I hear chanting. I wonder if someone fell asleep with the television on again as I recognize the stereotypical drumming and singing that is supposed to signify the presence of First Nations peoples. Great. Another Get’Em Cowboy movie.
I’m considering if blowing the power to the house to silence the steady influx of warped nostalgia is worth the risk of fire as I turn over.
I don’t stop turning over.
I’m spinning in place.
I will myself to stop spinning, and I stop. My body feels more illusion than real and I accept that everything I am seeing is illusion anyway. The chanting continues but now I hear rattles drowning out the drums. I turn my head to where I think the sounds are coming from.
A man, appearing to be in his 60’s, is standing strongly. He is not facing me squarely, but is turned away such that I can only see his left side clearly. I can not see what he is standing on. It could be solidified light under his feet for all I know. The light surrounds us both. He is wearing old jeans, old worn boots, a faded flannel shirt under a worn denim jacket. His hands are in his pockets. He is facing down, but not in submission. The posture is allowing him to chant the bass tones in his voice stronger than the higher tones.
His hair is unrestricted and moving softly in a vortex that surrounds him. Gray hair that looks spun from clouds reaches down to his thighs and embraces him as the tight coil of air continues. I notice half of his hair is translucent and white. As if it was spun from glass instead of keratin.
He stops chanting. The rattles continue unseen. He knows he has my full attention. He turns to face me square and looks up at me.
The right side of his face is skeletal. A desiccated scalp clings to the crown of the exposed bone, and it is from there that the glassy white hair is coming from. No eye occupies the dry socket, instead a bright mote of light is settled there. The mote moves in proper relation to his living eye.
He is waiting.
I am not afraid.
I start to reach for him but the dream suddenly ripples and I am forcibly ejected. I sit up in bed, completely disoriented by the laggard darkness and clinging silence in the house. In my mind’s ear, I hear the chanting resume.
I lie down and follow the chanting, letting it wrap around me and pull me back to him.
Bright light blinds me and I fumble. Two hands grip my arms and steady me. One hand is warm and soft. The other hand is cold and hard. The hands release me as I gain my sight. He stands several feet taller than I, but my head is level with his. I realize I’m floating again while he is still standing on the solidified light.
Grandfather smiles in greeting.
I worry that my incomplete knowledge is corrupting what I am experiencing. Am I falling back on stereotypes again? Do I have the right to call him “Grandfather”?
Grandfather smiles and the mote in his bone socket winks in mirth. He has given me permission to call him “Grandfather”. I do not know how I know this.
He raises his skeletal right hand and gently pats me on the head. Any lingering fear leaves. I am aware that a predator would use the same calming motions before striking, and that I really have no way to vet what I am seeing. But I am not afraid.
He raises his head and starts the calling chant again. Something deep inside me resonates to the timbre in his voice. Old memories, forgotten long before I ever was, start to seep out of my bones.
The alarm shatters the dream’s grip on me and I kick the sheets in frustration. After silencing the alarm, I close my eyes to try to grasp one last look at Grandfather.
The rattles have silenced. The drums are fading. Grandfather closes his eyes and hums to himself. He expected this. There will be time later.
I want to throw a temper tantrum about new rabbit holes and new puzzles thrown my way. But something deep inside tells me that “Grandfather” is someone I already know, but under a different name and using a different face. I need to see him as this because… reasons… I’m not sure.
I’ll find out.