© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der.
Rood Der — Episode Eleven: Dreams Reality
At
first she was just a little girl, lonely, and the city looked strange about her—she
didn’t recognize anything, and often someone approached her, but when they
caught the look in her eyes they abruptly altered their course and veered away from
her. What is it about me, she wondered, what is it? I have always pushed people
away. Even in her job, she had gone to a place where although she was ever
surrounded by people, everyone frantic in a state of frenetic emergency, and
yet was always alone, isolated. Isolated, like now, in a bustling city of
people, with ample light, and it was warm, and the air smelled good, and
everyone seemed strangely happy—but the more she focused about herself, the
stranger the people seemed, she couldn’t quite determine what was
so...different, strange about the people, and then she realized they all looked
alike, not exactly, but it looked like a city full of one family, everyone was
related, everyone had close to the same hairstyles, practically the same shade
of blonde, and wore much the same clothing, simple linen tops and bottoms, all
the same color.
She was Cinderella in a city of bright, happy,
and beautiful stepsiblings. She was not a child, but a grown woman, mature, and
tough, and utterly alone. Or was she a little girl, and all her grown-up
toughness merely an extended dream?
The light here was so bright as to almost
hurt her eyes—and yet it didn’t. It should hurt, it was like looking into the
sun, but it was golden, and warm, and she could determine no source of the
light—it seemed to emanate from everything, an amber light, rich, permeating
everything emanating from all and even from her own skin. She glanced down and
noticed that she was sitting on this stone bench, and that she wore no
clothing—she was absolutely naked, and yet, it didn’t trouble her, even
considering that all the other people in the city were clothed—barefooted, but
wearing what looked to be white linen pants and smocks. Not even white clothes,
but off-white, almost beige.
Occasionally she caught sight of someone
perhaps not quite so delighted with themselves and the world and everyone else.
These few, widely dispersed, were like somnolent strays, drifting about in a
half-daze, their eyes heavy-lidded and practically unseeing. They were naked,
although they didn’t seem to mind, much like her.
She thought she saw Hank—but not the Hank of
High Vale, Rooster, but more recognizable as the Hank she used to know, only he
seemed much, much younger, in pretty good shape (nothing like the muscleman
savage of High Vale), with a full head of hair (and no absurd ruby-red Mohawk),
and he was strolling along arm in arm with perhaps the most beautiful woman she
had ever seen. Why it was the little Queen, that Barbie-doll-sized stunner that
had lain so still in death, borne between two great bumblebees. The death of
that little woman that had plunged Hank into such despair—only now she was
alive, and taller than Hank!
She was about to call out to them, but then
she reconsidered—they looked so blasted happy, together, almost equal in size
and shape and...aliveness. She couldn’t disturb them. Plus Hank kept kissing
her. It was kind of embarrassing, really.
Two tall women strode through the crowds, one
occasionally ringing what looked like a silver bell, and the other swinging
a...what, a thing, a little pot
thing, smoking, what was that thing called, that smoked? Religion? Catholics?
Something...a censer! Yes, she was
swing a smoking censer about, but was too far away for Frances to smell.
“Dreams!” the first woman cried, ringing her bell.
It sounded ethereally beautiful.
“Reality!” the second woman cried, swinging
her censer.
Each woman was garbed from head to toe in
black, but light sizzled off their clothes in a dazzling halo of rainbows. Maybe
they were selling what they were calling out: here’s some reality for you! How
about a few dreams? We gottem here, and cheap let me tell ya!
The woman with the bell had a cascade of
white hair hanging out of her head-covering, trailing down to the golden-hued
cobbles of the street, and the woman with the censer trailed an equally long
braid of black hair. They were so covered in clothing as to appear mummies, and
she could only determine that they were each females from the obvious curves of
their bodies.
Am I dreaming? She wondered. And she held a
little interior conference with herself. When you were dreaming, you didn’t
question if you were dreaming, isn’t that correct? You were either lucid enough
to know you were dreaming, or you were utterly immersed, and so this could not
be a dream, she was just about positive of that. She had no sense of a sleeping
body lying somewhere else. But then, if she were awake, who were these people?
Where was this place?
A bee hovered close to her face. Strangely,
she wasn’t afraid of the insect. No, but...why,
what was it about bees? She remembered something about them, what? They were
going extinct everywhere, dying out, flying off and away, confused, or
apathetic to the world of cell phone radiation, omnipresent bug killer, noise
pollution, GMO crops, and even worse things—but there was something else, right
there on the edge of her thoughts, something about bees, bees fighting, and
wasps, the attack of the wasps.
Yes, she was there, she had been there, that
had really all happened. But the bees were large in that place—huge, hairy, and
beautiful. And sentient. The bees communicated with the little people, the Wee
Folk, and it seemed even to Hank, he was jacked into that organically grown and
blessed system.
