The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  They slept without dreaming, perhaps because they were in a dream already. Minutes turned to hours. Outside, the sun rose in the sky and burned away the mist that hung over Lake Bras d’Or. The surface of the water gleamed like glass.

  A loud knock on the door woke them!

  Before either could figure out how long they had slept, the shock of the new visitor drove all thought from their minds.

  Into the house he strode, a fierce black-robed rider in high leather boots and with a goad in his hand. Through the half-door came the sounds of his horse snorting restlessly and pawing the ground. Dana nearly choked when the man passed underneath her. His shoulders were empty. He was headless. In fact, he carried his head under his arm like a hat! It had the color and texture of moldy cheese and glowed with the phosphorescence of decaying matter. Gruesome wet lips grinned from ear to ear, as the dark wicked eyes surveyed the room.

  Dana covered her mouth to keep from crying out.

  The Cailleach looked unruffled.

  “Good day to you, Dullahan, will you have a drink?”

  A hoarse voice issued from the bloated lips of the head.

  “Gi’e us a beer.”

  A glass of black porter was put on the counter.

  Upstairs, the two watched with fascinated horror. How would he drink it?

  As the glass was held to the head’s mouth, it guzzled thirstily.

  “Maudit, câlisse, tabernac,” Jean muttered.

  Dana bit her lip. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or laugh.

  Slam went the glass on the counter. Pop went the head onto the horseman’s shoulders. He stretched his neck to work out a cramp, then threw a gold coin to the old woman, who caught it adroitly. Then, with a salute of farewell, the Dullahan marched out the door.

  The Cailleach had no sooner bitten the coin and put it away in her pocket than another knock was heard. Several creatures came in, each more beautiful than the last: two men and a woman who held a child by the hand. All had scales instead of skin, an iridescent aquamarine, and their hair was like long green strands of seaweed. Their fingers and toes were webbed. Around their shoulders hung capes of sealskin.

  Were they mermaids or merrows or selkies? Dana wondered.

  She had hoped to discover the answer from their talk, but they didn’t stay long. In a smattering of French and Scots Gaelic, they bought a few bags of salt and left.

  The third party of visitors created an uproar. Their arrival was heralded by a whirlwind of noise that battered the thatch of the roof and the walls of the cottage. Jumbled all together were many sounds: the flapping of wings of a flock of large birds, the rolling wheels of many carriages, loud laughter and singing, bells ringing, dogs barking. Then came a banging on the door, like the hammers of hell. Voices were raised and raucous, a drunken crowd shouting to be let in.

  “’S FOSGAIL AN DORUS ’S LEIG A ’STIGH SINN!”

  Not in the least bothered, the old woman remained at the counter. She stood on one leg, head cocked as she listened.

  The noise receded from the door and moved around the cottage toward the back wall. Circling the house, it came again to the front and then the door opened with a blast of wind.

  In trooped the oddest sight yet. They weren’t quite giants, but they were bigger than men. They had to stoop as they entered. They were broad, with great bellies hanging over their belts. Their hair and beards sprouted like birds’ nests. Half their number were black-skinned with raven locks. The other half were ruddy red with manes of ginger. All wore denim dungarees and buckskin jackets. Some had caps or tuques pulled over their ears. Their feet were shod with homemade larrigans, laced stovepipe leggings with moccasined soles. They were a handsome lot in a rough, wild way, but there was a definite air of danger about them.

  Their leader wore a headdress over his face and shoulders. It was made of the great hollowed head and hide of a bull, with the horns intact. Commanding the center of the room, he chanted loudly.

  Tháinig mis’ anseo air tús

  A dh’úrachadh dhuibh na Calluinn

  Chá ruiginn a leas siud innseadh

  Bha í ann bhó linn mo sheanar.

  Théid mí deiseil air an fhardaich

  ’S tearnaidh mí aig an dorus

  Craicionn Calluinn ’na mo phócaid

  ’S maith an ceo a thig bho’n fhear ud:

  Chan eil duine chuireas r’a shróin é

  Nach bí é rí bheo dheth falláin.

