All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream

Edgar Allen Poe

 

The community was ageless. Its residents didn’t know when it was born, nor did they care to know. The community was there, for always and always, peaceful, unchanging, a solid foundation for secure existence. To tamper with it in any way would have been supreme foolishness. And so it existed, untouched, for a long time, and the residents were happy.

Then came the dreamer.

His name was Kennedy, and no one was quite sure when he first appeared, but appear he did, and his presence horribly upset the precious tranquility of the community. You see, Kennedy thought he was asleep, and that everything and everyone he came in contact with was part of a dream he was having. And since a dream has no reason, no rhyme, no structure, no consequence, no morals – neither did Kennedy.

‘You don’t exist!’ he would laugh at those he met. ‘You are a figment of my mind! Why should I care about you?’

And God help those who resisted Kennedy’s will, for he might scream, ‘You don’t dare refuse me! Why I could kill you with a mere thought. I could have a nightmare, and you’d find yourself among a million writhing snakes. Or even worse, I could pinch myself and wake up. Then you’d cease to exist.’

It really was a bother. The people of the community found life with Kennedy more unbearable with each passing day. At first they thought of him as a joke, the resident fool, but soon they came to think of him as an annoyance, then a genuine threat. But Kennedy paid them no heed, and he continued to do anything he wished, having himself a grand old time, always joyful and laughing.

For instance, there was the time he stormed into the Butcher’s shop and urinated on all the meat. When the Butcher threatened him with a meat cleaver, Kennedy laughed, ‘This is a dream. You’re a dream. That cleaver’s a dream. You expect to hurt me with a dream?’ Then he skipped out of the shop, still laughing.

And who can forget the time Kennedy pulled all the flowers from the Widow’s garden? The Widow, who was very fond of her flowers, and afforded them great care, screamed at him in shock from her front porch as Kennedy laughed, ‘I created these flowers. They belong to me! I can do anything I want with them.’ And with that, he threw the flowers to the ground and crushed them into the dirt, laughing at the Widow when she fainted at the sight.

Yes, the world was Kennedy’s private domain, his dream, and he was going to enjoy himself. Kennedy said what he wanted, demanded whatever he wanted, took whatever he wanted, destroyed whatever he wanted, raped whatever he wanted, and worse, the man never stopped laughing. He was king. He was God. But still the community’s residents hoped he might eventually forsake his madness and accept reality.

But Kennedy never accepted reality. Instead, he killed the Shepherd.

The Shepherd looked out at the field one day, and saw Kennedy making off with one of his sheep. Being understandably protective of his flock, the Shepherd attacked Kennedy and knocked him to the ground. Kennedy answered the challenge by implanting a rather large rock in the temporal bone of the Shepherd’s skull, killing him instantly. Kennedy felt no remorse. Instead, he laughed.

This was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. The community were up in arms. They could tolerate a mad dreamer, but not a murderer. They wanted something done about Kennedy, and fast.

‘You must do something,’ said the Blacksmith to the Parson.

The sun was high in the sky, a globe of bright white light from which surged a heavy, stagnating light. The Parson was enjoying it, for he liked hot sunny days, and that’s exactly what the last seven days had been. The Blacksmith, being a heavy man and therefore more sensitive to hot weather, was not sharing the Parson’s enjoyment. The intense heat made him cranky.

‘Perhaps Kennedy also like hot, sunny days,’ the Parson pondered out loud. ‘Maybe he’s dreaming of them, and that’s why we’ve had so many.’ The Parson smiled a little. He considered himself something of a philosopher, and he found Kennedy’s claims both entertaining and intriguing. The Blacksmith was not a philosopher, so the Parson’s views annoyed him to no end.

‘Damn you!’ he growled, not the one to watch his language. ‘I’m real. You’re real. We exist! We’re not part of Kennedy’s or anyone else’s dream. We are both here under this blasted sun, and we exist!’

