village situated in a small cove. There were about a dozen houses, all different shapes and sizes. Most were painted white but one or two were blue or green. There was only one road running the length of the town, with the houses situated between the road and the shore.

Immediately beyond the town, as you cross the road, the tree line began. From there the land rose into a small hill about one thousand feet in height. The trees were mostly Spruce and Fir with some Birch trees scattered around.

I must have lived here at one time because I seemed to remember hauling firewood down that hill and snaring Rabbits in the wintertime. There was a fast running stream flowing down the hill through the middle of town. I vaguely recall a lake somewhere up the hill where I caught a Rainbow Trout onetime, but I'm not sure.

There is one big old two-story house, which stands out in my mind. It was on edge of town. Directly across the road was a small shed, or workshop, and beside it a tiny artesian well.

Anyway it's time to get on with the real story.

Apparently I had access to a boat, so I decided to go exploring out in the Bay. The small cove is almost land-locked. The entrance, called the Narrows, is barely wide enough to navigate. Once outside the narrows the Bay opens up beyond where eye can see. The whole Atlantic Ocean is out there somewhere.

I followed the coastline for about an hour, not smart to get too far away in case the weather turned nasty. The Coastline here is rocky cliffs about two hundred feet high. No beach, just rock.

Watching the birds circling and landing in the craggy cliff, I was paying no attention to anything else. All of a sudden there was a powerful gust of wind. Next thing I know my boat is riding on the crest of a huge wave. It seemed to come from nowhere. This wave was driving me straight into the cliff. At the last minute I was able to jump overboard. If I hadn't I would be as smashed up as the boat was from being slammed into the solid cliff face. In any event, I was fortunate enough to wrap my arms around a rock and hang on. I am in the water at the bottom of an insurmountable, two hundred foot cliff. I will never be found.

It's strange the things that go through your mind in a desperate situation. I remembered a story my Dad told me, years ago. There was a Shipwreck off a coast similar to this. The only survivor, climbed a vertical cliff, at night, then walked several miles to report the loss.

Looks as though I'll have to follow his lead. Besides it was still daylight. Something told me I would make it. I started to climb. I'm not in very good shape physically, being somewhat over weight. I've been an expert at avoiding exercise for years. Now I would pay the price. Just pulling myself out of the water was difficult, but inch-by-inch I gained ground, rock actually. After about twenty feet I stopped to catch my breath. My legs felt as though they were about to fall off.

Now I'd been climbing as straight up as possible, hoping to reach the top. I glanced to my left and could hardly believe what I saw. Just inches away and reachable, was a ledge about three feet wide and ten feet long. I struggle the last couple of feet and flopped over on the ledge. I lay there almost totally exausted. And the journey had hardly begun.

An hours rest restored my strength enough to examine my position. It seemed as though a large piece of rock had fallen from above and landed smack on the ledge. It was only about ten feet high so I climbed over it and slid to the ledge on the other side. Sure enough the ledge continued for a hundred feet and disappeared. Worth checking out, so I sidled along the cliff face for about twenty feet, intent on finding a way up. I stepped around a projection and couldn't believe my eyes! Here was a cave. The entrance was about four feet high and about three feet wide. There was evidence of tool marks on the rock, so someone, sometime, had worked on this cave. I ducked down and entered the black hole and stood for a few minutes to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Great Scott. What a sight!

The cave was about forty feet wide, it was too dark see how far back it went. I would find that out later. Right now I was interested in what was around me. Wooden boxes piled three and four high all around the cave. Some of them had disintegrated, which indicated they had been here for a long time. One box contained six rusty rifles, another corroded ammunition, and still another filled with, what appeared to be, World War Two style Hand Grenades, the kind with the handles. German made if I remember from old Movies. This stuff must have been here for seventy years.

I decided my main priority was to get out of here and report this ancient stash. With that in mind I started looking for the end of the tunnel.

After walking a short distance the floor began to slant upward. It was almost totally dark, so I was moving by feel. I would guess I walked for about fifteen or twenty minutes. I couldn't tell for sure because it was too dark to see my watch. All of a sudden I realized I was no longer feeling stone under my hand, but wood. A door? I felt around to find a latch but there was nothing.

On the way up here I had kicked a few rocks, now I needed one. So carefully feeling around with my feet, I found one, which should do the trick. I picked it up and began to pound on the door. After a few good blows the wood shattered let in the daylight. Soon there was a hole large enough to crawl through.

On the other side was a small cabin. There were the remains of several bunks, a table and chairs, shelves stocked with canned goods, mostly rusted. This had been someone's hideout.

A broken down door led to the outside. It was good to breathe the fresh air again. When I had walked away a few feet, I turned around and all I saw was a pile of brush about ten feet high, a habitat for wild animals, a common sight in timber country. No sign of a cabin, it had been well concealed. Using my Life Jacket, which I was still wearing, to mark the spot, I headed back to town to report my discovery.

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I was born and raised in Newfoundland before it became a Province of Canada, and lived there throughout WW11. There was German activity along the coast during the War. This dream probably came out of those memories.

 


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