Chapter 37: A Mind Under a Dozen Blankets
Scattered, our blood covers the grass, our bodies lie as food for ravens, and Neo roars through the carnage, swinging the head of Oscar in his right hand. He brings the gruesome trophy up to eye level, regards the lifeless and sagging face for a moment, then suddenly bites at the lips of his defeated enemy.
With a gesture akin to a Nazi salute, Neo brandishes the mutilated head to each of the four points of the compass. ‘There are victories that really make a difference,’ his voice comes booming through my dream, ‘and this is one of them.’
Among the bodies being trampled upon by Neo’s hordes is that of Amanda. Whether he scorns to deface her, or whether he does not recognise her, I cannot say. But as they march towards me over her body, Neo’s supporters speak.
Bragi says this:
‘Now let all see the virtues of my noble earl. The host with hanged-Tyre’s hoods did not hold back from going down the slope in company with this hero. A raven’s harvest was made by their iron swords.’
Viga-Glum says this:
‘Often the mischief-maker brought to me the raven-god’s unholy cryptocoin. Now to Celine he brings death that is a final end.’
Glum-Geirason says this:
‘It was Victory-Tyr himself present in the attacking of Cyn’s muse. There were debugging programs guiding that course.’
‘Quite right!’ cries Neo at the head of his victorious army. ‘Empathy is a bug in the capitalist program that needs to be removed. And on this day, we have demonstrated how to remove it.’
The live-chat passed on to me by those attending my dream at that particular time is probably, surely even, a godsend, for until this moment I was not aware of the importance of community, I mean of the absolute necessity of community, to the avoidance of disaster in the case of the suppression of one’s id. The inner spirits of everyone present are thickly entwined within my wound, filling the cavity created by Neo’s violence and thus I am able to survive, albeit in a new fashion. Even the fascists inadvertently make their own contribution. Even Neo.
Now more multitude than individual, we rearrange the dream and are in a forest – deep in a forest – where every one of the million or more trees contains the id of a dream participant. Even older than the tall ash and maple trees is the grass-covered passage tomb beneath us. Who lies there? Celine? But she has only just been murdered a few minutes ago, not centuries.
What is terrible about this moment is that my anger is stifled. I never really became angry, not even as a result this act of rapine. I feel like I don’t really have time to properly rage at the crushing of my vision for a better world. I am tormented by the idea that I have to paint, and I know that when I wake up I will immediately do so.
Into the clearing comes a cheerful Celtic or Roman soldier in leather armour with five enormous wolf hounds on leads. ‘Don’t despair Cyn. Let me take your picture. Sit… sit… sit.’ He pushes the dogs into position in front of me and then moves to the other side of the clearing, a large-lensed camera in hand.
‘Sit Dante, sit!’ One the hounds keeps getting up to rejoin him. The soldier laughs apologetically. ‘It’s always Dante who gets up. You’d better hold his leash.’
With both my hands resisting the pull of the huge beast, at last the dog called Dante gets the idea and the photo is taken. I know it will do a lot of good, that when people leave my dream, they will remember me with the dogs.
‘Who are you?’ I ask him when he crosses the clearing and takes the leash back from me.
‘Tony.’
‘Tony from my studio?’
‘The very same.’
‘Thanks for this.’
‘Not at all.’ And as briskly as he arrived, Tony departs. Job done.
Slowly, a large, invisible dome begins to descend. At the centre of the hemisphere is the passage tomb, inside of which sits Celine beside an easel. The edges of the dome mark the boundary between life and death and I must make a choice. Life. I want to live. I choose life. And I step outside of the dome before it becomes a trap. Yet just before it lands with finality upon the grass, the lowering motion of the dome pauses and I know I’m being given another chance. Poor Celine. It will be unbearably lonely for her in there without me. I roll under the edge and it closes with me inside. Dead.
It is pleasant there, in the white light. Just the two of us. We are at right-angles to one another, painting.
***
I wake and remove the DreamAds hood. I switch off the phone that disturbed my sleep. I am surprised to be Cyn Sweetwater. I remember that I am on Clare Island. I recall a dream of a nightmarish battle. I remember making a choice at the very end of the dream. I had chosen death and love, a death from which I should not have come back. Yet here I was again. Awake.
I brush my teeth. I put on fresh underwear and t-shirt. I roll up tight the old clothes and arrange them firmly in the bottom of my pack. I take a last look around the bedroom. I go down the carpeted stairs, sketchbook under my right arm. I listen to my host say she is sorry to see me depart. Could I not stay at least until the fine weather breaks? I hear her tell me there are many more inspiring views and she’d love to see more of my sketches. I open my sketch book and give her the one of the birds. I notice tears come into her eyes. I hear her try to refuse, but I insist. I know that this will be framed and placed on her wall and treasured by visitors. I feel happy that the sketch has a home near the birds.
I walk to the ferry. I feel a light breeze on my face and bare forearms. I regret not having brought sunglasses now the fire of the sky has risen above Croagh Patrick. I cross a rackety-metal drawbridge onto the ferry and climb the stairs to a seat by the captain’s cabin. Despite the brightness, I feel cold as the wave-cutter pushes through the dark sea to the mainland. I refuse to meet the persistent stares of an elderly male hiker. I wait for him to get off first. I am the last to leave the ferry. I take my time to walk to the bus stop and am glad no one else is there. I wait. I hear loud birdsong. I hear the bus before I see it. I get on the bus and pay my fare to Westport. I look out of the window, relishing every view of Clew Bay. I get out at Westport. I walk to the railway station. I find my train ticket in a zip pocket. I sit on a bench waiting for the train. I take out my phone and switch it on.
