Nightmares

Nightmares

 

     He knew as soon as he woke up that this would be a day like no other. Yesterday had been such a day. Tomorrow would be such a day. All his days, he expected something amazing to happen, and when he went to bed after the usual chores, pleasures, and griefs, he told himself, Well, that wasn't so bad after all! And closed his eyes, and fell into nightmares.
     Horses galloped through his dreams, along sea shores, through forests, across meadows lush with spring grass. He couldn't tell whether he was riding them or watching from the rail along the track. Was he a body in the same space as the horses, or merely a point of consciousness, floating like a speck of dust in the sun? He didn’t know, but it was not a puzzle he cared to solve.
     “Come here” she called, letting her shift part. He knew he was present now, but when she turned away, he felt his body dissolve into a mist until only his fierce hot spark of desire propelled him forward. The hill fell away below him, he floated over the valley on wings wide as the river drifting through the forest below. A red-eyed hawk soared up toward him on updrafts that took him in circles. The hawk rose above him then stooped. Silver talons flashed in the sunlight, and blood streamed from him, staining the river red.
 

     As he fell, something underneath him held him, and laid him gently on the turf. Blue eyes gazed at him, cool and distant. “He’s back,” said a voice. Something pricked his neck, warmth flooded through him. He sat up and looked around. The walls were pale cream, the people standing at the foot and side of his bed wore pale blue smocks closed tightly at the neck and wrists. He felt for the sun-warmed turf, but his hand met cloth. He was dressed like the others, but his smock was red.
     “Can you stand?” asked the voice, cool and distant as the eyes. He swung his legs off the bed, and stood.
     “Good,” said another voice. He knew it was the man with the grey close-cropped beard that had spoken. Suddenly he knew that this was a man to be feared, but he did not remember why. The man’s mouth smiled but his cold grey eyes did not. A younger man with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes stood next to him. “My name is Wendover,” said the grey-bearded man. He gestured at the woman with the blue eyes, “This is Calla, and this is Miloš. Come this way, Mr Smith, if you please.”
     So his name was Smith. But what was his given name? Hunger demanded his attention, he said, “Do you have anything to eat? I’m hungry.” A moment later: “And thirsty.”
     They led him through a door that he had not noticed into a corridor painted the same pale cream colour as the room. Looking back, he saw the number 33 on the door to his room. He could see no source of the even light; there were no shadows. They led him to a double glass door that opened into a large pale blue hall with a wall of windows down one side. The sun shone on clumps of trees, lawns, a couple of ponds, white paths.
     They sat him at a table and brought him a cup of strong black coffee. Then food, steak and potatoes and green beans, a salad with blue cheese dressing, a glass of milk. As he bit into the meat he realised that this was his favorite meal. How did they know that?
     “How did you know I would like this meal?” he asked.
     “We know a good deal about you,” said Wendover. “If you have forgotten anything, simply ask. For example, you might wish to know that you are 33 biological years old, but like the rest of us your chronological age is much greater.” For a moment he sat quite still, gazing out of the windows, his face dispassionate. He turned to Smith. “How much older, we are not able to say.”
     “What is my given name?” asked Smith. “Winston,” said Wendover. “Sadly, we have not been able to discover why your name-givers chose that name.” But I know, thought Smith. Winston was a war-leader many centuries ago. They wanted me to be one, too. But he said nothing. Wendover would not be pleased with this information.
     Wendover had been watching him. “You are surprised?” he asked. “Yes,” said Smith, the evasion gliding off his tongue, “I thought you knew everything I might wish to know.” Wendover’s mouth smiled again. “We know much, but there are limits to our knowledge,” he said. His cold eyes watched Smith, noting every flicker of expression, weighing it against what Smith said, deciding when Smith’s words seemed to match his feelings, when they perhaps revealed his knowledge and when they hid it.
