By Dolores J. Nurss

Volume 1II: Responsibility





I know from dreams that the rebels had toad poison.  I wrote here of Deirdre gathering it while overhearing the taverness provoking the soldiers to excess (I also dreamed of the soldiers going increasingly out of control.)  I might have gotten the timing of this wrong, though, for in the waking world one taps trees at the end of winter, not the beginning.  I could argue that I write of chaummin trees, not maples or birches, but I’m honestly not sure if that would work.  Still, who knows about the trees of another planet?  I have nearly dismissed other things only to find out that they’d work after all.

I have dreamed of watching Jake throw things, and then look young and frightened when he’d realized what he’d done.  And I have dreamed of marathon study-sessions to cram for a mission that would’ve taken others years to prepare for.

I made up the funeral, but it would happen, and in just such a pragmatic Toulinian way.  Their cramped writing-style shows them obsessive about waste.  They must have had a particularly hard crossover between worlds, making them ultra-thrifty.  They also seem to have lost quite a bit of technology without losing the memory of descent from technological people.  They must have hoarded as much of their dwindling off-world supplies as they could before starting to make anything of their own.  They seem more oriented towards conserving than innovating; those customs that have changed from the ways of their ancestors tend to compensate for the absence of what was rather than embracing the possibilities of what new things come one’s way, to see Novatierre as a place of hardship and loss.

And how do I fulfill the task with which dreams charged me, to understand why the Changewright would do such things, even as other dreams illustrated that he must be stopped?  Corey represents a core-potential unfulfilled, something intrinsic to my being, a little boy animus not allowed to grow up.  In the belief of protecting my vulnerable core-self, dissociation married me to trauma and buried me, so that other parts could live out my life.  Because the outside world did not appreciate creativity and thinking for oneself.  Except that it didn’t work.  Those other, socially approved parts, didn’t have enough life in them to find me a proper place in society.  I became instead a madwoman, buried in my room behind a wall of trash, hidden from anyone who would try to stop me from my endless, compulsive writing.  Corey, perhaps, might have been the part of me that could have published it.
          But since then I have rewritten the dream, though I can’t rewrite it in the fiction.  I have called my core back up from the grave, back to life.  People have changed.  I have found acceptance for creativity, and thinking for myself.

          I knew from other dreams that Lucinda did not get better, and wrote the cry of her having a nightmare.  Those who study dreams, of course, know that nightmares try to alert us to something urgent that needs dealt with.  But more on that, later.

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