And Dream that I am Home Again

by Lois RH Balzer

  The sentinel shook his head. "I don't know."

  "We still okay?"

  "Yeah, Chief. We'll figure it out." Ellison stared silently out at the night, his jaw clenching and unclenching, while Sandburg tried to get his breathing under control. Ellison laughed finally, a sad sound trapped in his throat. He leaned across to grab Sandburg's hand. "We'll figure it out," he said, again, and then stood up, pulling Blair with him.

  Blair twisted his hand around until their palms met. "I'm glad to be home," he said, his voice still little more than a whisper.

  "So am I." Jim wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, chasing away some of his fears. "We'll talk more in the morning." With a last look up at the full moon, Jim released him and helped him into the loft.

  Part 3

  * * *

  .

  Sandburg let himself be lowered onto his bed, weariness robbing him of any thought of resisting.

  For it was Jim.

  If he had to pass on control to someone else, it might as well be Jim. Jim would take care of him, of that he was certain. Jim would make sure he was okay, make sure he was safe for the night. Make sure no one would hurt him.

  Why am I so tired? I slept in the truck on the way home. He fleetingly wondered if Jim had put something in the hot chocolate, but then the memory surfaced that he had taken the pills the hospital had given him, which were bound to put him to sleep.

  And Jim was just making sure everything was okay. Feeling guilty, Blair tried to help his partner settle him for the night, but his flailing hands were captured and placed lightly on his chest. Okay. I get it. Still, he tried to open his eyes, but they resolutely stayed shut. Just as well, I can't think straight. If I was walking around, I'd probably injure myself even more.

  Jim was talking to him, but the sounds didn't make any coherent sense. But Jim probably knew that. Blair sighed, listening to the calming tones, feeling them lull him closer to sleep. If he starts singing 'Rockabye, baby, on the treetop" I'm gonna scream. He chuckled at the thought and felt Jim tap his nose once, startling him quiet.

  Time disappeared for a moment, lost in the overwhelming thought: I'm home. Thank you God, I'm home. I'm home.

  Tears leaked through his closed eyelashes, running down the side of his face. In the heat of the evening, Blair shivered at the sensation of the cool tears, feeling the shiver multiply and ricochet throughout his body. I almost didn't make it. Almost. So close. But I'm really home.

  Home was suddenly -- vividly -- contrasted with 'not home'.

  He was back in the dirt grave and there were bodies around him, dead flesh against his bare skin, dried blood scraping his bruises. The smell . . .

  He coughed, a deep hacking sound that scared him, and he raised his hands to push away the bodies, to let himself breathe fresh air, unpolluted by death. Again his hands were caught and held, Jim's voice whispered to him through the dark void, and Blair came back, flinging into the moment, the clench of fists on his lungs miraculously eased. Back home.

  Back home.

  I'm home.

  The tears continued to well up. His left shoe was removed and he was gently rolled to his side, a pillow beneath the walking cast on his ankle. Jim's hand on his face felt nice and he must have made some small noise of appreciation, for suddenly Jim was massaging his temples, both hands drawing soothing circles on his brow.

  I should be doing this for him. He's the one with the headache.

  Jim had a headache. Blair remembered seeing the pain in his eyes, the tight line of his jaw and mouth, the furled brow. Yet Jim had sat with him outside on the balcony, talking to him because he needed someone to sit with and talk to, and now the sentinel was making sure his guide was resting comfortably before taking care of himself.

  That's not right, Jim. I should be taking care of you. I want . . .

  Blair raised his hands, and, eyes still closed, found Jim's face above his own. No strength to do anything fancy, he just held his partner's face in his hands, willing all the healing within him to touch the pain of the man who was caring for him with such manifold gentleness and love.

  You're home, too, Jim.

  He thought it, then found the strength to say it aloud before surrendering to sleep as the murmured whisper of his partner's words spoke over him like an ancient blessing.

  * * *

  .

