CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER I
Pictures! Pictures! Pictures! Often, before I learned, did I wonder
whence came the multitudes of pictures that thronged my dreams; for
they were pictures the like of which I had never seen in real
wake-a-day life. They tormented my childhood, making of my dreams a
procession of nightmares and a little later convincing me that I was
different from my kind, a creature unnatural and accursed.
In my days only did I attain any measure of happiness. My nights marked
the reign of fear—and such fear! I make bold to state that no man of
all the men who walk the earth with me ever suffer fear of like kind
and degree. For my fear is the fear of long ago, the fear that was
rampant in the Younger World, and in the youth of the Younger World. In
short, the fear that reigned supreme in that period known as the
Mid-Pleistocene.
What do I mean? I see explanation is necessary before I can tell you of
the substance of my dreams. Otherwise, little could you know of the
meaning of the things I know so well. As I write this, all the beings
and happenings of that other world rise up before me in vast
phantasmagoria, and I know that to you they would be rhymeless and
reasonless.
What to you the friendship of Lop-Ear, the warm lure of the Swift One,
the lust and the atavism of Red-Eye? A screaming incoherence and no
more. And a screaming incoherence, likewise, the doings of the Fire
People and the Tree People, and the gibbering councils of the horde.
For you know not the peace of the cool caves in the cliffs, the circus
of the drinking-places at the end of the day. You have never felt the
bite of the morning wind in the tree-tops, nor is the taste of young
bark sweet in your mouth.
It would be better, I dare say, for you to make your approach, as I
made mine, through my childhood. As a boy I was very like other boys—in
my waking hours. It was in my sleep that I was different. From my
earliest recollection my sleep was a period of terror. Rarely were my
dreams tinctured with happiness. As a rule, they were stuffed with
fear—and with a fear so strange and alien that it had no ponderable
quality. No fear that I experienced in my waking life resembled the
fear that possessed me in my sleep. It was of a quality and kind that
transcended all my experiences.
For instance, I was a city boy, a city child, rather, to whom the
country was an unexplored domain. Yet I never dreamed of cities; nor
did a house ever occur in any of my dreams. Nor, for that matter, did
any of my human kind ever break through the wall of my sleep. I, who
had seen trees only in parks and illustrated books, wandered in my
sleep through interminable forests. And further, these dream trees were
not a mere blur on my vision. They were sharp and distinct. I was on
terms of practised intimacy with them. I saw every branch and twig; I
saw and knew every different leaf.
Well do I remember the first time in my waking life that I saw an oak
tree. As I looked at the leaves and branches and gnarls, it came to me
with distressing vividness that I had seen that same kind of tree many
and countless times in my sleep. So I was not surprised, still later on
in my life, to recognize instantly, the first time I saw them, trees
such as the spruce, the yew, the birch, and the laurel. I had seen them
all before, and was seeing them even then, every night, in my sleep.
This, as you have already discerned, violates the first law of
dreaming, namely, that in one’s dreams one sees only what he has seen
in his waking life, or combinations of the things he has seen in his
waking life. But all my dreams violated this law. In my dreams I never
saw _anything_ of which I had knowledge in my waking life. My dream
life and my waking life were lives apart, with not one thing in common
save myself. I was the connecting link that somehow lived both lives.
Early in my childhood I learned that nuts came from the grocer, berries
from the fruit man; but before ever that knowledge was mine, in my
dreams I picked nuts from trees, or gathered them and ate them from the
ground underneath trees, and in the same way I ate berries from vines
and bushes. This was beyond any experience of mine.
I shall never forget the first time I saw blueberries served on the
table. I had never seen blueberries before, and yet, at the sight of
them, there leaped up in my mind memories of dreams wherein I had
wandered through swampy land eating my fill of them. My mother set
before me a dish of the berries. I filled my spoon, but before I raised
it to my mouth I knew just how they would taste. Nor was I
disappointed. It was the same tang that I had tasted a thousand times
in my sleep.
Snakes? Long before I had heard of the existence of snakes, I was
tormented by them in my sleep. They lurked for me in the forest glades;
leaped up, striking, under my feet; squirmed off through the dry grass
or across naked patches of rock; or pursued me into the tree-tops,
encircling the trunks with their great shining bodies, driving me
higher and higher or farther and farther out on swaying and crackling
branches, the ground a dizzy distance beneath me. Snakes!—with their
forked tongues, their beady eyes and glittering scales, their hissing
and their rattling—did I not already know them far too well on that day
of my first circus when I saw the snake-charmer lift them up?
