Chapter 6: The Graveyard of Dreams
I reached under the table and retrieved Snuppa. The blow to the back on my head came just as I straightened up. Before I could reproach myself too harshly for being outflanked by a second sneak-attack my vision tunneled as the lights flickered and dimmed . . .
The already dim rugby stadium lights seem to flicker, causing a dizzying effect. The clock is stopped with seven seconds left and our team is down by two points, thanks to my previously missed conversion. We are just inside the twenty meter line, between the uprights. One easy penalty goal and I could still be the hero of the match. The referee blows his whistle and the clock starts again. The scrum-half kneels down and places a finger on the ball to keep it upright against the strong, increasing head wind. Only, I am focused on the red curls poking out the scrum-half’s helmet; it doesn’t seem right. Distracted, but pressed for time I take my three steps. I plant my left leg and swing my right foot with all my might and . . .
I am soaring through empty space, suspended in mid-air . . .
Flying amongst clouds, in the cockpit of my Sopwith Camel. My squadron is on a standard scouting mission. A ‘milk-run’ they said; ‘Just stay in formation and don’t get lost in the clouds,’ they said. The clouds all look like giant albino pumpkins, with laughing faces . . .
I look to the nearest airplane. Peg is in the cockpit . . . holding up little Jeannie. That doesn’t seem safe. Suddenly a line of holes appears in her airplane from tail to nose. First oil and then flames spill from the engine. Peg looks at me pleading. I motion for her to throw Jeannie to me. Peg stands up, cradling Jeannie in her arms and jumps and . . .
They land softly on a cloud, Jeannie giggling with delight. Their airplane, a fiery meteorite, plummeting towards the ground . . .
I try to keep a visual on their cloud as it drifts behind me and to my right. Suddenly a repetitive pinging to my left brings my attention back to my own cockpit. My lower left wing is in tatters and threatening to tear off. More bullets zip past my airplane. Yet another airplane in front and to my right bursts into flames and spirals down, down, down . . .
Looking back over my left shoulder I find him: the Baron von Richthofen, silk scarf flowing behind him in his red Fokker Driedecker. I dive right; more pings. I swoop left; more pings. I try to climb, but stall. Suddenly, the Red Baron is beside me. He throws a stack of money at me and shouts, “Für das Flugzeug!”
Corkscrewing ever closer and closer to the ground, I fight in vain for control of the lifeless airplane. I aim, desperately towards an open field. A hay bale looms ahead and I leap from the cockpit. I bounce once and land . . .
On my feet, I straddle the goal line. The score isn’t even close, again. But I was sure, surely this time, I would stop this penalty shot. They can’t all get past me, can they?
The forward’s approach is fast and the lift good. The hurley strikes the sliotar with a crack. The ball comes rocketing towards me: fast, faster! I try to raise my hurl to block, but cannot move. It strikes my temple and sends me tumbling, end over end over end over end . . .
I sit up amongst my strewn clothes, with only my boxers and socks still on me . . .
Everyone’s eyes are on me, silent, shocked . . . a girl, Lynn’s older sister, stands up in the bleachers. She removes her red-knit cap to reveal dark, curly locks. She points and laughs . . . The spark that ignites the powder keg . . . Everyone bursts into howls of laughter . . .
Humiliation. I run for the dressing room. My team mates laughing and pointing. I run faster, but it is too far. I turn to the fence and run faster. My feet finally make contact with the ground and propel me forward. I reach the fence and fling myself over the top and . . .
I land in the tall grass. Panic! I hop on top of the grass. Running along the blades of grass. Cutting into my feet. In the far distance is a red barn. More running, but no progress . . . The barn remains ever distant, beyond my reach . . . The barn, red and inviting: Safety . . . if only I can reach the little red barn with the pointing dog weather vane . . .
And then as if by magic, I am at the double doors and stumble through them. Inside is vast and elaborate. Past the swimming pool is a concert hall. I am greatly under dressed and my ticket reads that I am late . . . very, very late. The hall is enormous, with a giant chandelier. There are no other audience members, but the concert had already begun . . . The sound of a complete orchestra fills and echoes in the massive hall. On stage . . . a lone musician huddles over a tiny, child’s toy piano . . . beautiful Jazz tickles my ears and I feel . . .
Safe. Finally safe . . . Relaxing into the moment . . . letting the music sweep over me. I sink into my seat and lean back . . . staring up at the chandelier . . . the myriad of crystal lights spin and consolidate into . . .
A bare light bulb shone harshly into my eyes.
“Welcome back, Mr. Browne.”