The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  Though the monotony of the trek began to wear her down, Dana didn’t halt or rest. She was driven to fulfill her vision quest.

  Then the Old Ones came.

  She had already begun to sense Their presence: something immense and profound in the forest itself. A great mystery that dwelled within it. An impenetrable strength. Slowly but surely the secret was revealed. They were here. All around her.

  The first sound she heard was high in the air, so far above her it could have come from heaven. A great sigh on the wind. Then came the rivers of light exuding from the trees themselves, ribbons and striations of light that penetrated the green dimness like arrows and spears. They surged on the wind, a great movement through the forest, a force that sighed through every leaf and branch and blade of grass, surging through the undergrowth like the surge of the sea; a pacific force, urging the trees to explode into the sky, to swirl in spirals of green and yellow, terrible and rapturous, a great swell of light and movement and color and presence, a vast overflowing, a hugeness of energy, all of it coalescing into a trembling luminosity that only the word God could come close to naming.

  How long Dana remained in Their ecstatic embrace, she couldn’t know, but there came a time when she felt the struggle to emerge. Rising to the surface, like foam on the waves, an upsurge of consciousness, she felt the infinitesimal mote of awareness that split her from the whole as she remembered who she was. O nobly born, remember who you are. And in that rising which was epic and glorious she knew that she, like all the others, like all other things existing in the universe, she knew that she was important: a hero of life.

  That was the moment when she plummeted downward

  falling like a meteor

  falling like a star

  striking the ground with such force

  she was embedded inside it.

  She had landed in a bog and was buried beneath a tree. Sleeping there in the dark earth, inside the roots of the tree, she began to dream.

  Where is the path my feet must tread?

  Into the dark your heart doth dread.

  She was in a cavernous house built of cedar, with one enormous open room. It was big enough to hold gigantic carvings of eagles with extended wings. The carvings dwarfed the inhabitants of the house: the chief and his family who lived there with their kin. Cradles hung from the rafters, rocking gently. Anyone passing by would give the cradles a push and the babies would laugh.

  A storm was blowing outside the longhouse, but there were plenty of fires to keep the room warm. The air was smoky, sweet with the scent of burning wood.

  Leaving the house, she wandered outside, unaffected by the wind and rain. Nearby was a rocky beach strewn with seaweed. Canoes lay upturned on the shore, elegant in design and painted with bright patterns. Their bows curved dramatically, like the crest of a wave.

  When she glanced back, it appeared as if the village had grown organically from the dense tangle of forest. The houses were low and flat, with curled roofs, and connected to one another but with separate entrances. Each door was fronted with a tall carved pole. To enter the house you had to pass through the totem. Eagle was the most common, with hooked beak and feathered wings. Another was Beaver, with immense teeth and flat tail. The sacred animals towered over the village, reaching as high as the great trees at their back.

  Now as the rain stopped and the sky blazed with sunlight, the village came to life. Hunters stalked into the forest. Women and children tended to the crops, cured skins over fires, and washed clothes on the shore.

  She was drawn to steps leading up a high hill. More carved poles pointed to the sky, but these were crowned with wooden boxes. A whisper in her mind told her these were coffins, containing the bones of the tribal ancestors. And beyond the totem poles was a different kind of house. A burst of light on the roof made her look upward. Shielding her eyes, she saw a figure crouched at the edge. A halo of feathers spiked from his head like the rays of the sun.

  She was suddenly afraid. This house was not for the living. She didn’t want to enter. Yet something compelled her inside. She was instantly aware that the interior was crowded. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness she was able to see, though she wished she couldn’t. The bodies were piled on top of one another, up to the ceiling. They had all died horribly from diseases that had arrived with the white traders and missionaries. Whole families had been wiped out, almost entire nations. She felt the grief and the anger in that House of the Dead.

  Returning to the village, she found it abandoned. An oppressive silence hung over the empty buildings. The totems leaned precariously. The wooden skeleton of a canoe lay alone on the shore. In the distance came the sounds of clear-felling, as great trees crashed to the ground.

  She began to move swiftly, along the coast, past glowering hills and beaches of pale driftwood. The ruins of villages lay scattered like bones in the grasses. A gargantuan statue rose before her; the wooden carving of a woman bearing a child in her arms. No passage of time, no splintering or wear, could despoil the tenderness of those big loving hands, that mother’s embrace.

  We do not believe in beating children.

  Now she found herself in a cold and unfriendly building. With drab furnishings and worn curtains, it had an institutional feel. Was it a school or an orphanage? It was filled with Native children with sad silent faces, filing through gray corridors or sitting at desks. The air was rank with the smell of misery, homesickness, and fear. They had all been taken from their families.

  In the yard, a little girl was being comforted by her brother. As he whispered the words in their own language, a smile crossed her face: Once upon a time Skokki the Spider traveled to the moon and learned from the Sky Dwellers how to weave. That is why the Salish people make baskets.

  She was back in the forest, at the heart of the darkness. Shadows blocked the light. Great curtains of foliage hung heavily around her. She was surrounded by totems. She felt as if she were falling upward into the sky, even as the sacred animals fell earthward toward her. She was lost in colors and shapes, faces and eyes, feathers and wings. Voices murmured in the air. And behind the voices came the steady beat of a drum and the hint of an eternal promise.

