Читать книгу Overheard in a Dream - Torey Hayden, Torey Hayden - Страница 11

“So what exactly happened to you that night you first saw Torgon?” James asked, once Laura was settled for her next session. “When you experienced this intense imaginative episode?”

Laura sat in silence for a few minutes. “Well, as I followed Torgon towards the lilac hedge, I was in her world. One moment I was on the path through Adler’s vacant lot and the next moment I was on this high promontory of chalky white stone. The soil itself was white. Not crumbly like in the Badlands, but actual rock that was pushed up in great, distinct ribs to form the cliff, as if a giant had slammed together a handful of blackboard chalk. Below us was this massive broadleaved forest that stretched off in all directions. Sort of what I’d expect the Amazon Basin to look like, if you viewed it from high up. I remember the trees undulating restlessly in the breeze, almost like waves in an ocean. That’s how it got its name. From that point on, I always called it the Forest because of that view from the cliff.”

Laura paused pensively. “When I say ‘I went there’ or ‘I went with her’, that’s not quite right. It’s hard to describe what really happened, because I was aware ‘I’ myself wasn’t there. This was one thing that was different about the Forest from my other fantasies. In all of those, I was always at the centre of the action, imagining myself as the star, doing things with the characters I created. The Forest was completely different. It was more like seeing a movie.

“At first I couldn’t figure out what Torgon’s role was. It was immediately obvious that she was a leader of some kind. You could tell that straightaway from the way people treated her. I assumed at first that she was a queen, but came to realize that she was, in fact, a kind of holy person. Not a priestess exactly, but of that type. The word in the Forest people’s language for her role was benna.”

“So they had their own language?” James asked.

“Yes. Although the only time I was aware of it was with words like benna that didn’t have an equivalent in English. I’d ‘hear’ those words.”

James listened with fascination. He had always found children’s imaginary companions intriguing, partly because he’d had no similar companions himself so it was hard to conceptualize the experience. Becky, however, had gone through a phase at three when an invisible tiger named Ticky had accompanied her everywhere, so that had given him a valuable second-hand experience. He knew that imaginary companions, outlandish though they could seem, were a normal, healthy part of childhood and usually indicated a child of above-average intelligence. It was unusual that Laura’s imaginary world had come into being so late, as the more usual age for this sort of thing was between three and six, but it wasn’t unheard of, especially in highly creative children

James looked at Laura. As she talked about the Forest, she relaxed. The anxiety of the previous session had entirely gone and she sat back in an open, comfortable position. Her eye contact was excellent, her smile ready.

“Torgon didn’t live in the village where the others lived she said,” because she was considered divine by her people, an embodiment of their god, Dwr. So she lived in a walled compound in the forest, a sort of monastery. There was another high-status holy person living there as well. His name was Valdor, but he was always called the Seer because he had divine visions. This was actually his role, sort of like an oracle. He wore long, heavy white robes with gold embroidery on the edges and he was very old when I first saw him – in his mid-seventies, perhaps. There were some women also living in the compound. Like nuns. And children. Lots and lots of children of all ages. They came from the village, from wealthy families mostly, to get an education at the compound. They were called acolytes, even though they didn’t do anything very religious.

“That first night I went …” Laura gave a small quirky smile. “I was actually a bit disappointed to find out all this. Up until then my life had been all about comic books and TV shows. I was passionate about Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and I can remember thinking, why couldn’t it have been Dale Evans who popped up in Adler’s lot? But it took no time at all for me to fall in love with Torgon. She was this amazing person. Very charismatic. And intelligent. Really savvy, you know? In a streetwise sort of way. But she was also very emotional. Her moods could change with breathtaking suddenness and she was never the least bit inclined to rein them in. Yet she could still be so appealing, so charming, even in the midst of the most unreasonable behaviour. I loved that about her, that complicated wildness.”

“Who knew about Torgon? Did you tell anyone? Your father, for instance?”

