Bud's Adventures
by Robert C. Worstell
Prelude
It had taken most of the afternoon, but the trailer was now in place. The driver had been paid in cash and was seen down the rutted, weedy path and through a rusty gate to the gravel road outside. With a wave, the diesel cab-over roared off with trailing dust. The trailer's new owner chained the gate back in place. Turning slowly, he breathed deeply and let a wry smile cross his face. The deed was done.
After a slow, relaxed walk half-way up the hill, the man turned to an old, weather-worn pickup. After re-starting it, and shrugging it into gear, he carefully rolled it into an open barn which was really more a shed these days. A well-used duffelbag was pulled from the passenger side and dumped to the ground outside, so his free hands could ease the rickety door shut, in spite of the loud protests of its hinges.
The rest of the way up the hill seemed to lighten his load, as his steps took on a spring that was more pronounced as he neared the trailer, almost as if a huge weight was lifted the closer he got.
Looking around, standing in the shade of the grand oak tree where the trailer had been carefully parked right at it's southernmost drip-line, the man's smile turned into a grin. Birds flew and chirped after insects which fluttered and jumped in order to avoid capture. Squirrels chattered from the upper limbs, while a red-tailed hawk screeched from far above. When framed against the fleecy clouds, the whole scene almost looked and felt like a Disney cartoon.
That thought brought a slight chuckle to his mouth. Dropping the duffelbag at one back corner of the trailer, then reaching up and flipping a few latches, he was able to simply lower the entire back of the trailer down with it's built-in hydraulic assists. Most trailer rigs had roll-up doors, however this was a custom trailer built for a circus - as was blatantly obvious to anyone looking over the cracked, chipped, and fading paint on its side. The back end had been a loading ramp for larger animals.
Walking up the ramp (even despite the lingering, muted smells) brought another wry smile to the man's face. It was the reason he had invested in this particular unit. At its other end, a small personnel compartment opened into the cavernous trailer. Inside this, having squeezed through it's narrow door, he found all he needed for now. A narrow cot. A small built-in kitchenette with a hand-pump sink and propane-powered stove. Only an empty space where a dorm-sized refrigerator (DC-powered) used to stand. Shelves and cabinets along the walls and every available space he didn't have to walk on, sleep on, or prepare meals from.
Dropping the duffel on the built-in cot's thin mattress, a small dust cloud poofed into the darkened room. Moving to both sides, the dingy windows were quickly opened in spite of their hesitance. The waning light flooded the room with a brighter orange tint - which wouldn't last long on this day. Rummaging through the bag brought up a small battery-powered, wind-up emergency lamp. "This will do for now," he thought.
Then another smile crossed his face.
Home could mean different things to different people.
- - - -
Breakfast on a farm didn't start like the sit-coms on TV. There was no daily paper, for instance, neatly thrown from a bicycle rider with an unerring aim. The paper came sometime in the afternoon to a thin box next to the bigger rural mailbox down at the end of the long driveway. Your news and weather came by TV or radio, and you hoped that the weather forecaster wasn't too wrong that day.
A lot of ground between you and that station around a hundred miles away could throw off a blanket forecast intended to satisfy the bulk of the listeners out there. Farmers found that a neighbor could get an inch of rain while you only got sprinkles, and vice-versa. And timely rain, or the lack of it, determined a crop's success, poor yield, or failure. Radio, and then TV, had made it slightly more accurate than the time-worn phrases. But you quickly learned to not take the idea that rain was going to start by such-and-such a time and give you so many exact hundredths of an inch, then immediately stop like someone had just closed a valve - it would never be that precise.
Another point different at breakfasts was that there wasn't some sort of pristine kitchen where everything looked store-bought new, all shiny and formica-clean at all times. You didn't get folded cloth napkins set out in exact triangles with a special grapefruit holder and daily orange juice in special juice glasses. You'd get orange juice when it was on special and the glasses were the same ones you used for anything you drank. Grapefruit - when you could get it - would go into the same bowl you'd put your cereal in, sometimes during that same meal.
It wasn't that we did without, or even considered ourselves too poor to have these things. It was the TV reality that was un-real and pretentious.
Pretending. That was the word which made sense of TV shows. Once I learned to pretend, it also made more sense of my life.
Hi.
I'm Bud.
This is my story.
That's my Mom over there, getting us some eggs cooked up which were laid yesterday. I could also smell some bacon frying which she'd cut off a slab from a hog we'd butchered last fall. Yum. It made the eggs look funny compared to cooking them with butter, but the taste was incredible. And we'd sop them up with some slices of her home-made bread with real butter and maybe some jam she'd preserved last fall as well. As long as it lasted, anyway.
I always tried to gather way more berries and fruit than she needed so I'd be able to have jam and jelly all year round. My job was making sure she had wood enough to last all winter, but my hobby was finding all the wild and tame fruit I could. And I helped out as I could with churning butter - anything that was real help and not in her way. But I mostly liked to be outdoors.
This morning, I was nearly wolfing down the food. I was hungry from the smells that wafted up the stairs to my room. Sure, I'd heard Mom and Dad get up and start moving chairs around down stairs, and the radio start up with the volume turned down. But I'd rather snuggle down into my bed to enjoy the soft, warm comfort of the cotton sheets and hand-stitched quilt. This was the luxury I reveled in. In summer, it would go down to just a sheet and all the windows open, and winter had everything I could possibly pile onto the bed in order to stay warm in the old house - but spring and fall were a bit of heaven as far as I was concerned. The nights were cool and the days warm enough to only wear a t-shirt, jeans, and shoes if you felt like it (or had to herd livestock on the gravel roads.)
