Gardner Dozois - A Dream at Noonday.pdf - Gardner Dozois - widez2

A DREAM AT NOONDAY

by Gardner Dozois

I remember the sky, and the sun burning in the sky like a golden penny flicked into a deep

blue pool, and the scuttling white clouds that changed into magic ships and whales and

turreted castles as they drifted up across that bottomless ocean and swam the equally

bottomless sea of my mind’s eye. I remember the winds that skimmed the clouds, smoothing

and rippling them into serene grandeur or boiling them into froth. I remember the same wind

dipping low to caress the grass, making it sway and tremble, or whipping through the

branches of the trees and making them sing with a wild, keening organ note. I remember the

silence that was like a bronzen shout echoing among the hills.

—It is raining. The sky is slate-gray and grittily churning. It looks like a soggy dishrag being

squeezed dry, and the moisture is dirty rain that falls in pounding sheets, pressing down the

tall grass. The rain pocks the ground, and the loosely packed soil is slowly turning into mud

and the rain spatters the mud, making it shimmer—

And I remember the trains. I remember lying in bed as a child, swathed in warm blankets,

sniffing suspiciously and eagerly at the embryonic darkness of my room, and listening to the

big trains wail and murmur in the freight yard beyond. I remember lying awake night after

night, frightened and darkly fascinated, keeping very still so that the darkness wouldn’t see

me, and listening to the hollow booms and metallic moans as the trains coupled and linked

below my window. I remember that I thought the trains were alive, big dark beasts who

came to dance and to hunt each other through the dappled moonlight of the world outside

my room, and when I would listen to the whispering clatter of their passing and feel the room

quiver ever so slightly in shy response, I would get a crawly feeling in my chest and a

prickling along the back of my neck, and I would wish that I could watch them dance,

although I knew that I never would. And I remember that it was different when I watched the

trains during the daytime, for then even though I clung tight to my mother’s hand and stared

wide-eyed at their steam-belching and spark-spitting they were just big iron beasts putting on

a show for me; they weren’t magic then, they were hiding the magic inside them and

pretending to be iron beasts and waiting for the darkness. I remember that I knew even then

that trains are only magic in the night and only dance when no one can see them. And I

remember that I couldn’t go to sleep at night until I was soothed by the muttering lullaby of

steel and the soft, rhythmical hiss-clatter of a train booming over a switch. And I remember

that some nights the bellowing of a fast freight or the cruel, whistling shriek of a train’s

whistle would make me tremble and feel cold suddenly, even under my safe

blanket-mountain, and I would find myself thinking about rain-soaked ground and blood

and black cloth and half-understood references to my grandfather going away, and the

darkness would suddenly seem to curl in upon itself and become diamond-hard and press

down upon my straining eyes, and I would whimper and the fading whistle would snatch the

sound from my mouth and trail it away into the night. And I remember that at times like that

I would pretend that I had tiptoed to the window to watch the trains dance, which I never

really dared to do because I knew I would die if I did, and then I would close my eyes and

pretend that I was a train, and in my mind’s eye I would be hanging disembodied in the

darkness a few inches above the shining tracks, and then the track would begin to slip along

under me, slowly at first then fast and smooth like flowing syrup, and then the darkness

would be flashing by and then I would be moving out and away, surrounded by the wailing

roar and evil steel chuckling of a fast freight slashing through the night, hearing my whistle

scream with the majestic cruelty of a stooping eagle and feeling the switches boom and clatter

hollowly under me, and I would fall asleep still moving out and away, away and out.

—The rain is stopping slowly, trailing away across the field, brushing the ground like long,

dangling gray fingers. The tall grass creeps erect again, bobbing drunkenly, shedding its

burden of water as a dog shakes himself dry after a swim. There are vicious little crosswinds

in the wake of the storm, and they make the grass whip even more violently than the

departing caress of the rain. The sky is splitting open above, black rain clouds pivoting

sharply on a central point, allowing a sudden wide wedge of blue to appear. The overcast

churns and tumbles and clots like wet heavy earth turned by a spade. The sky is now a crazy

mosaic of mingled blue and gray. The wind picks up, chews at the edge of the tumbling

wrack, spinning it to the fineness of cotton candy and then lashing it away. A broad shaft of

sunlight falls from the dark undersides of the clouds, thrusting at the ground and drenching it

in a golden cathedral glow, filled with shimmering green highlights. The effect is like that of

light through a stained-glass window, and objects bathed in the light seem to glow very

faintly from within, seem to be suddenly translated into dappled molten bronze. There is a

gnarled, shaggy tree in the center of the pool of sunlight, and it is filled with wet, disgruntled

birds, and the birds are hesitantly, cautiously, beginning to sing again—

And I remember wandering around in the woods as a boy and looking for nothing and

finding everything and that clump of woods was magic and those rocks were a rustlers’ fort

and there were dinosaurs crashing through the brush just out of sight and everybody knew

that there were dragons swimming in the sea just below the waves and an old glittery piece of

Coke bottle was a magic jewel that could let you fly or make you invisible and everybody

knew that you whistled twice and crossed your fingers when you walked by that deserted old

house or something shuddery and scaly would get you and you argued about bang you’re

dead no I’m not and you had a keen gun that could endlessly dispatch all the icky monsters

who hung out near the swing set in your backyard without ever running out of ammunition.

