The Somnambulist's Dreams Read online

  “But I don’t know why I’m here.” I said, realizing that the woman was waiting for my answer and apparently couldn’t hear the conversation between the bull and myself.

  “Tell her instead why Sironka is here,” the bull said.

  I turned to face the woman.

  “I am here because my bull is dying.” I gestured towards the bull, that now turned its head and looked at the woman.

  “Oh, I am truly sorry to hear that.” She walked over and crouched down next to the bull and began to swat at the flies with her hand.

  “I know how much he means to you.” She stroked the front of the bull’s head.

  “Yes” I said, looking at the bull, “he is very important to me.”

  “Do you mind if I stay a while? I really don’t want to intrude, but I would really appreciate it.” She looked up at me, and when I didn’t object, she sat down next to the bull.

  “What’s his name?” She asked. “I know you have already told me, but I am afraid I have forgotten.”

  I ransacked my mind for a name that would suit the bull, but the only name I could think of was Otis. “Please tell me your name,” I asked the bull, which appeared to be oblivious to my plea. “Please tell me.”

  “Kongoni is what you called me.” It answered.

  “His name is Kongoni.” I said to the woman who was now sitting cross- legged next to the bull.

  “Oh yes, I remember. It’s the Maasai name for what we call the Hartebeest,” she said. “You can clearly see the resemblance.” She ran her hand along the length of the bull’s head.

  “What happens when he passes away?” She looked at the bull.

  “He ceases to exist here.” I answered.

  “That is a beautiful sentiment Sironka,” she said looking up at me. “Does that mean that he will continue to exist somewhere else?”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Do you continue your existence somewhere else?” I asked Kongoni the bull.

  “I hope so,” it said.

  “I realize it is probably the most inopportune time to tell you this,” the woman said, still stroking the front of the bulls’ head, “but I want you to know that I love your country with all my soul, Sironka. I can honestly say that I haven’t been happier anywhere else in the world and I wish I could stay here forever.”

  When she looked at me, there were tears in her eyes.

  “Tell her that she will be here forever,” Kongoni said.

  “You will be here forever.” I told her.

  “I really hope so,” she said, “but I am not so sure that is possible. Forever is a very long time.” She got to her feet and brushed the dust off her shorts.

  “I’d better be going,” she said. “Thank you so much for letting me stay with Kongoni for a while. It means a great deal to me.”

  She bent down, put her hand on the bull’s head and whispered: “My hope is, that when you cease to exist here, you will continue your existence elsewhere.” With her hand still fixed on the head of the bull, everything around us seemed to lose definition.

  It was as if every single particle in the world began to simultaneously drift apart, dissolving in an ocean of tiny multi-coloured specks.

  “I am ceasing to exist here,” said the bull.

  I awoke standing by the window in the watch room, overlooking the sea. The sun was high in the sky and the room was as hot as a furnace. I was wearing nothing but my underwear and holding the shaft of an old broom in my hand.

  Although I am intrigued by my chimeras and accept that they are somehow connected, I will not attempt to analyze this or any of my other dreams, but leave them for you or others to interpret.

  All I can do, is give you a faithful description of what transpires in my somnambular state.

  He put down the page and got up from his chair. The stones were getting cold in his pockets.

  He pulled out his watch and checked the time. In twenty minutes he would have to rewind the mechanism.

  He walked down the stairs to the galley, where he placed his lamp and the cold stones on the end of the stove. He grabbed the small black kettle and gently shook it, listening to the water splashing about within.

  He placed it on the small yet heavy iron cast stove and retrieved the blue and white china teapot from the lime green cupboard. The teapot was much used and the spout was a bit cracked. Painted in a watery blue glaze on its orbicular belly, two small swallows were swooping over a diminutive fruit tree. He placed the pot at the end of the stove and checked the supply of tea on the top shelf, before measuring out enough leaves to make a brew that wasn’t too weak.

  He checked his watch again.

  Twelve minutes.

  He waited for the water to boil.

  He knew it wouldn’t take long.

  While he waited, he poured a bit of hot water into the teapot and swished it around, looking at the rising steam. He then poured the still warm water into his cup.

  When he had first arrived in the tower, the cup had been as white as a piano key. Overcome by constant immersion, the inside was now the colour of amber, and no matter how hard he’d scrubbed at it, he hadn’t been able to stop the fine dark crackling web that was slowly emerging on its surface.

  He poured the boiling water over the leaves and looked as they swirled in the hot stream, like a shoal of small fish. He replaced the lid and poured the tepid water from his cup back into the kettle.

  He checked the time. Six minutes.

  He put the two hot stones in his pockets, picked up the teapot and cup with one hand, and the lamp with the other. He made his way back upstairs.

  As he maneuvered the teapot and the mug onto the table, he was careful not to spill.

  He walked over to rewind the mechanism.

  He looked out over the ocean.

  Only a small flock of white seagulls, bobbing up and down on the surface near the rocks, interrupted the monotony of the sea. He sat down at the table and removed his gloves. He cupped his cold calloused hands, blew into them and rubbed them together. He then put the gloves back on and lifted the teapot off the table and gently swirled the tea around. He waited for the leaves to settle before pouring a small amount of tea into his cup. It was still lacking in colour, so he put the pot back on the table.