“Hello, little Bumble,” she said to the
little fellow. This was the standard bumblebee, the kind she was used to, in
the real world. She did something she had never done before. Instead of shooing
away the bee, she placed her hand out, palm upward, offering the bee a landing
place.
And surprisingly enough, the bumblebee, a fat
fellow—almost as large as her thumb—alighted upon her palm.
“You wouldn’t sting me, would you little
Bumble?” she crooned, drawing her palm close, studying the little fellow. They
were beautiful, bees, iridescent and alive, full of purpose, and this specimen
right here in her palm, wow, she didn’t think she had ever seen a more
beautiful bee. It skittered about upon her palm, golden, so bright golden with
the deepest ebony stripes, lovely, and she felt a slight tickle as it sampled
the little sparkles in her skin—ooh, look at that, she had never noticed that
about her skin before, but she seemed to be littered with miniscule jewels,
tiny winks of light, like lasers shooting out of her pores, it was
breathtaking, and the bumblebee seemed as entranced with her rich skin as was
she.
“That is odd, they do not usually follow us
into the City,” a mellow voice said, and when she looked up, she saw there was
a very handsome man, very blond—even his eyebrows seemed to glow in
white-yellow light—slowing down as he passed, and he was smiling at her,
looking directly at her. He saw her, and yet was not put off by what he saw in
her. That was good, wasn’t it? Unless this was some glowing blond creep mugger,
that is, that wouldn’t be very good. She stared at him. No, he seemed...nice.
“They don’t?” she asked, feeling dreamy. What
a nice man, he seemed older, probably one of the older people she had seen in
this City, and he was wearing what appeared to be a...toga? Was that the right
word? Kind of a dress pinned at one shoulder, leaving one pale blond nipple
exposed.
“No, I would interpret that as an excellent
sign, a most beneficent omen, yes, I would say that you have gained a lifelong
friend, there,” the man crooned, stooping down and examining the bee in her
palm.
“Lifelong?” Frances chuckled. “I don’t think
they live very long, what, a month?”
“Oh, dear girl, you might be surprised. A
robust person like this, why, if he does not run into a wasp, he might live for
many years, perhaps a hundred, on a good day—and here, in the City, he could
live forever, as one of your most golden dreams.”
“Golden, yes, my golden dream, a golden bee,
I like that,” she said, placing her hands together so that the bee strolled
from her palm onto the back of her other hand. “Is this the City of Dreams?”
She didn’t know why she asked that, what was
it? An intuition, something she just...knew,
here, in this place?
“Some call it that, surely, the Wee Folk for
instance, but the City has a name, although most cannot hear it, or remember
it,” the kindly elder said, and he beckoned toward the stone bench, his blond
eyebrows raised.
“Yes, please sit down,” Frances said,
scooting over, making room for him, although the truth was, five or more fat people
could sit on this bench, hip to hip, and she hadn’t glimpsed even one fat
person in the crowds.
“I must say, you seem very much...awake, I am
surprised. At first, in passing, I thought you to be one of the People, but
then I noticed your fear, your anguish, and that is certainly...different. You
are almost as fearful as the Hungry Ghosts, but they do not come into the City.
Be careful if you leave the City, do not go into the forest, for you would draw
them,” the elderly blond man said. Elderly? If he was at all elderly, he was
certainly the youngest looking old man she had ever seen.
“How old are you?” she asked.
He laughed. “I have not thought of
that—age—oh, I would say, I have not given...age a thought, well, in ages. I am a thousand years old, if I am a
day. You know, it is most interesting, but I come from your world, I strayed
here by chance, I think in a mere fancy, and I found this City so conducive to
thought, that I never considered leaving.”
“You come from my world?” Frances gasped.
“Dreams! Reality!” she heard the two tall
women crying, and it sounded like a sentence, a single thought in two voices: “Dreams Reality.”
He looked at her, and then he really seemed
to look into her, his eyes swirling as he peered deeply through the windows to
her soul.
“Oh, not from your world of origin—I did not
mean that. No, that world, let us call it the world of your infancy, that is
not a real world, but the shadow of a world, played out in an hour. The gods of
that world—not real gods, mind you, but those gods are bored, and rather giggly.
To them, your world was but a passing fancy. They would call it an assignment.
But what those gods do not even begin to understand is that they are but almost
nameless shadows in another realm, another passing fancy, a run-again world
that studies, humorously enough, studies.
They are of a shadow world that studies teaching, and learning, a long time
after the time of your shadow.”
Frances could barely understand him. He was
talking well above her mind, but his words were fascinating, and she could not
look away from his eyes.
“You don’t come from a shadow world?” she
asked, hardly knowing the meaning of her own words.