And I remember that as a kid I was nuts about finding a magic cave and I used to think that

there was a cave under every rock, and I would get a long stick to use as a lever and I would

sweat and strain until I had managed to turn the rock over, and then when I didn’t find any

tunnel under the rock I would think that the tunnel was there but it was just filled in with dirt,

and I would get a shovel and I would dig three or four feet down looking for the tunnel and

the magic cave and then I would give up and go home for a dinner of beans and franks and

brown bread. And I remember that once I did find a little cave hidden under a big rock and I

couldn’t believe it and I was scared and shocked and angry and I didn’t want it to be there

but it was and so I stuck my head inside it to look around because something wouldn’t let me

leave until I did and it was dark in there and hot and very still and the darkness seemed to be

blinking at me and I thought I heard something rustling and moving and I got scared and I

started to cry and I ran away and then I got a big stick and came back, still crying, and

pushed and heaved at that rock until it thudded back over the cave and hid it forever. And I

remember that the next day I went out again to hunt for a magic cave.

—The rain has stopped. A bird flaps wetly away from the tree and then settles back down

onto an outside branch. The branch dips and sways with the bird’s weight, its leaves heavy

with rain. The tree steams in the sun, and a million raindrops become tiny jewels, microscopic

prisms, gleaming and winking, loving and transfiguring the light even as it destroys them

and they dissolve into invisible vapor puffs to be swirled into the air and absorbed by the

waiting clouds above. The air is wet and clean and fresh; it seems to squeak as the tall grass

saws through it and the wind runs its fingernails lightly along its surface. The day is squally

and gusty after the storm, high shining overcast split by jagged ribbons of blue that look like

aerial fjords. The bird preens and fluffs its feathers disgustedly, chattering and scolding at the

rain, but keeping a tiny bright eye carefully cocked in case the storm should take offense at

the liquid stream of insults and come roaring back. Between the tufts of grass the ground has

turned to black mud, soggy as a sponge, puddled by tiny pools of steaming rainwater. There

is an arm and a hand lying in the mud, close enough to make out the texture of the tattered

fabric clothing the arm, so close that the upper arm fades up and past the viewpoint and into

a huge featureless blur in the extreme corner of the field of vision. The arm is bent back at an

unnatural angle and the stiff fingers are hooked into talons that seem to claw toward the gray

sky—

And I remember a day in the sixth grade when we were struggling in the cloakroom with our

coats and snow-encrusted overshoes and I couldn’t get mine off because one of the snaps had

frozen shut and Denny was talking about how his father was a jet pilot and he sure hoped the

war wasn’t over before he grew up because he wanted to kill some Gooks like his daddy was

doing and then later in the boy’s room everybody was arguing about who had the biggest

one and showing them and Denny could piss farther than anybody else. I remember that

noon at recess we were playing kick the can and the can rolled down the side of the hill and

we all went down after it and somebody said hey look and we found a place inside a bunch of

bushes where the grass was all flattened down and broken and there were pages of a

magazine scattered all over and Denny picked one up and spread it out and it was a picture

of a girl with only a pair of pants on and everybody got real quiet and I could hear the girls

chanting in the schoolyard as they jumped rope and kids yelling and everybody was scared

and her eyes seemed to be looking back right out of the picture and somebody finally licked

his lips and said what’re those things stickin’ out of her, ah, and he didn’t know the word and

one of the bigger kids said tits and he said yeah what’re those things stickin’ outta her tits and

I couldn’t say anything because I was so surprised to find out that girls had those little brown

things like we did except that hers were pointy and hard and made me tremble and Denny

said hell I knew about that I’ve had hundreds of girls but he was licking nervously at his lips

as he said it and he was breathing funny too. And I remember that afternoon I was sitting at

my desk near the window and the sun was hot and I was being bathed in the rolling drone of

our math class and I wasn’t understanding any of it and listening to less. I remember that I

knew I had to go to the bathroom but I didn’t want to raise my hand because our math

teacher was a girl with brown hair and eyeglasses and I was staring at the place where I knew

her pointy brown things must be under her blouse and I was thinking about touching them

to see what they felt like and that made me feel funny somehow and I thought that if I raised

my hand she would be able to see into my head and she’d know and she’d tell everybody

what I was thinking and then she’d get mad and punish me for thinking bad things and so I

didn’t say anything but I had to go real bad and if I looked real close I thought that I could

see two extra little bulges in her blouse where her pointy things were pushing against the

cloth and I started thinking about what it would feel like if she pushed them up against me

and that made me feel even more funny and sort of hollow and sick inside and I couldn’t wait

any longer and I raised my hand and left the room but it was too late and I wet myself when I

was still on the way to the boy’s room and I didn’t know what to do so I went back to the

classroom with my pants all wet and smelly and the math teacher looked at me and said

what did you do and I was scared and Denny yelled he pissed in his pants he pissed in his

pants and I said I did not the water bubbler squirted me but Danny yelled he pissed in his

pants he pissed in his pants and the math teacher got very mad and everybody was laughing

and suddenly the kids in my class didn’t have any faces but only laughing mouths and I

wanted to curl up into a ball where nobody could get me and once I had seen my mother

digging with a garden spade and turning over the wet dark earth and there was half of a

worm mixed in with the dirt and it writhed and squirmed until the next shovelful covered it

up.