  In the absence of a tea cozy, he removed his scarf and wrapped it around the pot.

  He flipped up the collar of his black coat, buttoned the top button and pulled the collar tight around his neck.

  He thought of the lighthouse keeper’s dream.

  Besides the dioramas at the Museum of Natural History, his knowledge of Africa was minimal.

  He didn’t recognize the bull from the description in the dream and wondered if it was another figment of Soule’s imagination, or whether such a creature actually existed.

  He was also curious about the identity of the woman. It somehow seemed unlikely that a young white woman would be out in the African bush by herself.

  He wondered what was she doing in Kenya and how she had known the Maasai.

  Although he accepted the dream as a complete fantasy, there was however something distinctive in the description of the landscape and the conversation between the bull and the Maasai.

  He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Enoch Soule had believed it all to be real.

  He filled his cup with the steaming amber coloured liquid and touched it to his hardened, chapped lips, before returning the cup to the table.

  He checked his watch.

  An hour and fifteen minutes.

  He picked up a new sheet from the bundle.

  The Antarctic

  I fell on the ice.

  When I tried to stand up, I couldn’t feel my hands nor my feet. I was wearing a fur lined hat, pulled down to cover my ears, and the lower part of my face was wrapped in a thick woolen scarf. A pair of giant sealskin gloves, tied to my coat with a peculiar harness, covered my hands. A pair of fur boots enveloped my feet and the lower part of my legs. />
  I was in a rough and furfuraceous landscape, as I imagined the surface of an alien planet might be, consumed by a ferocious wind that bit into my face with tiny needle sharp teeth. Besides four barely visible objects in the distance, all I could see was snow and ice. I was standing still, while the elements around me continued their howling onslaught.

  I tried to move, but my limbs negated my command.

  I heard somebody shouting in the distance.

  “Oates? Oates?”

  The voice was coming closer, until a weather-beaten face appeared out of the storm. It was difficult to say how old this man was. His face was red and blistered from the exposure. He had small icicles hanging from his eyebrows and the lower part of his face was, as my own, covered in a heavy scarf. His eyes were looking at me from behind a large pair of goggles and he was otherwise dressed exactly as me.

  “You have to move Soldier,” he said, “you have to move.”

  “I am trying,” I said “but it seems I have no more fuel left in the tank.”

  “Nonsense,” he shouted. “You need to get moving. It’s imperative we get to the depot.”

  “Alright,” I said, “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s all I ask,” he said, and grabbed my arm to pull me along.

  Although I could see he had taken hold of me, I couldn’t feel it.

  I tried to move with him, but there was nothing I could do, my legs were inert.

  I fell down on the ice and scraped my cheek against the glacial surface, but I didn’t feel any pain.

  “Oates you have to get up,” he shouted, “you have to get up, right now!”

  I tried to stand, but my entire body now felt immobile.

  “Wilson,” he shouted, over the howling wind, “Bowers, hold up. Hold up.”

  “Hang in there, Soldier,” he said, “I’ll be back soon.”

  He slapped me on my shoulder and left me on the ice.

  There was nothing but the violent cold and the turbulent wind to keep me company. I closed my eyes.

  I believed I could hear voices in the distance. At first I thought it was an illusion, brought on by the elements, but the voices grew in strength.

  “Oates,” they shouted, in discord, “Oates, where are you?” “Here.” I shouted back. My voice sounded weak and exhausted.

  “Here. I am over here.”

  I feebly tried to raise my arm to wave, but it felt as heavy as lead and all I managed to do was to roll it slightly away from my body; even that small action was painful.

  I wasn’t sure that anybody had heard me, but soon three faces were looking down at me.

  “This is no time for a nap, old boy,” one of them said, as they grabbed me under my arms and slowly got me up to a standing position.

  “I am sorry,” I said “but I can’t go on.” I hung on their shoulders, as my legs again gave out from under me.

  “He needs to rest, Robert,” said one of the men. “We all need to rest.”

  “I know, Birdie,” he replied. I could tell he was weighing his options.

  “Let us set up camp and pray for a turn in the weather,” he said.

  They lowered me to the ground.

  I was pretty much useless and could only watch as they unpacked the sledge and began raising the tent. It was an arduous task and it took them a long time to finish.

  Once the tent was up, they helped me inside and lowered me onto a bunk of animal pelt. One of the men brought in a small burner that he placed in the center. He put a small pot on top and soon a foul smell, akin to burnt fish oil, was filling the air.

  I closed my eyes.

  Outside the tent, the wind was tenaciously tearing at the fabric.

  I still couldn’t feel my feet, but the palm of my left hand was starting to throb inside its sealskin holster. I attempted to move my fingers, but only succeeded in sending a burning, shooting pain up my arm.

  I remained still.

  I concentrated on the hushed discussion between the three men.

