How the Dead Dream

9

More than anything he wished he could just glance up at the sky and see an airplane or a helicopter, the sun reflecting off its silver skin, solid and ready to descend.

But all he got looking up was eyeshock.

By the time he had ringed the marsh and returned to the riverside he had tired his throat with tuneless singing; he had kept himself steady by impersonating a soldier, tramping forward step after step, slogging. There was another marsh, then another. There were nights and mornings. How many miles was it now? He wished he knew; he wished he had an accounting of them, a tally. Then at least he could be sure of an accomplishment. He was weary of the sweaty air, the low gray skies, the crowding of brown and green: he moved as quickly as he could and let the wet air fall to the sides. He had rubbed insect repellent through his hair, stared at the label and then poured it down the back of his neck, N,N-diethyl-meta- toluamide 100 %.

These were the only written words he had seen in a while, he reflected-although how long had it been? Only a few days: but already it was a lost country. Aside from the tags in his clothing they were the last proof he had of English… certainly he was nearing the mouth of the river now. Certainly he would be there in a matter of minutes, see a sedate tourist boat motor up the channel, old ladies seated pleasantly on the shaded benches. He imagined their pastelcolored visors and wraparound sunglasses, how they would smile blindingly and point in amazement when they caught sight of him. He would strike them as a woodsman or a hermit; they would be able to tell he was a person undergoing a hardship far from their experience, undergoing a trial by fire and a transformation. Once recovered from their initial exuberance-a man who came out of nowhere! A Tarzan, a Doctor Livingstone! — they might well be frightened.

This at least was something to find pride in, obscurely, a secret sense of himself as a man made rugged by adversity, a rough primitive.

He found a trail, finally, following the river, and at first he was encouraged, thinking he must be nearing the town. But the trail was narrow and often seemed to fade and then reappear: it was not, he realized presently, maintained by humans. It was an animal trail. There were piles of scat here and there; there were gnawed tree trunks and broken twigs; there were the husks of fruit thrown down from the trees and once, in the scat, a pile of bones.

He retreated into the trees around lunchtime, seeking a place with fewer insects. Sitting on a log where a stream of sun filtered down he ate more of the dry oatmeal and drank the warm river water: it left silt in his throat but he did not think it would make him sick. When he came to the delta, he knew, he would meet a crisis of questions: they would clamor at him. People there might have been close to Delonn, there might be children and grandchildren, a sister or a wife.

He peed in a bush and was tying his bungee-cord belt when he heard a scratch and looked up: there was an animal perched on a branch. It was small and brown with large eyes and round ears, a thick coat of fur and a long thick tail; it sprang away chattering. He watched it jump and climb until it was too far from him to see.

He had no idea what it was. This pleased him: maybe there was hope yet. How was it that his own ignorance was a comfort? But it was.

Expecting to reach the coast, expecting to reach the town, he became indignant as he failed and kept on failing. Anger rose fiercely in his chest and subsided again. At least to see someone, someone who could help him, but no one came. No one appeared. He had always been on the bank of this sluggish river; he had always been walking here, always been this person. The rest had been a mirage.

He started walking at six in the morning and by four in the afternoon his feet hurt too much to persevere. Blisters bubbled and ripped on his heels and his toes; they bled through his socks, forced him to whistle sharply to forget the pain.

He began talking to himself. He wandered, he was bored, but he had no other diversion and after a while he was forced to invent a companion.

"So are we going to die?" he asked him.

"Unlikely," said the friend, and paused. "Possible," he admitted.

"This is ridiculous," he told him. "Could it be we went off along a tributary? Or another fork of the river as it braids at the delta, a fork that takes longer to reach the coast? But we're still headed east. I know that from the sun. So sooner or later we have to come to the ocean."

"Too bad you got kicked out of the Scouts before Orienteering."

"East is all we have to know," he insisted stubbornly.

Together they recalled moments from youth-kids he knew, things that happened. Who was in the closet with Kate Bonney, in sixth grade? French-kissing? The story circulated for weeks… Eric K., that was it. It was the first-ever kiss for both of them and Eric K. was determined to make it a French one; he had read up on technique. But he was overeager and had put his tongue so far down Kate Bonney's throat that it touched her stomach. That was the story and they had circulated it without mercy. He himself had had a tendency to bribe the girls at that age, bribe them for the favor of a feel or a kiss: Blow-Pops in watermelon, cherry, or grape. The pink flavors were the favorites… small tokens, nothing extravagant: they were gifts, not payment. He had a soft touch even then. He stopped walking as he recalled this, could almost taste the sharp tang of the globes of sugar.