—Most of the rain has boiled away, leaving only a few of the larger puddles that have

gathered in the shallow depressions between grass clumps. The mud is slowly solidifying

under the hot sun, hardening into ruts, miniature ridges and mountains and valleys. An ant

appears at the edge of the field of vision, emerging warily from the roots of the tall grass,

pushing its way free of the tangled jungle. The tall blades of grass tower over it, forming a

tightly interwoven web and filtering the hot yellow sunlight into a dusky green half-light. The

ant pauses at the edge of the muddy open space, reluctant to exchange the cool tunnel of the

grass for the dangers of level ground. Slowly, the ant picks its way across the sticky mud,

skirting a pebble half again as big as it is. The pebble is streaked with veins of darker rock

and has a tiny flake of quartz embedded in it near the top. The elements have rounded it into

a smooth oval, except for a dent on the far side that exposed its porous core. The ant finishes

its cautious circumnavigation of the pebble and scurries slowly toward the arm, which lies

across its path. With infinite patience, the ant begins to climb up the arm, slipping on the

slick, mud-spattered fabric. The ant works its way down the arm to the wrist and stops,

sampling the air. The ant stands among the bristly black hairs on the wrist, antennae

vibrating. The big blue vein in the wrist can be seen under its tiny feet. The ant continues to

walk up the wrist, pushing its way through the bristly hair, climbing onto the hand and

walking purposefully through the hollow of the thumb. Slowly, it disappears around the

knuckle of the first finger—

And I remember a day when I was in the first year of high school and my voice was changing

and I was starting to grow hair in unusual places and I was sitting in English class and I

wasn’t paying too much attention even though I’m usually pretty good in English because I

was in love with the girl who sat in front of me. I remember that she had long legs and soft

brown hair and a laugh like a bell and the sun was coming in the window behind her and the

sunlight made the downy hair on the back of her neck glow very faintly and I wanted to

touch it with my fingertips and I wanted to undo the knot that held her hair to the top of her

head and I wanted her hair to cascade down over my face soft against my skin and cover me

and with the sunlight I could see the strap of her bra underneath her thin dress and I wanted

to slide my fingers underneath it and unhook it and stroke her velvety skin. I remember that I

could feel my body stirring and my mouth was dry and painful and the zipper of her dress

was open a tiny bit at the top and I could see the tanned texture of her skin and see that she

had a brown mole on her shoulder and my hand trembled with the urge to touch it and

something about Shakespeare and when she turned her head to whisper to Denny across the

row her eyes were deep and beautiful and I wanted to kiss them softly brush them lightly as a

bird’s wing and Hamlet was something or other and I caught a glimpse of her tongue darting

wetly from between her lips and pressing against her white teeth and that was almost too

much to bear and I wanted to kiss her lips very softly and then I wanted to crush them flat

and then I wanted to bite them and sting them until she cried and I could comfort and soothe

her and that frightened me because I didn’t understand it and my thighs were tight and

prickly and the blood pounded at the base of my throat and Elsinore something and the bell

rang shrilly and I couldn’t get up because all I could see was the fabric of her dress stretched

taut over her hips as she stood up and I stared at her hips and her belly and her thighs as she

walked away and wondered what her thing would look like and I was scared. I remember

that I finally got up enough nerve to ask her for a date during recess and she looked at me

incredulously for a second and then laughed, just laughed contemptuously for a second and

walked away without saying a word. I remember her laughter. And I remember wandering

around town late that night heading aimlessly into nowhere trying to escape from the

pressure and the emptiness and passing a car parked on a dark street corner just as the moon

swung out from behind a cloud and there was light that danced and I could hear the freight

trains booming far away and she was in the back seat with Denny and they were locked

together and her skirt was hiked up and I could see the white flash of flesh all the way up her

leg and he had his hand under her blouse on her breast and I could see his knuckles moving

under the fabric and the freight train roared and clattered as it hit the switch and he was

kissing her and biting her and she was kissing him back with her lips pressed tight against

her teeth and her hair floating all around them like a cloud and the train was whispering

away from town and then he was on top of her pressing her down and I felt like I was going

to be sick and I started to vomit but stopped because I was afraid of the noise and she was

moaning and making small low whimpering noises I’d never heard anyone make before and

I had to run before the darkness crushed me and I didn’t want to do that when I got home

because I’d feel ashamed and disgusted afterward but I knew that I was going to have to

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