“Oh no, I originally came from the world in
which you now repose, High Vale. That is where I was born; however, I can tell
you that I was born into that real world as a non-entity, just a shopkeeper to
serve the lords of that world, they called me an...Enpeesee, yes, that is the word. The doors began to open for me as
I...wondered.
“You should wonder, every day, Frances, let
your thoughts fill with wonder. Question your purpose, your motives, your
fears—wonder at everything, that is the secret to waking up. Wonder why you
like what you like, why you dislike what you dislike. Wonder, Frances, wonder.”
“Wonder,” she repeated, dreamily. What a nice
word, wonder, it was...wonderful.
“Yes, wonder,” he said, smiling, finally
looking away from her eyes, breaking that spell of absorption, and she sighed.
“It is wonderful,” she said. “Even the wasps,
all of that, it was wonderful, although terrible. I’ve had the chance of a
lifetime, no the chance of ten lifetimes!”
“Yes, wonder can be terrible,” he said,
nodding. “The truth is often ugly, bad smelling, and cruel—but it is the truth,
and it is wonderful, more often than naught.”
“I like talking to you,” she said. “Everyone
else here is so conceited.”
“Oh, thank you, I enjoy talking to you, as
well, Frances. I am Rowf, third counterman in the second herbalist shop, from
the township of Ontorro Minx, a town that is now gone, plundered and pillaged
first by Vikings, and then decimated to extinction by Dragon Warriors. It is a
place of Hungry Ghosts, now. I escaped that fate, that of the Hungry Ghosts, by
wondering, falling into a dreamy stupor as I lay dying, pierced by many arrows.
And I found my way here, to Shushosshollow. But the people here are not
conceited, but merely contented in their labors. They have given over their
fears, and depressions, and yearnings for revenge. They have accepted their
life, and live in dreams.”
“Shushosshollow,” she said, dreamily.
“Very good. Nor even upon the tenth hearing,
to tell the truth. Excellent, I doubt I have ever heard anyone repeat the name
on first hearing, though the challenge will be for you to remember that name!”
he grinned, nodding.
The bee was crawling up her bare arm,
tickling her.
“She is so beautiful, I love her so much,”
Frances said, tears welling in her eyes.
“I believe this is a male, since it is late
Summer in the outer world,” Rowf Third said.
“Ooh, Frederic is going to be so jealous,” Frances
giggled, blinking her eyes clear of tears.
“About your friend...Freddybear?” Rowf Third queried.
“Don’t let him hear you call him that, I’m
the only one that gets away with it,” she giggled, and wondered why she was
being so giggly, she wasn’t normally the type to be giggling at everything. She
wasn’t one of those girls.
“He has made it from a shadow world into High
Vale, that is what is important. Do not fret too much if he does not survive,
for in High Vale, he shall become one with Her memory, and it is likely that he
shall receive rebirth,” Rowf Third said, very gently, taking her free hand.
She snatched her hand away. “No. Do not say
that. Frederic is going to survive. That is the only reason I went through the
Red Door. Where Frederic goes, I go. If he dies, I die.”
“Do not say such things, not in the City,”
Rowf Third cautioned. “Maintain the wonder of thy dreams, and keep them ever in
the light.”
“Then don’t go saying that Frederic is going
to die—we got that crap out of him, he’s sleeping through fevers now, he’s
going to survive, do you understand? You
keep your dreams in the light. Frederic is going to live.”
Her agitation disturbed Bumbles, and the bee
buzzed her face. She almost swatted him, but caught herself even before her
hand twitched. She soothed the bee, shushing it, and it actually alighted upon
her pursed lips.
And like that, her fear and anger and
agitation were gone, vanished. She giggled again as the bee tittered up onto
the tip of her nose, and then buzzed out before her.
“What is that?” she queried, leaning close to
watch the hovering bee, it looked like black crumbs were falling away from the
bee’s feet.
“Do not inhale those,” Rowf Third cautioned. “That
is fear, which your friend just removed from you. Trust the bees, always trust
the bumblebees. If you listen to him, in this place, he will speak to you.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, and hardly knew
what she was asking. “I mean, that flaky stuff, it looks like spores—the bee
just removed that from me?”
“Yes,” he said, “and I assure you, if you had
swatted him away, as was your first inclination, you would have lost him.”
“Oh no, I will never lose Mister Bumbles,
never,” she said, offering the bee her hand again, and again he alighted.
“Place him near your ear, and do not fear if
he enters your ear, just remain very still,” Rowf Third counseled, smiling
gently.
“I don’t know if I want him inside my ear,”
she said, staring at the bee with lifted eyebrows. But even so, she held the bee
close, moving her hair aside, and closed her eyes when she felt the insect
delicately crawl onto her ear.
