by Jeffrey Ford
“I don’t understand,” said the young woman.
“You will, my dear,” he said, and then our guide rose and went to a door situated directly behind his seat. “Follow me,” he said, waving to us slowly with his feminine arm. We rose and followed. The door was pushed open and we entered into sunlight, blue skies, cotton clouds, and the sound of running water. “Spring,” said Ima both harsh and soft, “like a sharp ache in the cranial country of joy.”
“Brown is dead,” said Andre, his words turning to steam in the cold. “I found him in a pile of orange leaves by the stream not far from Ima’s office. From the look of the marks on his neck, he’s been strangled. And this,” he said, holding up a circle of glass attached to a string, “was lying next to his body.”
“Did you report it?” I asked.
“Did I report it?” he said and smiled. “My friend, I believe the time has come to leave the House of Four Seasons.”
We’d planned our secret rendezvous by communicating through a series of taps upon each other’s feet beneath the dinner table earlier that evening. It was so late the crickets had gone silent by the time I went to meet Lenice under cover of darkness in the depths of the forest. She appeared seemingly out of nowhere, as if materializing like a ghost, wearing a sheer white sleeping gown. It had been hot that summer day, but the night had cooled and there was a layer of dew covering the ground. There was no conversation, but she put her lips to mine and her hand went directly for my belt. I could feel the warmth of her body, her fingers groping for my member, as my trousers fell to gather at my ankles.
Bats fluttered overhead, creatures scampered through their pitch-black tunnels in the underbrush. I heard the big clock above Ima’s office door chime three a.m. And then we were on the ground; she on her hands and knees and me behind, a submarine in an undersea cave. For a time, I worked like I had stock in the company and then the fuse of my passionate release grew ever shorter. Still, I held out, thinking of our days and the implications of each passing hour, those gone and those still to come.
“More,” she whispered, “more,” moving forward and back with the precision and speed of a machine.
My fingers dug into the soft flesh at her hips, I gritted my teeth, I groaned like a man brought back from the dead, I did what I could, until everything suddenly went white. A chill struck my heart, a winter within, and then the world and Time exploded, shards of seasons flying everywhere, like leaves in autumn, rain and snow, like the miracle of stars in my skull.
THE DREAMING WIND
Each and every year, in that brief time when summer and autumn share the same bed—the former, sunburned and exhausted, drifting toward sleep, the latter, rousing to the crickets’ call and the gentle brush of the first falling leaves against its face—the Dreaming Wind swept down from somewhere in the distant north, heading somewhere to the distant south, leaving everywhere in its wake incontrovertible proof of the impossible.
Our town, like the others lying directly in the great gale’s path, was not exempt from the bizarre changes wrought by its passing. We prepared ourselves as best we could, namely in our hearts and minds, for there was no place to hide from it even though you might crawl into the space beneath your house and pull a blanket over your head. No manner of boarding up windows, stuffing towels beneath doors, turning out lights, or jumping into a lead-lined coffin and pulling shut the lid made a whit’s worth of difference. Somehow it always found you and had its crazy way.
So it was that each year, often on a deep blue afternoon in late August or early September, some of us noticed the leaves in the trees begin to rustle and heard amid their branches, just a whisper at first, the sound of running water. Then we knew to warn the others. “The Wind, the Wind,” was the cry throughout the streets of town, and Hank Garrett, our constable, climbed up to the platform on the roof of his house and turned the crank handle siren to alert farmers out in the fields that the blowing chaos was on its way. The citizens of Lipara scurried home, powerless to effect any protection, but determined to share the burden of strangeness with loved ones and bolster the faith of the young that it wouldn’t last forever.
In a heartbeat, in an eye blink, the wind was upon us, bending saplings, rattling windows, lifting dust devils in the town square, as though it had always been there, howling throughout our lives. Even down in a root cellar, thick oaken door barred above, hiding in the dark, you heard it, and once you heard it you felt it upon your face and the back of your neck, your arms, like some invisible substance gently embracing you. That’s when you knew the wind was beginning to dream you.