“Kind of,” she replied and became thoughtful for a moment.

“I’m hearing something more in your voice,” James said. “Did your father not approve?”

“It’s not so much that he disapproved. Just that he didn’t get it, so there wasn’t much point in telling him. I spoke to him about it, but he didn’t ‘hear’ me, if you know what I mean.”

“Can you clarify that a bit?”

She considered James’s request, then nodded. “Like, for example, I remember once when I was eight. I was on my annual visit to his house here in Rapid City. I came every August to stay a week with him and my brothers. It was the highlight of my life in those days. Not Christmas, not my birthday, but that last week in August when my dad took his vacation and I got to come and stay with him.

“I slept on this rollaway bed that he put in the corner of his bedroom. For a long time, it had become my practice to go to the Forest during that period between getting in bed and falling asleep. I liked to do it then as it was a nice relaxing time and I didn’t get interrupted. At the Meckses no one ever even noticed because I was up in the attic, so I’d never paid much attention to whether I was talking out loud or not. But, of course, in Dad’s small apartment, he heard me and came in to see what I was doing. I remember him silhouetted in the doorway, asking, ‘Are you talking to one of us?’ I said no, that I was just playing.

“He came on into the room then and sat down on the edge of the bed and said, ‘You seem to be having an awfully good time in here by yourself. What are you playing?’

“Torgon had been coming to me for about a year by then and I was really into all the details of her life. For example, she was the elder of two daughters and had this sister four years younger who was named Mogri, and I knew all about the kinds of things they had done together growing up. I knew tons of other stuff too. The Forest society had an incredibly rigid hierarchy of castes and which caste you were born into counted for everything there. It determined who you were, what work you could do, which other members of society you could associate with. The highest caste was a religious ruling class that consisted of the Seer, the benna and their offspring. They were almost like a royal family, because they had absolute rule. The next highest caste was the elders, who made laws and arbitrated on civil matters. Then it was the warrior caste, and then the merchant caste and the traders, and so on and so forth. The very lowest caste was composed of the workers, the people who did manual labour. They weren’t even allowed to live in the same part of the village as those of the higher castes. They were actually walled off and kept out of the main village, except to do their work. Torgon and her family belonged to this lowest class. Her mother was a weaver, and her father built and repaired carts. Because she was low-born, it had come as a huge shock to everyone – including Torgon herself – when she was identified at nineteen as the next benna. So suddenly here she was, thrown from the lowest class to the highest. She was twenty-three at the point she had appeared to me in Adler’s vacant lot, and even then, she was still finding it hard to adjust in her work.”

“Goodness, that is all complex,” James said, thinking these were most extraordinary thoughts for an eight-year-old to be having. Trying to envisage Becky saying things like this to him, he could easily imagine how disconcerted he would feel as a once-a-month father to find out Becky spent most of her time playing pretend games about holy people and caste systems, and worrying over an imaginary twenty-three-year-old’s vocational problems.

“The thing is,” Laura replied, “I did know that. By the time I was eight, I had already realized other kids didn’t think about these kinds of things, or if they did, then not in this kind of detail. I didn’t know why I did. I didn’t know why it was in my head and no one else’s, but it was. When my dad asked me what I was doing that night, it was like he had come in partway through a movie. I was following the storyline and everything made sense to me, but how did I catch him up on that when he didn’t know all the stuff that went before?

“And I remember that sense of confusion. I lay there, studying his face in the gloom and not saying anything because I didn’t know what to say. I could tell by his expression he was hurt. He thought I was keeping things back from him on purpose, that I was probably sharing these stories with the Meckses because they were my everyday folks but not with him, because he wasn’t around enough. Which wasn’t true at all, because I didn’t share it with anyone, but I could tell he was thinking that. So I told him I was playing make-believe because I wasn’t sleepy yet, and was filling time until I was.