  The upper floor was sweltering. James Ellison lay stretched out on his bed in the darkness, blinking wearily at the ceiling of the loft bedroom. He had been drifting, waiting for sleep to overtake him, when the silvery threads stretching from beam to beam registered on his sight. His eyes traced the cobwebs, the long, fine strands, a lattice of netting to catch the starlight that filtered through the upper windows.

  He frowned, adding that to his growing list of things to do: clean the windows. Everything needed cleaning. The captain had said to take a few days off work; tomorrow he would . . . or maybe the next day. Soon.

  He stared at the cobwebs again, clenching his jaw. Cobwebs meant things were being forgotten, neglected. The loft really needed a good scrubbing. If he'd been thinking properly, he would have cleaned the floors and walls while the furniture was out of the loft a few weeks previous -- but then, if he had been thinking properly, he never would have pulled the furniture out in the first place.

  And besides everything else that had gone wrong that week, by moving the furniture out of the loft, then back into it, Ellison had stirred up a lot of dust. It still hung lazily in the night air, the place musty from their latest absence.

  Before retiring for the evening, Ellison had left the balcony door open in an attempt to circulate air in the suffocating loft. It was only working marginally; the cobwebs were shifting slightly, touched by a faint draft that didn't seem to reach him as he lay naked, sweating, above the bedcovers. He felt strangely vulnerable, exposed beneath the starlight, caught in the stillness of the night, his aching body trapped by those thin, gossamer, dust-flecked strands that stretched like chains across the rafters.

  He breathed shallowly, his limbs still, his hands flat against the cool sheet beneath him. He needed to sleep, to forget housecleaning, unpacking, or the laundry that needed to be done. Or the paperwork waiting on Simon's desk, details hidden in a secured file. Or the strained memories of confused days and tortured nights.

  He needed to let himself sink into his mattress and sleep in the oppressive, stuffy, muggy, airless loft.

  At least Sandburg was sleeping.

  The thought both gladdened his heart and irritated him. Then saddened him. His guide must be beyond exhausted to have fallen asleep so quickly. Ellison, at least, had taken a cold shower, but his partner, with the pink cast around his foot, had shaken his head that it was too much bother to even consider and had let himself be assisted to bed. And was now asleep.

  Unlike his roommate.

  Well, he couldn't blame Sandburg. Sandburg magic had taken the headache away that had been plaguing him all evening. It still hovered just out of reach, but for the most part, it was under control now. Almost as if the kid had harnessed it, subdued it, then handed him back the controls. But, as with anything one kept under tight control, once Jim fell asleep, he knew his control would be lost and the headache would be back.

  Ellison couldn't even blame his senses for keeping him awake. They were quiet, not bombarding him with information or giving him useless data, or any of the other problems he'd had in the last weeks. In the suffocating mustiness of the moment, he mentally slid up the dials a fraction, as though they were a stereo equalizer needing adjustment, in the hopes that maybe he would then feel the breeze that had stirred the cobwebs earlier.

  As if they had only needed prodding, the dials slid up higher on their own, into the mid range, triggering exactly what he had been trying to avoid. He shut his eyes, feeling a shift in reality that he had experienced while Sandburg had been missing, the slide from Cascade into the dream jungle. Maybe if the jungle had been cooler, he would have gl
adly let himself go.

  With a sigh, he sat up, stretched, and lay back again, this time on his side, his legs sprawled across the mattress. He wasn't ready to dream yet. Not tonight. If he could put off the descent into that world a few more minutes . . . maybe enjoy the disassociated hovering of his thoughts . . . he would be able to direct his attention to some other sort of occupation besides the lure of the jungle. Sandburg was back; the dreams should have left. The dreams should have left. Right?

  Why the hell do I dream so much?

  Well, that wasn't really the question. Everyone dreamed. It was healthy.

  Then why do I have to dream of the jungle?

  Sandburg had answers, but when they had last discussed them while in Mexico, Sandburg had come up with a selection of suggestions, a wide range of ideas that might explain his dreams and his dreamscape.

  Such a strange term -- dreamscape -- one that Sandburg used easily. Your dreamscape. The place Ellison dreamed, the place his mind had invented for him to act out his uncertainty and longing by speaking to him in images he understood.

