The emu-like moa, with its characteristic tufty grey coiffure and red exopthalmic eyes, stood proudly on its saggy-kneed legs, which were capable of administering a lethal kick to any who dared to challenge its power.
Nora should have known better than to read her own writing at night; what was needed was a junk book, not maudlin introspection. The last time she’d tried to read her own writing just before turning out the light, she’d dreamed that one of the rare male members of her writing group was a giant moa, pointing proudly to a framed piece of paper on the wall of its pristine living room.
With its raptor-like beak, the moa (seemingly unaware that its species had been hunted to extinction centuries ago in New Zealand) pointed to a framed document replete with complex tables of figures, listing details of a $50 installment from a well-known publishing house. “That’s more than I’ve ever done,” sighed Nora, admiring the fellow for his success. She awoke with a start at 2:00 AM, unreasonably consumed by envy of the moa.
Getting to sleep was always an elusive respite--or, to be more accurate, getting back to sleep. Nora often fell asleep at the reasonable hour of 9:30 or so, then woke up a few hours later. When and if she did return to dreamland, her nightmares (if you could call them that--not necessarily frightening, just weird) were such that it seemed hardly worth the effort.
Lately, these dreams--the one about the moa was a prime example of the type--had been all about strange, corrupted elements of the natural world.
In one recurring vision, three mountain lions, or perhaps cougars, were prowling around inside the house.
The cougars were like huge tortoise-shell toms, with fur that was almost fluffy to look at, but with long whiskers sprouting from their noses and sharp fangs protruding menacingly from their drooling mouths. They were the height of great danes, but much stockier, and with a dog-like tendency to follow people around the house. Nora couldn’t put her finger on what it was about them that was so threatening, but she knew with a crystal clear certainty that she needed to phone the police. Calling 9-1-1 was a problem, and she had to try it about six times before she got it right. Was something wrong with the phone, or with Nora herself? “A poor workman blames his tools,” her Grandma Lou’s favourite aphorism echoed in her mind.
Nora tried to close the doors to various rooms in her dream house, a rancher which bore little to no resemblance to her actual tree-house-like home, although similarly nestled in a fern-rich BC forest, but the predatory big cats’ heads buttted dents into each portal and she could tell it was just a matter of time until they burst through. Eventually, all but one mountain lion went outdoors, and the police came to complete the rescue as Nora’s 7:30 alarm went off. Whew!
The next night was horses (or maybe unicorns)--majestic white creatures that galloped through the heavens. Heaven, in Nora’s dream, was a giant golf course resplendent in sunlight and covered with the orange grass that you see when it hasn’t rained for weeks. Nora’s role, when not playing golf in the Elysian fields (in real life, Nora hadn’t played golf since high school), was to help the various gals from her book club descend from the sky to earth, using a donut-like, air-filled device that resembled a giant pool toy. At one point, Nora (not a horse rider in waking life), clad only in a milk-white toga, with beautiful blonde hair streaming out behind her, rode past on a magnificent white charger, yelling triumphantly, “I LOVE WOMEN! I LOVE WOMEN!”
Later that week came the apocalypse dream: Nora was on the mainland, looking over the Strait towards her house on the island when she saw three big spouts of water, approximately the size and shape of modern windmills. “I guess they’re celebrating,” she thought. Then there were spouts everywhere, new ones starting up all the time. On the water, Canada Geese hurtled themselves, at breakneck speed, like missiles away from the impending chaos of a tidal wave. Nora wondered if the 60-car ferry that linked the mainland to the island was up to the challenge of a tsunami. Above, the sky seethed with dirigibles carrying nuclear bombs. Nora woke up.
Next came an equally disturbing apocalyptic night vision of birds, horrible little yellow canary-like creatures with green-tinged feathers. They swarmed in flocks of thousands, battering against the windows of the student rec centre, a daunting white brick structure with banks of floor-to-ceiling windows (this detail seemed accurate in relation to Nora’s real life experience) where Nora found herself hanging around with friends she hadn’t seen for decades in real life. It was so comforting to see them that Nora forgot her usual terror of winged beasts.
She kept thinking, as she looked around in her dream at her college student friends, “I thought I’d lost you all, but here you are. And you still like me.” Tom Petty’s “Free Falling” formed the soundtrack; Nora had a vague sense that she should get home to before Hiram called the cops, but the music beckoned her to stay. And indeed, how could she leave the place when all those birds were out there?
Everyone said was just a matter of time until the birds broke through the glass. Nora looked out the window (in a rare bird-free moment when the glass was not obscured) and saw flocks of birds at a distance, landing on deciduous trees bedecked with fall colours, and denuding them in seconds. Turning her attention back to the room inside the grad centre, she saw a yellow-green feather float by.
She awoke drenched in sweat, but strangely relieved. Wherever these dreams were taking her, she was resigned to follow. Whatever they had to teach, she was willing to learn.
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