“My dad gave me this special smile he always saved for whenever he was going to do something he thought would really please me, and he said, ‘You know what? I’ve got a good idea. I think you deserve a later bedtime. From now on, you can stay up an extra half-hour each night. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To stay up later?’

“I said yes because I could tell he wanted me to be really happy about it, although the truth was, I didn’t want a later bedtime. I preferred going to bed when I did because I wanted to be with Torgon.

“He smiled warmly. ‘And one of these days, you’ll grow up, Laurie. When you’re little, pretending is lots of fun, but as you get older, you don’t need to pretend anymore because you have real things to think about and real things are always much nicer.’”

Laura leaned back in the chair. “I remember my father kissing me then and pulling up the covers. Tucking me in, and leaving. Torgon was gone for the moment and I was there alone, lying in the darkness.

“I’d always known, of course, that people outgrew their imaginary games. By eight most of my friends already had. I’d convinced myself, however, that I was going to be an exception to this and it would never happen to me. I’d hold on to Torgon and the Forest forever. That night, however, was the first time it dawned on me that I might be wrong. Maybe I wouldn’t be different, and someday Torgon would be gone.

“This huge, aching loneliness washed over me in that moment and I started to cry. I was thinking, if losing all this is growing up, then I don’t want to do it. But what if I had no choice? What if the time came when I could no longer see the Forest? What if my mind stopped being able to fill up with its sights and sounds and scents? What if I was no longer privy to the complexities of Torgon’s life? I remember thinking that I’d have too much mind for my head if Torgon wasn’t in it. She was different than my pretend games like Butterfly the Pony. Torgon was organic. She was not so much something I’d created as something I’d discovered. She was my other half, the part of me I needed in order to be whole. She was the union of me and not-me.”

Laura’s session stayed with James in a way that didn’t usually happen. Part of it was undoubtedly the strangeness of this imaginary companion. People motivated to come into therapy because of the breakdown of a marriage usually talked about relationships. James had already noticed that Laura wasn’t going to be drawn into conversations about Conor. He could accept that perhaps that relationship had broken down so far that there was going to have to be some new groundwork laid before Laura could be coaxed back into a bond with her son. However, as the breakdown in her relationship with Alan had been the reason she herself had given for agreeing to therapy, James had assumed that was where they’d start. That she’d chosen instead to talk about her relationship in childhood with an imaginary person was curious but also gripping.

Part of the session’s staying power was also the manner in which Laura spoke. While living in New York James had made the acquaintance of several writers, mainly because Sandy thought they made impressive guests at dinner parties. He had often been less than impressed. Most had seemed joyless and unpleasantly pretentious, forever fretting about the demands of their “gift” and, in equal measure, the world’s lack of appreciation thereof. Laura’s dissimilarity to those former dinner guests was starkly apparent straightaway. Here was such a natural storyteller that while James didn’t have trouble maintaining the appropriate professional objectivity with Laura herself, he was struggling to keep his distance from her story, to remember to stop the narrative occasionally to ask questions or analyse what was said instead of getting caught up in it.

Going over to the bookshelves in his office, James took down one of Laura’s novels. He looked at the cover, which was unusually plain. The top four-fifths was pale blue and the bottom fifth was off-white. Spare as the design was, James still got a sense of the South Dakota plains from it. Too much sky against a flat, pale earth. Laura’s name was in a large plain font across the top. The title, The Wind Dreamer, was written small in comparison and in a handwriting font at an angle that slashed downwards through the blue into the minimalist earth like a spent arrow.

Turning the book over, James looked at Laura’s photograph. She was smiling. Looking directly at the camera, she had a very appealing expression. Very open. James was struck by this openness because it had not yet been an expression he’d seen in real life. What crossed his mind was that perhaps it was here, in her books, that Laura truly was most herself.

Sitting down in his office chair, he opened it.

“Hey, you!” The door to James’s office pushed open and Lars popped his head in. “I’m off,” he said. He paused. “What are you reading?”

James lifted the book.

Lars raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Becoming a fan?”