‘I think, therefore I am …’ murmured the Parson.

The Blacksmith wiped the sweat from his face with an old cloth. His outburst did nothing to disturb the laziness that hung in the air. Behind him he heard the steady breathing of the bellows: in – out – in – out. Never faltering.

‘How can you take it? Everything we believe in, everything we live for hangs in the balance, and you condone his actions!’

‘I don’t condone his action,’ said the Parson. ‘I merely defend them.’

‘You must see him.’ There was finality in the Blacksmith’s statement.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s your job to see him’

‘There must be another way.’

‘There’s no other way. Kennedy must be stopped. You must see him.’

‘But it’s so unpleasant.’

‘It must be done.’

‘Kennedy doesn’t deserve it.’

‘He killed the Shepherd.’

The Parson winced at that. He had liked, had loved the Shepherd, as had everyone both inside and outside the community. The Shepherd was a special man, kind and generous. When he died, a whole nation mourned.

Suddenly, the Parson felt very tired. He closed his eyes, and for an instant he saw the sea, and a beach, and a large house made of white marble that glistened in the sun. He could smell the salt in the warm breeze, and the honey-sweet scent of roses. He opened his eyes again, and he was back in the community, and it was a hot sunny day. He sighed. Sometimes he hated his job.

‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘I will see him.’

‘Thank God.’ The Blacksmith fanned himself with an old magazine as the Parson lifted himself from his chair, wincing with pain as he did so. His back was bothering him again. He stepped off the porch and looked up at the sky.

‘A wonderful day,’ he said, a touch of melancholy in his words.

‘Too hot,’ grumbled the Blacksmith

‘The sun, the heat – they rejuvenate.’ The Parson squinted down the road. ‘They bring life to the body.’

He took a deep breath, then walked through the dirt, the dust rising about his feet.

The Blacksmith sat on his porch and waited, the constant in – out – in – out breathing of the bellows marked the passing time. The light in the sky grew brighter, the heat more oppressive, the silence heavier in the air, and the Blacksmith cast a worried glance down the road for some sign of the Parson. Still the bellows inhaled and exhaled.

The bellows stopped.

Peering down the road, the Blacksmith saw a tiny black spot on the horizon. He raised himself from his chair as the spot grew larger, drawing nearer, taking form, becoming the Parson.

‘You saw him?’ he asked. He saw the pain in the Parson’s eyes.

‘It is done.’ The Parson looked down at the thick layer of dust on his shoes. Reaching in his tunic, he drew out a large, brightly coloured flower and held it gently in the palm of his hand, admiring the yellow, orange, and red petals.

‘It had to be done,’ the Blacksmith said, his voice gentle.

‘Of course …’ sighed the Parson. ‘Always … for ever and ever … it must always be done …’ He curled his finger around the flower. ‘… it must be done again … again … and again.’ With slow deliberateness, he crushed the flower in his hand.

His fingers opened, the flower was reduced to a mass of yellow, orange and red pulp. The Parson looked up to see the sky darkening. Thick clouds filled the sky. Thunder rumbled deeply in the distance, and the air turned cold. The Parson saw he was speaking to empty space. The Blacksmith was gone.

There were tears in the Parson’s eyes. He again looked up at the angry sky and heard the wild howl of the wind bearing down on him.

‘Again … and again …’

His voice was a sob. The howling drew closer all around him, growing louder. He knew it would be a long, long time before he saw another hot sunny day.

‘… and again … and again … and again.’

The Parson was gone.

 

The doctor peeled the surgical mask from his face and looked down at the body on the table. He’d worked hard, harder than he’d ever done in his entire career. The light over the table was switched off, the steady breathing of the regulator was stilled. The nurse glanced up at the clock on the wall and noted the time.

Kennedy died on June 6, 1968, a bullet deep in his brain. He never came out of the coma.

On the day he died, a whole nation mourned.

Originally published in White Wall Review 1 (1977)