The buzzing was very loud, and then not so
much, and she smiled, because suddenly, she could hear a very small voice, a
very buzzy insectile voice, speaking quite clearly: “Plead with me not to leave
thee, dear Frances, or tell me to go away, for whither thou goest, I shall go;
and thy home shall be my home—thy people shall be my people, and thy God shall
be my God.”
Frances giggled delightedly and clapped her
hands, and then pressed them to her heart.
“Oh Mister Bumbles, Mister Bumbles!” she
cried.
The bee lifted away from her ear, buzzing
very loudly again, and hovered around to her face. She held up her index finger
and the bee alighted at the tip and remained very still, something she had not
seen the frenetic creature do. It almost looked like a piece of glittering
jewelry on her finger.
“Mister Bumbles,” she said, all giggliness
vanished, feeling very close to tears again, “I promise, my people are your
people, and your people are my people, and I will never send you away.”
“I must tell you, Frances,” Rowf Third said,
that cautioning tone in his voice again. “You are much too aware for the City.
If you are not careful, you will stay here. I am not saying that as a warning, for
this is a wonderfully lovely world, but merely as a word to the wise, for it
seems you still have things to attend to out in the larger world.”
“Larger world?” she said, not looking away
from Mister Bumbles, who seemed to be staring into her eyes.
“Yes, Shushosshollow is a very tiny world—oh not
here, inside, it is as large as High Vale itself, but in High Vale it is hidden
in a secret location and protected by the Wee Folk, who are its guardians—in High
Vale, Shushosshollow is maintained in a single drop of honey, kept safely in
the depression of a hollowed-out diamond, and this diamond is guarded by Mantis
Warriors who it is said bested the Pugilist in hand-to-hand combat.”
She almost giggled again, feeling
lighthearted as she studied Mister Bumbles. She could be happy in a world where
there were people like Rowf, and bee friends such as Mister Bumbles. Her people
would be his people, her home, his home.
She didn’t know about the whole God part,
because she had never believed in God, and had no plans to start believing
now—although crossing into this world, or the High Vale world above
Shushosshollow, it made her think that such things as God, well, they could be...possible.
But if there was a God, or had ever been a God, in whatever world, He had yet
to reveal himself to Frances.
It occurred to her, very dreamily and
distantly, that perhaps Frederic had died in her arms beneath the light of the
Sister Moons, and this little bee was his essence, escaped like Rowf in the
last moments before death, to find Shushosshollow. If that was so, she would
stay here, with him, for as long as they both should live, be that a day, or a
thousand years. But then again, maybe none of this was true—it could all be a
dream, a luscious dream like she had never believed possible. Her heart leapt
in her breast and she inhaled and the air was sweet, so sweet, and her eyes
brimmed with tears of utter joy, and cascaded in a flood of happiness down both
cheeks. She wished she could hug Mister Bumbles.
“Dreams Reality,” echoed the two voices,
sounding like one, from far away.
She glanced at Rowf through her tears and was
surprised to find that he was no longer on the stone bench beside her! When had
he departed? And how long had she remained in this place? She felt something
push up under her arms, snuggling in close, and she felt warmth, and peace.
How strange, she thought, glancing down, for
nothing was there, and yet she distinctly felt a body pushed in close to her,
and then there came a glimmer of light, as if from another world, and she
realized she was dreaming, and the world about her grew dim, losing its golden
hue, and grayness flooded about her and suddenly Mister Bumbles lifted off her
finger and whizzed away—where was he going! And darkness descended.
She was lying down, in an inky black pool
of...absence, nothingness, and this mechanical-seeming
switch in changing perspective made her inner ears whirl, and it felt like the
whole world tumbled from side to side, flinging her out into the cold air of
space. Her eyes remained closed, and it was blackness behind her eyelids. She
heard the crackle of the fire, burned down to embers, and she slowly parted,
and then opened her eyes.
Frances was lying on her side, and could feel
Frederic’s warm body against her back; she could hear Hank—no, not Hank but
Rooster, it was Rooster now, she could hear him snoring like a chainsaw—and she
had her face snuggled into a fluffy pillow, with her leg thrown over its bulk—it
certainly was a long pillow.
She stiffened, fully awake now. There was
something very warm and very alive in her arms, and it was not a pillow.
Whatever it was, it was alive, and she could feel a distant purring deep inside
the thing. She was afraid to open her eyes.
Hadn’t she been just dreaming about...what?
Bumblebees? And Hank? Wasn’t he there? Not Rooster, but Hank, a younger version
of the man she knew, yes, he was there, strolling with a beautiful woman, and
then a man had spoken to her, he had told her about, what was it called? Shush Hollow, yes, he had told her about
Shush Hollow, the dreamworld. Or no, the Dream City, or City of Dreams,
something like that. Shush Hollow, he had told her she would not remember the
name. The old man, yes, hadn’t there been an old man? He was there, on the
edges, but she just couldn’t pin him down with her thoughts.
