The Dream Widow

by Stephen Colegrove

  Darius nodded slowly. He watched the white symbols loop south across the valley to the faint outline of a box––a cluster of ruined concrete structures from before the war––where they disappeared from the map.

  Darius pointed at the ruins. “And we know exactly where to do it."

  He bowed and went back to his room for a few hours of sleep.

  A cold heaviness on his pillow woke him in the morning. Darius looked up and wondered at the open ventilation duct above his head. He rolled over and screamed at Tran’s yellow eyes.

  FOURTEEN

  The valley became colder with each new sunrise. After a few days the boy decided it was time to lead the herd back to his village.

  Wilson helped the boy to pack his and Reed’s meager possessions into brightly-patterned sacks. The tent was folded up and the wooden flag-sticks rolled and tied with string. Everything fit snugly on the back of a brown-and-white pony.

  Once prodded across the grassland by the ugly dog, the animals seemed to remember the way. Happy for the exercise, the pony trotted along paths that were barely visible to Wilson.

  Reed’s English had improved day by day. Was it because of the fight with the dream tiger? Wilson couldn’t tell. He wondered sometimes if the old memories would ever come back, and what would happen to him if Reed became a floating vegetable like Jack.

  He turned to his old teacher, who walked beside him in a black robe.

  “Iek yuik meng silo? What is the name of your village?”

  “Station,” said Reed. His eyes opened wide.

  Wilson thumped the old man on the back. “See! You’re remembering.”

  “Ha goi mon––I don’t understand. This word I just said is strange, and I’ve never heard it before,” said Reed.

  “Every journey begins with–”

  “–tying a shoe, yes I know,” said Reed impatiently.

  They followed the herd of sheep and goats over parched hills.

  Reed shook his head. “What I don’t understand is your purpose.”

  “What does that matter?”

  He waved an arm at the white and black herd. “Everything is here for a reason. The sheep provide wool and meat. The goats give milk for cheese. The dog has a purpose, the boy has a purpose.”

  “What’s yours, then?”

  “I don’t know what it is, but I have one,” said Reed.

  “I’m in the same boat, Father.”

  “No, I can see it. Since you defeated the dream tiger you no longer flicker and fade. That means your feet are solid on the ground. You’ve come here to do something.”

  “Not about the dream tiger again ...”

  “Tell me the truth,” said Reed.

  Wilson sighed and the ugly dog barked at a pair of stray sheep.

  “I came to help you. In the real world you’re sick and might even be dying. I came to see if I could bring you back.”

  “But I feel fine.”

  “That feeling is fake, like everything else here. The sky, the earth, the animals––all fragments of memory from someone else. None of it actually exists.”

  Reed laughed and pointed to a dry stream bed. “Stub a toe on those rocks and tell me it’s not real. Lift your head and smell the cold air coming down from the mountains. None of this can be faked.”

  Wilson spread his arms. “Ever have a dream? Each one of us has a mind that’s weak and easily fooled. If that weren’t the case, how could we believe the strange things that happen when we sleep?”

  Reed scratched his beard. He watched the boy pick up a clod of hard dirt and throw it across the hill.

  “Wise thoughts from one so young.”

  Wilson smiled. “I can’t take credit––it was one of the first things you said when I became your apprentice.”

  THEY CAMPED UNDER THE STARS, and on the evening of the second day approached the boy’s home.

  Wilson expected only a few scattered huts, but as the herd topped a rise he saw a vibrant city in the valley below. Houses covered in emerald or rust-brown tiles lined the banks of a river and clawed up the green slopes of a mountain. At the summit spread dozens of brilliant white buildings; square-shaped and with mustard-colored roofs. A massive white citadel with a red, pagoda-style roof squatted in the middle like a mother surrounded by her children.

  Wilson pointed at the white buildings. “Does that belong to the army?”

  “Ngok yui Tawang yin,” said the boy. “No, that is the monastery.”

  “What do you mean, a monastery?”

