Chapter 21
"To Sleep, Perchance to Dream"
I'm so tired!
There are whispers. I close my eyes for a moment … and I'm floating.
Not in a body of water, but in the stratosphere high above the Earth. I feel a little like a feather, aloft on currents of air, weaving in and out of treetops, skimming across green meadows and soaring high to the pinnacles of existence, able to look down on rivers and oceans and plateaus and mountaintops. I see the cascading waters and the deep refreshing cool of the pine forests. I hear the calls of nocturnal creatures as they settle in for sleep, the song of humpback whales in their watery habitat, and the warble of a meadowlark as she builds her nest.
I am the new warmth of the early morning sun, the soft touch of the breeze, a breath of clean, fresh air. I have no substance, no corporeal body, only a mind, three senses and an overwhelming joy of exaltation. There is a part of me that is human, and a part that is still a fragment in the Great Spirit's imagination as he prepares to inhabit this wondrous world with whatever it is that I shall eventually become.
Then I become. And …I am a man. I am walking in a meadow. I have five senses. It is early in the morning. The full moon is at my back, the rising sun on the horizon far ahead of me. I do not question the anomaly. There is a forest of tall green trees in the distance, and daisies growing in profusion all around me.
To my right there is a stream of cold, clear water, teeming with the sleek bodies of darting fish, and rushing over rocks and stones, twisting and turning with the curve of the land. I can hear the song it sings as it plunges on in its endless journey to some far-away sea.
To my left is a fencerow, deftly fashioned by a meticulous hand; smooth, round river biscuits piled intricately by some long-ago artisan, and woven into nature's tapestry of grasses and wild berries. Someone has passed this way.
I can hear the scurry of small wild animals in the underbrush, and I smile at the skittering of their furry bodies and the scratch of their small claws in the soil.
As I walk on, the breeze parts my hair and caresses my cheeks like the warm hands of a lover. I am dressed in casual attire, and I recognize myself as Twenty First Century Man. I am in blue jeans. White shirt; sleeves rolled to the elbows. Brown penny loafers with no socks. I have a watch on my wrist, a row of pens in my breast pocket, coins jingling in my pocket, and an anticipation of something important about to happen that makes the hairs on my arms stand at attention and gives me a strange happy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I quicken my pace and the grasses part before me, the daisies scatter their slender white petals across my path, and the crash of the waters across the rocks pounds in my ears and in my brain.
The moon is waning; the sun rising ahead of me, giving off a shimmer that lifts the veil of shadows from the edge of the field of daisies that meets the dusky coolness of the deep forest.
Something is happening …Far in the distance I see movement at the edge of the woods. There is a quivering of tree branches, and a rustling on the forest floor that I can hear. Distinct. Still far away. Footsteps. But they are familiar to me.
I squint my eyes, endeavoring to see, to make a distinction. There is a figure emerging from the trees. Cautiously. Graceful hands thrust outward, parting the branches and the green leaves.
I am still too far away to discern facial features or other identifying characteristics. It is a man, and he is tall. He steps away from the wall of dense growth and moves on into the field where I am still walking in his direction.
I tilt my head forward, curious but cautious, one foot in front of the other, wending my way toward him while he approaches me in the same manner. We move closer still, and I can see that he is not only tall, but almost willowy, limbs long, stride confident and powerful. He too, is wearing blue jeans. Dark blue running shoes … dark tee shirt with a strange logo.
We close the distance between us. I can see his face. He can see mine. His features are sharp: thin face with classic bone structure, high cheekbones with a clean-cut jaw line. I see a wristwatch on his arm, a big one with a dark band. His arms are bare, lightly furred and muscular. His hips are narrow, his legs long. His slender waist curves upward to a powerful chest and wide shoulders.
He appears to be in early middle age, his chestnut hair shot through with strands of silver, his face weathered, but not unkind. And when we approach and stop in front of each other, standing face to face, his eyes are of the clearest cerulean blue, intelligent and piercing, and filled with lively humor.
I smile. He smiles.
I say: "I have a friend who looks like you."
He says: "And I, you."
We stand facing each other, and nothing happens for a moment.
In the distance then, another figure emerges from the tall grasses of the field of daisies.
Smaller. Tiny, in fact. We turn and watch. Shining black hair, just beyond shoulder length. Petite features, white teeth, eyes like the blue of the depths of the ocean.
She approaches us boldly, striding with poise and confidence. She too is wearing jeans. Black boots … a striped blouse with billowed sleeves, red and white. She is wearing a silver bracelet on one slender wrist, a silver chain around her neck. There is a talisman on the chain with a caduceus in bas-relief. She moves steadily in our direction, watching both of us with a discerning eye and a half smile on her sweet face.
We stare. We know her. We smile in return.
She stops in front of us. Looks at the tall one. Looks at me.
"Gregory? James?"
"Lisa!" … in unison.
She is our sister; we are her brothers. We belong together. The fit is exact. Our last action is to turn back to the field of daisies, Lisa in the middle, the two of us tall ones flanking her, our arms protective about her slim shoulders. We embrace, and in that moment our corporeal images begin to fade, become wispy, and then slowly swirl out of existence. We cling to one another happily, our shadows shortening before us, until those finally disappear too, and the vision of it all fades away into the whisper of the wind … and the field of white daisies … and the blue of the midday sky …
I wake up.
I knew I'd heard whispers in my dreams, but they are only echoes now …
I am in the chair beside Greg's bed. I am covered with a light blanket, and my hurt wrist, propped on a pillow I did not place there, no longer hurts. I sit up and clear my throat. I look around. The sun is shining and the room is warm.
Gregory House is propped against his pillows. He looks across at me, and smiles. "I had this weird dream," he says …
… and I laugh. And the dream goes on …
Oooo0oooO
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