He recalled all these people as an elegy, since he was removed from them. Not only now, he thought, but forever. He might still seek people out, talk to them-of course he would, they were part of him-but his eyes would be fixed on a point beyond them. His craftiness in boyhood, his singleminded enterprise-all was for the sake of gain, for gain was his religion, simple and stunning. No grown man could love accumulation as fully as a boy did. Indeed he never recaptured the joy of that love, and it passed out of his grasp.

And the infrastructure: he had drawn cities, first, and plastered his walls with them; he had built cities of Legos and lined the shelves of his room with their red platforms, their blue and yellow rectangular monoliths. There were Lego helipads, gas stations. Then he made his parents buy him miniature trees, tiny street signs, other items that architects used to build their dioramas, and built his own replicas from kits-the Capitol building, the Washington Monument, Mount Rushmore. He had hastily disassembled the babyish Lego structures in favor of these, had enlisted his father's help in lighting them so that the buildings of state cast long shadows, and as he slept they towered over him.

With the sun setting at his back he dropped his pack on a rippled hump of sand that rose out of the river. The river must be low: at times the sand bar was underwater, he could see from the dark contours. Now it was dry. It had not rained since Delonn was alive, since he became alone. Even the rain had forsaken him. Maybe he could tempt it; he would use only the mosquito net for shelter instead of his tent. Let the rain come, he would welcome it. He draped it over a jutting tree limb and propped it up from beneath with four long sticks. Fit for a dignitary, he thought. He could sit underneath and watch the flow of the river as the sun went down.

Before he retired into the shelter he took a bath and stood in shallow water in sunlight until he dripped dry. His cut legs stung but he was pleased to be washed. Dusk fell over the river with him sitting on his sleeping pad behind the translucent white screen, his pack and the rest of his meager belongings arrayed around him. He had not wanted to put his clean self back into the filthy army pants; instead he had washed them and hung them on the tree limb beside his netting. He sat wrapped in the sheet. It was a balmy night. He flipped the switch on the flashlight and saw the bulb dim away to nothing.

Scrounging in the pack he found a packet of soup powder, which he tipped into his mouth; stale crackers, which he gobbled. And then: the plastic flask of whiskey! He shook it: still an ounce or two left. He had forgotten it completely. Thanksgiving.

He drank and watched the light of the sky change. If he were not so hungry, he thought, he could almost be happy here. He had left the settlements now, all the old geographies. For so many years they had been the only thing; you did what you did and whatever it was consumed you, as though your actions were the heart of experience. As though without a series of actions there would be no story of your life.

Those who loved stories also loved the human, to live in cities where there was nothing but men and their actions as far as the eye could see. Once it had been believed that the sun revolved around the earth; now this was ridiculed as myopic, yet almost the same belief persisted. The sun might be the center of the planets and then the sun might be only one star among galaxies of them: but when it came to meaning, when it came to being, in fact, all the constellations still revolved around men.

He had been drawn to cities, had considered no alternatives-cities and buildings, buildings and institutions. The lights across the continent. But what if, from his childhood on, he had imagined not the lights but the spaces between them? He would do so now, to make up for all the years behind him.

Forget the buildings and the monuments. Let the softness of dark come in, all those light-years between stars and planets. Cities were the works of men but the earth before and after those cities, outside and beneath and around them, was the dream of a sleeping leviathan-it was god sleeping there and dreaming, the same god that was time and transfiguration. From whatever dreamed the dream at the source, atom or energy, flowed all the miracles of evolution-tiger, tiger, burning bright, the massive whales in the deep, luminescent specters in their mystery. The pearls that were their eyes, their tongues that were wet leaves, their bodies that were the bodies of the fantastic.

Spectacular bestiaries of heaven, the limbs and tails of the gentle and the fearsome, silent or raging at will… they could never be known in every detail and they never should be.

When time moved, mountains rose from the plains and the miracles multiplied, infinitely lovely. The miracles were the beasts.

Lying on his back, gazing up past the tip of the bough at the spectrum from blue to black in the sky, he heard a clinking and scraping off to his right.

He sat up abruptly. White in the dimness, white bearing down on him. It was the boat. It floated downriver.

