November 10, 1997

I had an interesting dream Saturday night. Basically, a hero with powers had died, and so his power was loose in the world. In John-relavent shorthand, I called the hero that died, "Thor, God of Thunder" though it really wasn't Thor... there were godly attributes to the powers. I knew that I could capture the powers with a particular recipe, and I wandered the world to find all the right things. A feather from an angel, a tooth from a dragon, the breath of a mountain, the scale of a mermaid. I managed them all, but some were so hard I knew that I'd never be able to do them again, knowing what was involved. Ignorance is, sometimes, power as well. But I gathered them, cooked up the stuff, and had it in a small pouch in my pocket, about the size of those high-energy gel packs.

John and I, in my dream, then went on a camping trip with the kids from the soccer game, but they were all teenagers now. All almost-men, still so high energy and so completely capable of commitment of all their resources to anything they did. There was kind of an aside in the dream, then, of two men with a bunch of high explosives attached to a delivery system that was being aimed at an on-coming train. We cut back to the peaceful camp scene, and there's the sound of an approaching train. One of the boys, in a leap of high enthusiasm, jumped over a fence that was up to prevent folks from going over a cliff. He was going to land on the ground just on the other side of the fence, which was still a few feet from the actual edge.

I didn't quite recognize exactly which one it was, but thought it might have been Evan, as nearly two thirds the boys from the team are blond and pale and athletic. And as he lept over the fence, the train blew up, big, and the force of the explosion put him completely over the edge of the cliff.

I lept after. Climbing down the face in a half-magical half-desperation move that was learned from scaling other, harder mountains. I found him completely broken on a tiny, crumbling ledge, with branches going through him and limbs smashed. I pulled him into my lap, he was awake, lucent, aware of what had happened to him and unable, quite, to breath yet.

"Do you want to live?" I asked him.

His eyes focussed and he nodded.

I put the packet to his lips, opened it, and spilled the last two years of my life into his mouth. "Then swallow. For all you're worth, swallow."

It was a fight, for him, as damaged as he was. I can still feel the slenderness of his body gathered in my arms, on my lap, the scent of him in his hair, and the scent of blood everywhere, the sound of the burning of the train pieces, the clatter and slide of rocks around me, and the tension and twisting of the muscles and body in my grasp as he fought to swallow. He finally did it, and something lit in his eyes and his next breath was free.

That's when I woke up.

So I think it worked. I also knew that, in my dream, wheither or not it worked, it had been the right decision. I'd been thinking of giving it to one of the kids anyway. Only the young still truly believe enough to fight the good fight, without cynicism and with every iota of their abilities. Some adults manage to carry that forward, but it's sometimes hard. It's a lot easier to be afraid when you know what to be afraid of.

What was odd was that Evan was the only one that was hurt in the Sunday morning game. He only got an elbow to the jaw, though... nothing nearly as nasty as in the dream. Whew.



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