Frances slowly opened her eyes and almost
bolted upright in terror. She was hugging an extremely large—bug! She had a bug
nestled in her arms, the size of a pool float toy! She nearly shrieked, but her
body was frozen and she could not move.
Sssshhhh,
Soul Mistress, Frances Lady, do not be afraid. I am with thee. I shall never
leave thee, thy people shall be my people, Frances Lady—the thought came washing
through her, chasing away her night terrors and fear, more like a voice
speaking inside her head than something she could hear with her ears.
Mister Bumbles, how could she forget him so
soon? He had been there, in the dream—they had bonded, and she had promised him
that she would never send him away.
She scooted away from Mister Bumbles and
pushed a little too hard against Frederic who groaned softly in his fever
dreams. She got an arm beneath her, between Frederic and Mr. Bumbles, and
pushed herself up into a semi-reclining position, and looked around her at the
world—she felt disoriented after that warm golden light, and now here in a pool
of darkness. The darkness felt like a cool pool of something substantial,
something you could reach out and touch. Was she dreaming now?
All about her, red and yellow lights blinked
at her. Eyes. Creatures were gathered about their little campsite, watching with
eyes that could see in the darkness. She licked her lips. Go away, she thought,
and even waved her hands at all the eyes—there must be a thousand creatures
gathered near about them! The eyes blinked at her, as one.
Hank—oh boy—Rooster, he didn’t seem to be having any trouble sleeping. She
could just make out his face in the last glowing embers of the fire. He had a
big, dopey grin on his broad face. The strange black tattoos streaking down his
face made him look like some kind of rock star, but even these black tattoos
seemed to glow with a light all their own, sparkling in deep purples and blues.
His fingers fluttered upon his chest, where his arms were crossed. The big
savage was half-reclining against a large boulder and his absurd Mohawk seemed
to glow faintly red in the night.
Glancing at the night sky—oh it looked like
Van Gogh’s Starry Night, all swirling
and sparkling movement, churning about the stars. The two moons had exchanged
places, with the small one, only faintly greenish now, close to setting on one
side of the sky and the big bloated blue moon half-hidden by a range of
mountains on the other side. The sky looked like darkest blue streamers
interwoven with deepest purple cloth, and it billowed like the ocean. It was
marvelous. She sat there with her mouth open, head tilted back, watching the
sky like a little girl watching a fireworks spectacular on Ayn Rand Day.
She wondered if the same rules applied here?
Were the stars but distant suns, far, far away? It was strange, but looking at
the big blue moon, the Honey Moon, it looked like you could see traces of human
construction there, but she didn’t know if her eyes were just deceiving her,
making her see fancifully straight lines.
Last night she had waited until the Sisters’
Congress, when the two moons passed, the small green moon passing before the
huge blue moon, and it had really seemed like an eye in the sky, roving and
spying upon the wide world of High Vale. A shimmering turquoise light had
flooded the valley, making the mountains shimmer as with ocean foam,
phosphorescent and magical. She had thought she could watch that spectacle of
turquoise light and glowing mountains, for as long as it could possibly last,
even if it was for a year, but she had fallen asleep before the green moon even
drew close to the far edge of the blue moon. When the eye seemed to look at
her—focusing upon her—she had winked into sleep.
She hadn’t witnessed the fireflies lighting
up the lower valleys as with bobbing lanterns. There were winks of red, which
were very few and thinly dispersed, and twitters of amber like a carpet of
sparkling golden trinkets, spread out and dense, and the faint shimmer of the white
fireflies, higher and winking more often. The slow but steady blue lights,
which were probably not fireflies at all but some other nocturnal illumination,
gently lifted and lowered like buoys rocking upon the dark sphere of the night.
Now, watching the movement of the moons, she
petted Mister Bumbles, enjoying the sensation of rubbing his bristly hair. At
the tips, the thick hairs were slightly prickly, almost annoying in the sharp
little nips she felt on her palms, but lower down the bumblebee hairs felt like
velvet, and closer to the bee’s warm body, the hairs smoothed like satin.
Far away, she thought she heard what sounded
like lions roaring.
They
clean away my brothers and many sisters, Frances heard in her head. Mister Bumbles
sounded very sad, even if it were all in her head. The eaters are swarming the ridge, and scorpions will have come up from
the river. It is best to be here, up high in the mountains. I shall keep thee
safe, Soul Mistress.
“You were very brave, all of your brothers
and sisters,” she whispered.
What
did you say Frances Lady, my Soul Mistress?
I’m
sorry Mister Bumbles, I guess you can’t understand my speech, at least not on
this side of the mirror, but can you hear this?
Yes Soul
Mistress, Frances Lady, I hear thee. I enjoy thy speech but sadly am not
intelligent enough to understand. I do not know the word, mirror. But I hear
thee. This is our communion, Frances Lady. I understand thee, Soul Mistress.