His bad knots.

He dropped the flask and tussled with the mosquito net: the boat was approaching rapidly. It was almost already there, almost at the sand bar. Was it not his duty to scramble aboard? Was it not what he was supposed to do?

He pulled the netting up and ducked through, the sheet falling around him; naked and tottering he stood on the edge of the sand bar, his feet sinking. The prow loomed past him: he splashed out into the water and grabbed the side, tried to heave himself up: he was clinging, legs thrashing, looking down into the boat, halfway over the side. His feet trailed in the water. He could not get in: the boat was still moving fast: over the side he could see.

Delonn was not inside. The yellow bundle was not there at all.

Then something sharp hit his back and the shock made his fingers slip off the gunnel. He fell and sank under, nose full of water: he had bashed into a tree. Splashing and choking he retreated onto his sand bar, the boat a light wraith as it moved off down the river, faint and fainter, glowing in the darkness and fading away. He was breathing hard. The branch had gouged his back. And he was being bitten savagely by insects: he shook himself off and ducked back under the net.

How could Delonn have been moved?

Something must have moved him.

Now the boat would sail into the delta like a ghost ship; the boat would arrive and be empty of both of them. He had missed it.

He sat back down beneath the net; he brushed the wet sand off his calves and ankles. The boat was out of his reach for good, he knew, trembling with the suddenness of it: but it was all right, actually. It was right. Delonn had loved the river and the forest. Delonn would not have minded staying there, disseminated among the elements that he knew. Let the vessel float, let it vanish quietly. He was leaving all that; he was letting it go.

He thought of his mother. She let things go, he thought, but not because she chose to. And yet there was something right in her devotions, despite their idiosyncrasies. Despite the fact that the origin story was all about people and their passion and their sex, a tale in which animals and the rest of creation were window dressing at best… her story was a romance. But at least she had a love interest other than herself.

And the mother of God knew how to put herself second. Not second to men, though some might see it that way, but second to everything.

He had begun by idolizing the men, he saw now. Not so much his own father, who had been of limited interest to him, but the fathers of nations. It had been natural to begin with these men, wanting to emulate them, wanting to walk, as they did, wearing the luminous cloaks of their authority… no boy wanted to imitate his mother. No boy aspired to that yielding, self-effacing kindness, that quality of service. Boys wanted either to break things or to build them. But now it was his mother who stayed with him, not for what she was to others but for what she had always been to him alone, one small being where all her affection was concentrated-for how she had loved when it mattered most.

He was fortunate. He had ended up here, in the middle of what was real-not what came easiest but what turned out to be closest to the center. He ended up here, under the black of the sky, wanting to copy his mother's love. The affection she had given him when she was still herself, before she was robbed of it, the sense of protection and loyalty.

This was the knowledge that mattered, he thought: simple, simple, simple.

He had nothing but the sheet to dry himself with. After he did this and wrapped himself in it again it was still damp, and a chill took hold of him. If he came, finally, to the mouth of the river, what would they think of him? If he told them what had happened to Delonn, would they even believe him? To think of this was a luxury; to think he might be suspected of crime or negligence was to assume he would see the ocean again. And yet it could not be more than another day's walk. The river was simply not long enough to keep him walking until he fell down.

He drank the rest of the whiskey. It warmed him a bit, but still he was shivering. He settled down on the sleeping pad as the song of the crickets rose around him; he held the empty flask close to him, inside the sheet. Good to have something to hold, he thought, even something empty.

When a thing became very scarce, that was when it was finally also seen to be sublime and lovely. It had happened with wild nature in England in the nineteenth century: nature that had been despised and avoided before it was destroyed by cities and farms and pollution became, when there was almost none of it left, the subject of poems and paintings, the highest access to the divine. Now some few persons, he thought, marginal persons in their marginal groups, knew the value of the animals and their world, and he was one among them.

He was as farsighted now, he thought with a flush of his old conceit, as he had ever been in his stock predictions, in his speculation for his own profit. He saw what was coming. Whether it was wheat futures or neighborhoods or the Nikkei or this; for the market had failed to see the animals for what they were, the animals in their own places with the ancient networks of their culture and landscape intact. Worth far more than single commodities.

The lapping water was like a lullaby. Uncountable wealth, he thought, not the kind that was superfluous but the kind that kept you alive, down through the generations.

But the market would take too long to recognize it; the market already had. The market had failed them.