  Or maybe it really was a spirit level he accessed, conversing with animal spirits and long-dead friends from another life. Blue images, touched with other colors that didn't quite appear normal, enough so he knew this was a different plane altogether.

  His guide had no answers. Sandburg said it could be both. Or neither. Or a combination Ellison had yet to understand, mixed with other truths and mysteries that he had yet to dream of. There are more mysteries under heaven and earth than are thought of in your philosophies...

  Or something like that. Shakespeare never was one of his strong points. At least, he thought it was Shakespeare. Ellison smiled, shifting his face into the pillow, wiping his damp forehead on the pillowcase.

  Jungle Man, Sandburg had called him, laughing hysterically while they walked on the beach in Mexico. Instead of a cape and tights, in his dreamscape he had his trusty camouflage pants, his bandana on his head, a crossbow fitted into the crook of his arm. Jungle Man! Blair had sung, to the massacred tune of "Spiderman". Jungle Man, Jungle Man, does whatever a panther can . . . Look out, here comes the Jungle Man.

  He smiled again, hearing the laughter of his guide, enjoying the memory, the cartoon poses on the beach in the evening as they sang and hammed for a non-existent audience, letting friendship hide the pain of uncertainty, the gurgle of life welling from his partner's soul to spill across his own need, bathing him in that cleansing flow.

  A good memory.

  Maybe there were good dreams, too, but Ellison seldom remembered them. All he had were murky memories.

  Since that first day when Sandburg had been kidnapped, when he woke, there was just the impression that he had been running through the trees, stopping and listening to the distant babble of water, moving, prowling, pacing as the dream wore on. Searching for--

  For--

  He turned over onto his back and closed his eyes.

  Sandburg's here. He's home, in his bed, and already asleep. As I should be.

  But Ellison couldn't get to sleep. His thoughts rambled on, taking him through the last week, hovering over the ache he had felt when Sandburg had let himself be recaptured, an ache that had led down a path to a full blown zone-out. Two and a half hours. A personal record, if he were to keep track. But then, he didn't have to; Sandburg lived for such statistics, detailing times and circumstances, reasons and solutions.

  Sandburg.

  Again Ellison's eyes opened, as though his sight would augment his hearing as he let his senses home in on the familiar heartbeat. It was faster than normal, though. His guide was dreaming. The strange thing was, Sandburg never could tell him what his dreams were about. The young man was the shaman, the mystic one, the spiritual one, but he never remembered his dreams. Well, except the one they had shared. The rest of his dreams were more correctly labeled 'nightmares'.

  The strange thing Ellison had noticed was that neither dreamed when they slept next to each other. Or if they dreamed, they didn't remember them.

  He sat up again, still listening. Blair seemed to have calmed, the dream moving on, breathing and pulse returned to normal, but there was a tension in the air that felt uncomfortable, like a thunderstorm moving in. The sentinel altered his own inhalations and exhalations to match his guide's, the exercise easing the pressure between his temples, but still leaving him restless and edgy. He reached for his boxers, earlier kicked down to the foot of the bed, and slipped them on, picking up, then discarding, his terry robe. Too hot.

  The stairs were cool beneath his feet, the breeze from the bay beginning at last to reach the interior of the loft as he padded down the hill, stumbling slightly on a loose stone. The path leveled out and he walked along it, feeling the brush of plants against his legs and . . .

  He stopped, his eyes snapping closed.

  What the--?

  He touched his arm, pinching the tanned skin. The appropriate pain registered on his senses. He was awake, if that was any indication. So what had happened? This wasn't a dream.

  Was it so easy to drift from one world to the other?

  Eyes still shut, he concentrated, finding his location, the scent of the loft, the faint trace of ginseng tea they had made earlier, the unmistakable essence of his guide asleep in the other room. Scent seemed to work best whenever he was disoriented, then his hearing would help convince his mind where he was. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and walked past his bookshelves and the stereo and over to the open doorway, then stepped through to the slatted floor of the balcony.