  Not all that is gone is gone forever.

  Traveling over the Rockies, she delighted in the breathless freedom of flight. So many mountains, towering skyward, some cloaked in snow, some covered in conifer, some brown, some blue, some barren rock, all shining like stone angels with limbs outstretched to embrace the clouds. Their presence, their very being was huge and overwhelming, vast amassings of matter, brooding souls. Such strength and longevity. Guardians of the earth.

  She dropped to the ground for a run on the plains. After the gravity of the mountains, it was a lighthearted experience to race with smaller creatures. Gophers popped up and down from holes in the red earth. Chipmunks somersaulted in the air, leaping from tree to tree. Rattlesnakes basked in the sun.

  She passed over plowed fields, furrowed troughs, calm dark sloughs, and tracks of wet gumbo turned to mud. In solitary treeless spaces rose the stark dark shapes of hoodoos, eerie spirits of rock. And as the starlit prairie fell behind her, she fled into the North, into a boundless shroud of black spruce and moose pasture and the broad sweep of muskeg sprayed with tamarack.

  At last she sank exhausted into a bog, dreaming deeply and darkly of the world of wild things.

  • • •

  Dana looked down at her own outline. Was she really buried in black soil at the foot of that tree? A disheveled figure knelt beside her, sobbing wildly.

  “This is very weird,” she said.

  Laurel spun around. “Dana! What? How—!”

  Grief and horror changed to shock as Laurel looked at the mound where Dana lay buried. Then back again at Dana who stood before her, alive and well, dressed in Native clothing.

  “It’s the quest,” Dana said slowly. “I keep ending up in the strangest places.” She looked around. “I think I’m here because I was worryi
ng about you in the back of my mind. About you and Ms. Woods. Are you all right?”

  But she could see that the other wasn’t. Besides being covered in mud, Laurel’s clothes were torn and there were livid burns on her arms and legs.

  “I’ll live. Gwen’s not here. I looked for her, but I’ve been alone the whole time, except for these crazy fireball things. Are you really here? Are you … I mean … you look like a ghost.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not dead.” Dana smiled faintly. She did feel a little vague and insubstantial. “I’m not sure where I am. Even while I’m talking to you, I seem to be moving through time.” She shivered visibly and her voice echoed with wonder. “I’m on the prairies. There’s buffalo everywhere. Thousands and thousands of them. I’m running with them.”

  Laurel was stunned. “Are you dreaming me? Am I dreaming this?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe. Isn’t life a dream?” Dana’s confusion rang in her voice. She closed her eyes a moment, to listen. “Oh, I see.” When she opened them again she looked clearer, more solid. “I’m wind-walking in the West. But I’m also dream-speaking with you. I’ve been sent to help you.”

  “Who were you talking to?” Laurel asked, amazed.

  “I’m not sure. The wind, I think. It’s too hard to explain. This is what the Native peoples do. I can’t really describe it. Something like fairy magic. The Old Ones are teaching me.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” Laurel said, touching the moonstone. “I’m just happy we’re being helped. Things have been going from bad to worse.”

  Dana closed her eyes again. “Things are bad, yes, but after the darkest hour comes the dawn.” When she opened her eyes again, her voice was urgent. “We’ve got to go. If Crowley finds out I’m here, he’ll come back. You need to get over the ridge.”

  “I tried that already. The fireballs—”

  “The feux follets,” Dana said, nodding. “I’ve fought them before. Can you run fast?”

  “That is definitely something I can do.” Despite her injuries and fatigue, Laurel was more than ready to try again.

  Dana cupped her hands together till the light spilled from her palms. “Run behind me. Keep going no matter what happens. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

  It was a dash of hope and courage: Dana in front, streaming her light like a banner; Laurel behind, determined not to falter.

  The feux follets were taken by surprise, but they recovered quickly. Buzzing through the air like giant wasps, they bombarded the runners. It was trickier this time, Dana saw. The crazy fires had learned their lesson. Avoiding her light, they wove in and around her, darting and diving.

  One struck her arm. She winced in anticipation of the pain and was surprised to feel nothing.

  “I’m not really here,” she told herself. “I am with the Old Ones, dreaming.”

  Alas, it was not the same for Laurel. As fireballs hit her legs and back, she cried out in pain.

  Dana had to do something. With all the effort she could muster she made more light, enough to cover the young woman with a golden shield.

  As the feux follets came near, they were incinerated, like moths in a flame.

  “Thank you!” Laurel panted.

  They had cleared the bog and reached the ridge of jagged rock. Dana looked behind. Though she had destroyed the first barrage, more crazy fires were rising from the ground. They had increased in size. The buzzing sound was deafening. Yet they didn’t move to attack. Dana’s heart sank as she realized why. Their ranks were swelling by the minute. They were amassing a huge force. Their intention was to overwhelm her with sheer bulk.

  “Go!” she urged Laurel. “I don’t have enough light. I can’t hold them all off.”