  The boy shrugged and switched a lagging goat with a long twig. “The monks sing to the big buddha and have many old books. People ask the monks to pray for them, but I say it’s a bunch of spitting in the wind. Ie ngei shatu ha goi-duwa?”

  “Do they believe in God?”

  “Yes, but not in your way of thinking.”

  “They are men of peace,” said Reed. “I have heard many stories.”

  As they approached the city, part of the sky began to rotate through all the colors of the spectrum. Bright magnetic waves rolled orange and yellow to the north.

  Wilson pointed up. “Is this normal?”

  “Of course. Does it frighten you?”

  “Not really, it’s just strange to see.”

  At the edge of the city the boy stopped beside a wooden corral. He opened the gate and the sheep and goats rushed inside to a barn faded gray from the sun. The boy found a bucket and dumped cracked corn in a trough for the animals.

  A tiny house with a jade-green roof stood outside the corral. After they unloaded the pony and Wilson gave him a good brush, they headed further into the city for an evening meal. Wilson kept scratching his neck and looking up at the waves of color in the sky.

  People thronged the muddy streets in all types of clothing. Many wore dark blue or black robes like the boy and Reed. Others wore trousers and short jackets in unusually bright colors. Some were strikingly pale-faced in a variety of hair colors while others had tanned faces, flushed cheeks, and almond-shaped eyes like the boy.

  Compared to the men, the women were a rainbow of colors. Some wore dresses that dragged the ground, but the skirts of a few girls were so high that Wilson blushed. Some painted their lips crimson or pink and some completely covered their hair with white scarves.

  A few rusty vehicles honked and pushed through the crowds. One man drove by on a loud two-wheeled machine and shocked Wilson so much that he sprinted for half a block.

  The streets were filled with the noise of dozens of languages. Wilson recognized a few words as the same language Reed and the boy spoke.

  He pointed at a buzzing oval that passed overhead. “What’s that?”

  “A Sparrow,” said the boy.

  “That’s not a bird.”

  “Of course not, it’s a flying car. The name is Sparrow.”

  A blond man in a puffy red jacket brushed by Wilson.

  “This place is amazing,” said the man in strangely accented English.

  Wilson grabbed his arm. “What did you say?”

  “Let go of my arm, mate. I’m not buying anything.”

  Wilson stepped back. “You speak English!”

  “Of course I do.” The man walked away with the woman. “Bloody locals always flogging something.”

  Wilson stood in the street and watched them disappear into the crowd.

  “The place to eat is this way,” said the boy, and pulled Wilson forward.

  The buildings in the city were a patchwork of styles. Some were clean and painted white surrounded by concrete sidewalks and lighted iron gates. Others were dark hovels of mud and straw covered with sheets of orange tin. The street varied too––in places the surface was only mud and gravel but after crossing an intersection it could change to a hard, tar-covered material. Wires hung over the street and connected to metal poles shining with bright cones of light.

  Wilson touched the cold metal of a light-pole. “This place doesn’t seem normal.”

  “It is the sam
e as I have always known it,” said the boy.

  He pushed Wilson and Reed to a side street lit by a bright yellow sign––the outline of two naked female dancers hugging each other. Strange pink writing glowed above a glass door.

  “What’s this place?”

  The boy pointed at the writing. “A place to eat, of course!”

  A large poster had been hastily glued on the wall nearby, and featured an older man with a set of curved golden tubes in his hands. Large letters below the man proclaimed: “Chamran Knebter––Last Concert Of 2037!”

  Wilson ran back to the main street and pushed through the crowd. He crossed an intersection and stopped at the corner.

  The boy raced after him. “What are you doing?”

  Wilson pointed at a blue and white poster on the brick wall.

  The image of a pale woman filled the poster. She wore a short skirt and a top that revealed most of her chest. Below lay a curving English script: “Cherpi for Senator 2024.”

  Wilson rubbed the slick, gleaming surface of the paper. “What year is this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Today’s date. What is today?”