  The moon, so full just a few days before, now looked robbed, neither a full moon nor a half moon, just a slightly off-kilter circle above him, moments from dipping behind the buildings in the distance skyline and disappearing for the evening. The sky was clear, no sign of clouds that signaled an imminent storm, although the wind had begun to pick up. Ellison could feel the breeze now, the refreshing draft, however slight, cooling the sheen of perspiration that covered his skin. He was still shaking. The blood pounded through his veins, his temples throbbing as his adrenaline-charged pulse strove to slow down.

  He would talk to Sandburg. Somehow they would fix this.

  With the resolution, came the memory that when Sandburg had woken in the hospital after his near-drowning, his guide had seen only the jungle for several days until his sight had resolved itself. Ellison couldn't remember what they had done to fix it, or if it had just changed back one day. Is this what is happening to me? Am I going to see only the jungle soon?

  On the main road, crossing to one side of their apartment building, a steady stream of cars passed, even at midnight. He let his gaze expand across the blocks to the waterfront, skipping over the rippled crest of waters on the bay, to the buildings of Cascade's downtown core, the multi-colored lights of traffic signals and office towers a strange beacon of life into the night. Below it, the reflection, as always a distorted version of the real thing, at the mercy of the wind and the waves and the tug boats that never ceased to chug through the harbor waters.

  Inside the loft, Sandburg moaned, and Ellison turned, stepping through the clearing and ducking into the cave where his guide lay sleeping, his sight expanding in the darkness to see . . . Sandburg's room. The young man lay facing away from him, curled on his side, the covers tangled about his legs on the bed, his face scrunched in distress.

  Taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself, Ellison sat on the edge of the mattress. Sandburg moaned again, and the sentinel tugged gently at Sandburg's shoulder, turning him to lie on his back. "Chief?"

  "Huh? Wha--?" Sandburg woke with a gasp, eyes blinking in the shadows of the room.

  Ellison reached to touch the side of his face. No fever; in fact, Sandburg felt cooler than he had the right to be in the muggy evening air, and the shivers Ellison could feel were probably in reaction to the breeze from the side window over his guide's sleep-warmed body. He straightened Sandburg's foot which was bent beneath him, the pink walking cast at
an uncomfortable angle.

  "Jim?"

  "Yeah. You awake now?"

  Sandburg's shiver became more pronounced. "What time is it?" he whispered, clutching at the sheet Ellison pulled over him.

  "Just after twelve."

  "Shit."

  "What's wrong?" Ellison let his hand rest over his guide's heart.

  "Can't sleep. I just got to sleep finally and something woke me up."

  "You were dreaming."

  "Yeah. Probably. Don't remember it though." Sandburg yawned, then sighed, impatient with the warring demands of his body. "Can't sleep. Can't stay awake. This sucks, man."

  "Want me to stay here?"

  The silence answered him. Ellison nudged his partner over, then stretched out beside him.

  "Thanks," Sandburg whispered.

  "No problem. We're probably both just a little wired."

  "Yeah . . . It's just kinda strange, you know. Being here."

  "Here with me?"

  Sandburg shook his head in the dark. "No, not that. Just being in my own bed. I mean, I've been looking forward to sleeping in my own bed for quite awhile, but right now it's like I can't seem to relax. Like I'm waiting for something . . . something ominous to happen."

  "I thought we were going to have a thunderstorm, but the sky is clear."

  "Yeah? The air feels kinda strange. Is that it?"

  "How does the air feel?"

  Sandburg shrugged. "I don't know. Just heavy or something." He rolled onto his side, facing Ellison, then shifted back until he was against the outer wall. "Just feels weird."

  "Tell me if you want me to go."

  "I don't want you to go."

  "Okay. Just tell me when you do."

  "I will," Sandburg said, after a moment.

  Ellison watched him, watched the eyes finally close as sleep overtook Blair, capturing his consciousness. Strangely, Ellison felt lonely suddenly, as though he were once again alone in the loft. He turned his head, then repositioned himself on his side on the double-wide futon. He rested his hand on the mattress between them, and without waking, Blair's hand came to cover his.