Its name, the Dreaming Wind, was more indicative than you might at first believe. What is a dream, but a state founded enough upon the everyday to be believable to the sleeping mind and yet also a place wherein anything at all might and often does happen? Tomes of wonders, testaments of melancholic horrors wrought by the gale have been recorded, but I’ll merely recount some of the things I, myself, have been privy to.
The human body seemed its favorite plaything, and in reaction to its weird catalyst I’d seen flesh turn every color in the rainbow, melt and reform into different shapes, so that a head swelled to the size of a pumpkin or legs stretched to lift their owner above the house tops. Tongues split or turned to knives and eyes shot flame, swirled like pinwheels, popped, or became mirrors to reflect the thing that I’d become—once a salamander man with an ibis head, once a bronze statue of the moon. In my wedding year, my wife Lyda’s long hair took on a mind and life of its own, tresses grabbing cups from a cupboard and smashing them upon the floor. Mayor James Meersch Jr. ran down Gossin Street the year I was ten, with his rear end upon his shoulders and muffled shouts issuing from the back of his trousers.
Eyes slipped from the face and wound up in the palm, and mouths traveled to kneecaps—arms for legs, elbows for feet, a big toe nose, and wiggling index finger ears. Men became green monkeys and donkeys and dogs, and dogs sprouted cat’s heads, whose legs became pipe cleaners and whose tails changed instantly to sausage links with tiny biting faces at their tips. Once three generations of a family’s females, from little girls to wrinkled matrons, sprouted black feathers and flew up to circle the church steeple, croaking poetry in some foreign language. Pastor Hinch became part pig, Mavis Toth, the schoolmarm, became a chair with a lampshade head, yet this…this was not a hundredth of it, for there is no way to encompass in language the inexhaustible creative energy and crackpot genius that was the Dreaming Wind.
While our citizens suffered bodily these sea changes, bellowing with fear, crying out in torment at being still themselves inside but something wholly other outward, the landscape also changed around them. Monumental gusts loosened leaves that flew away from branches to become a school of striped fish, darting, as if with one mind, through the atmosphere, and trees turned to rubber, undulating wildly, or became the long necks of giraffes. Clouds slowly fell, wads of a violet, airy confection, and bounced off chimneys, rolled along the ground like giant tumbleweeds. Streets came to life and slithered away, windows winked, houses became glass bubbles that burst into thousand-petaled roses with doors and roofs. The grass never remained green, the sky never blue but became other colors and sometimes different consistencies like water, or jam, or once, a golden gas that coalesced our exhalations into the spectral forms of dead relatives who danced the Combarue in the town square. And all of this was accompanied by a discordant symphony comprised of myriad sounds: breaking glass, a tin whistle, a sneeze, a hammer claw ripping nails from green board, the sighs of ancient pachyderms, water swirling down a drain….
Chaos and jumblement, the overall discombobulation of reality—the effect lasted two or three hours, and then, as quickly as it came, it went. The force of the gale decreased incrementally, and as it did, so did its insane changes. People slowly began to re-form into themselves as they’d been before the wind. The streets slunk guiltily back to their normal paths, the houses re-achieved their househood, the clouds blanched to their or
iginal puffy white and ascended as slowly as they’d fallen. By night, the wind had moved on to disrupt the lives of the good citizens in towns to the south of Lipara.
Some might ask, “Well, why did your ancestors stay in that spot and not move after they saw it was a yearly event?” The answer was simple. Come to Lipara and see for yourself that it’s the most beautiful spot in the world: wide blue lakes, deep green forests teeming with game, and farmland of rich, loamy soil. Besides, to escape the wind’s course one would have had to move west, to the desert, or east, where lay the ocean. Hearing this, some might say, “Well, all’s well that ends well, and once the wind had passed, all was guaranteed to return to its former state.” Yes and no. What I mean is most of the time this was true, and besides the upset of having yourself stretched or shrunk or turned temporarily into a nightmarish creature for a few hours, the entire rest of the year was very good living. Remember, I said, “Most of the time.”
