The Dream

He woke, heart racing, breathless, wet with sweat, in the starlit time before dawn. He shuddered when something touched his arm. It was his wife.

“Again?” she asked, rolling her belly onto him. Soon she would bear his first child.

“Again,” he gasped. He waited until his breath came more easily. “The same thing. It was awful.”

She waited. He would talk soon. Perhaps then he would sleep.

“There were people everywhere,” he said. “I couldn’t walk twenty paces without passing another’s camp. Too many people. I walked and walked, and finally came to open land.”

She shifted, making room for the baby. Ord was talking now. He would tell her about his dream: the same one he had each night, now. Then he would relax, and she could sleep again.

“It was a meadow, but not a real meadow. All the plants were the same, in rows.” Ord frowned. “Somehow I knew that people had put the plants there, and would eat them later.”

“I walked through the meadow, and through another, then another. I never saw another hunter. But there was a camp nearby. More than just a camp.

The people had made huts, like we do in winter, but huge. And there were more huts than we saw when the Clan gathered.”

“They couldn’t live like that!

There were too many people, too little land, and no one was hunting! I might be able to support me, and you, on that land, but even then it would be hard. Game wouldn’t like those strange meadows.

And with so many people, all in one place, there would be war soon over who would walk out and bring back food for his people. Then they would starve.”

“I kept walking.”

“Finally I came to another cluster of camps. It was even more crowded than the first one. I walked to the center of the camps.”

“People were busy there, but they were not hunting and not gathering food. They were moving little sheets of something like birch bark around, fiddling with complicated things I couldn’t understand.”

“And there were so many of them. All together. All in that one place.

And somehow I knew that this cluster of camps was just one of many, many clusters.

More clusters than I could count, and many of the clusters were much larger than the one I was in.”

“Only a few even knew how to hunt. And to them hunting was something they did for pleasure. Think! A world where only a few know the joy of the hunt.”

“And then I woke up.”

His wife made a sympathetic sound and put a hand on his arm. He lay quiet until she was asleep.

Then Ord, hunter, warrior, mighty with club and spear, soundlessly arose and walked to the brow of the hill where they camped. Below, in the twilight before dawn, he could see a strange meadow someone had cut out of the valley. All the plants were the same in that little meadow. He had talked with the hunter who lived there.

It didn’t seem natural to him, tied to a plot of land so that one could be sure of a few bits of seed and berry. It seemed even less natural after those dreams.

The sun was up now. His wife was stirring. Ord threw down the stone spear tips he had exchanged for a pile of furs. Fire-sharpened spears had been good enough for his father, and his father before him.

Ord knew better now. He would have perhaps one more child, then no more.

His descendants would never be tempted, or forced, to crowd together as the people in his dream. They would never make those strange meadows.

They would never spend their lives away from the hunting grounds.

Ord turned his back on the valley and the strange meadow, and returned to the forest.

(Text © Brian H. Gill 2001)

Not My Usual ‘Being a Catholic’ Sunday Post

I’ve posted this in the “being a writer,” “being Catholic” and “narrative” categories. The “being Catholic” one may want some explaining.

There’s a ‘message’ in “The Dream,” but not the secret code stuff some folks indulge in.

I was trying to show some of what I think about change, new ideas, and how folks sometimes respond. Among other things. It’s a portmanteau story.

I think Ord’s concerns reflect how many folks see tech they didn’t grow up with. His decision to turn his back on new ways reflects an attitude I run into.

It’s not an attitude I share. I don’t see what we’re learning, and how we use that knowledge, the way Ord does.

But I try to remember that today’s Ords may often think they have good reasons for shunning stone spear tips. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I don’t see knowledge, old or new, as a problem. What we do with it is another topic.

Using What I Have

I talked about faith, writing, Elizabethan English, vocations and natural law back in July:

Also Deuteronomy 5:19, steampunk, Hammurabi’s law code #125 and Nebuchadnezzar II.

The post wasn’t particularly linear.

That’s not unusual for me, and it’s happening with this post, too.

Let’s see. I was talking about writing and being Catholic.

Briefly, #3 daughter and I are both Catholics. We both write.

But as she said, we’re Catholics who write, not “Catholic writers.” Neither of us write “lives of the Saints” or prayer books. Nothing wrong with those genres.

My reading includes both. I also read about history, science — it’s a long list.

I enjoy sharing what I find, how things connect, and why paying attention makes sense. I don’t see a problem with that.

The kit God gave me includes an insatiable thirst for knowledge and freakishly enhanced language skills.

I figure using those qualities makes sense. Provided that I express truth, that is.

Not that I think “The Dream” describes specific folks who were in a particular valley.

Truth, Beauty, and Borogoves

One of these days I may talk about fiction, reality, and why some folks enjoy stories. Even though they’re ‘not true.’ And how fiction, good fiction, is true. In a way.

But not today.

It’s long past brilling, the toves have ceased their gyres and gimbles and mome raths are nowhere to be seen.

Not that I’d expect to see either. We don’t have a wabe, and there’s several inches of snow on the ground.

Alas! Poor borogove! Thy feathers are so shabby!

I have got to get more sleep.

The Church says that knowledge is a gift of the Holy Spirit. Also that truth and beauty are good things. “…Truth is beautiful in itself….” Using language and visual arts to express knowledge is part of being human. (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1831, 25002501)

Not that everyone must be a writer and/or an artist. And that’s yet another topic.

It’s been an — interesting — week. I’ll probably talk about that someday. Then again, maybe not.

How I see life, the universe, and everything; but mostly being human:

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About Brian H. Gill

I was born in 1951. I'm a husband, father and grandfather. One of the kids graduated from college in December, 2008, and is helping her husband run businesses and raise my granddaughter; another is a cartoonist and artist; #3 daughter is a writer; my son is developing a digital game with #3 and #1 daughters. I'm also a writer and artist.
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4 Responses to The Dream

  1. irishbrigid says:

    As you usually use the Oxford comma, I thought I’d mention its absence: “I talked about faith, writing, Elizabethan English, vocations and natural law back in July:”

    Also this spot that may be missing more than one: “Also Deuteronomy 5:19, steampunk, Hammurabi’s law code #125 and Nebuchadnezzar II.”

    The Friendly Neighborhood Proofreader

    • Well-spotted. I’m leaving the ‘steampunk’ item as-is, however.

      About Oxford commas, Talking with you about them got me thinking – never a safe pastime for someone like me. 😉 I did a little checking, more thinking, and decided that Oxford commas are okay – – – but that dropping them is okay, too.

      Right not, I’m vacillating between dropping them entirely and being inconsistent to see what I like better. Not the sort of thing a proper editor would tolerate – but I’m not a proper editor. And I’m okay with that.

      Thanks, and thank you for being The Friendly Neighborhood Proofreader.

Thanks for taking time to comment!