The big man was dancing. It was hard to believe after seeing his rather lifeless body, but there he was, dead or at least unconscious just seconds earlier, and there he was, shaking his feet in laughter, as if the hand of God had comforted him with a dance.
It was a dance of excitement, as much as it was one of relief. The only reason he was able to dance was because his mortal body was no longer part of the equation. The soul had left it, to go back home for a number of reasons.
Of course, this wasn’t his home at all. He was a native of America. On your first visit, the country was new and exciting. On your second visit, it was less so. On your third visit, the country was worn, sure, but after experiencing the richer cultures of Europe. On your fourth visit, America was a place of drudgery, rife with prejudice, racism, sexism, and all-around negativity.
Some people dream of going to America. They want to experience the country that is more than a collection of states running rampant and hating each other’s guts. They want to experience what the country could have been. Thus, these dreamers are drawn to America. There is bound to be one in every group of people.
This man was one such dreamer. He arrived when he was just fifteen, a tourist, who wanted to experience the culture with his own eyes and not by reading a poorly written travel guide. He wanted to experience the real America.
Two years later, he found himself at the shoreline, gawking at the Atlantic Ocean. The city behind him stretched all the way to the horizon. It was immense.
There was the Statue of Liberty – one of the few things he knew about this country before arriving. He had seen her photo in the travel guide. He had thanked the statue for his journey, when a bird landed on her hand in the photo. It was a feathered fowl, but that was irrelevant. What was important was that she was in front of him on the shore.
He smiled, taking a swig from his water bottle, and took another, harder look at her.
Suddenly, he heard the song he had heard before. It was faint, melodic, and soothing. He had heard it in his dreams before. In the dream, he had fallen into the space between worlds and met his wife. They had married shortly after, and she had become his reason of existence. They had been in love, truly in love.
It was wonderful. It was a dream he hadn’t experienced so vividly in centuries. That is, until he woke up lying in a pile of his own filth. It wasn’t his own filth, so he didn’t mind. However, what did bother him was the constant droning of the song that was sounding right there in his ears.
He tried to ignore it at first, but it just became unmanageable.
He swatted at his ears, like a dog trying to rub away an irritating insect. However, the song didn’t go away. He tried to shout at it to shut up. He even tried to cover his ears. It didn’t matter. The song was inescapable.
He tried to tell himself it was a dream, but his throat hurt. He tried to deny it was both physically and spiritually present, but how could he? It was impossible.
And as soon as he had gotten somewhere, he found himself being pushed down a hill. He tried to fight it, but it was too strong.
He could see the river in front of him. It was familiar, like the song.
He yelled in shock when he found himself in the water.
He didn’t bother trying to stay afloat. The river was peaceful, and seemed almost as if it was pulling him, as opposed to pushing him.
He let the currents push him along the river, on and on towards its destiny. The river was almost like the song. It was singing to him now.
He closed his eyes, feeling his body going with the flow. He didn’t fight it. He was a dreamer. He had given up fighting for a long time.
The singing was almost as melodic here as it was in the dream. It made him feel like he was asleep again.
Then he felt his body hit something hard. He opened his eyes slowly. He looked around in shock. The singing abruptly stopped.
Before him was a building. It was tall. It was sheer. It was beautiful – to him, at least.
He was dreaming. He was floating above his body and seeing the whole damn country. He was amazed.
He closed his eyes again, to fix the image in his head, and resumed floating to the rhythm of the song.
He carefully inspected everything around him, curious as to why he was dreaming and why he was traveling so far.
He was over America. He was over his body. He stopped floating. He was ready to investigate his surroundings.
He heard the song again, this time accompanied by something else. It was shrieking. It was blood curdling. It was the sound of pain. The shrieking abruptly stopped. The song became the main sound.
He looked around, trying to figure out where the shrieking was coming from. He saw the sun setting on a horizon. There was a man floating down the river. He gave him a nod, and then there was nothing.
He floated again until he encountered another city. He knew it wasn’t Washington. He knew it wasn’t Philadelphia. He knew it wasn’t New York. He could sense it in his bones.
It was Pittsburgh. It was industrial. It was busy, disgusting, and sure.
He investigated everything around him. He remembered this world as well. He stood as if in a dream and explored America for the first time.
He started feeling a weird sense of destiny. Something was calling him. He couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t fight it. He didn’t even want to.
The song was reaching its end. So was the trip.
He stopped dreaming. He stopped moving. He woke up, swallowing mouthfuls of water.
He struggled to get himself to the surface. He tried swimming. He tried anything and everything.
He struggled for a long time. He fought until the very end.
He looked up at the light in front of him, and then he was pulled back down by a hand that grabbed him by the leg.
He looked at the hand that grabbed him. He saw the face of the man who was holding him, smiling.
He stared at the man in shock. He couldn’t believe the illusion. It was like staring at the ghost of dreams past.
The man smiled at him and rose. He didn’t bother pulling him out of the water, laughing at him and pointing at him. He carried him in his arms and floated through the water, towards the shore.
He saw the familiar symbols written on the rocks. He knew he wasn’t in Pittsburgh anymore. He knew he wasn’t in America.
He had fallen. He had been pushed. He had been pulled.
He was reborn on the shores of Ireland.
He stared at the man who was carrying him. He stared into his eyes. He was staring in the eyes of his lover.
He was dreaming. His eyes were open. The world was a dream. The country was a dream.
He knew. He had been dreaming. He would never again be free of the curse.
The boat rides. The walks through the forest. The song. The shrieking. The dancing. The river. The surface. The hand.
This was where it had all started. He was a dreamer. He was a native of America.
The man carrying him was limping. They had made it to the camp. He saw the men around the bonfire. They were still celebrating. The man holding him was one of them. One of the men in the woods. His lover. The man who captured him. His captor. The one who loved him. The man he married. The man who he betrayed.