There were instances, exceedingly rare, mind you, wherein the Dreaming Wind’s mischief remained behind after the wind itself had blown south. There was an old oak tree at the edge of town that never lost its ability to—at mid-summer—bear a strange yellow fruit, the fragile consistency of fine china and the size of a honeydew melon, that upon ripening, fell off, broke against the ground, and hatched small blue bats that lived for two weeks and feasted upon field mice. And Grandmother Young’s talking parrot, Colonel Pudding, once touched by the wind’s fickle finger, had its head replaced with that of her great-granddaughter’s baby doll—a cute little bisque visage, whose blue glass eyes had lids that winked and closed when it lay down. The bird still spoke but prefaced every screeching utterance with a breathy, mechanical rendition of the word “Mama.”
Perhaps the parrot was somewhat put out, but no terrible harm was done in these two incidents. Still, the possibility of unremitting permanence represented by their changes stayed alive in the minds of the citizens of Lipara, its threat continuously resurfacing and growing to monstrous proportions in all imaginations as each summer neared its end. It was one thing to be a goat-headed clown with feather-duster arms and carrot legs for a few hours, but to remain in that condition for a lifetime was something else entirely. The Dreaming Wind was playful, it was insane, it was chaotic, and it could be dangerous. Little did any of us suspect for generations past and for most of my long life that it could be anything else.
Then, a few years ago, the strange wind did something so unusual it shocked even us veterans of its mad work. It was nearing the end of a long lazy summer, memorable for its blue days and cool nights, and the leaves were beginning to curl on the elm trees, the first few early crickets were beginning to chirp their winter’s tales. Each of us, in our own particular way, was steeling himself for the yearly onslaught of the mischievous event, offering up prayers to God or reassuring ourselves by reassuring others that as certain as the wind would come, it would pass, and we would again enjoy the normal pleasures of life in Lipara. Constable Garrett did as he had always done, and chose three reliable children, paying them a dime a day, to go to the edge of the forest and listen intently for a few hours after school for the sound of water running through the treetops. Everywhere, families made plans as to where they would meet up, what room they would weather the storm in, what songs they would sing together to quell their collective fear.
The end of August came and went without incident, and the delay heightened the apprehension of the arrival of the Dreaming Wind. We older folks reminded the younger that it was known to have come as late as the middle of the second week in September and that it was to be remembered that the wind could not be dictated to but had a mind of its own. During these days, every curtain lifting in a breeze, every gust dispersing the gossamer seed of a dandelion skeleton, caused blood pressures to rise and neck hairs to stand on end. By the middle of the first week in September the alarm had been falsely raised four times, and Constable Garrett, whose bad knee was beginning to protest the long climbs to his roof, jokingly said he might just as well set out a sleeping bag up there.
By the end of the second week in September, nerves were frayed, tempers flared, and children cried at the slightest provocation. The aura of anxiety produced by the anticipation of the wind had begun to make Lipara a little mad even before its arrival. Miss Toth, standing in front of her class one day, could not remember for the life of her what fifty-seven divided by nineteen was, no matter how many times she tapped her ruler against the blackboard. She had to have Peggy Frushe, one of the older girls, run across the square to the apothecary’s shop to inquire as to the answer to the problem.
Beck Harbuth, the apothecary, couldn’t help out just then even though he knew the answer was three, for he had absentmindedly filled a prescription for Grandmother Young with a bottle full of laxative pills instead of her usual heart medicine, and had to brush past Peg and chase the old woman down the street. In his pursuit, he collided with Mildred Johnson, who was bringing her eggs to the market in the basket on the front of her bike. Sitting in the road amid the cracked shell and splattered yoke debris of their sudden meeting, Harbuth apologized to Mildred for the accident and she merely replied in a loud disgusted tone, “Don’t worry, Beck, it’s all the fault of the damn wind.”