You
were very brave, all of your brothers and sisters, she sent, feeling
such love for him, such empathy. This was no bug, she now understood, not even
a pet like a beloved dog, but a being that could read her thoughts and
understand her, that loved her.
I thank
thee, Frances Lady. We serve the Honey, and we serve the Wee Folk, and we serve
the Protector—I serve thee first, my Soul Mistress. I am now a solitary
bumblebee, as I bonded to thee, Soul Mistress. We shall serve the Honey, and we
shall serve the Wee Folk, and we shall serve the Protector, but first and
foremost, I shall serve my Mistress.
She noticed how he switched from the plural
collective to the first person singular, and Frances wasn’t sure just what she
thought about that. I mean, come on, what if the Wee Folk were pissed off with
her hijacking one of their worker bees, or what if the bees themselves became a
little irked with her? She had already felt their ire, when she had mistakenly
shot Hank their protector in the face, presuming him to be a savage mugger, not
the beefy ex-cop from Frederic’s Wednesday night group, now become Rooster, the
Mighty Red Cock of the Wee Folk.
Do not
worry, Soul Mistress, the Wee Folk know and the great connected hive knows, and
they celebrate, for you are a mighty warrior, a wasp killer, like Rooster.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that,
either, as this bee seemed to know everything she thought. Would she now have
to protect her thoughts, to be careful what she was thinking? Or was this bee
now a part of her? And whatever she thought, he would think as well?
Her head was spinning in the dark, and she
lay down, upon her back, with one hand at Frederic’s spine, and the other
grasping some of Mister Bumble’s hair. She sighed. And as she began the slow
spiral in returning to sleep, she realized she was very excited about the new
day—her first morning here, actually waking up in this world after spending a
night under these skies! It was almost too much, too exciting, and she feared
she would never be able to return to sleep, but even before she completed that
thought, she was deeply under.
“Dreams Reality,” sang the two voices,
sounding like one, as the two women passed through the city.
Hank watched them over the tops of the heads
of the crowd—he was tall here, taller than most, and these seemed like very
tall people. They all seemed a little...bland, very beige, the lot of them, but
all in all they did seem to be very...nice people. And he had always had a soft
spot for nice people.
He wasn’t sure what was going on. He had been
here before, a few times, and he was a little more aware than he had been on
previous occasions, but still, he felt as if he were sleepwalking. He glanced
down. At least he was dressed like everyone else. The last visit he had been
walking around naked as a jaybird.
“I dream reality,” Hank said, and wouldn’t
that be weird, if it were true? He knew it wasn’t true, otherwise he would just
dream Ivygarten back, that’s what he would do. Dreams reality, that must be a
mixture, that’s what the two walking women were calling out, the two
ingredients in this great golden cake, dreams and reality, that had to be what
they meant—it couldn’t be what it sounded like when they called out like that
together, their voices practically one voice, almost overlapping.
“This is the dream place,” he said, speaking
to himself. He glanced over and saw the frightened woman, the woman that looked
to have dark stormclouds over her head, and he thought she seemed familiar, at
least a little, maybe she was a dream figure from when he was in high school,
she was certainly the type of girl he would have liked, deep reheads, yeah, he
had a soft spot for the deep redheads, well, not anymore, now he more liked the
kind with floor-length platinum hair, yeah, he had to admit that, but that was
a somewhat sad thought, wasn’t it?
He had already lost sight of the woman on the
stone bench, and couldn’t quite remember what he had been dreaming. At least
this wasn’t like some of the other places he visited in dreams—oh, they all
seemed like very real places, and he did not doubt for even an instant that
they were real. Some were real doozies, with monsters, littered with junkies,
demons, and one was a world of toilets.
Dreams, here, were reality, maybe that’s what
they meant, but then he couldn’t remember who the “they” of his thought were,
and he dropped the whole argument from his mind, because it wasn’t interesting.
Puzzles inside of puzzles, pretty soon you lost your taste for puzzles, if you
couldn’t quite get any of the pieces together.
He yawned. He was sleepy. The thing of it
was, when he woke up after one of these visits, he was fully more rested than
when sleeping any other kind of sleep. He supposed it was the sunshine, or no,
there was no sun here, but the, the, um, the what? He supposed it was
Honeyshine, something like that, because the light was the golden glow of honey
in the comb. Inhaling deeply and he was certain he could smell honey, that
particular scent of amber sweetness. He filled his lungs, doing great exercises
of emptying his lungs and then filling them to what seemed beyond capacity, and
it felt wonderful.
People streaming around him smiled at him,
nodding, some actually saying hello.
