The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  “Take the corridor to your left,” Hanna mumbled flatly.

  “…what?”

  “To the heart, young man: take the left corridor.”

  Simon glanced at the trash receptacle for a final time—goodbye to Moron the Terrible and his funky friend—and wandered down the hallway, walls and floor the same brown and white as the rotunda, listening to his footsteps clicking on the marble.

  He’d brought a small spiral sketchbook with him, one that fitted in the pocket of his hooded green sweatshirt, and thought he might draw something, Mary Kathleen’s face or the subway kids or the guy who liked to disappear. The Institute even smelled terrific, like cinnamon and vanilla. Simon tried to visualize the girl’s features, the black tears and smeared mascara.

  thudie-thud

  thudie-thud

  He heard the heart before he saw it, pausing at the open door leading to the exhibit. A gigantic shape, bigger than he remembered, going from ground to high ceiling, the slick outer shell alive with blue and red veins and pulsing…

  thudie-thud

  thudie-thud

  Simon glanced nervously about the empty room. A skylight let in the morning sun, the heart sheathed in its brilliant dusty shafts.

  Come here, boy.

  The voice inside himself, behind his ears, his eyes, within his chest, the sound faintly discernable at first, then the words became clear.

  I’m waiting…

  thudie-thud

  thudie-thud

  This way…

  Simon stared into the dark opening of the heart.

  “…hello?”

  Silence.

  “Who’s…there?”

  He knew the answer, no guessing involved: the man on the subway. Simon felt his own heart pumping at the sides of his neck, synchronized to the rhythm that filled the room.

  thudie-thud

  thudie-thud

  Don’t be afraid, the voice said.

  “Easy for you,” he muttered, though not afraid, not really, more of an excited feeling, anticipation.

  I bring you news.

  Yellow velvet ropes on metal stands made a path to the heart’s entrance; he looked again into its wide black mouth and saw nothing.

  “Who’re…you?”

  “Benjamin,” the voice said, much closer now.

  “The guy on the subway?”

  “That would be me, yes.”

  “What do—”

  “Come here, please.” The voice wasn’t demanding, no impatience, only a benign, persistent request.

  Simon entered the heart, passing through a thready green beam. This triggered the lights of the display and dissipated the darkness. Walls throbbed, the slick reddish surface webbed in veins.

  “…H-hello?…Mr. Benjamin?”

  Then the man…

  will you look at that

  …materialized.

  III

  He had been watching the boy; thinking, Too short and too skinny, the littlest lamb of the flock. Yet hadn’t the One-Who-Is brought them together? Wasn’t Simon His choice? A selfish young man, yes. That seemed to be the requirement. But a young man not entirely void of possibilities. When Benjamin saw the boy defending himself against the others, he did see a quality: courage, perhaps, an innate stubbornness…

  Still…

  …to risk everything and everyone on such a choice…

  Benjamin remembered saying to the One-Who-Is, “Then explain the rules.”

  There was the shadowy laughter of the children. That was how it talked, the One-Who-Is. The children became muddled choruses, vaguely out of sync, a few groups lagging behind the rest of them.

  Give your lamb our gifts, little shepherd. Advise, but allow him to do his work. The reasons for the task shouldn’t be told.

  This bewildered him. “Certainly, a notion of the severity—”

  And what would you say? Be selfless and save the world? No, the task shouldn’t be told. Do you understand us?

  “…I do, yes.”

  We also have a final thought. If you fail, you’ll shepherd your flock in the abyss. Not forever, we aren’t unreasonable. A millennium seems a fair penalty for obsession, don’t you think? The last millennium before shutting down the abyss.

  Was this the concern? His own fear, his own selfishness? Who was he to question the One-Who-Is?

  Forgive me…

  …please.

  The boy was now walking toward him—Simon—brown hair past the shoulders, eyes wide, intense, curiosity in the eyes.

  thudie-thud

  thudie-thud

  “Teach me,” the boy said. “You know, the trick, how to disappear and all. And re-appear. I’d have to re-appear. They probably go together, anyway.”

  “You’re not afraid?”