My Dad had already been out to check on the livestock and a new calf which had been born to a 1st-year heifer a few days earlier. While he had his fair share of weather and worry lines, nothing smoothed them out like seeing him the day that calf was up and sucking on its mom's udders, standing on it's own.
"What'cha got planned today, Son?" He looked over his mug of steaming coffee, which seemed small in his huge hands.
"Oh I dunno. Need me for something?"
"Not really. Your mother would like the sides of the road cleaned up with that weed-scythe, and if you'd check the fence for calf-holes, it would be a good time to do it today before that calf gets any ideas." Dad always suggested things for me to do, but I knew this was as good as a get-this-done-or-else from anyone else.
I also knew that the best way to do this was to do it as best I could and to double-check before I left off. But the faster I did it, the more of the rest of the day I'd have for myself.
"Just be sure to wear your heavy boots when your doing that trimming, OK?" Mother added with a note of concern. "We want your toes to stay on your feet, where you spent all that time growing them." She smiled with this, but made sure I looked her in the eyes and nodded assent.
"Oh, and work with the used wire before you start cutting new off the roll, OK?" Dad called to me as I slid off the chair and took my dishes to the sink. I grunted and headed to the door.
Sam and Missy were impatiently waiting there. They were both mutts. Sam was more or less Lab, and Missy was mostly Border Collie, but didn't have the fine lines and perked up ears. Sam's ears flopped too, but they looked just fine on both of them. I hardly got down the steps before I had to stop and pet both dogs, unable to go any further until I did (both knew how to herd and did it well - even with human company). Once I'd scratched them good where they liked it, and hugged them both, they ran off to play-attack each other for awhile, running and leaping at each other, taking playful half-nips and also turns being the "underdog" on their backs.
That was my clue to pull my boots out from under the steps and shrug into them, pulling the laces tight. They were still stiff from the last time I'd had them out chasing cows back in after they spooked during a rain storm. I didn't have any socks on, but thought they'd do OK on my feet. I'd had my share of blisters, but figured I could get that trim job done simply and then shuck them off while I fixed fences. Or maybe come back for socks - since I remembered there was some brambles and multi-floral rose I'd have to deal with, not to mention the thorny locust sprouts.
But for now, I wanted to get out into the barn and see the calf and everything else that lived there. The dogs were standing there, done with play and looking at me with expectant eyes, just as I'd finished the last bow on the laces.
"What? -- I took too long? OK - let's go" And with that, they both nodded and wheeled onto the path down to the barn, shouldering each other aside until one took the lead and the other followed.
- - - -
It was lunchtime when I first met Dad's brother Walt - or even found out that he had a brother named Walt.
I had just finished putting all the tools away after I finished the fence fixing. The driveway looked nicer now, all trimmed. I didn't carry a watch in those days, so I took my clues from the smells and sounds from the kitchen. So I cleaned up in the water trough and towelled off on some clean sacking we kept out of reach from the livestock and mice. Sure, we had running water in the house, but there was only the kitchen and bathroom sink. I'd be in Mom's way if I tried to clean up in the kitchen, and the bathroom always seemed too small - plus I didn't want to get one of Mom's "guest towels" soiled with some of the grease I'd run into that morning (I'd learned after a couple of scoldings - it did no good to say we needed some "regular" towels available.)
Dad introduced me to Uncle Walt as I came into the kitchen. They were both drinking coffee and Dad had some drying mud on his boots, so I know his morning had been interrupted some time before.
Walt has a friendly face, one that put you at ease immediately. He was stockier than Dad, and not so weather-worn. I could see he had the shoulders of a person used to work, but hadn't needed to do that type of job for awhile now. And I could tell he liked to eat.
Mom had me pull up the spare chair which sat on the back porch in the summer (wood was piled in that space every winter). That was so all four of us could sit down at once.
But that didn't mean I was part of that conversation. It was all about grown-up things which didn't make all that much sense. (Like who really cares what happened after someone left some job and moved to some other city and then got fed up with some other people...) Unfortunately, it was just before dinner, so I was stuck in some sort of in-the-middle-of-nowhere. I'd rather go play with the dogs, but then I'd have to get cleaned up again. Mom had gotten up to stir the stew and that just made me hungry all over again. So I tried to look interested, but I know they could all see I was really miserable.
Mom caught on and gave me a biscuit leftover from lunch, with some jam, but that didn't do much except take the edge off and give me something to do besides poor play-acting.
So I was relieved when she passed out the plates and set the table. We all got bowls for our stew on top of plates - which I never could make sense out of, since the bowls just tended to slide around, and the table was tall enough already for me - I sat in grown-up chairs now, but the table still needed me to do some more growin' up before it would let me do much more than just see over the edge of a soup bowl. Means I would get a bunch of "sit up straight" advice, and tonight also got me a copy of the Yellow Pages to sit on. (The real deal with plates was that Mom had put out one of her better table cloths out and I wasn't supposed to spill anything on it.)
Finally, we got through desert and I asked to be excused. Mom and Dad saw I was miserable - but it was still early, so told me not to get into anything serious (meaning nothing that would get the clean clothes I'd gotten into dirty.)
If this was what city life was all about, you can keep it.