  (I came here first of all

  To speak to you of the Calluinn

  It’s for the best that this continues to be told

  Even as it was from the time of my grandfather

  I’ll go sunwise around the house

  And I’ll arrive at the door

  The Calluinn skin as my pouch

  And good will be the smoke coming from it:

  There’s no one who will hold it to his nose

  That won’t have health all his life.)

  • • •

  When he finished speaking, the man lifted the bull hide from his head to reveal a face half-red, half-black. Marching over to the old woman, he offered her the skin. In an oddly formal manner, she inhaled its odor. Then he brought it to the others so they could sniff it one by one.

  In the rafters, Jean and Dana caught a whiff of the raw brutish smell.

  “SLÁINTE!” the man roared at the finish. “HEALTH AND LONG LIFE TO YE!”

  “SLÁINTE!” the others roared back.

  The ritual completed, the wild men sat down. Some took seats near the window to gaze out at the twilight. Others bellied up to the bar.

  “Spruce beer!” the leader demanded. “And it’s the black spruce we want!”

  The Cailleach put bottle after bottle onto the counter, all steaming with heat. A sweet, putrid scent filled the room.

  “Good woman, ye kept them in horse shite!” cried one of the men.

  For the next few minutes the only sounds were those of corks popping, throats gurgling, loud sighs, and grunts.

  “Any grub?” someone asked.

  The murmuring amongst them was friendlier now.

  “Salt herring, ceann groppi, blue potatoes, oatcakes, and bannock,” the old woman announced.

  There were cheers and shouts of “Good on ye, hen!”

  From the cauldron on the fire, the Cailleach dished out a big mess of food for the men. It looked awful, especially the cod heads stuffed with liver; but the smell was hearty and, for the two upstairs, a welcome respite from the pong of bull hide and manure. As the men ate eagerly and noisily with drunken hunger, Jean and Dana conversed in low tones.

  “They look like goblins,” Dana said. “Fir Dhearga and Fir Dhubha. The Red Men and the Black Men. But they’re very big. I didn’t think their kind were found in this part of the world!”

  “Les lutins we call them,” said Jean. “This is not so good. They are très dangereux.”

  While the men were busy eating, the old woman clomped up the ladder and into the loft. She carried two large yellow bags, which she set down near the bed.

  “Climb inside,” she whispered urgently. “Be quick, be nimble. The night is falling. The moon is rising.”

  Neither of them moved.

  “Why do you want us to do this?” Dana demanded in a low voice. “What’s going on?”

  “Do not seek to know too much about us,” came the stern reply. “This is the only way you will get what you want. You, especially, must take care,” she said to Dana. “Raising the giant is man-magic. It’s not safe for girls. Stay hidden till the giant rises, then remember this: you must call out to Fingal before the goblins do. Now, be of good courage and do what I say.”

  Dana and Jean hesitated, still fearing a trap and wondering if they might yet wind up in the pot. The Cailleach was growing impatient.

  “Get in or get lost!” she hissed.

  Fighting down feelings of panic and claustrophobia, Dana crawled into one of the bags. The material was soft like s
uede or pigskin, and there were air holes. Reluctantly, Jean got into the other. Once the old woman had tied the ends shut, they were in total darkness.

  With astonishing strength, the Cailleach heaved the bags over her shoulders and carried them downstairs.

  “Ho byes, the Hag has bags for us!” the goblin chief shouted.

  “Haggis and baggis!” cried another.

  “They’re not for the likes of ye,” she said shortly. She put the bags on the floor. “They’re a meal for the giant. Little pigs for his breakfast.”

  Dana and Jean gasped at her words. One of the men came near. They could hear him snuffling.

  “Fee fie foe fum, I smell the blood of a tasty hu-mawn.”

  A cacophony of howls and laughter followed.

