The Dream

A story loosely based on Daniel Seven

By Bob Freye

The abundance of stone in the hills above San Lagos had ensured that the walls of the prison would be massive and impenetrable. Within the narrow walkway, the boot steps of the guards echoed against the stone walls, like a pitiful drumbeat.

Angela stuck close to the guard in front of her and clutched her notebook with both arms. She did not want to be here any longer than necessary.

The cell was at the end of the hall, where the most feared convicts would be kept. She passed by a long line of lonely men, their arms hanging on the bars of their cells, their faces pressed as close as possible to her, just to catch a glance at something that still lived in the outside world.    

She felt sorry for them, but they were not her business today. The guard led her to the last cell and waited, as if to give her one last chance to turn around and go back home.

“Hey! What you got?” The voice boomed out of the far end of the cell. He was not like the others. He was bright, almost—well—happy.

“You got company for me?” Francisco Garza sat up on his bed and smoothed the blankets next to him. “Tell her she can come in. I don’t bite.”

“Shut up,” the guard grumbled.

He looked at Angela. “You sure you want to go in?”

She nodded.

“I’ll be right here,” the guard promised. He unlocked the cell door and let Angela walk by. Then he slammed the door shut and made certain that it would stay that way.

“What you want with me?” Garza asked. A mischievous grin crinkled his weathered face. “Why you come to see me?”

“I want to know your story,” Angela told him. She took a seat on the cell’s only furniture, a simple wooden stool. Unfolding her notebook, she flipped through pages until she found a blank sheet of paper. She looked at Garza and mentioned, almost off-hand, “They say you killed people.”

“Yes, I have heard that story,” Garza pouted, “but I do not know if I should believe it myself. Tell me, do you think that I killed people?”

“This is your story,” Angela replied.

“Then I do not kill anyone,” Garza declared. “That is my story.”

“They say you murdered people, and that you burned farms,” Angela said.

“Yes, well, a few farms were burned, and a few people were murdered,” Garza prattled on, “but that does not mean that I did it.”

“This is your story,” she said, catching his attention for a moment. “I’d like you to tell me what really happened.”

He sat slumped against the wall, his feet dangling off the bed. His expression went dark for an instant, and then a smile spread across his face.

“My story? You want me to tell you? I was the magnificent!” His eyes grew wide, and his voice rose, nearly to a shout. “I was the king! No one moved without my permission! That is my story. Tell that to your readers.”

“They say you were a bandit.” She suggested.

“No, they are wrong. I was the king. I took what I wanted and did whatever I wanted.”

“A bandit will do the same,” Angela said.

“No, no,” he objected, “a bandit breaks the law, because he has no choice. But I made the law! I was the law! I was no bandit. I was the king.”

“So you killed?”

“Yes, I killed. I killed many.”

“How many?” she asked.

“Too many to count,” he said, dismissing the thought, “and not enough.”

“So you killed …” she began.

“I killed, I burned, I took what I wanted.”

“All without reason.”

“I had my reasons,” he objected.

“Tell me,” Angela said.

But Garza was tired of polite conversation.

“My reasons,” he repeated. Then he sank back against the wall.

“You killed, you stole, you did what you wanted.” Angela closed her notebook and stood up. “But no more.”

She signaled for the guard to open the door.

“Why you want my story?” Garza asked. “You work for the newspaper? Some magazine out east?”

Angela slipped out the door and watched the guard slam it shut.

“No,” she said. “I’m not a writer. I’ll be at your trial. I’m on the jury.”

Garza’s eyes narrowed. He was about to spit out a curse when the hallway flashed with a blinding light. He winced in pain, closing his eyes against the brilliant whiteness that washed the room.

As his vision cleared, he saw the guard and Angela at the bars. They had not blinked or reacted to the light.

“What was that?” Garza whimpered.

“That’s what a real king looks like,” Angela said. “You’ll meet him soon enough. But don’t worry. You have nothing to fear, unless—“

She made a repentant face.

“Oh, that’s right. You have a great deal to fear.”

And she turned and walked away. Garza bolted to the door and pressed his face into the space between the bars.

“I did what I wanted!” he screamed as the footsteps clacked down the stone hall. “I was king! I did what I wanted!” He beat his hand against the metal door, over and over … bang, bang, bang!

Over and over … bang, bang … beep, beep!

Beep, beep, beep!

Dan Olquist rolled over and stared at the clock. Five-thirty. The alarm pounded at his brain … beep, beep, beep!

He managed to hang out of bed far enough to tap the button on the clock, activating the snooze feature that he found so welcome. Then he pulled himself back into bed and lay on his back, trying to gather his thoughts.

He had been dreaming. Something weird. Like an old west movie, sort of. The dream left him in a decidedly unsettled mood. He hated that. His body didn’t want to move, and his mind certainly didn’t want to get ready for work.

He had to clear everything out, let himself settle. He took a few deep breaths, thought about simple things, a field of tall grass, a breeze, the waving of the grass back and forth, back and forth … 

They had cleared part of the field. People were gathered on the smooth ground, but not for harvest. They had set out chairs in a semi-circle, a dozen thickly constructed wooden chairs, all hewn and joined on the spot. One was larger, brighter. It had been polished to catch the light, and under the bright sun, it glowed like gold.

An old man stood next to one of the chairs, feeling the wood with his hand. Where he touched the wood, he left dark stains. He was wounded, and from the look, the wounds had not been dressed. He leaned against the chair, but not from weakness. He rested, as if he had been standing for a long time.

Or waiting. He had been waiting.

The sunlight grew brighter, and brighter, until the valley glowed with the same brightness. It came from the chair, the big one, the one that had been polished. It was brilliant now, like fire among the dry grass of the field.

Someone was sitting there, in the midst of the fire. He spoke, and the fire roared out from him, like a river of molten rock, pouring out into the valley.

The old man hoisted himself onto the chair and looked out across the mowed field. He looked for two faces, and recognized them instantly. One was the face of the man who had saved his life. And the other was the man who had killed him.

Bang!

From the big chair, a gavel struck.

Bang! Bang!

Out of the fire.

Bang! Bang!

Ringing through the valley. Ringing …

Bang! Bang!

Beep! Beep!

Dan pried his eyes open one more time. Maybe he could hit the snooze again. That weird feeling had not gone away. He hated those dreams that came and went, and in the morning, you couldn’t remember anything.

But this was different.

He could remember everything.

[-] © 2006