Anyway, Sam and Missy came running up once they heard the screen door close. And I just sat there on the steps, rubbing Sam's belly with my foot while Missy put her head on my lap and I scratched behind her ears and her forehead.
It was a great evening, anyway. We watched the clouds turn kinda orange and the sun turn in for the night, off to light up someone else's day somewhere while we were sleeping the dark away.
Uncle Walt came out and I got up, disentangling myself from the dogs. (We were taking up most of the steps, which is fine until someone else wants to use them.) Mom and Dad were hanging on each other and smiling, which was a good thing. I guess Uncle Walt was OK, afterall.
So I just stood there, one hand on each dog while their tails were wagging. They liked him too, I guess.
He stopped after he talked to my parents, looked down at me and thanked me for having him in our house. Like I had anything to do with it.
But he was serious. So I said, "Sure. Come any time." Like I'd seen people do - but somehow, I really meant it. It was nice to feel good for no reason. And this guy seemed like someone who didn't take kids for granted or as a burden. Especially someone else's kids that he'd never met before.
Last I saw of Uncle Walt was him walking down the driveway, which I thought was a little odd, since he didn't drive up. Mom and Dad were still hanging on each other, so I guess it was OK with them.
They went inside and I followed. (Cause when they turn the porch light on, it gets pretty irritating out there with all the bugs that come in, and I was tired after that long day anyway.)
- - - -
Next time I talked to Uncle Walt was at his place.
My Dad had taken the truck and our stock trailer to town and I saw them roll by our house with some cattle in the back. The second time, Uncle Walt saw me and waved in return from the passenger side. I'd already found out from Mom what they were doing - she told me that they had gotten some cattle for his place and were just delivering them. She said he had the place right down the road from us, so I got out the bike and headed down there, just to see.
By the time I got there, they had already let out all the cattle and shut the gates. He just let them right onto the property and then shut the front gate. All I remembered of that place was the old barn, which seemed like it was just about to fall down, and the corral behind it, which had.
But now I saw the top of what looked like a trailer over the top of that hill, right under that big old oak up there. The cattle were busy walking around and eating, finding where the fences went. They also were calling to each other from time to time and once they found the other set, they all took off right for them. I didn't see any bull with them, and they were all grown cows, so maybe he'd buy one later. At least they had plenty of grass to eat. And I knew there was a pond over on the other side, so there was water for them. Seemed like a good deal, overall.
Of course, in those days, I didn't know what I know now, but I tried to keep my eyes and ears open to see how things worked. So I knew some things - probably more than Mom and Dad figured. Maybe not.
Uncle Walt saw me before Dad did and waved me over with a smile. Dad was smiling, too. Both were dusty from the trip, plus a little splattered from the nervous cows - who never really liked being hauled around, regardless how many times you did it. So they got excited on the trip and our trailer showed it.
Both Dad and Uncle Walt seemed happy with what they'd accomplished. I seemed to recall Uncle Walt offering Dad to pay for the hauling, but Dad refusing because he was family.
I stood there with my bike, looking on as the two dogs by my side.
It was Sam that broke the ice, and then Missy, as they both went over to greet my uncle and were wagging furiously as he was petting both of them like old friends. Then he looked up at me and Dad.
"Well, they seem to be telling me to invite you all up to see the place, eh Bud?" He unlatched the gate and I led my bike inside the fence and leaned it up on the inside, a few feet from the gate. We all walked together up the twin paths through the tall which made his driveway.
It was that afternoon I heard the first of Uncle Walt's stories.
- - - -
Uncle Walt had arranged a couple of short, thick logs in the shade of that huge oak, and also had built a form of rock fire pit, where he could have a campfire in most any weather. We sat on these while Dad and he talked, comparing notes about raising cattle and farming in general. Wherever Walt had gotten his data, he was an eager learner and would ask all sorts of questions to understand what my dad was saying, and also seemed to pull all sorts of interesting data to light - stuff my Dad seldom talked about at home. It must have been something to do with his questions.
Sam and Missy were laying down close to me, taking either side and seemingly at peace just laying there. I'd scratch one or the other occasionally. It was a good ending for a good day, and the twilight was coming on.
Uncle Walt turned to me (as his last cow-question was answered) and asked me, "Well Bud, what are your dogs telling you these days?"
I looked at his smiling face with a curious face, "What do you mean - dog's can't talk."
Walt just smiled again and said, "So they can't tell you what they want scratched or if they're happy to see you?"
I replied, "Well, of course, but that isn't talking."
Patiently, Walt queried my answer, "It might not be English, but does that mean they're not trying to talk to you?"
I shrugged.
Uncle Walt said, "That brings to mind a story which illustrates this point."
- - - -
The Boy and his Dog were out on a snowy afternoon, chasing down the wintry paths in search of adventure. The short day had already begun to wane, so it was a fast chase they were on.
Dog was trying to help Boy have a great afternoon, and so was running ahead here and there, barking out what he found and looking back to see if Boy understood. Of course, it was as usual - Boy just didn't get anything he was saying, although Dog could perfectly understand all that Boy said. It was an odd situation, but normal.
Dog went up ahead, finding a rabbit to chase - thinking Boy might want to take one home to his Mom for dinner, or just have some fun trying to catch something much faster than he could run.
