Back to Contents

It's dangerous to roam these halls without a strong foundation of your own, Solomon.

This statement haunted Solomon as he sat down to lunch with his wife. He did his best to stay present with the woman he loved, but in moments where conversation faltered or fell flat, his mind wandered back to this.

It's dangerous to roam these halls ...

His wife twice indicated her desire for Solomon to leave the House. The first time was a direct request to quit the house altogether, to which Solomon expressed the duty he felt in removing the presence. Resigned to her husband's commitment, she tried again, but with the intent of just getting him outside.

"Get some fresh air, Sol," and "Go touch grass," because "It will do you good."

He listened. He nodded. He agreed with her, but he felt any deviation from the House would be a distraction to the work. The air and the grass might do him good, but getting the presence out was more important. He needed to stay, to sleep, to dream. He needed to find that figure again, to speak with her. The riddles she left him, he had to unravel them.

... without a strong foundation of your own ...

What did she mean? How had she meant it? He spent years learning to dreamwalk; first to do so consistently, then to hone his abilities. He understood dreams. He knew how they worked. There was nothing random about what transpired in dreamspace, and he was a master at manipulating the elements unseen to enable his movement there. As far as he was concerned, he worked from a strong foundation. So why did her words shake his confidence?

But it wasn't just her words, was it? It was the fact of the corridor and his experience in it after she disappeared. No amount of his mastery of the dreamspace allowed him movement beyond the corridor. No hints, tricks, or clues gave him purchase to bend and weave the space around him. He was stuck, as surely as—

"SOL."

He snapped his attention to his wife. She was standing across the kitchen island from where he was seated, the oversized soda they were sharing in one hand, her other hand upraised in a questioning gesture.

"You're not already back in dreamspace, are you?"

"I'm sorry. This thing is like a knot; I have to figure out how to untie it."

Her irritation turned to concern. She dropped her upraised hand and brought their drink close, but did not sip from it.

"Sol, it's this shit that makes me worried."

"I'll be fine." He straightened up and picked at the remaining fries on the counter.

"You'll be gone!" She was exasperated. "First it's 'I just need to untie the knot,' then it's 'I'm close, I can feel it,' and then you're gone, lost to the world of dreams, while your body lies limp in a psych ward."

He looked up.

"What are you talking about?"

"This isn't like you, Sol!" She gestured to him sitting and picking at the fries. "You get this way about doing our taxes, or picking the right plumber, things that are important but that you really don't want to do. You never get this way about dreamwalking. You being listless like this, about this, scares me."

He grabbed a handful of fries and shoved them in his mouth. He chewed while he contemplated his wife's words. As he swallowed, he held his hand out. His wife passed him the soda, from which drank deeply. He set the soda on the counter, slid his takeout container over and propped himself up on his elbows.

"I'm not going to the psych ward. Seems a little exaggerated, don't you think?"

Continued after the break

"I've been reading up on this, Sol. There are case studies—"

"All hack jobs."

"Stop, please. Let me finish."

Solomon shrugged. His wife continued, describing the effects of long term lucid dreaming, of what she read about its dangers. Solomon listened ...

You think you can follow some predetermined pattern and everything will fall into place as expected.

... to the first part of his wife's speech, at least. Like blocks falling through the same hole, he wondered if his wife and the strange figure were telling him the same thing. They were both warning him, using different words about different spaces, but they sounded like the same thing:

"You don't know what you're doing."

"What?"

His wife crossed her arms and tilted her head. Her concern was shifting back to irritation. He met her gaze and held it, not wanting to acknowledge he wasn't listening, but also working to manage the defensive feelings arising from a claim that he was clueless. He said,

"Will you just please repeat that," and he watched her as she spoke:

"I'm afraid you're going to figure out too late that this thing is too big, even for you."

He shook his head.

"That's not what it sounded like you said."

"Oh? And what did I say?"

He stopped to think about the snippets he managed to catch. He was pushing her into deeper irritation and he wanted to walk it back. He took a deep breath and let his own irritation around his perceived lack of belief in his abilities wander off.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I thought I heard something else. Maybe it's what I thought you meant."

She relaxed, letting her arms drop. She placed on hand on the counter and reached for the soda with the other.

"I have to get back to work. Promise me you'll at least step outside for like twenty minutes."

"I promise."

"And not just in the backyard either. I mean go for a walk. It's beautiful outside."

"I'll go outside."

She scrunched her face. He knew she knew he was dodging the walk. But he had promised to go outside and this, at least, she could depend on. He rose from the kitchen island and with his wife cleaned up the remains of their lunch. When the trash was packed in the plastic takeout bag, his wife gathered her purse and the two walked to the car together.

"See? I'm outside," he said as they approached her vehicle.

"Ha ha, Mr. Funny." She gave him a knowing look.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her in for a kiss. He dropped the bag of trash and they pressed themselves against each other. The sun felt warm on his skin; there was a cool breeze to offset the sun's heat; yet his wife pressing close to him raised a fire within him no breeze could temper. They kissed for a few moments longer, and then his wife pulled away.

"Look Mister," she said, "maybe you come sleep at home tonight." The grin she wore told him the fire had spread to her as well. Or maybe it had spread to him. It didn't matter. Even after all these years, he was grateful that fire was constant and mutual. "Oh, before I forget—" She broke away and rushed to the car, pulling the keys out of her purse and hitting the button on the fob to pop the trunk.

Solomon followed. In the trunk were some grocery bags.

"Here." She began passing him bags. "There's things for the bathroom, and plenty of snacks to hold you over when we're not having a meal together."

He slid one arm through the carry holes, stacking all four bags on one side. He closed the trunk as his wife moved around the car and got in. He moved to stand just inside the open car door, placing his free hand on the roof. He leaned in and gave his wife a final kiss goodbye.

"I love you, Sol. Please don't be stupid."

"I won't," he said as he stepped back and closed the car door.

The window rolled down and his wife smiled up at him.

"And take a shower. You smell like sweat and takeout."

Back to Contents

Back to Contents