They were old friends of mine, enemies rather, that peopled my nights
with fear.
Ah, those endless forests, and their horror-haunted gloom! For what
eternities have I wandered through them, a timid, hunted creature,
starting at the least sound, frightened of my own shadow, keyed-up,
ever alert and vigilant, ready on the instant to dash away in mad
flight for my life. For I was the prey of all manner of fierce life
that dwelt in the forest, and it was in ecstasies of fear that I fled
before the hunting monsters.
When I was five years old I went to my first circus. I came home from
it sick—but not from peanuts and pink lemonade. Let me tell you. As we
entered the animal tent, a hoarse roaring shook the air. I tore my hand
loose from my father’s and dashed wildly back through the entrance. I
collided with people, fell down; and all the time I was screaming with
terror. My father caught me and soothed me. He pointed to the crowd of
people, all careless of the roaring, and cheered me with assurances of
safety.
Nevertheless, it was in fear and trembling, and with much encouragement
on his part, that I at last approached the lion’s cage. Ah, I knew him
on the instant. The beast! The terrible one! And on my inner vision
flashed the memories of my dreams,—the midday sun shining on tall
grass, the wild bull grazing quietly, the sudden parting of the grass
before the swift rush of the tawny one, his leap to the bull’s back,
the crashing and the bellowing, and the crunch crunch of bones; or
again, the cool quiet of the water-hole, the wild horse up to his knees
and drinking softly, and then the tawny one—always the tawny one!—the
leap, the screaming and the splashing of the horse, and the crunch
crunch of bones; and yet again, the sombre twilight and the sad silence
of the end of day, and then the great full-throated roar, sudden, like
a trump of doom, and swift upon it the insane shrieking and chattering
among the trees, and I, too, am trembling with fear and am one of the
many shrieking and chattering among the trees.
At the sight of him, helpless, within the bars of his cage, I became
enraged. I gritted my teeth at him, danced up and down, screaming an
incoherent mockery and making antic faces. He responded, rushing
against the bars and roaring back at me his impotent wrath. Ah, he knew
me, too, and the sounds I made were the sounds of old time and
intelligible to him.
My parents were frightened. “The child is ill,” said my mother. “He is
hysterical,” said my father. I never told them, and they never knew.
Already had I developed reticence concerning this quality of mine, this
semi-disassociation of personality as I think I am justified in calling
it.
I saw the snake-charmer, and no more of the circus did I see that
night. I was taken home, nervous and overwrought, sick with the
invasion of my real life by that other life of my dreams.
I have mentioned my reticence. Only once did I confide the strangeness
of it all to another. He was a boy—my chum; and we were eight years
old. From my dreams I reconstructed for him pictures of that vanished
world in which I do believe I once lived. I told him of the terrors of
that early time, of Lop-Ear and the pranks we played, of the gibbering
councils, and of the Fire People and their squatting places.
He laughed at me, and jeered, and told me tales of ghosts and of the
dead that walk at night. But mostly did he laugh at my feeble fancy. I
told him more, and he laughed the harder. I swore in all earnestness
that these things were so, and he began to look upon me queerly. Also,
he gave amazing garblings of my tales to our playmates, until all began
to look upon me queerly.
It was a bitter experience, but I learned my lesson. I was different
from my kind. I was abnormal with something they could not understand,
and the telling of which would cause only misunderstanding. When the
stories of ghosts and goblins went around, I kept quiet. I smiled
grimly to myself. I thought of my nights of fear, and knew that mine
were the real things—real as life itself, not attenuated vapors and
surmised shadows.
For me no terrors resided in the thought of bugaboos and wicked ogres.
The fall through leafy branches and the dizzy heights; the snakes that
struck at me as I dodged and leaped away in chattering flight; the wild
dogs that hunted me across the open spaces to the timber—these were
terrors concrete and actual, happenings and not imaginings, things of
the living flesh and of sweat and blood. Ogres and bugaboos and I had
been happy bed-fellows, compared with these terrors that made their bed
with me throughout my childhood, and that still bed with me, now, as I
write this, full of years.