Boy didn't understand when Dog quit chasing the rabbit and looked back at him barking, "Well, do you want it or not?" Boy just smiled and called, "Attaboy Dog! Go ahead and get 'em!" But Dog knew the rabbit had already found a hiding place under the bridge, so he ran down the bank and stopped short - right at the ice edge.
The Boy wasn't so cautious and could see the rabbit tracks run right across the ice over to the other side. He slid down the steep bank, not trying to slow himself down, but just keep his balance.
Dog had stopped because he could smell the water moving below and saw the tiny cracks where the sun-warmed ice had started letting water seep to the surface. Rabbits don't weigh as much as dogs.
Boy just kept bounding down the roadside bank beside the bridge and was gaining speed.
"Stop, stop, NOW!" barked the Dog. But Boy didn't get it - he cried back, "What's the matter, Dog? Are you chicken?" And laughed at his joke as he lurched past the still barking Dog onto the thinning ice and the running creek beneath.
Key-rack! went the ice. Swoosh! went Boy. Down into the water as it ran under the ice.
Dog stood on the bank and barked, "Here, here - swim over here!"
But Boy just thought Dog was being useless. "Go get help!" he cried.
Dog knew by the time he got anyone to come back, Boy would be sucked under the ice and not found until Spring.
"Swim! Break the ice this way! Come now!" Dog barked frantically.
Boy was losing his grip on the ice as it got wetter and more slippery.
Finally Dog knew what he had to do. This was going to hurt, but they'd both get over it. Carefully, he backed onto the ice and held his tail straight, out in front of Boy, just out of his reach.
Boy grabbed for it and broke the ice in between them. When he almost had the tail in his grip, Dog crept slowly forward. Boy lunged again and broke more ice.
The water was spreading now, with the splashing water, so Dog's grip was tenuous. But Dog had patience and kept putting his tail just within and then just outside Boy's reach. Boy kept breaking more ice as he came and would have been saying unkind things about Dog, except he was having a hard time breathing in the freeezing water.
Dog kept looking back with a pained look, and when he saw that Boy had a footing on the mud of the channel, he let his tail be caught and dug in his paws, pulling just as fast as Boy could break the remaning ice and get onto the snowy bank.
Once there, Boy let go of Dog and curled up into a ball, trying to warm up.
In the waning day, Dog knew that no one was going to find them down here, and that Boy was going to freeze in those clothes. His own paws were wet and cold, but his feet were used to this.
So Dog began nipping at Boy and making him move. Dog snarled like he was crazy and the Boy was his next meal.
Afraid, Boy backed up and up and finally scrambled up the bank to the frozen gravelled road above. Once there, Boy began saying some unkind things about Dog and looked for rocks to throw at him. He was so angry, he forgot how cold he was.
Dog didn't, though. And he kept up his act. Now on equal footing, he barked at Boy and kept backing just out of reach. It was only a quarter-mile back to the house - if Boy could make it, then he'd be alive to play again.
So he eventually got Boy to chase him. On and on they went. Angry Boy chasing barking Dog - who always managed to stay just out of reach.
Finally, the boy saw the light of Home and simply started running down the path to home on his own. Boy stumbled into the kitchen without trying to take off his freezing clothes, and ran into the surprised arms of his Mother, who got him blankets and towels and a chair close to the fire.
Dog, meanwhile, pretended to slink under the steps outside, but smiled to himself as he cleaned the ice from between his toes, satisfied with the dryness of the old carpets and rugs they let him have there.
It was a couple of days before Boy came outside to play again, and his Mom kept a watchful eye on him this time. Boy had forgotten his anger by then. And it seemed like he wanted to listen now. He brought a big ham bone for Dog and sat under the steps while Dog cleaned it off.
"Sorry I yelled at you, old man." Boy apoolgized. "Guess I'll better start listening better from now on."
"Well, then, the lessons will start tomorrow." Dog returned.
Boy just smiled like he understood. But he kept his word, and soon the two were talking to each other like the best friends they had always been.
- - - -
"Mom said to bring this to you. She said you could use it and would like it." I handed Uncle Walt a jar of blackberry preserves.
He considered the jar thoughtfully, turning it around in his hands, almost lovingly. Honestly abashed, he replied, "It's not often I've gotten such gifts, such appreciation. Tell your mom thanks, that I really, Really liked it."
He took the jar over to the side of his trailer, where temporary steps led up into the small living compartment at the front. Finally, he placed it just inside the door frame, where he could pick it up when he went in next.
Uncle Walt was dusty and a bit sweaty from his work. He was adding a greenhouse onto the southern side of the trailer, and been digging a heat sink and drainage trench befroe he started the walls. He'd found the old original farmstead foundation and the root celler. The trailer had been parked close enough to that in order to use it as one corner of the greenhouse. But it had to be excavated first, which was what had Uncle Walt sweating. He was happy to take a break when I showed up.
"Well, how are things going? Your dogs telling you much?" Uncle Walt wiped the sweat off his face and neck with an old towel.
I replied, "It's getting better. They've learned a few words of English, but I haven't got much 'Dog' down yet. I do know when they want to show me something."
Walt nodded and picked an apple out of a basket, then tossed it to me. "It will come. They've got lots to say if you listen. Like my cows. Hardly get any rest around here, they want to tell me all about the weather and the neighbors, not to mention politics and news." Uncle Walt was smiling again, in between bites into his own apple.
I was struck by that last. "News - really? Oh come on! Cows don't watch TV!"