  Seized with the urge to get out of the bag, Dana started to kick wildly. She felt the Cailleach’s hand on her head. The touch was strangely soothing, both firm and kind.

  “It’s no business of yours what’s in the bag,” the old woman told the goblins curtly. “Just mind you take it up the hill when you go.”

  “And who says we’re going up the hill?” the chief demanded.

  A tense silence fell over the room. They were seconds away from a hullabaloo. Suddenly the top half of the door burst open. The big ginger cat jumped up on the sill. In a high-pitched caterwaul it screeched into the room.

  “Awake the Sleeper!”

  Then the cat ran off.

  The old woman looked triumphant.

  “The cat sith has spoken.”

  The men exchanged glances. A low grumbling rose amongst them. One spoke up gruffly. “The wind’s in the north.”

  Another nodded. “There be new moon tonight.”

  This elicited mutters of “aye” and “that’s true.”

  The goblin chief slammed the counter. “We have no circle to dance in Her sight!”

  The Cailleach distributed bottles of scotch and whiskey. Her tone grew warm and persuasive.

  “So light a torch, bring the bottle, and build the fire bright.”

  The chief glared at her, then looked out the window at the darkening night. The first stars had appeared. He gave a hard nod to the others.

  “The giant will rise with the moon.”

  It was the signal they were waiting for. They jumped up as one man. Coins were showered on the counter as they prepared to leave.

  “Don’t forget the bags,” said the Cailleach mildly.

  Dana and Jean were hauled over burly shoulders and carted out the door.

  • • •

  It was a rough passage down the road and up the hill. Inside the bag, Dana was jarred and jolted with every step. Whenever the men broke into a jog, it was all the more bruising, as she was bounced off bony backs and shoulders. There was a lot of loud talk and wild laughter and grunting and yelling. As well as the noise, there was also the smell: a heady mix of booze, belches, and body sweat. She began to feel as if she had been kidnapped by pirates.

  After what seemed an eternity of discomfort, she was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. As the loud voices moved some distance away, she hazarded a low call to Jean. She could see nothing through the air hole.

  “Are you there?”

  “Oui,” came Jean’s whisper. “You okay?”

  “More or less.”

  They struggled to loosen the ties on their bags and peeked out cautiously. The landscape rolled in dark shadows around them. They were in the hills overlooking Lake Bras d’Or. Below glinted the cold waters of the lake. Above shone the night sky, sprayed with stars and a sliver of new moon. But where was the circle of stones they had seen from the air? There was no sign of it.

  They were on the highest hilltop. The ground was tamped earth with coarse patches of grass. Just beyond them, the goblins were busily building a bonfire. Some piled up sticks of driftwood and dried branches. Others lit torches soaked with petrol. One of them emptied a canister of gasoline over the kindling and threw in a match. The great WHOMPFF of flames made them all jump back. When they recovered from the shock, they screeched with laughter.

  “Ye singed Black Murphy’s ears, ye omadhaun!”

  Red sparks exploded into the night air as the wood crackled and burned. The men stood around the fire, torches held aloft, gulping down whiskey by the neck of the bottle. A fiddle appeared amongst them, then a bodhran drum and a tin whistle.

  Dana squinted through the dimness. The three musicians? Looking over the circle, she understood the Cailleach’s warning. The goblins looked even bigger and wilder in the firelight. Their faces were flushed from heat and exertion, their eyes crazed with drink. These were hard men engaged in a hard man’s ritual.

  Up rose the shivery sounds of the fiddle, then the shrill of the whistle, and the thunder of the drum. Harsh voices sang out.

  Cold wind on the harbor

  And rain on the road

  Wet promise of winter

  Brings recourse to coal

  There’s fire in the blood

  And a fog on Bras d’Or—

  The giant will rise with the moon.