  “I think it is middle of October.”

  “What. Year.”

  The boy whistled through his teeth and shook his head.

  “This word––I don’t understand.”

  Wilson pointed at “2024” on the poster. “You see the numbers, don’t you?”

  “Please, come back to the cafe. It is not safe to speak here.”

  The boy pointed to a pair of men across the street. Both wore light green uniforms, tan belts, and folded fur caps. Each carried a short rifle over his shoulder with a polished wooden stock. The soldiers stood as solid as if they’d been planted right in the sidewalk, but their black eyes twitched back and forth over the passing crowd.

  Wilson followed the boy back to the alley where Reed waited below the glowing yellow women.

  As the boy opened the door Wilson inhaled the smell of strong spices, potatoes, and frying meat. Diners in all manner of clothing packed the tables and ate with thin wooden rods in one hand. Each table held dishes Wilson had never seen before: Long green vegetables in pungent sauces, chopped sections of cooked meat, red tomatoes cooked with eggs.

  A tall young woman bowed from the waist. “Please follow me,” she said in the boy’s language. She wore a tight vermillion sheath that was embroidered in gold.

  All three followed the mesmerizing swish of her dress beside a bar and the noisy conversations of ruddy-faced men. The woman pushed through a beaded curtain into a windowless room that simply contained a table covered in blue cloth and four chairs.

  The boy gave the chair that faced the door to Reed and motioned for Wilson to sit.

  “Tell me what year this is,” said Wilson.

  “I’ll do that in a moment. What would you like to eat?”

  As Wilson sat, he thought about the last time he’d tried strange food. “Anything, just have it cooked well and with fewer spices than normal.”

  “As you wish.” The boy spoke rapidly to the tall woman in red. She wrote in a small book and left through the rattling beads.

  “What is this place?”

  Reed cleared his throat. “You mean the city? Rogspo here calls it Tawang.”

  “On the street you asked about something you call a ‘year,’” said the boy. “I’m just a poor shepherd and don’t understand these things. Just stay away from the invaders.”

  “The men in green?”

  The boy nodded and Wilson looked at him closely.

  “Do you have parents?”

  “I’m just a poor shepherd and don’t understand these things.”

  Wilson didn’t know if it was his lack of fluency in the language Reed and the boy spoke, or if the boy was simply a small, repeating subprogram.

  “I need to talk to someone about this city. Is there a priest in charge?”

  The boy nodded. “At the monastery up above. They will answer your questions.”

  “Let’s go now.”

  Shepherd Reed grabbed Wilson’s arm. “ Calm yourself and eat. It’s late and the doors will soon be barred.”

  Wilson reluctantly sat down.

  Soon the woman in red brought a half-dozen wide plates covered in fried and breaded meat, green-spiced potatoes, leafy vegetables in clear broth, fish with red chilies, tomatoes mixed with soft yellow squares, and white rice.

  Reed and the boy ate with wooden sticks and Wilson scooped up his food with a spoon. He knew it wasn’t real, but enjoyed stuffing himself anyway. When everyone had finished, the boy laid a handful of gold and silver coins in the center of the table.

  Wilson examined the pile of money. The strange coins varied in language, year, size, and color. He couldn’t find any consistency or pattern other than the fact that all were round and metallic.

  They left the cafe and joined the people strolling in singles and pairs through the cool evening streets.

  “If this is just a dream, what’s happening in the real world?” asked Reed.

  “Our home is under attack by an army,” said Wilson. “If I can’t save you in time, they’ll destroy everything I care about and turn our people into slaves.”

  “Slavery? I’ve never heard of such thing.”

  “Trust me, it’s true.”

  “I understand what you said about dreams earlier, but how can we be having the same one?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Wilson pointed to an electric light on a tall streetlamp. “That light exists because of electricity, the lifeblood of our home. You and I are linked together somehow, just like all the lamps on this street share the same electricity. There’s a sickness with the lifeblood––the electricity––back in our real home, and if I can’t cure the problem both of us will die and our friends will suffer.”