  “…of you?” Simon seemed to reflect on the question; then shook his head. “No. You helped the girl, right? Mary Kathleen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  “A shepherd doesn’t hurt his flock.” Isn’t that obvious? I beg you, don’t let this boy‘s mind be feeble.

  “Why would I be afraid?”

  Benjamin felt momentarily disoriented. I’ve been away too long, things have changed. You don’t throw yourself on the ground, little lamb. Or tremble in my presence. I must have a lot to learn.

  “I can’t teach you how to disappear,” he said, attempting a smile, accepting the new attitudes of his flock. Adjusting. “To be honest, Simon, I’m not sure how it’s done. But I’ve other…tricks.”

  The walls of the heart shimmered in the light; blue and red veins, pulsing, a cadence to the sound.

  thudie-thud

  thudie-thud

  “You’ll teach them to me? The tricks?”

  “What? Yes, of course.”

  Benjamin extended his arms, the cloak draping back, his hands palm-up. He motioned to the child, beckoning him with long fingers. “Three tricks.”

  When Simon drew near, the man placed a palm flat atop the boy’s head; watched the body shiver, as if to a sudden chill.

  thudie-thud

  “Are you listening, Simon?”

  “…uh-huh,” a small voice.

  “I bless you now…” The words were clear in his mind. He’d say them, the messenger delivering the message, somberly, exactly, never embellishing, never forgetting a phrase: doing the job. “…with the gift to see thought…”

  thudie-thud

  “…with the gift to see the past…”

  thudie-thud

  “…with the gift to look into the future…”

  thudie-thud

  “All this I give to you, in the name of the One-Who-Is.”

  Benjamin saw the boy’s legs go soft, folding inward, knees sinking to the cushioned rubbery ground of the heart.

  You’re such a little one.

  “…rest,” Benjamin whispered. “This will be a dream. But I won’t leave you ‘til we’re done. I promise.”

  IV

  Benjamin studied his new protégé—Simon curled and asleep on the floor—feeling guilt over his own doubt and selfishness. What sort of man would this child become? Equal to the task, hopefully. So much could happen between now and the day he’d need him. Benjamin had seen Simon do battle on the subway: impressive for twelve, for a boy who spent most of his years alone. Isolated more than selfish, he thought. Fearful. And that might be a problem. Once he delivered these same gifts to another member of the flock, only weeks before the great flood, not nearly enough time to grow accustomed to them, and the recipient had tumbled inside himself and gone mad.

  A millennium in the abyss isn’t anything you’d want, Simon—certainly nothing I’d want. I’m ashamed to say it, but my motives are less than pure when it comes to your welfare. Oh, how simpler the chore would be if we had no opposition.

  thudie-thud

  thudie-thud

  “…not our fate,” Benjamin said, touching the sleeping boy’s hair with the tips of his fingers. “I
have friends in dark places, friends who cherish a good grudge.”

  Snatch…

  My dear, old companion…

  “…love denied is the stuff of revenge,” Benjamin mumbled to himself. “Or so I’ve been told.”

  Standing, his legs made a faint popping noise. He flipped back the cloak, stretching his back, his neck, hearing other popping sounds.

  …love denied is the stuff of revenge. Benjamin always thought that those in the flock who believed that edict had no idea how deep it could go.

  Snatch…

  Order had to be maintained. Everyone knew it: the balance, oh, yes, the boundaries between—what?—here and there, the living and the dead, and the ones like Benjamin and Snatch, fitting neither category, but alive, undeniably alive…in their way. A careful, tenuous balance. He could look at himself and see this truth, the shepherd and his flock, how love had worked on his very being, the graying hair, the aching muscles and joints, the tiny lines about the corners of his eyes.

  Love had frayed the boundaries.

  Then Snatch, doing the extreme, going beyond what Benjamin thought possible: mating with a woman, having a son, and how many did that son bring into the fold? And his children’s children?

  What was I supposed to do? Ignore it all? He expected too much of me; too little of himself.

