IRISH

Lance and I have moved to Ireland. Our stone house is on a small open rise, almost a plateau, and at the edge of the meadow before the house, a hill drops steeply. At dusk I drag two black plastic bags of kitchen waste onto the grass. Lance is with me. As we cross the meadow I see boys about his age, eleven or twelve, and some older, near but not close. I don’t call to them for directions. Somehow I know we must go down the steep hill. 

I feel a bit exasperated with no stairs, no advice or help, and heavy bags. By now a fast black night has descended. I decide to slide down the hill, pulling the bags behind me. Whoosh! It’s fun and easy, no feeling of danger, utter impulse. I can see nothing. I might go over an edge below, trust I won’t, and I don’t. Lance must be on his own slide, because he’s with me at the bottom. Utter impulse and trust again. Dream parenting.

We’ve come to a village or the edge of one. People are about, and an older man with a kind face welcomes us: “Well, it’s about time.” Does he mean, You found us, you’ve joined us.? I am surprised but glad to feel welcomed.

The villagers are working in a long rectangular garden with a compost pit, where everyone buries plant matter. I have only vegetable leavings, and he shows me a good spot. I am delighted. People are smiling, working in the garden still, illuminated somehow by lights or lanterns or fire. Every person—men, women, the boys I saw—wear old-fashioned clothing, though Lance and I are very twentieth-century American. We’ve stepped back in time. The boys and men wear flat caps or walking hats with a flat crown and narrow brim. In the cool evening their woolen sweaters, vests, or tweed jackets mirror the soft grays, browns, and greens of their land. The women’s long cloth skirts and shawls drape and fold more softly. Sturdy brogues and boots, men’s and women’s, step surely on damp or broken earth. 

I assume I’ll bury the compost in the morning when it’s light, not tired at day’s end. That gets frowns, a definite no. I can see why. Varmints could tear open the bags; worms, bugs, and rot should do the devouring. I ask to borrow a shovel rather than climb back up the difficult hill. A woman counters, “We help ourselves here.” Now everyone is shunning me in expression and body language. A complete change. 

OK, Lance and I start back up. The grassy hill is fine for sliding but too steep for walking. To make our way we must surmount a formidable pile of rocks, stones, and broken concrete. With dream magic we can see in the blackness. A group of boys is with us, some already on top where the meadow and house are. I survey the obstacle and begin climbing, seeing the possibility of footholds. Gradually I ascend to a place where I can throw a leg and arm up to reach the meadow. I know I can do it. I throw a mental nonny nonny boo boo to the boys. Simultaneously I see farther to the right a section of stones that essentially form uneven steps from the bottom. The boys’ route. All right. I’ll do that with Lance, but first I must top this obstacle not obvious as steps. Why? To show I can. To show them I can finish this final bit of my journey. It’s important. I hoist myself up.

Eventually we’re all on top via the steps. The unwelcome outsider attitude is still strong in the boys. They’re taunting Lance a little, being asses, like a gang of hooligans in a period movie. Yet after the successful climb to level ground, we have established something, and I think, Let’s introduce ourselves. Give names, become more real. “I’m Ellen. This is Lance.” Said aloud, I hear the less common name. At the same time, it rings of Lancelot, knights, King Arthur, Celts. One boy thrusts a stick in imitation. But that’s OK, not ridicule. Lance is now a warrior with a weapon even if not a tough Irish country kid.

More people of the town are now here. Somehow the landscape of below and above—garden, village, hilltop, home—loses logic, merges. It’s almost a different place, or as if we’re on the hill and also down below with no journey down. This is a writing thought, coming much later. Realism held In the dream. Not once did I feel or see strangeness, even on waking and first hasty notes.

Fires and torches illuminate. People mingle. Lance is not with me. A sense of trouble, an incident, spreads tension in all. I fear harm to Lance. I know he’s been harmed and rush to find him. Townspeople have seen it happen and follow me, direct me. In the distance I see Lance and a man. As I run, Lance sees me and comes to me. He’s terribly upset but not crying or wailing. So perplexed, confused, shaken. 

Now the scene narrows closely to me, Lance, and the wrongdoer in a line, left to right. Lance’s right eye is swollen and red, clearly from a powerful blow. It is absolutely certain that the blow was unprovoked, malicious. Something deep in this man reacted to Lance but not Lance. Now I can see the man clearly. He wears a dirty white wife-beater. He is in his thirties or forties. Rough and not clean. A handsome, strong, stubbled face. Lean. He should know better. He does. Everything in his presence declares an unrepentant cruelty.

Now the scene tightens more, to Lance and me, and then still more, to his face. Silence, but his thoughts are not. Why did he hit me? with anguish. 2022

I had dreamed an entire miniseries opener. Waking, I didn’t know it wasn’t. The realness of it. I could see every person clearly, their looks, their clothing. I could hear their voices, their talk. I was a watcher, totally caught up in the story. I was any shocked viewer seized by the cliffhanger. Why did he hit me? I wanted to know. At the same time, vestiges of dreaming remained, of me as a dream character, not an unknown actress playing a role. Such a liminal state! Where am I? When am I? What am I doing? Have I been to Ireland? This body in bed drifted in and out of worlds, fictional, not.