  They began to dance as they sang, weaving around one another with surprising grace. They held their torches and their bottles high, footing it lightly over the rough ground, then stamping their feet down with great crashes. The ground trembled beneath them. Whether it was the firelight or the night shadows or the nature of man-magic, Dana found her sight wavering. In place of the goblins, a great circle of stones took shape to form a rampart around the bonfire. Then out of the stones stepped a new group of dancers—dark-robed men with gold torcs at their necks and blue spirals scoring their faces.

  ’Twas the same ancient fever

  In the Isles of the Blest

  That our fathers brought with them

  When they went west

  It’s the blood of the Druids

  That never will rest—

  The giant will rise with the moon.

  The music grew more frenzied, the singing more frantic, and the dancing increased in speed and complexity. The bonfire flared like solar explosions. The stars in the sky spun deliriously. A vortex of energy was mounting in the circle.

  The stones and the Druids melted into the darkness. The goblins returned, drunk as lords. They stomped and bellowed and shook their fists at the moon.

  And crash the glass down!

  Move with the tide!

  Young friends and old whiskey

  Are burning inside

  Crash the glass down!

  Fingal will rise—

  With the moon!

  Now the dancing reached such a pitch of ferocity and aggression that Dana and Jean hung back, appalled. Where could this end but in murder? They were about to make a run for their lives when the circle turned again.

  No longer stones or goblins or dark-robed Druids, they were ordinary men, familiar men. Yes, there they were, the three musicians she had met in Toronto! They played their instruments and they sang and they danced in the company of other men like themselves. Maritimers from the coasts and the islands, from Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, and Cape Breton. They sang with passion to a fever of music. They drank their bottles dry and crashed them to the ground till the glass splintered and sparkled like the stars above. In young and old voices, men’s wild voices, they sang with ardent fervor to warm the cold heart of the moon. Throats hoarse with whiskey and cigarettes and age, they were men of the sea and men of the mines, hard men who lived hard lives, eking out a living, battling bad governments and poverty and hardship, their lineage not forgotten, the blood of the Druids in their veins, the memory of the ancient stones, the blood sacrifice, and the other world so close to their own. The fire was in their blood, in their voices, in their music, in their indomitable will to survive, to live on. Whooping it up around the bonfire, they waved their torches and their bottles of whiskey, roaring full-throated a song lusty with life.

  The wind’s in the north

  There�
�ll be new moon tonight

  And we have no circle to dance in her sight.

  So light a torch, bring the bottle, and build the fire bright—

  THE GIANT WILL RISE WITH THE MOON.

  O see how he rises! Rising up from the waves! Rising up from the deep! Up out of the deep of the great lake of Bras d’Or! Wet and shining like the stars, dripping water and kelp and sea-wrack, knobbled with barnacles, wet out of the sea and luminously wet, gigantic and beautiful against the night. FINGAL THE GIANT! He it was who once strode between the northern shores of Ireland and Scotland, who had crossed the broad Atlantic, wading through the swell with massive legs like tree trunks, over the heaving waves of the cold vast ocean to follow the ships that bore his people, those who told his stories and sang his songs. He couldn’t let them go without him. Like a faithful dog he followed, nearly drowning at times as he sank beneath the water then rising again to plow the main till at last he arrived in the new land, exhausted beyond belief. He collapsed on Cape Breton Island where he heard them singing in the Gaelic. It was early in the morning and the sun was rising over Lake Bras d’Or. He saw the gold light reach out like arms to greet him. He fell into its warm embrace for the merciful sleep of the deep. And there in his wet seabed he still lies at peace. But he will rise, oh yes he will rise, on the night of the new moon if you sing his song with enough fire in your blood and your voice to wake him.

  Now with slow, heavy tread, the giant waded out of the lake. As each gargantuan footstep landed on the ground, it sent tremors through the earth. He was huge beyond imagining. Bigger than the hills he crossed to reach the bonfire where they had called out his name.

  Towering over the goblins on the hill, the giant lowered his head for a closer look. Expecting a terrifying visage, Dana and Jean were surprised to see a big, round, friendly face. He had a bald head, cauliflower ears, and a thick, bushy beard. The grin was broad and toothless.