  Assassins had been sent down to kill the boy and his offspring, hunting and executing one mutant after another. But time blurred the goal; time always did, camouflaging the prey. An impossible business to keep clear, the matings, the births, the constant migration. Perhaps they killed them; perhaps not—who knew?

  My atonement may finally be here, Snatch. Are you pleased?

  He felt haunted, nothing else described the feeling with such depressing accuracy, haunted. The words of the One-Who-Is played over and over like the throbbing heart that surrounded him.

  If you fail, Benjamin, you’ll shepherd your flock in the abyss…

  …for the last millennium, that’s how it was put to him, the sentence punctuated by the voices of children—maybe the very children the assassins had taken—the abyss dismantled after their stay, a project deemed archaic and ineffective.

  But a millennium?

  Even in a timeless place…

  A penance devoutly to be avoided, Benjamin thought. He’d obey the rules certainly, but obey to win. Do what he always did: protect his flock, though he understood it would be with the additional selfish motive of protecting himself.

  THREE

  1977

  Fairless Hills, Arkansas

  I

  Jonathan Clayman on his twelfth birthday: riding Jessie through the woods, the gray mare dappled in brown, side-stepping tree stumps and fallen branches; the two of them, heading into a meadow, the grass silver by moonlight. His father and the three men wore their white gowns and hoods. Jonathan was also wearing the uniform, a birthday present from Uncle Jake, one of the riders on this night. The boy glanced behind him; saw the shape twisting a path through the tall grass now, being pulled through it, old Bernie Calloway, the town barber the black folks used, and the man had stopped screaming maybe an hour ago—his ankles and wrists bound tight, a long rope hooked to the saddle-horn—the dark heavy body pounding against stone and earth, only a pretense of life.

  He must be dead, Jonathan thought.

  Wouldn’t he be dead?

  Why’re they still dragging him?

  That afternoon, four or five hours back—what seemed like days—no, weeks, years—his momma and daddy and these men were celebrating his birthday. Uncle Jake, saying: “Alright, Johnny boy, try it on, see if it fits,” and everyone clapping and laughing as he paraded around in the gown and hood, hands raised menacingly above his head, tripping twice on a hem that needed tucking, perhaps an inch or two. Jonathan hadn’t missed the pride in his father’s eyes, either. Something seldom seen; something longed for: Randolph Clayman at last pleased with his son. “A goddamn chip off the goddamn block,” Jake had declared. “Huh, Randy? Ain’t that what he is? A chip off the old goddamn block.”

  “Johnny’s a good boy,” said Randolph, and smiled.

  Smiled.

  That’s what he’d done. Unbelievable. This solemn man, this man who rarely acknowledged his presence, who forever gazed through him, who’d just as soon slap him as say, “Pass the salt,” this man had actually smiled.

  …Johnny’s a good boy.

  …a good boy.

  Jonathan felt his eyes fill with tears; felt embarrassed and glad he’d had the hood on to hide his joy, his greed. Crying wasn’t allowed, no matter the reason; that learned early, beaten out of him on more than one occasion, Momma usually yelling at Daddy to stop. “Shut the fuck up, Tamara,” his father would shout. “You want your son to be a pansy? You wanna put the kid in a dress? Is that it? I ain’t havin’ no goddamn pansy for a son.”

  Randolph Clayman stayed drunk sixty percent of the time—his waking hours—a short man, five-two, five-three, muscular and broad in the chest and shoulders. You didn’t mess with Randolph, drunk or sober, but especially drunk. Yet the drinking never seemed to disrupt business. “I got feed and grain cornered in Fairless Hills,” his father liked to say. Uncle called him a “money-makin’ pit bull”, ha, ha. Johnny didn’t know what a pit bull was—a type of dog, he’d guessed—and pictured one of those tiny hairless Mexican dogs with large horns and teeth. All snap and bark.

  Today, though, on his twelfth birthday, Jonathan couldn’t think of a better present than his daddy confessing those strange and wonderful words…

  …a good boy.