  “We can’t go on like this.” One of them said in a loud whisper to be heard over the wind. “We’re barely making a third of the distance necessary, and today he managed only two hours before collapsing.”

  “We’re close to the depot,” Robert replied. “If he rests enough and the wind subsides, I’m hopeful we can get him there.”

  “I’m not sure it matters anymore,” the man called Birdie said. “His stamina is not improving, his feet are in an absolutely wretched condition and he is acutely aware that he is slowing us down. If he could go on, he would, but he simply can’t. Remember he asked us to leave him behind yesterday and we wouldn’t allow it. He knows his journey has come to an end and we are now the ones holding him back.”

  “Yet, we are not barbarians, Birdie,” said Robert. “I simply won’t allow leaving one of our own behind.”

  “So what do we do? What options do we have?” Wilson asked.

  There was a long pause, where none of them spoke and all I could hear was the sound of the tempestuous wind clawing at the surface of the tent.

  “We will wait for something to change,” Robert finally said.

  They halted their conversation and the man called Birdie came to where I lay and gently tapped me on my shoulder. When I opened my eyes, he slid a small rolled up piece of fabric under my head and began to feed me a grainy yet fatty gruel from a small steel bowl. I could have devoured the entire bowl in one mouthful, but he insisted on feeding me slowly and meticulously. The gruel tasted like old dried up meat mixed with stale bread and left a thick, greasy film in my mouth.

  I didn’t care. In their desperate search for sustenance, my insides were agonizingly ripping at each other and when the small bowl was empty, I felt a pang of despair as deep as I have ever felt.

  Birdie held a cup of hot water to my lips and I drank a bit.

  My desperate state was reflected in his eyes. However, his wasn’t a pitiful stare.

  It was a recognition from one man to another that he had done everything in his power to succeed and that, even in defeat, he should be proud of his achievement.

  His own face was brutally beaten by the cold. His long narrow curved nose was reddish black and heavily blistered and the skin on his chapped cheekbones was flaking. His face was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, and when he opened his mouth, I noticed the traces of watery blood on his teeth under his cracked lips.

  “Do you want me to have a look at your hand?” he asked.

  I nodded and he very carefully removed my right glove.

  I winced in pain and looked down at my exposed hand.

  It was a dreadful sight.

  Halfway down to the knuckles, the tips of all four fingers were black as coal. They resembled small pieces of burnt wood. Except, these pieces had fingernails attached and were connected to a puffy hand that had layers of greyish skin detaching from its surface, revealing a blotchy pink complexion underneath. My thumb was sticking out from the hand like a small bulbous branch, the colour of death.

  I couldn’t bear the sight of the malformation and asked Birdie to cover it.

  He nodded and gently slipped the glove back on the mangled limb.

  “How are my feet doing?” I asked.

  He exchanged glances with Robert and Wilson, who were hunched over a map on the floor, before answering.

  “I’ll be honest with you,” he said, “we checked your feet yesterday, after you collapsed. The toes on your left foot are severely frostbitten and your right foot is now black almost to the ankle.” He looked at me. ”I’m sorry to tell you this old chap,” he said, “but gangrene has set in.”

  He looked at me and almost imperceptibly shook his head.

  I didn’t know how to respond to this news, so instead I closed my eyes. He left me to rest and turned to the others to discuss the lack of progress and their thoughts for the upcoming route.

  Listening to their conversation, there was no question in my mind that they we were running out of time.
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br />   They were under a tremendous amount of physical and mental stress in a most hostile environment.

  They all had the telltale signs of serious malnourishment and they were obviously behind schedule.

  If they didn’t make it to the next depot soon, they would most certainly perish.

  As the men settled down for the night, there was not much conversation.

  They seemed to have exhausted their reserves setting up the tent.

  I forced myself to stay awake for as long as possible.

  I thought of the raven in Poe’s poem and wondered if I was slowly losing my mind as I listened to the repetitious sound of the wind, delivering the same message again and again.

  I waited until there was no other sound but the howling wind, before I slowly got up from my bunk.

  It took a tremendous amount of effort and I could hardly stomach the pain, but I was finally up. I shuffled over to the entrance of the tent and, using only my left hand, slowly and clumsily undid the ties.

  As soon as the ties were undone, the fierce wind seized the canvas and ripped it from my grip. For fear of calling out in pain, I bit into my lip. I could taste the blood on my tongue as my teeth penetrated the parched skin.

  I heard a voice behind me. In the roar of the elements, I couldn’t be sure which one of them it was.

  “Where do you think you are you going?” it said.

  “I am just going outside and I may be some time.” I said over my shoulder.

  I exited the tent.

  I could hear a voice calling out behind me, as I stumbled into the whiteout. The cold was harrowing and the rapacious wind tore into me without mercy.

  I didn’t believe I would get very far, but it was of no importance, I had faith that the elements would consume me soon enough.

  I walked until I was too exhausted to move. I was near a large drift of ice.

  I lay down, rolled over on my back and closed my eyes. This was the moment to finally let go of the pain. I spread out my arms to welcome the great unknown.

  I opened my eyes and saw a mysterious creature move in the air above my head.