  “How will you cure the sickness?”

  “I have to find someone called Twitch. He has a password––a secret word or number. That’s the key to saving my people. Our people.”

  WILSON SLEPT ON a straw-filled mattress. It felt like years since he’d laid his head on anything more than a blanket and packed earth.

  In the morning they breakfasted on hard-boiled eggs and brown bread with salted butter made from goat’s milk. An old man with exploded gray shrubbery for hair brought the eggs.

  “This is my neighbor, Onpa,” said the boy.

  The old man bowed his head.

  “He cannot speak, from a disease when he was a child,” said the boy.

  “Will he go with us to the monastery?”

  The boy shook his head. “He watches the sheep.”

  After the meal was over they wrapped in sheepskin robes and walked through the cold streets. High above the city lay their goal: the white-walled fortress of the monastery.

  The road carved through the city streets like an arrow. At the base of the mountain it curved left and climbed through the trees in a series of sharp zig-zags. Wilson saw the tiny figure of a single villager on the winding road, in contrast to the packed buildings and noisy crowds that surrounded him in the city streets.

  A tall man with long blond hair and a beard crossed the road in front of Wilson. A brown leather belt cinched his white robes together.

  “Father!”

  The man kept walking through a crowd of red-cheeked locals and Wilson ran after him. He touched the man’s shoulder and jerked back from a crackling shock of static.

  His father looked at him with wide eyes then ran down the street. Blue-white lightning popped and flickered over his entire body.

  “Who was that?” asked Reed. “I think I know his face.”

  Wilson shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

  Halfway up the slope of the mountain they stopped to rest. The granite peaks of a mountain range framed the valley on two sides and a narrow river flowed beside the town. A haze of noise and smoke hung over the crazy quilt of streets as if it were an overcooked stew of vehicle
engines, bellowing shopkeepers, frying sausage, and bleating sheep.

  “This is the largest collection of people I’ve ever seen and it’s not even real,” said Wilson.

  Reed nodded. “Amazing sight, even so.”

  A pair of monks in red and yellow robes passed them, heading down the mountain toward the town. The heads of both men were shaved and each held small rods with a clicking cylinder at one end.

  A five-meter brick wall covered in bleached plaster surrounded the monastery. A guardhouse with massive crimson doors broke the clean lines of the wall. Vertical lines of gold knobs as big as a man’s fist covered both doors.

  The boy pulled back a circular metal knocker and slammed it into the strike-plate three times.

  A narrow slit opened in the door and two wrinkled eyes appeared.

  “Nan owa ga de-le?” asked an old woman’s voice. “Ie ngei shatu ha goi-duwa?”

  “We would like to speak with the abbott,” replied the boy in the same language.

  “Iek meng silo?”

  The boy bowed his head. “Ngok menh Rogspa yin.”

  “Why do you seek abbott?”

  “My two friends have questions.”

  “Very well.”

  The opening cracked shut. After a moment of thumps and rattling metal, a single door began to open with the speed of an approaching ice age. After it had opened a foot or so, a bony hand waved them inside. Wilson, Reed, and the boy squeezed inside and met an ancient old woman wearing an embroidered but cavernous emerald robe.

  She pointed at Wilson. “To enter is fine, but not with metal. Leave all the evil things here.”

  He unbuckled his pistol belt. He placed it and his knives inside a large jade box with sinous inscriptions. Rogspo and Reed also dropped knives and a bag of coins into the box.

  “Wear these and leave your shoes here,” said the old woman.

  Wilson and Reed slipped sandals made from dried and plaited grass onto their feet and followed the boy out of the gatehouse.

  A narrow lane of paved stone led up to the three-story monastery. A monk dashed out of a doorway and up the street toward it, his sandals flapping loudly.

  Wilson gestured at the white buildings on both sides. “What are these?”