The Dream

The muffled beat of a drum pulls her back. Still wrapped in sleep, she slips out of bed, feeling her way to the small balcony. Boom… Boom… the deep pulse echoes through the night yet nothing moves beneath the misted yellow streetlights. She must be dreaming. But no… there, rounding the corner. A procession! The big drum leads the way, followed by a shadowy mass of people. Surging through the sleeping streets, their jerky motions describe an erratic dance while placards weave above their heads. Figures dart from black alleyways and are swallowed in the mist. As they move closer a babble of angry voices surrounds the steady beat of the drum. The words make no sense. Is she dreaming? She strains to understand and realization dawns. “It’s another language… it’s Spanish!” And then, “Oh, God, I’m still here.” Turning into the dark hotel room, she checks the clock. Three AM. Dropping to the edge of the bed, she slams her fists into the thin mattress. “What now, a revolution on top of everything else?” Eighteen hours since he left for his meeting with the new connection. “Four hours,” he had said, “maybe six. Just hang out. I might even be back for lunch.” Eighteen hours waiting in the sweltering heat. Afraid to turn on the air conditioner, ever conscious of the illegal stash behind the grill. Afraid to go into the street. “Too dangerous for a woman alone,” they said. Unsure, after the first 12 hours, just what to do. She has no way to contact his connection. “The less you know, the better,” he always said. What, then? Call the Colombian police and casually ask if they’ve arrested your lover along with a local drug ring? Or... please don’t let it be this... found his body somewhere near the river? Should she leave the hotel? Are they coming for her now? She has return plane tickets and more money than she wants anyone to know about but just where is the line between deserting a friend and getting the hell out? She is exhausted, the same questions rolling over and over in her mind for so many long hours. Sleep has been an elusive escape. Tears stain her fingers as she moans, “I don’t want to be here. Dear God, I don’t want to be here.” And with that the drum, passing below the window, catches her up again in its heart beat and slowly, gratefully, she feels her mind shutting down, closing out the fear and confusion. She sinks back onto the bed, back into the dream. The intensity of the colors pulls her in. Golden sunlight floods from an azure sky. Before her, a canyon of white sandstone, sculpted by the elements into gentle slopes laced with caves and smooth ledges. And far below, the broad river… she has never seen such a deep, clear blue. It is crystal, icy, from the depths of space, swiftly flowing. The beauty washes through her and she steps down the path with a lighter heart.

The caves and landings are inhabited by native people, their multicolored garments spotting the chalky cliffs with primary reds, yellows, purples and blues. Some are weaving, others cook; the air is full of laughter, singing, the calls of children. She wanders through them, seemingly invisible, until she reaches a small ledge, empty but for a wizened old woman seated in a nest of faded blankets. The crone looks up, meeting her eyes, and she knows, without a doubt, that this woman can tell her of the future. A wrinkled hand points out a trail snaking down toward the river and, obediently, she steps onto the path.

Kneeling, she watches the swift waters tumble past, then submerges her arm up to the elbow. The river’s pull is icy and strong. Pebbles wash against her hand as her fingers find the bottom; a loose, deep bed of tiny stones. She works her fingers in deeper and feels it shifting with the current. A flash of color catches her eye and, peering down, she sees that bed is made up of ancient beads and polished gems. Glittering deep-green emeralds, burnished gold, dense beads of dark stone, translucent quartz, and salmon chunks of coral roil with the current, pushing against her hand, sparkling as the sun catches them through the clear blue water.

And then she understands. She need only catch a handful of these precious pebbles and carry them back for the old woman to read. It is all so clear, and simple. She opens her fingers wide beneath the water, letting the bed flow through, waiting for the right moment. Now! Closing her fingers around a handful of pebbles, she raises her fist from the water. In her palm sits a dull mound of dark beads and one large, blood-red garnet. Reeling from the wave of anxiety that sweeps her, she plunges her arm back into the water, releasing the stones, scooping another handful. Then another. And again… until finally she slumps, still, staring into the depths. Beneath the surface, she opens her hand wide and quietly watches her fate roll through her fingers.

Sebastopol, CA 2000 / 2023