“Nah. Just doing homework.”

“What’s she actually like?” Lars asked with curiosity.

“Interesting,” James replied. “Complex.”

“Well, yeah, I could guess that.” Lars paused. “My cousin knows her brother quite well. According to him, it was a very ordinary family. Clever. They all did extremely well at school. But no literary background, nothing especially creative. Her brother’s an insurance salesman. But that’s what he said too. ‘She’s complex’.”

James nodded.

“Extraordinary talent fascinates me. Especially when it comes out of nowhere,” Lars said. “I always wonder how it happens.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Lars shrugged. “Listen, what I actually came in to say was: when you come over tonight, would you bring that fishing reel you bought? That one you said you couldn’t get set up right? I got the rest of my ice fishing gear out last night and if we can’t get that reel sorted, I found another one you can use.”

James grinned. “You’re determined to get me out there killing some innocent creature, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well, more just still trying to get the city stink off you,” Lars said and laughed. “Anyway the game on TV starts at eight, so the rest of the guys will be coming in about a quarter to. If you want to come over with the reel a little earlier, I can have a look at it.”

“Okay, see you later,” James replied.

When Lars had gone, James took the book over to the conversation centre. Settling back on the couch, he put his feet up on the coffee table and started reading.

It was the story of a young Sioux named Billy, who was haunted by his native culture. Born into a family who had left the reservation for the amenities of the city, given a white man’s name at birth and a white man’s education, Billy was a model of “modern integration” when he assumed his post as a teacher in a community college. However, his heritage, increasingly symbolized in the storyline by the South Dakota Badlands, overarched his contemporary urban lifestyle. He began to hear the voices of “the others,” of the sky and the land and the spirits of his ancestors.

The book opened with Billy’s poignant efforts at fourteen to give himself a native name. Having no real connection to the spiritual tradition of his heritage, the only native naming ceremony he had witnessed was on an episode of “Star Trek”. Thus it was First Officer Chakotay who guided him as he “received” his name from the only natural thing he encountered in his city apartment at that moment – the wind.

What was clever in Laura’s writing – beyond the simple fact that she had a compelling narrative style that quickly drew the reader in and didn’t let go – was that she was capable of creating a very substantial reality from Billy’s thoughts. Initially James couldn’t tell if these “others” Billy experienced were literal and Billy was having a paranormal experience, or if they were metaphorical and Billy was simply personifying his conflicts of identity.

This uncertainty bothered James at first. Gripping as the style of writing was, he was irritated at not being able to tell if he was reading a realistic exploration of the human mind or just a fantasy. Indeed, it bothered him so much that he got up and did a quick search on the internet for reviews to see how others had resolved the issue.

The reviews made much of Billy’s Native American ancestry and the tendency in these shamanistic cultures to incorporate visions and visitations into their religious beliefs, often brought on by drug use, sleep deprivation or fasting. None of the reviews labelled the book as fantasy or “magical realism,” so James took this to mean the spirits were all in Billy’s head and reading the remainder of the book would make this clear.

James knew what the reviewers didn’t, however, and that was about Torgon. Laura’s vivid description of her childhood encounter loomed over Billy’s experiences of “hearing” the sky or “seeing” his ancestors flying before the thunderclouds on the plains. Had the novel been an acceptable way for Laura to explore her own experiences with Torgon?

Drawn back into the story, he read on.

When James next looked up, it was 9:45. He stared at the clock in astonishment. How had it reached that time? The long-planned evening of beer and football with Lars’s buddies would be almost over by now, to say nothing of how worried Lars would be that he hadn’t shown up and that he wasn’t at home or, indeed, reachable on his mobile phone, since he always left it turned off at work.

Had the phone in the front office rung at any point? He hadn’t heard it, if it had. Closing the book, James stared at its deceptively plain cover.

This scared him, this unexpected enthrallment. He found it deeply unsettling that Laura Deighton’s imagination had so successfully managed to overpower his real world.