My phone rang.
‘Cyn! So good to get through to you. How are you?’
It was Daniel. ‘All the better for hearing your voice.’
‘Has Celine gone? Did Neo kill her?’
‘I don’t know. Let me ask her.’ Did Neo kill you? Answer with a television show. Immediately I thought of the Red Wedding scene from Game of Thrones. ‘She says he did, very violently.’
‘But you can still talk to her?’
‘Communicate, you mean. It seems so.’
‘That’s great. The dream can’t have meant he actually killed her then. How much do you remember of it?’
‘Not much. I mainly remember at the very end, I had to make a choice… and I chose to stay with Celine, even in death. I’m glad I did. It was the right thing to do.’
‘Well, I was there for it all and I’m sorry to say the fascists won. You should see them today on X – actually, don’t – they are gloating like never before. And all the tankies are joining in, scoffing that the woke crowd got a taste of the boot.’
‘Did Celine make the speech about hope? Was it any good?’
‘It was very good. Inspiring.’ He paused for a moment and in that pause the announcement for the Dublin train rang out around the station.
‘What was it like, having so many people sharing your dream?’ Daniel asked.
‘I don’t really know. I can remember feeling the presence of other people but they were vague. It’s left me drained for sure. Like, imagine you were partying for twenty-four hours and took all the drugs that came your way. And then it’s the next day. And you’re tired, there’s no more party, and your mind lies under a dozen blankets.’
‘Sounds bad. I can’t wait to see you. I’ll cook you something to cheer you up.’
‘Wonderful.’ I stood up and joined the modest group of people walking up the platform. There would be plenty of seats.
We arranged for Daniel to meet me and I said goodbye before getting into the train and settling into a two-seat area, where I had more privacy than sitting at a table. Once the train was underway, I felt lulled by the regular sway of the carriage and soon was on the cusp of sleep.
Hush, Cyn Sweetwater, don’t you cry, the trolley has a slice of apple pie. Hush, Cyn Sweetwater, don’t be sad, if you don’t want it there’s more for your dad. The carriage is motherly, singing in a click-clack voice to us all. Seats 33 and 34 contain James Seymour, aka Sparks on account of his trade and the missus, Milana Seymour, formerly Babich. Honeymooners with plans. Sparks has an ad running on Facebook targeted to northsiders, offering Dempniks garden lights for two hundred Euro. It’s Milana’s brother-in-law who can get them cheap enough from Ukraine, when he’s on leave from the front. In seat 8 is Roy Harte thinking about how cruel it was of Breen to be keeping the sow in the trough the whole time. That damn shed of horrors: filthy, rancid, and her on her side with the piglets sucking and her twitching all day, infested with flies, with ears rotting away. It was the same in that dream. Neo, the fascist, and his gang, stamping on the visions of that lovely woman. She was a threat to him, that’s why. And not only as a witness to that shenanigans in Kildare. She wanted the world to be at peace. For us to love one another. And why not? Wasn’t that what the good book said? In seats 49 and 50 are Denise Carey, retail assistant in Dunnes Stores, and her daughter Caroline. It was a shame to come home on such a lovely day. Another day in the fresh air would have done the Sweet a lot of good. To have stayed would have meant another black mark from school though. How many was that now? If they’d have seen Caroline’s interest in Gráinne Mhaol they’d have been amazed. And here, look it, her Love was listening again to Sinead O’Connor, Óró se do bheatha ‘bhaile. Gráinne Mhaol was coming all right. Fair was fair. Kneecap had been Caroline’s choice and maybe there was the same spirit. They were fond of swearing though. That artist, Cyn Sweetwater, that was more like it. Soft. But did softness ever win? In 24 and 23, Liam O’Brien was balancing Freddy fox on one end of a toy seesaw for the entertainment of young Jim O’Brien beside him. ‘See-saw Marjoree Daw. Johnny shall have a new master. He shall have but a penny a day. Because he can’t go any faster.’ Saoirse and he would meet in her dreams tonight and he foresaw her pale body reclined at full, naked, hood on. Would it be better than Zoom? Fuller? Without the awkwardness of cameras? Languid, liquid. What did Saoirse dream about? Other people’s dreams were dull, uninteresting, full of meaning only to themselves. With Saoirse, though, didn’t their lives overlap so much that the meaning would be clear? Those hoods were expensive but worth it. It was like with phones, eventually everyone would have one. Shame the technology was in Neo’s hands though, that fascist cunt, spoiling everything. Because who knew if they could listen in? Liam banged a fist down on one end of the seesaw, launching the orange plastic fox over Jim and into the aisle. Delighted, Jim got down, retrieved the toy and, having regained the seat, spoke the word that had been his first, that day on the swings, after months anxious urging, bringing relief and joy to the both of them. ‘Again!’
By the time the train eased along Platform 5 at Heuston Station, I felt refreshed, having napped for most of the journey. Daniel, dinner, bed, the immediate future beckoned me with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes. And yes, there was a shadow further off, the enormous shadow cast by Neo, but it was a relief for now to be myself once more. Whatever had happened during last night’s dream had shaken me very deeply and had driven Celine into relative distance and quiet. It had not, however, done worse. I was back, I was happy, I was ready to paint again.