He just shook his head at that. "No, not TV, but there is real news that affects them which never gets covered. And it's every bit as important to tell each other. Like what's growing fastest, where some hidden clover was found, how Bessie's young bull-calf won first prize in the heel-kicking competition - that sort of stuff. Real news. Beats hearing about who was shot and who wrecked their car and stuff like that. That's not news, that's just gossip."
We both finished our apples in quiet after that. Lost in our thoughts - well, at least I was.
Uncle Walt interrupted, "And how are you sleeping these days? Dreams keeping you up?"
I looked up from the last good bite off my thin apple core. "How could you tell?"
He replied, "It's your eyes. And you came up the hill kinda' slow. It's Saturday, so it wasn't school - and you don't stay up late Friday nights, so it had to be lack of sleep - which would be dreams."
I was still astonished at that. "Yea, and they are just too real sometimes. Talking animals and all sorts of things."
"Well," he said, "you might not want to worry about them and start to enjoy them for the lessons they bring. One time I heard about this guy who learned to live his dreams..."
- - - -
The dreams were mostly the same, but were enough different to make you know there as some deja vu going on "all over again".
But I'd had them long enough and often enough that I almost intimately knew that world I would visit during sleep.
Of course, there was no way to know when I'd have them or how many times that week or even a given night. They even started entering my naps. There was no relief, no drug that helped. No matter how zonked-out I got, the dreams knew their own way into my awareness. Only meant I'd sleep longer and wake up later.
And no one I talked to had any suggestion that helped. Shrinks said more drugs would do it. But I didn't want to spend the rest of my life a zombie and on disability or in a hospital.
So I hit the local library and started spending my days there. Nights were scouring the Internet and downloading anything that made sense at all - which wasn't much.
Oddly, the answer came in another dream. This one was something like a white room, with a desk. As I approached, other chairs and tables showed up - as if appearing into focus out of a mist. Finally, as I approached the desk, the room was now complete. A library. Shelves from floor to ceiling and two doors on opposite sides, at each narrow face of the desk.
One door opened to the right and a well-dressed man with graying goatee stepped through. He smiled briefly and moved to the desk, sitting with practiced, professional ease. Looking up at me, he said "Your problem isn't unique, even though you think so. You're on the right track. I'm just here to help speed it up. Please, sit."
He gestured to one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. "What is missing is that problem all your world suffers from. They think they are the only ones."
My quizzical expression brought another smile to his face.
"The world in your dreams is just another world. Your dreams seem real because they are. And once you treat that world as seriously as you believe in your own, then you'll be able to fix the problem you are having in that world. Obviously, that problem is key or you wouldn't be visiting it so often."
With that, he rose and smiled briefly. Gesturing with one hand, he looked to the other door. That opened as if on command. And then he simply vanished.
On cue, the rest of the room started evaporating, except that one door - which remained open.
Taking that as a hint, I stood up from my vanishing chair and stepped over the rapidly shrinking floor covering to it. Pausing only a moment on the doorsill, I looked out into what I was entering. It was some sort of brightly-lit void. So I took a step into it...
...And found myself in that dream world again.
As usual, it was a street scene somewhat similar to the Victorian Era, although that's probably its closest semblence. People wore long dresses with bonnets and proper suits with hats, and the automobile was simplistic. There were no horse-drawn carriages inside city limits, essentially as they weren't needed. Long ago, the city founders had encased the whole city in a dome and provided a common and limitless source of power which was integrated into all uses such as transportation, lighting, heat, and anything else needed.
A form of utopia for all the city dwellers. And that's as far as this dream extended, so don't ask me about the rest of this planet.
Closely hewn and sculpted rock formed the walkways and buildings. Rock which was individual in nature, but so closely fitted as to need no mortar, and interlocked to need little reinforcement. There was iron work, but it was decorative.
My scene on this always showed up that I was at a juncture. Ahead was the street, which bustled with traffic. To my right a stairway led down into the underpass. To my left, another stairs led up to an overpass that itself went into an imposing building with flying butresses and soaring pires.
I had an appointment. This particular incident had me feeling that I was late for an appointment in the underpass. I was to meet a romantic involvement, but would slip in my haste and tumble on the stairs. Unhurt except for minor bruises and scrapes, I would then rise to hear a struggle and muffled scream. Rounding the corner next to that stairwell always brought me to see that lover lying against the underpass wall, gazing vacantly up with an unfocused vision of her assailant. I would crouch, gather her into my arms, find her life slipping away. One set of steps was running away down the underpass tunnels, while a shout from the other direction brought several sets of feet running my way.
I would then be roughly grabbed and blamed with her death while I looked away down the underpass in the direction of the assailant's footsteps, unable to speak through my grief.
At least that's the way the dream always unrolled for me.
Up to this point.
This time, I simply stood there with the three choices in front of me. I still had the appointment, but knew what would happen. It always turned out that way. And this time, I remembered those words from the man in the library - "Once you treat that world as seriously as you believe in your own..."
Coldly, I through the scenario. If I rush down those stairs, she dies. If I do anything else, it's a chance she doesn't. A chance.
Practically, I had an infinite multitude of choices at this point. I could simply go slowly and make my way carefully - and perhaps this would or wouldn't keep her alive. But I already knew she was going to die if I did the usual. So I simply didn't have to expect different results from repeating the same actions.
Since the street was too busy to cross, I turned left to the overpass toward that lofily-designed building. For some reason, I understood it to be a library of sorts. Perfect place to find an answer. If I couldn't find it in my world, maybe the answer was here.