Hank felt the top of his head. He always
checked himself like this. He did not have his massive red Mohawk, but
close-cropped hair, and he supposed his hair was blond here, like everyone else’s
hair, short and smooth, just like he was wearing the colorless linen pants and
same color shirt which was far too big on him, but at least it was light, and
airy, and comfortable. His muscles were not so massive, either, but this didn’t
bother him. It just felt good to be alive, breathing in this sweet air,
suffused with this golden light, and feeling all the feelings he was feeling,
it was glorious. No, it was better than glorious—superb, most excellent,
radiant, explosively joyous, oh he wish he had a better vocabulary, he wished
he owned a thesaurus filled only with words of happiness.
And then he paused, his mouth dropping slack,
for there coming toward him at a run it was...she. She, the vision, the woman of his dreams. Yes, there was no
doubting it, it was his soulmate, his Ivygarten, and she was alive, and running
toward him with her arms spread wide and he caught her up in a huge hug, and he
kissed her, and she was kissing him, and he spun her around in the golden light
and she by far was the most golden thing in this world of glowing gold.
“Oh it’s you, my Darling!” he cried, kissing
her jawline and her throat and her ears and her nose and her eyes and finally
her mouth, hard upon the mouth, devouring her being through her lips.
“Yes it is me, Rooster—see, I remember your
name, Beloved!” she laughed.
“It’s you,” he breathed.
“Yes, and do you know what is insanely
ironic, Beloved?” she crooned in that golden voice.
“What? Tell me!”
“This is where I was going to bring you, so
that we might make love, before you were called away to help your friends,” she
smiled.
It was so strange, seeing her close up like
this, for she looked completely human, and so much more vivid than all the
beige people streaming wide about them. Her body was more humanly proportioned,
as well, she wasn’t quite as statuesque as a living Barbie doll—okay, she was still curvaceous in that direction, still
buxom, but she probably wouldn’t stand out, too much, in any Hollywood casting
call for beautiful women. Her legs only came up to as his as the tops of his
hips, so that was almost in the realm of normalcy, wasn’t it? Even her hair
fell only to her waist, and that waist was not quite as...waspish (he knew that
was not the best word, in consideration of what the wasps had just done in the
waking world). Her face was vibrant and alive, her nose long and sculpted, eyes
wide and awhirl with lavender light, her lips pink and glowing, her teeth large
and white and even. In his world, she could make a fortune just doing
toothpaste commercials.
He realized he was looking up at her—she was
actually a couple of inches taller than he was—and he was pretty tall these
days.
“Can we actually do that here?” he asked.
“Yes, Beloved, we can,” she said. “However, I
must explain to you, that this is a dream. You know that I have perished, and I
can never return to you, not the way we were. But the Cataclysm is coming, and
if you return to the Cave of the Wee Folk, you will find me there, alive, on
the morning after the Cataclysm.”
“What is the Cataclysm?” he asked,
breathless, holding her so tightly against him. He felt that if he pressed her
to him any tighter they would implode into one body between them, two souls in
one person.
“You will know it when it happens, as I
cannot tell you, as I do not remember the details of my life, only that we are
bonded, and I came to be with you one last time prior to the Cataclysm, and only
then you must return to me.”
“I will return to you,” he said.
“And do not pursue me,” she said. “Allow me
to come to you, and be the way you were, prior to our bonding. Do not show me
that you love me. If you show your affection for me, Beloved, I will flee from
you, considering myself unworthy, and terrified. But if you can show your need,
that I might help you, as before, in relieving you, then I will come to you,
but I implore you, do not show yourself too eager, for that will frighten me.”
“You certainly didn’t seem afraid of me the
first time,” he said, adoring her, continuously kissing her cheeks and chin and
eyebrows as she spoke.
“If no other of the Wee Folk get to you
first, then we can be together, and your nectar shall quicken me, Beloved, my
Mighty Red Rooster, you shall fill me with life!”
“Oh, I will fill you with such life,
repetitiously! Forever! Let’s start right now!”
“Beloved, but no, we must not, not while my
body is cold. You must be patient, my Love, until we are together again. If you
were to fill me now, I would remain here in Shushosshollow, and be driven from
the City as a Hungry Ghost, and the Ivygarten you meet in the Cave of the Wee
Folk, she would not be me. We must
trust that High Vale returns us all to our places, both those that have died
since the last Cataclysm, and those that have been born into the world.”
“But won’t the same thing happen? Won’t I be
called away? Won’t the bees gather to defend me, and then won’t the angry wasps
attack? And you will die again?”
“No Beloved, that is not how it works. You
will witness the Cataclysm, and nothing will have changed for you. But all the
bees that were slain shall return to where they were as will all the angry
wasps. That battle shall never have happened, but you shall be with your two
friends, at the Hot Springs, and everything you remember will be true, but
there will be two realities, and that is why you must come and bond with me in
my second reality. Your friends will be safe at the Hot Springs, not on the
flat rock.”