  Despite her injuries, Laurel attempted to scale the cliff. Her first efforts proved fruitless. As she scrambled upward, the rock crumbled beneath her feet and she slid back down again.

  She leaned against the ridge. Her face was white with pain.

  “I … I need to catch my breath,” she said. “Look, if it gets bad, you’ve got to leave. Wake up or whatever.”

  “No,” said Dana simply.

  “Please,” Laurel begged her. “The quest is more important than I am.”

  “No,” Dana said again. “That’s what you said when Ms. Woods disappeared and you were wrong. Everyone is important. Once I get you out, I’ll look for her. If she’s here—”

  A voice suddenly shouted from above.

  “Are you guys talking about me down there?”

  High on the ridge overhead, Gwen peered down at them. She was about to laugh at their expressions when she spotted Laurel’s injuries.

  “Gwen! You’re all right!” Laurel’s voice shook, and to everyone’s surprise, she burst into tears.

  “Yes, I’m fine!” Gwen called out. “But you’re not, by the looks of things. We’re throwing down ropes. Can you climb?”

  She called to someone behind her. The next minute two corded vines, heavy and strong, came tumbling down the cliff.

  Now the feux follets charged toward them.

  Laurel tried to tie the rope around Dana.

  “No, you go!” said Dana. “I’ll fight them off till you’re safe.”

  “Stop being a hero!” Laurel cried. “You don’t have enough light! Who knows what will happen if they engulf you. I’ll follow after.”

  “You’re injured!” Dana yelled. “I can fight. You can’t.”

  “Would you two stop arguing down there!” Gwen roared. “They’re coming. Move!”

  A shrill screech pierced the air as the phalanx of feux follets bore down.

  Dana had already thought up a new line of defense. Fight fire with fire. Even as she argued with Laurel, she compacted an orb of light in her hand. Now she hurled it at their attackers.

  The globe of light hit the front line of crazy fire like a bowling ball striking a row of pins. There was an explosion of light. The front line broke and scattered.

  Dana let out a whoop. Gwen cheered from above.

  “Go!” Dana yelled at Laurel as she made another orb. “You’re in my way!”

  Laurel had no choice but to do as she was told. Grabbing on to the ropes, she clambered upward.

  The second line of feux follets advanced. Again Dana knocked them back. A few managed to escape the explosion and charged at Laurel. One bounced off the cliffside. Another struck her back. Laurel cried out in agony but continued upward.

  Gwen was now hanging over the cliff, apparently supported by someone behind her.

  A third line of feux follets bore down.

  Gwen reached out for Laurel.

  Dana knocked out the third line, but the fourth was already near. There wasn’t enough time to make another orb.

  Gwen pulled Laurel up, onto the top of the ridge even as the fourth line smashed against the rock.

  Weeping with relief, the two friends hugged each other.

  “We came as soon as we could!” Gwen said.

  “We? Who—?”

  But Gwen had turned quickly to shout down at Dana.

  “Wait a minute! I need to tell you something!” Too late. Dana was gone.

  • • •

  With Laurel safe, she expected to wake in the forest where she had begun her journey, but it seemed there was another wind to walk, another dream to speak. As she flew through the sun-spangled sky, she heard a whisper.

  This land is far more important than we are. To know it is to be young and ancient all at once.

  She journeyed with the wind that blew through the tawny grasses, the sweet-smelling forbs, fescues, and sedges. The land rose to meet her. She found herself walking a deserted highway across moonlit plains. She walked beside time as if it were a river where the seasons flowed past. Sometimes the fields were awash with the gold of summery sunsets. Then they changed color to charcoal-gray and the white frost of winter.

  She spied a range of green hills ahead. As she crossed the stony field that lay before the hills, she discovered
she wasn’t alone. A woman walked there also, a rancher’s wife dressed in jeans and jacket, with a scarf on her head. The woman was lost in her own musings, gazing up at the sky.

  “This star-ridden, green, and scented universe,” she murmured.

  There was something about her that deserved attention. The way she walked, the way she touched the land as if it were precious, every blade of grass, every plant, every stone.

  The woman turned at the sound of a soft footfall.

  Dana stood in the feathered light of sunset, bathed in rose-gold.

  “Am I dreaming you?”

  “I think I’m dreaming you.”

  They both laughed.

  “They told me you’re a wise woman,” Dana said.

  The woman smiled shyly. “Who said that?”

  “The wind.”

  “What’s your accent? It has a musical sound.”

  “I’m Irish,” Dana answered. Then she reconsidered. It didn’t sound right. “Irish Canadian.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for a book. It’s somewhere in the land.”

  The woman smiled. “Well, that’s a coincidence. I’m a writer. I write books about the land. I walk in this field and it whispers secrets to me.”

  “Because you belong here,” Dana said, nodding, remembering Grandfather’s words.

  The land will not yield its secrets to a stranger.

  “Actually, I’m pretty well a newcomer,” the other responded, to Dana’s surprise. “But there’s something a Crow Elder once said. ‘If people stay somewhere long enough—even white people—the spirits will begin to speak to them.’”

  “I want to stay here,” Dana said. “I want to belong to this land.”

  As soon as she spoke she was back with the wind, walking across the sky.