     Smith chewed on the succulent meat; it really was very good. We are enemies, he thought. But am I on the good side or the bad? Or does it matter, and conflict is the only reality, struggle is the only purpose? They will not let me go, they will keep me here until they find out what they wish to know. Then they will kill me. He swallowed the cool milk, forked salad into his mouth, cut a piece of potato, and relished the spicy buttery sauce that covered it. If this was his last meal, it was damn good.
     “Come with me, please,” said Wendover, and led the way to another room with glass along one wall. Winston stared at the bay, the cliffs on either side, the foaming waves crashing on the rocks.
     “The park,” he said stupidly, “Where’s the park?”
     “There is no park, there is no sea, either,” said Wendover. “These windows are holograms.” For a moment he stood quite still. “See, here’s a river.”
     The valley was wide, forested, a river glinting among the trees. A hawk stood in the sky, then stooped towards a clearing. Winston felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. The scene changed to a desert with a mesa in the distance, boulders and cactus next to the window.
     Wendover seated himself at a round table and gestured to chair across from him. “Please.” He placed a black notebook on the table, opened it to a blank page. He picked up a pen, its shiny green barrel gleaming in the light from the desert sun outside the window.
     “I have some questions. I will not ask them directly, but will give you some words, and ask you to tell me of any memories they may trigger. I may ask some questions about your answers. OK?”
     “OK.”
     “Coffee pot.”
     “I’m in a room with my parents, Mum is pouring coffee. Dad is reading the newspaper. I put some milk in the coffee. There are biscuits on a plate, oat meal and chocolate with raisins.”
     “Pen.”
     “I’m doing homework. The exercise book has an orange cover. I’m writing a story about a bear and his friends.”
     “Describe the friends.”
     “There’s a duck and a fox and a rabbit and a weasel. Nobody likes the weasel, but he’s clever, he knows things, and he rescues the others from a cave.”
     “Why are they in the cave?”
     “They’re hiding from the bombers.”
     “Bombers?”
     “The enemy sends them to kill us.”
     “What enemy?”
     “The Reds. We’re the Blues. Reds and Blues don’t get along.”
     “Do you know why?”
     “No. It’s just the way it is.”
     “Very well, we’ll continue. Ready?”
     “Ready.”
     “Shoes.”
     “I’ve made my shoes muddy and Mum is angry. I have only one pair of shoes. They pinch, they are too small.”
     “Bananas.”
     “Marilyn has made a banana loaf.”
     Wendover made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “Who is Marilyn?”
     “Marilyn is my wife.”
     “Where do you live?”
     “We live in Denton.”
     “Where is Denton?”
     “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
     “Denton is about 35 kilometres northwest of Reading.”
     “Oh. OK. I thought it was near the coast.”
     “Why do you think that?”
     “I don’t know. Maybe because of the bombers.”
     “Are these the same bombers as the ones in your story?”
     “Yes. No. Maybe. It’s confusing.”
     “Very well.”
     Wendover made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “I will now ask you some questions. Please answer as precisely as possible.”
     “All right.”
     “How many feet are there in a mile?”
     “5,280.”
     “How many feet does a centipede have?”
     “Well, it’s not a hundred, I know that.”
     “Pardon?”
     “You know, centipede. It means a hundred feet.”
     “Ah, yes, so it does.”
     But Winston knew that Wendover had not known that. Wendover continued, “Do you know how many feet a centipede has?”
     “Not for sure, I think it depends on which species, most of them have around twenty feet. Some have over a hundred.”
     Wendover made another note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “Now I will ask you some personal questions,” he said. “What was the address of the first house you lived in?”
     “26 Badminton Court.”
     “And the second house?”
     “35 Brick Yard Lane.”
     “And the third?”
     “10-05 Second Street. Look, will this go on much longer?”
     “I’m afraid so, Mr. Smith. We know much about you, but there are many details to fill in. May I continue?”
     “All right.”
     “I’m going to ask you about what happened on the 23rd of September, 2443. Do you recall that day?”