“Dreams Reality,” cried the two voices of the
wandering women, sounding like one, as the two women drew near.
“Let us stroll and enjoy each other, Beloved,”
Ivygarten said, taking Rooster by the arm and leading him away from the town criers.
Rooster forced himself to relax—this is what
she meant, that they could be together, and it made him wonder, wasn’t this
place just as real as High Vale? It was true, he wasn’t as...awake, here; but this was real, everything, only he was
walking through this reality half-asleep.
“Are you sure I will know the Cataclysm when
it comes?” he asked her, concerned that what she considered a Cataclysm might
be a large rainstorm to him, considering their respective sizes in High Vale.
“Watch the Sisters, the great sign shall be
during the Sisters’ Congress.”
Wow, he thought, so it’s probably going to be
a big sign. He had been here for three months, and had seen nothing spectacular
about the Sisters, except for the Sisters themselves, which were indeed
spectacular.
“And you are dead, really, Ivygarten?” he
asked, going somber.
“Yes Beloved, I am truly dead, and shall not
live again. This is our dream of what should have been, what could have been,
and what might still be—this is our
dream, otherwise we would not have met here.”
“It is our dream, and a dream only?”
“It is our golden dream, Beloved. Our shared
dream, in Shushosshollow.”
He couldn’t stop the tears, because it struck
him all anew, seeing her lying so quiet, so still, on that bier between the
giant bees, his Ivygarten, all life fled.
“Do not be sad, Beloved Rooster, for we shall
be together again. It will not be me, who is dead, but me, who has never died,
this is who you will be with—is not this wonderful?”
“But you are dead,” he said.
“It makes me glad, that you feel so deeply
for me, one who is so small,” she said, softly. “And when you come to get me,
after the Cataclysm, I shall be alive, and shall have never died.”
“And it will be you?”
“Exactly me, as I was exactly then.”
It didn’t make sense to him, not exactly, but
he would take any chance offered him. He would trust her, and go with it,
follow the plan. After the Cataclysm he would dash to be with her, regardless
of the distance. It occurred to him, that right now, he was lying by a dying
fire, with Frederic and Frances lying on the other side of that fire. His body
was there, but in dreams, he was here. He knew this to be true, even though he
could for the life of him not feel his other body.
“Am I dreaming now? Or when I wake up, will I
be dreaming, then? I mean, is this real, and that is the dream, or—”
“—Hush, Beloved, hush, long have my people
debated this, especially after we have visited Shushosshollow. They are both
dreams, and they are both real, one is merely the dream of the other, in a
circle, always spinning.”
“I guess I can accept...that, maybe,” he
said.
“Do not stop kissing me, Beloved,” she said,
with urgency in her voice, “for we never know when we waken from this world, it
could be at any moment, please do not stop kissing me.”
He seized her and planted kiss after kiss
upon her face, always seeming to miss her mouth.
“Do not tease me, Beloved,” she said, and he
instantly stopped teasing her.
And he woke on that final kiss.
“No, wait!” he cried, sticking a foot in the
embers of the fire. And instantly snatched it back, yelping, stung by the
almost-cold coals.
“You too?” Frances said, lifting her head. “I
think I saw you there.”
“Frances, is that you? Am I awake? Or is this
the dream? I forget what she told me!” Rooster cried.
Mister Bumbles began buzzing and Rooster
leapt to his feet, ax in hand.
“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Frances called, “it’s
just my bumblebee Mister Bumbles.”
Rooster stared at her.
“I’ll explain it in the morning, if I can
explain it all to myself first,” Frances mumbled, snuggling in close between
the bumblebee and Frederic. “Shush Hollow,” she mumbled, repeating it over and
over again, “Shush Hollow, Shush Hollow, Shush Hollow.”
“Marshmallow?” Rooster wondered, shaking his
head, bleary-eyed and hungry. He supposed he ought to build up the fire. He
knew there was water close, just up the mountain, and in a little while, they
could have some herbal tea from the greenest of the grasses, and get Frederic
up to and into the Hot Springs. And that bee probably brought the vials of
honey—he peered across the fire and saw the little leather pouches fastened to
the bee’s legs. Good, if anything could help Frederic, it was that honey.
And while he was noticing, that was some bee, perhaps the largest
Rooster had ever seen—he imagined that if the bees had a king, this would be their king.
Even its yellow parts looked more golden than yellow. How odd that a bumblebee
should arrive in the dead of night, and snuggle in to sleep with a woman that was a
recent stranger to this world.
What a wonderful place, High Vale, he
thought.
© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der.
Rood Der — Episode Eleven: Dreams Reality
If you like Rood Der, try
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© Copyright 2017 Douglas Christian Larsen. Rood Der. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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