Prelude
I find myself standing upon a carpet of colour. Fallen leaves, for as far the eye can see, blanket the earth in fiery hue. Directly to my right, above the legions of maples, the sky erupts vermilion-orange… illuminating the frost-kissed treetops. And like the burning bush of Moses, one by one the trees catch fire: their red, yellow and orange leaves, sun kissed combust with the first touch of dawn.
My whereabouts are immediately familiar to me. Park Mont Royal, on the dirt path that cuts through the woods of upper Outremont. I’m just a stone’s throw from the cemetery and a whistle of a walk from home.
Savouring the fresh, invigorating air I allow the currents of my dream to carry me out to sea.
But then the tranquility is interrupted. Behind me, crunching through dry leaves… something or someone hurries towards me. I spin around, heavy of heart, fearing some vital stream, a chilling horror froze. But when I spot the source of my apprehension… black and low to the ground, scurrying through the colourful shag, I can’t believe my eyes.
Dropping to my knees, I cry out: Shirley!
The dream, plucking strings, opens my heart.
Woo, woo, woo! The black pug leaps forward and I catch her in my arms. It's been years since she died. She feels so alive I can’t help but surrender to the illusion and falling backwards to the ground I squeeze the dog close to me. Shirley.
Her musky, salami scent tickles at my nose. Whimpering happily, the pug pushes her snout into my face, begins blessing me with a barrage of sloppy doggy-kisses.
How’s my girl? I suspend my disbelief, fighting to suppress the conscious mind that is determined not to let me forget that all of this is an illusion.
Shirley kicks and bucks.
Okay, okay, calm down girl, I place the pug down and climb back to my feet. Shirley is bouncing with excitement, pug dancing: back arched, tail between her legs, sprinting in excited circles all around me.
Conscious of the galling yoke, I surrender to laughter.
Woo, woo, woo, she nips at my shoe. I hadn't noticed, but I'm wearing running apparel: jogging shorts, cross-country footwear and a tee-shirt with a Nike swoosh stamped upon it. Shirley pleads with her barking, challenging me to move.
It's just like old times. Who wants a race? I tease her.
Woo, woo. woo, she howls and tears off down the path.
We spearhead our way up the twisting incline. Shirley, zooming effortlessly ahead of me, leads the way. Racing through the trees, the pug looks over her shoulder, taunting me with her barking, challenging me to keep up with her. Show-off, I call out and shift into a higher gear. But no matter how hard I push, I’m no match for Shirley.
The little prankster is determined to make mischief with me. She slows down only to speed up every time I close the gap. Who’s faster? Are you faster? I cajole as I attempt to rocket ahead. I’m faster than you are! My voice sings out across the morning. But the little fireball will have none of it.
Woo, woo, woo, she kicks it into overdrive and flies away.
On the wings of the wind we set our course, racing towards the back entrance of the cemetery. Near the crematorium, its chimney spilling white plumes of smoke, she slows her pace. What a good girl! Shirley holds her head high as we jog effortlessly, side by side, into the land of the dead.
Zigzagging our way between the tombstones, we move with stealth, barely disturbing the sleeping souls beneath our feet. The fields are pristine with October wild flowers, polished marble and unfading prime. The manicured green is dew-kissed shimmering with the rising sun.
But when we ascend a slope we happen upon a murder of crows. The birds are everywhere: some idle on the lawn, others perched in trees and upon the tombstones. Startled by our arrival, the crows begin to squawk and opening their wings, take to the sky.
However upon closer inspection, I realize they’re not ordinary crows… I hadn’t notice it at first, but all of the rooks are shouldering human heads: including long, jet black, hair and ruby-red mouths from which they spit and screech bloody terror. They’re not birds, they’re harpies.
A shiver of fear washes over me, but my courage is buoyed by Shirley, who leaps off her hind legs, lunging and snapping her jaws at the lowest of the departing human/bird hybrid.
Across the grove her ferocious barking resounds.
We’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you. The fifty or sixty transmutations sing in unison. We’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you… We’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you.
After hollering their chant they set sail across the horizon. But Shirley gives no quarter and continues to chase the flapping murder.
Come on Shirley, let’s go, I begin to run in the opposite direction of the harpies. She responds to my request with a howl, but follows after me just the same.
We swoop to the west, down a slope that leads towards the army of the dead. Together Shirley and I march through neatly arranged rows of white marble headstones: a regiment of soldiers… their markers all standing at attention.
Warriors that the ancient gods adored: these are heroes who gave lost their lives in battle.
We inspect the troops together. As I pass through their ranks I touch headstones and read the epitaphs. One that stands out is the marble of Captain Kim Temple.
Hey look Shirl. As I read the officer’s epitaph aloud Shirley regards me with a cocked head.
In life he was as radiant as the sun... but in death his glory shined even brighter. I make a mental note: tell Kim the next time I see her about my dream.
But the pug shows no interest in Kim Temple. Instead she’s begun growling and yapping. What is it girl? I follow her line of sight and near the chubby pine to my right I spot a red fox scurrying furtively behind a shrub.
Wait, girl, I command. But Shirley is already bounding after feral fox. I hurry after her and watch with apprehension as she dives into the bush. I hold my breath and wait. But when no battle of the fangs erupts I’m grateful that the fox has vanished. However a consternated Shirley, bouncing in circles, sniffs at the air, whimpering.
Let’s go girl, I call her, but then the red tail appears from behind a fifteen-foot high obelisk and Shirley breaks out into a bel-canto of woo woo woos. Wild with excitement, she tears off. But fox is as sly as he is fleet of foot, and darts away, disappearing behind a mossy crypt with the name Bagg engraved upon its cast-iron doors.