  “Sure the hell is,” said Jake, giving the good boy a wink and grin. Uncle was a lot bigger than his dad, maybe six-five or taller, and had to be near three hundred pounds, a monster, totally a monster, but, you know, nice—his momma’s brother—and Tamara always teased him, saying, “You ain’t so tough, Jakie. Got the sweet soul of a kitty cat.”

  “Yeah.” Randolph adding, “A real pussy.”

  “I can whip your butt,” Jake’s typical response.

  The seven boys and two girls invited to Jonathan’s party had left around two. Half of a homemade angel-food cake and a container of liquidy chocolate ice cream remained on the dining room table, and Randolph and Jake had been drinking Jack Daniels and nibbling leftovers.

  “We ought to take the birthday kid with us tonight,” Randolph said to Jake.

  “You ain’t doin’ nothing like that,” said Tamara.

  At twenty-eight, she looked closer to forty, skinny with ample breasts, her face worn, a darkness beneath the eyes, plain old weariness. Jonathan couldn’t remember a day when she hadn’t told him, “Momma’s tired, baby. Let Momma rest.” And she’d curl herself up on the sofa, pink terry cloth robe and slippers, lost in her soaps, show after show, a can of Dr. Pepper in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  Randolph was giving her the evil eye now. “Nobody’s asking your opinion, Tamara.” Then he turned to Jake, “Did I ask her opinion?”

  “Bad enough you do that shit,” Tamara muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Watch your skinny ass, Tamara. You don’t talk to me in your goddamn high tone. Understand? I’m the bread-winner here. I’m the person keepin’ a roof over your head. You don’t talk to the bread-winner like he’s a dog.”

  Jonathan saw his mother go silent, withdrawing, as if her anger had gathered in a deep, shadowed place. And no tears. She knew better: you stated your case with Randolph Clayman, but you didn’t push your luck, not when he was drinking and not when he was sober. He’d beaten those feelings out of her, or at least made sure she kept those feelings to herself.

  His father looked at him, a little hell behind the eyes. “You wanna go with your uncle and me tonight, or what?”

  Johnny boy shrugged his shoulders. What else could he do? Whatever his parents required. He felt in the middle of something again, afraid to say yes or no, to set off the
storm between them.

  “Alright, it’s settled,” his father said, and cutting a glance at Tamara, “I don’t want to hear no more shit from you. Got it?”

  Silence.

  “You got it?”

  She nodded; then stared out the window. Jonathan noticed her chin trembling, the tears finally glistening her cheeks.

  “Everything’s a goddamn production with you, Tamara.”

  “Relax,” Jake said, managing a smile, patting Randolph on the back. “It’s okay, right? I mean, it’s Johnny’s birthday, right? Right, Randy?”

  “Yeah, okay, right…yeah.”

  “Good. How ’bout another drink?”

  What would Momma think now?

  Now…

  …that Daddy and his friends were dragging a dead man through the meadow—he looked dead, anyway—the body of Ben Calloway bobbing up and down under the moonlight. Johnny boy wanted to dig his heels into Jessie, head the mare into the woods, find a way out of there. What would Momma think now? Hearing her voice, imagining it: You’re just as bad as them. Didn’t I teach you right from wrong? Don’t you know you’ll never get love from a man who’s got nothing to give?

  II

  They’d tied him to a tree—Daddy and Uncle Jake—while the other two men watched. Jonathan still mounted on Jessie, leaning against her warm, sweaty neck, and he felt his stomach cramp, a dull nausea, bitter at the back of his throat. Please, I can’t get sick in front of Daddy. At least Ben Calloway wasn’t dead, not yet, though he probably wished for it: strapped to the tree, his chest bare and bleeding from an hour’s pull along rocks and underbrush, his features unrecognizable, even by a full moon. And why? What had the man done? He hadn’t messed with anyone’s woman—his father’s major paranoia, generally—hadn’t been disrespectful, kept to himself, did the black man’s two-step for Randolph; big grin and a Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And how’s yo’ misses and the young’en, sir? Jonathan knew his son Zek, a thin quiet kid, who wore freshly pressed jeans and smelled like talcum powder. The boy had lent him a quarter last week to buy a container of milk at the school cafeteria.