Grandmother Young was only a few paces ahead of the collision of the apothecary and the egg woman, and because her hearing was weak, she never noticed a thing, but Colonel Pudding, who was riding his usual perch atop the left shoulder of his owner, did. He lit into the sky, carrying with him the last phrase he’d heard, which was “The damn wind,” and, as was his practice when he heard a phrase that caught his fancy, began screeching this alarm in the mimicked voice of she who had uttered it. Constable Garrett, sitting in his office with the window open, heard someone cry, “Mama, the damn wind,” sighed, slowly rose from his chair, and started for a fifth time up the steps toward his roof.
And so it went, a comedy of errors caused by troubled minds—but no one was laughing. Things got worse and worse, until the start of October when the last squadrons of southbound geese passed overhead. The collective worriment of the citizens of Lipara reached a crescendo, nerves snarling like balls of twine in the paws of kittens, and then all fell into a kind of blank exhaustion. Still the wind had not come. A few weeks later, when the first snow fell, blowing down from the north on a mundane autumnal gale, we knew for certain that the Dreaming Wind had done something undreamed of. The realization came to all of us at once that our strange visitor from the north wasn’t coming this year, and in that instant we froze for a moment, wondering what would become of us.
The sky grew overcast and stayed muskrat gray for days on end, the temperature dropped to a bitter low, and the lake froze over as if the absence of the wind had plunged the world itself into a sodden depression. Cows gave half their normal measure of milk, roosters didn’t bother signaling the dawn, dogs howled at noon, and cats were too weary to chase the mice that invaded Lipara’s houses. The citizens, who had always surmised that the elimination of the Dreaming Wind would fill them with a sense of relief that might border on a kind of spiritual rebirth, now went about their daily tasks as if in mourning. Woven in with the gloom was a pervasive sense of guilt, as if we were being punished for not having appreciated the uniqueness of the blowing insanity when it was upon us.
The winter, with its blanket of snow and immutable coat of ice, presented in its seemingly static freeze the very opposite of change. Grandmother Young took to her sick bed, complaining she no longer had the energy to go on. Colonel Pudding was beside himself with concern for his owner, and stayed all day in her room with her, pacing back and forth along the headboard of the bed, his fixed-fast bisque lips repeatedly murmuring the word “Mama.” Constable Garrett’s bad knee was now worse than ever, or so he claimed, and instead of going out on his daily rounds, making sure the town was safe, he stayed at his office desk, playing endless losing rounds of solitaire. Pastor Hinch preached a sermon one Sunday in the midst of Lip
ara’s rigor mortis that exhorted all of the town’s citizens to wake up and effect their own changes, but when it came time for his congregation to answer him in a prayer, two-thirds of the response he received was unbridled snoring. Lyda and I sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, staring just past each other, each of us waiting for the other to begin a conversation and listening to the wind that was not a Dreaming Wind howl outside our door.
Eventually, with the spring thaw, things picked up somewhat. There was a rote, joyless, humdrummery to life, though. Everything seemed drained of interest and beauty. I think it was actually Beck Harbuth, the apothecary, who first mentioned to a customer that he no longer dreamed at night. The customer thought for a moment and then nodded and said that he also could not remember having dreamed since the end of the summer. This observation made the rounds for a week or two, was discussed in all circles, and agreed upon. Eventually Mayor James Meersch III called an emergency town meeting, the topic of which would be the epidemic of dreamless sleep. It was to be held in the town hall on the following Thursday evening at seven p.m.
The meeting never took place, because in the days following the mayor’s announcement many people began to realize, now that they were concentrating on the matter, that in fact they were dreaming. What it was, as articulated by Beck Harbuth—the one who started it all—is that nothing unusual was happening in their dreams. The dreams that were dreamed in the days following the failure of the wind were of a most pedestrian nature—eating breakfast, walking to work, reading yesterday’s newspaper, making the bed. There were no chimerical creatures or outlandish happenings to be found in the land of sleep anymore.