Shirley badgers towards the crypt. Should I be worried? Surely the fox, in a fight, will make haste with little Shirley. But my rational mind interjects: O'Brien, you're dreaming.
So instead of fretting, I sprint forward. When I reach the crypt, I spot Shirley. Led by her piggish snout, she sniffs hints of the fox that has eluded her a second time. I surrender authority to her canine instincts and encourage the pint-sized canine to pursue.
Which way did he go, girl?
She moves to the east and together we trot towards the long shade of two towering maples.
Crimson leaves to the left, orange leaves to the right; we slide under a canopy of glowing pigment. The branches reaching towards the heavens like worshipful arms embrace the sun. Their leaves, as dry as parchment paper, whoosh and whisper... prayers on fire, ignited by the dawn.
As we move beyond the maples, a bronze fireman appears. Standing atop a pillar of marble, he guards the hallowed ground where some thirty firefighters lay buried. A cenotaph raised in honour of death’s eternal fame. The pug and I stroll around Fireman’s Lot, circling the tarnished sentinel. But our quiet vigil is short-lived. The fox suddenly dashes out from behind a tombstone and Shirley is off again, sprinting up an incline.
I follow after her, marvelling at my dream-time strength and agility. Superior power, compressed; my breathing is easy, and my heart drums a calm and steady beat. Flying through the air, my feet barely touch the ground. Banking to the right, I follow Shirley.
To match her pace I begin hurdling over headstones. I surprise myself leaping effortlessly over one, two, three, four stones in succession. I move with an athleticism I’ve never known. But my dream prowess proves short-lived when my trailing foot catches on the top of the fifth tombstone and I thump to the ground with a thud.
Shirley slows down and glances over her shoulder. She regards me disdainfully. Her face betrays mixed emotions: to fox or remain loyal to her clumsy friend. She hesitates, but in the end loyalty prevails. Tail sans wag, she walks over to me, head lowered, eyes downcast. Once she’s assessed that the only thing hurt is my ego, she pulls at my sock, hurrying me back into the hunt.
Sorry girl, I stroke the top of her pug-head and rub her ears before making my way back to my feet. But instead of hurrying after fox, Shirley begins sniffing the earth; dances a half-circle to the left and a full circle to the right, squats down and squeezes out a shit right in front of a historic monument. I fret over a plastic bag and then remind myself that in dreamtime shit doesn’t need to be scooped up.
Hey, you little anarchistic, sitting on Sir John Abbott’s grave. What do you think you’re doing? Shirley’s face is euphoric. She finishes up with one final push and then kicks dirt onto the late prime-minister polished stone.
Now let's find us that fox!
But a sudden a chill rouses goose bumps across my flesh as a shiver runs down my spine. I’m not alone…. When I turn around the intuition is confirmed.
Less than one hundred meters away, a man in a black ball cap regards me. He remains perfectly still. The brim of his hat, pulled low, hides his features. But from my vantage point it could be Arnold Palmer, adorned with navy-blue chinos and a white golf shirt. But when the man looks up and I see his face I can't believe my eyes. Is it possible? He hasn’t guest starred once in any of my dreams since he’s passed. I swallow hard. My heart begins to race, Dad!
When Shirley catches sight of Skip she whimpers. Without prompting, she flies towards him. I’m on her heels. But when we climb to the spot where we saw him, she howls!
Nowhere to be seen, I’m bewildered. I scan the four directions. Cursing myself, I’m certain that I’ve lost him. But then the dull whack of a projectile ricocheting off a tree twenty feet to my left lifts my mood. A golf ball bounces towards me.
Skip is about twenty five yards away. Resplendent as a blaze of summer noon, it is a younger version of my father; not the man who, at the end of his life, was levelled by cancer. This version of my father is the proud and virile man I remember as a boy. He holds a golf club in hand... and as he strides towards me he uses it like a cane.
I should have yelled fore! When the words leave his mouth, Shirley turns around and flies towards him.
Dad chuckles, drops his club and catches the charging pug as she leaps into his arms. She kisses his face, whimpering happily. When I reach my father, he places Shirley on the ground and opens his arms to hug me. The embrace reminds me of the child I once was. His smell... a smoky mix of musk and freshly cut grass triggers a surge of nostalgic emotions.
When we disengage, I begin, Dad... But before I can get the words out, my father cuts me off with a shake of his head and places his hand upon my shoulder.
You shouldn't be here.
Where?
He scolds me affectionately. Valek, you’re hiding from your responsibilities.
I stare at him, confused,
That’s why you’re here. He opens his arms expansively.
I shake my head, disappointed: What are you talking about?
But before dad has a chance to answer, the cemetery fills with the sound of adrenaline inspired excitement. The harpies are back; leaping from trees, spreading their wings and filling the sky with their collective shadow. From their plumes huge drops of blood descend like rain and their raucous cries are so forceful that the earth begins to shake.
First we’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you!
First we’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you!
The birds swoop down. They descend upon Shirley, pecking and clawing. The pug howls frantically and yelps in pain. I scream out. Shirley!
Woo, woo, woo, she squeals as the frenzy of harpies tear into her. I try to run after her, but I can't. My father is holding me back... his left hand is grasped firmly to my forearm.
Let go of me! But it’s too late. I’m unable to stop what happens next. A spray of blood jettisons from Shirley’s neck as the harpies tear pieces of flesh from her body.
What the Christ are you doing!? I turn towards my father trying to shake him off.
But he’s holding a gun in his free hand that he has pointed at my chest. Tears fill his eyes. Fear the fool you’ve become.
First we’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you!
First we’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you!
Skip shakes his head. I’m sorry. He pulls the trigger..
No comments:
Post a Comment