When I entered the building, I was impressed by how much libraries were making influence in my life and my dreams. Especially as I looked up and up and up at the shelves upon shelves of materials there. In this dream-world, they didn't use books, it was all on scrolls. And the walls contained thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of scrolls. Floors of them with rolling ladders which reached all the tiny cubicles they were stored in. The wood and parchment smells were intense. Not dust, but something akin to incense - spicy, sharp, and pervasive.
Approaching the central desk, I asked for their index. Typically librarian, hair in a bun and what passed for glasses on her otherwise comely nose. Dressed in serious dark colors, like her attitude. She pointed out a series of near-translucent shells which were interlinked in a complex 3-D pattern that looked more like a sculpture, able to be cross-indexed in several different directions for any particular data you were looking for.
Needless to say, I was stumped. Back to the desk I went, with my most innocent lost-small-boy look. Fortunately, in this dream we spoke the same language. A few sheepish responses softened her view toward me. Finally, she found the data on her own miniature version just behind the counter. She pointed up to a third level and handed me a short scrap of paper with a set of symbols on it. With a modest smile and a longer look. I returned the smile and found the stairs and ladders which would take me to that lofty, distant cubicle.
Once I found the scroll I wanted, I navigated back down to earth and found a table I could unroll and study it.
I hadn't been standing there long before I smelled a familiar scent.
"And where have you been, sailor?" I turned and found the voice belonged to that same lovely wench who wound up dead in my other dreams. "I thought we had a date. Well, no matter, I knew you'd be here somewhere - you are such a serious student, one of my best." A beautiful smile came with that rebuke. And she slipped her hand into mine.
I looked back, down into her gorgeous brown eyes and realized why this dream was important. The term "soul mate" came to mind. Even if this was a dream, she was worth everything and more.
After a pause, she asked, "So what was so important to stand me up?"
I broke off to return the the scroll. "Oddly this is something that came up in your lectures. You mentioned the infinite number of possible realities which extend from any singular moment. Well, I faced that today, knowing that I had a 50/50 chance of doing something right. And that led me here."
I straightened out the scroll and pointed to one line. "There is a cross here where that theory meets the monomyth idea - of a single plot-line which pervades all mythology and so, perhaps all current action and future." Turning, I faced her, holding her shoulders with both of my hands. "Today, there was a point where you could have been killed. And I had to take the chance that it wouldn't have happened if I changed my own actions."
"Like the butterfly and the tidal wave - chaos theory?" She smiled at me with her philosophy professor air - the one which endured her to me on so many levels.
"Exactly, but also just perhaps." That got a quizzical look from her as I continued. "While it's true that everything is connected, having no real limits, there is no particular cause-effect relationship between every beat of any particular butterfly's wings and the tides in California. That again goes back to that infinite-possibility loop you mentioned. There are choices for every moment which may or may not cause chaos or massive change somewhere else."
She then understood. "So you came here to see if there were a theory that crossed the two lines, knowing that I might be dead right now, regardless of what you would find." Her voice took a harder edge, her eyes took a glint.
"Not that simple, my dear," I talked carefully to defuse her. "I've been having dreams about this particular scene for quite awhile. Even though I might believe in ESP, it wasn't a fact for me. But it's like I'd lost you a dozen times already. I didn't want to go through that hurt again." This softened her, as I felt the tenseness go out of her stance. "There was another dream I'd been having, like an alternate world I was living in. In that world, these theories also exist. If I could prove that a conclusion which was present in that world was also present here, I could then show that dreams were connected and ran according to the same rules."
It was like I hit her with a sledge. Her mouth went open and eyes unfocused. She was suddenly getting where I was headed. "So you took the chance that I would actually live if you didn't act - so you could prove that all was actually connected, even dream-worlds. And by doing that, you actually ensured that I would live - which is a brave test of logic."
At that point, she melted into my arms and hugged me tightly. "But please don't ever do that again. Even though it worked. You mean too much to me - and could have meant your death instead of mine."
We stood there for awhile in that quiet alcove, embracing and savoring the moment. At least until someone walked by, stiletto heels clicking on a tile floor section beyond.
At that, we separated. She tucked a few wispy strands of hair away, I straightened my tie. In that society, it was frowned for student/professor relationships to exist, even though it was commonplace for grad students and the subject of many gossip-circles. It was her reputation we were preserving, her tenure and position. That was the reason for meeting in the underpass - a brief tryst.
Her erstwhile murderer had another intention. And had been in the papers, much unsolved as Jack-the-Ripper in our own world. I had somehow removed both of us from his influence.
We walked well separate out into the main area. I deposited the scroll in a pile for replacing at the alcove opening. She left through the front door and I took a side exit. We met around the corner again.
"You realize we will now have to plan more carefully." She was pensive, but I could almost smell the excitement and hear her pulse quicken at the thought.
I replied carefully, "And so we'll have our class next Tuesday."
She was coded in her response as well, "It should be interesting to bring your theory up in class for discussion, no need for private review." Meaning, of course, the opposite. But class would be when she'd return my last paper with comments and "review notes", which would set up our next meeting.
"Very well, professor. I ask your permission to depart and wish you a fine day." I stepped back and slightly bowed my head.
"Good day, then." She turned and walked down the sundown-lit path, her silhouette striking in the gathering twilight.
I looked after her as long as I dare without giving suspicion. Then I turned the opposite direction, toward the public tram which ran toward the student quarters.