     Winston felt something tighten around his chest and squeeze his throat. He opened his mouth, the words wouldn’t come. He swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said.
     Wendover gazed at him with his gleaming grey eyes that looked like metal, and for a moment Winston thought he saw compassion in his face. “I won’t ask you to tell me again. But I need to know some details.”
     Winston nodded.
     “Good,” said Wendover. He made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “What was the colour of the sofa in the living room?”
     “It was blue,” said Winston. “It was an old sofa, and the blue had faded to a kind of grey on the arms and the back.”
     “What was the picture above the sofa?”
     “It was painting of a hawk stooping to strike a dove,” said Winston. “My Dad liked it, the rest of us didn’t. When Dad died, Mum said I should have it.”
     “How did your father die?”
     “He had a heart attack. It was at the block plant, he was cleaning out the burner. He was inside, the security camera didn’t see in there. When the meds came, it was too late, he had too much brain damage.”
     “How did you feel about your father’s death?”
     “I missed him. We used to watch the ball games together.”
     “How did you feel about the painting.”
     “I didn’t like it, but it reminded me of my Dad, so I was glad to have it.”
     “May I continue with questions about your home?”
     Winston nodded.
     “What colour were the walls?”
     “They were covered in a burnt orange wallpaper with a pattern of dark green vines and red and blue flowers.”
     “What did your wife say to you when it happened?”
     “She said she loved me. Then she disappeared.” Winston paused. “She disappeared. I didn’t remember until just now.”
     He stared at Wendover. “Why did you make me remember that? I had forgotten it, I had forgotten it all, and now I have to remember it, I don’t want to remember, I want to forget.”
     “I’m afraid that’s no longer possible,” said Wendover. He spoke to the air, “Calla, Miloš, Mr Smith is tired.”
     Calla and Miloš entered the room and helped Winston stand up. He felt something prick his neck, and a great calm began to settle over the world. They guided Winston out and back through the corridor to room 33, and helped him lie down.
     Wendover leaned over him and flashed a light in his eyes. “Good,” he said, “he’s going under.” He turned to Miloš. “Watch him for twenty minutes, if his signs are good, leave him.”
     Twenty minutes later the three of them conferred. The glass wall showed a snowy plain with a blindingly bright white sun. Wendover spoke first.
     “We now know the date we had deduced is correct. We are still uncertain what Winston means by saying people disappeared. Thoughts?”
     “He may be disguising his memory of what actually happened by using the concept of sudden disappearance,” said Calla. “Agreed,” said Miloš. “Humans don’t like to think about unpleasant details, they prefer to use generalised labels for painful events.” Wendover made a note.
     “But they are able to recall details when asked, quite trivial details,” he said.
     “Agreed,” said Calla. “But when you asked him a detail about the event itself, Smith evidently recalled many details and became agitated. He stated that he did not want to remember the details. It seems that for humans, details carry much emotion.”
     Wendover studied his notes. “Some details,” he said. “Smith was not agitated when we asked him about furniture, for example, or even when we asked him about the painting that he disliked.”
     For several long moments they sat at the table, quite still.
     They returned to Room 33.
     Wendover gazed at Smith. He turned to Calla. “He’s asleep.”

     Smith knew as soon as he woke up that this would be a day like no other. Yesterday had been such a day. Tomorrow would be such a day. All his days, he expected something amazing to happen, and when he went to bed after the usual chores, pleasures, and griefs, he told himself, Well, that wasn't so bad after all! And closed his eyes, and fell into nightmares.
     He floated over the valley on wings wide as the river drifting through the forest below. A red-eyed hawk soared up toward him on updrafts that took him in circles. The hawk rose above him then stooped. Silver talons flashed in the sunlight, and blood streamed from him, staining the river red.

2012-12-08/2014-11-11/2015-04-05/2015-05-11 © W. Kir