While waiting for the tram, I picked up the night's newspaper, which headline was about another corpse found in an underpass not far from the one we had planned to meet in.
Then I awoke from this dream with a smile on my face. Nice to consider that dreams and the "real world" operated on the same ideas. But that would be obvious, wouldn't it?
Now I knew of a world I would look forward to revisiting in my "dreams".
- - - - -
The next time I saw Uncle Walt, he was sitting on one of his logs under that big tree, relaxing after gardening or working on his trailer. As usual, he was content, calm.
"And how are you today?" he asked.
"Not too bad. At least school is done for today. Dad said you'd need some nails, so he sent me over." I dropped the heavy cloth bag near his log and sat on another.
Both logs faced a fire, which was small today, but seemed to burn all the time, even in summer.
"And how do your process that schooling?" Walt looked over to me with a small smile.
"Process it? Process? I just sit and take it. Not a lot of choice there." I was more than a little sarcastic. School took its toll on me.
Walt was understanding. "Well, you're not alone. Schooling has been that way for centuries, even though it seems bad now, it's been worse." He looked beyond the fire toward the gathering sunset. "But most of it is in how you process the scene you're in. There's a story I heard about four brothers who looked the same, but thought completely differently..."
- - - -
In some universe, at some time ago (or yet to happen), there were four brothers who may have been born together, or may have just grown up very similarly. At this point, it doesn't matter much. They dressed the same, acted quite the same, had the same reactions to spinach and beets, chocolate sundaes and donuts.
Maybe that was odd for 4 brothers to act similarly, but they didn't think they actually were similar at all.
Because they thought differently, perceived differently.
To them, the world was a wonder of differences and wild extremes. Even though they wore the same size and types of clothes, the discussions around their house never quit. Because they were each right in what they perceived. And wouldn't give up that idea regardless of any amount of arguments.
Take the time that a strange creature wound up in their front yard. No reason for it being there, it just was.
So all four brothers came out to see what they could figure out about it.
The first brother, named Obsie, came up to the creature and said, "There's an elephant in our front yard. With his size, he might need our back yard as well."
The second brother, named Subjey, came out of the house and said, "Wow, this makes me feel small. I wonder how it feels to be here."
The third brother, named Symbo, walked through the front door, looked over the creature and said, "I'm sure there's some meaning behind all this."
Then the fourth brother, named Holo, emerged from their house into the yard and commented, "I wonder how this will fit into our lifestyle."
Obsie observed, "Looks like it's going to need a lot of hay to keep fed."
Subjey said, "It wouldn't feel right just to give it away - it looks so sympathetic to us."
Symbo then replied, "I'm sure it would mean a lot to this community to share in this experience."
Holo responded, "And that gives us a plan to fill all these needs."
All four had different views of the elephant. But together I heard that they started selling tickets to see and ride the animal so they could pay for the cost of feeding it. And they took such good care of it that they all got jobs at the City Zoo caring for it along with the other elephants.
The moral: anything can be viewed objectively, subjectively, symbolically, and holistically.
- - - -
Hallowed Evening Visitor
It was Halloween and the doorbell rang.
Tommy got up, yelling "I'll get it!" to the rest of the house. A quick peak through the curtains showed only a small figure standing at the door.
He grabbed the bucket of goodies and opened the door, expecting a hearty "Trick or Treat!" screamed at him.
Instead, the figure simply stood there. She had no mask on, just a long cloak and floppy, wide-brimmed hat with a flat crown covering red hair that was almost orange. She had what appeared to be green leotards on, with a gold belt and nondescript boots, low-heeled. But no mask. No bag to fill with candy. Very un-halloween. Maybe 10 years old, compared to Tommy's 14.
And she just stood there. They both stood there.
Finally, she spoke. "Tommy, it's time for your lesson."
He smiled and replied, "And what could you teach me?"
At that the girl began changing, growing. Her outfit changed with her as her height changed to a well-filled 5'-10". With a hand on her cocked hip, she answered, "Plenty. But it's not me that's going to be doing the teaching. I'm just the tour guide."
Tommy's mouth was open. He closed it.
Her slight smile and deep green eyes helped. "Of course, this might be too distractive." The morphing again changed her features until she was now an elderly man with long whiskers and a slightly stooped frame. Shoulders bulked out. Still the green outfit but now it was slacks and a mock turtleneck. Still with a gold belt. Same green eyes and slight smile, but with a couple day's growth of stubble.
Tommy's mouth stayed shut, but it felt open. "What are you, really?"
The visitor replied, "I am what I need to be. It's the lesson that's needed, I'm only the messenger."
Tommy eyed the "old man" and asked, "So we have to go somewhere?"
"Second smart question tonight. The answer is "yes"." The old man continued, "Ready?"
With that, the old man opened his jacket with his right hand and reached into the pocket with his left. He pulled out a device that looked like a flashlight. He pointed it down and flicked it on - it turned the doorway beneath us into a green glow, which extended up in a sort of walled dome above us. The light got brighter and more intense, then faded.
Tommy and the old man were now in a backroom of a bar. "I'd have brought you in the front, but there's a few questions about bringing in a minor to a place like this. So..." with that the old man twisted the handle on that flashlight-device and it glowed red, flashing briefly. "There, that should do it. Look yourself over." He pointed to a shiny refrigerator door.
The boy now saw himself as an older version of himself, fleshed out and rugged, with jutting chin and high cheekbones.
The old man was looking back from the reflection as well. "That's what they see. You and I still know what you really look like."
Tommy looked down and saw his hands just as they'd always been, his jeans and sneakers the same as when they'd left the house.
"Now, let's move out front. Sit in the middle booth, just opposite the bar's big mirror. Slide into the closest seat." With that, the old man took the boy's arm and pushed him through the two-way swinging door into the bar proper. The music was loud and raucous, the smells scented with cheap air cleaner and cheaper booze. The lights were dim, except for the neon advertisements for beer varieties. They slid into the empty booth, which was as clean as they got. At least the table wasn't sticky.
"Now, watch closely." The old man pointed to the bartender. "Pay attention to how he operates. His job is to sell as much as he can to every customer. So he has to control each one carefully. Too much and they won't live through the drive home. Cut them off too soon and they won't come back. The barkeep knows they're addicted. He'll listen to their stories and work their drinks carefully. Later in the night, those mixed drinks will get weaker. A few too many beers and an extra bowl of chips shows up to soak it up.
"It's control. He runs his customers on control."
The old man then pointed out his customer. "Know what he does?"
Tommy shook his head 'no'.
"He sells insurance, which is ironic. You see, insurance is a racket which plays on people's need for security. But the guy himself only finds security in a glass of alcohol. When he sees the bottom, he's insecure again." The old man continued, "But if they knew what was bothering them, they could let go of that need, which is not vital anyway."
Turning slightly, he pointed out a waitress. "She's the third part of this lesson. Notice how she flirts, how she moves, just on the line. Her income depends on tips, which are a form of approval. She needs customers to approve of her to keep her job, to get any raises."
Tommy started counting, "Control, Security, Approval. Interesting."
The old man looked over, "But there's one more."
He nodded toward a booth not far from the front, filled with a group of teens. "That's the fourth one. Having to be part of, can't be separate. Sure, these can intersect, and the 'leader' of that group can use these others, but the main point is that they are stuck in that group or out of it. Mostly, they vacillate. This is that social media you hear about. And like the others, it only holds a person back from what they really could accomplish."
Tommy had a flood of emotions go through him as he tried to process this.
Reading his face, the old man tried to reassure him. "Yea, that happens to people when they get this news. It's a lot to process. The point is to learn how to let them go when they show up. And yes, that takes some practice. That's why we wanted to catch you early."
"We?" Tommy asked.
The old man had pulled out his device and flashed it.
Tommy was in his doorway with a bucket of candy. The young girl was facing him on the outside stoop, looking up at him with her deep green eyes. "You'll find out more with your next lesson - meanwhile, just practice what you now know."
With that, she reached over and pulled a sucker out of the mix. Smiling, she stripped off the wrapper and popped it in her mouth. "Bye, now."
Tommy watched her as she walked down the path. When she turned around the tall bushes which framed the walk leading to his house, she didn't reappear on the other side. Somehow, Tommy knew he didn't need to check that she was gone.
He was going to do some thinking on what he'd been shown that night. She called it practice. Well, maybe she was right on that one. As to the rest, well...
- - - -
Bud found himself again at Uncle Walt's place. The stories he told seemed wild, but were interesting. While his sleep was more interrupted with dreams, he was waking soothed, relaxed. He no longer had nightmares - at least any that bothered him by daylight.
Since his schoolwork was improving and he figured out how to get all his homework done before it was due in class the next day. Of course his Mom was happy with this news. And didn't mind his getting more exercise and learning about the local "flora and fauna" - especially since Uncle Walt would also tell him names and uses of plants, plus how and why animals acted the way they did, what they ate, and why. Mom was impressed with what Bud was telling her he learned and the questions he now had about farm living.
Walt was working on the greenhouse addition to the south face of his trailer-home when Bud got up the path. The plastic seemed to require fitting just so. And Walt seemed more than relieved at the need to take a break.
"So, how's it going?" Bud asked cheerfully.
Walt replied, "It takes some intense concentration, but the new addition is coming right along. How's school today?"
"Well," Bud shrugged, "school is getting easier and I'm working harder, but time flies faster than before. So it's not as bad as before. My grades are going up, but I really couldn't care less. And the less I care, the easier school gets and so do my grades. So Mom and Dad are pleased. All I know is that I've got more time to play, which makes me happier."
"And what are you learning from the farm animals?" Walt asked next.
"Well, after I started talking to the dogs, learning from the cats was pretty simple. Then the chickens and cows. Still have more to do, but I think I'm getting the sparrows' language figured out. And if the mice wouldn't run away all the time, I'd have a chance." Bud was a bit perplexed. "But it doesn't seem real, somehow."
Walt smiled. "But what's reality, anyhow? Ever thought about it?"
He pulled a canteen off a hook and went into the shade of that big tree. Bud followed.
"Of course, that reminds me of a story - several actually." Walt again smiled and wiped his face with a bandana, then took another drink.
- - - -
The Troll and the Executioner.
It all began near the end, which may seem odd, but you wouldn't want it to begin at the ending, would you. But funny enough, that's the riddle which will unravel. When is the end the beginning?
But we diverge.
Once there was a troll, who lived under a bridge (of course). And as far as a troll's life went, he was pretty satisfied. There were the children to scare and stories they'd tell their children so everyone left him alone. And enough wild animals and stray farmyard stock came by that he seldom went without supper.
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