Flautist's Green: Two

Days 3 and 4

Day 3

I understand the popular narrative that describing a dream is boring or self-indulgent, but I disagree. Discounting an entire sleeping world because of a few bad stand-up routines or sketch shows is materialist bullshit.

So, I had a wild dream last night.

The dream started as a vibrant swirl of greens and browns; the shades of these colors were varied, but each variation evoked a sensation of nature or natural order. The colors started off as stationary but began to rotate clockwise. It was a slow slinking drain at first, but in time they began to circle so quickly that I was made dizzy and nauseous in this dreamscape.

Disoriented, I was stumbling towards the colors, but all at once they snapped together to form a long, leafy vine. I could feel myself reach for this vine and grasp it with my hands, but as I picked it up, I was sucked into its form.

I became the vine, and simultaneously, I was traveling down this green line at eye level.

I raced forward as the world in my peripheral vision became a grey smear. In the distance, and with limited visual confirmation, a large deformed tree loomed. The root of this tree hoofed into the ground. The trunk of this tree was splayed or split—creating a geometrically impossible arch.

The vine I rocketed down ended at the capstone of this arch. My speed decreased as I got closer. My physical form was rent from my path just before colliding with the tree.

My vision shifted as I stood beneath this strange growth. Gaze locked upward, I heard a lilting voice ask,

“Are you thirsty?”

I nodded slowly.

Another sound whispered into my skull

-PAH PAH PAH-

Accompanying the pando’s call were three silver drips. These fat greasy droplets came from the crux of this unnatural-natural arch. I could feel my mouth and jaw stretch and loosen to take in the liquid. As the first drop reached my tongue, I shuddered awake.

The waking world greeted me with the urge to be sick. I could not suppress it. I left a trail of black bloody vomit from my bedside, down the hall, and all the way to one of those weird European high-cistern terlets.

I stayed in bed for the rest of the day. I assumed the air travel had given me the Flu.

By night, I was recovering, lonely, and hoping to self-medicate, so I went out to the pub.

I don’t remember the walk there, or why deciding to go out happened with so little hesitation.

I sat on a middle barstool. I was nearly alone in the pub, with a scattering of shadowy figures lingering near the back. The bartender brought me a plate of fried fish.

I don’t remember ordering anything.

My stomach was still quite dodgy, but somehow, I ate the whole thing. I hadn’t eaten all day and puked up most of last night’s supper; I must have been hungry. It was greasy and oily, but delicious.

In the back of the pub, three men huddled together, and I thought they were laughing or snickering at me. I turned to look at them, and the snickering stopped. One of the three glared me dead in the mush, and exaggeratedly said,

“PAH PAH PAH.”

Before I could react, the bartender slapped me on the shoulder and told me I ate, “like a true son of Pan.”

These fucking locals!

I told the bartender not to touch me and shoved my empty plate towards him. The bar seemed to erupt in laughter and jeers. I threw some money down and stormed out.

That’s the Last time I go to that shithole, I thought.

Walking home, my mind was racing.

Did I just eat one of those pandos?

I was gonna be sick again, but just as the bile rose, I broke out in a grin. The sickness subsided.

I am being hazed or invited in.

It felt like a warm welcome.

I was invigorated.

I took a long walk around the town. The salty night air blended pleasantly with the scattered animal statues and the soft glow of yellow lights. I didn’t see another person in my wandering. This relative isolation was serendipitous and gave me time to appreciate some of the archaic intentionality in the landscaping and architecture of the local homes.

The walk lifted my spirits.

Frankly, after that fish dinner, I felt so much better.

I felt like I could take on the whole town.

Of course, they were going to mock me; that’s all part of these communities. I gotta remember to keep my cool.

Don’t be so touchy next time.

I’ll apologize and buy a round when I return to the Flautist’s Green.

But what about that PAH shit?

I’ll just ask about it. I am sure there is some story there.

Day 4

Again, I didn’t sleep well due to hazy dreams. I remembered more odd color swirls: silver, green, brown, and purple, but nothing else concrete. I was lying in bed early in the morning, trying to remember more details of my dream, when a sudden rap on the door roused me.

I will try to recount this conversation from memory, but I don’t know how accurate it will be. I hadn’t had any caffeine, and the whole experience seemed to meld into that early morning sleep state.

I mean, he knocked on my door unannounced, so if I was drowzy or flopping out of my boxers, that’s on him.

I don’t remember opening the door, but in front of me was a tall, gaunt man. His skin wasn’t quite tan or olive; it had an oaken quality. It was textured—especially around the eyes and mouth, seeming almost calloused or raised. His hair was a thick curly black mop, and his eyes were clear green. He did not reach a hand forward as a greeting. Instead, he placed both of his hands on the top of a spiraling cane and began speaking in a high, thin, lyrical voice.

“Hello, sir, my name is Ewan Green, and I own the local pub. I was recently made aware of your presence in this town and felt somewhat remiss that I have not introduced myself earlier.”

I can recall this opening so clearly because the words embedded themselves in my mind. There was nothing particularly memorable or odd about this statement despite its formality. Mr. Green did not sound Cornish. The best way I could describe his manner of speaking was that classic Mid-Atlantic accent you hear in old movies and TV shows.

I introduced myself and went for a handshake, but it was refused again. I awkwardly said, “Oh, you own the pub…that explains the name. Do you also play the flute? He responded with,

“I am known to play all manner of things.”

I laughed at that, first as a polite nod and then to distract myself from the disturbing tone in which it was said.

I shook free. I found myself again and asked plainly, “Can I help you with anything?”

“No,”

said Ewan Green with a flat affect and a sinister smirk.

After saying this, he just stood there for what felt like an eternity. He stared at me as though it was my turn to offer something again. I refused.

I waited nearly ten seconds before I began to close the door.

Mr. Green stuck a heavy, blunt-toed shoe in the way, stopping the door from closing. I was preparing myself for violence, but he produced a handful of wooden tokens from his shirt sleeve.

He said,

“I offer these. They are good for dinners at the pub. We gift them to all our new residents”

I realized I might have mistaken his eccentricity for menace. I adjusted my attitude, smiled, accepted the tokens, thanked him, and closed the door.

Mr. Green gave my door three quick raps with his cane and said “good day” loud enough that I could hear him. He began whistling as he walked away. The way he whistled and the sounds he produced were surprisingly complex. I rushed to my side window and caught a glimpse of him strolling down a nearby path and into the woods.

I don’t recall anything else that happened that day.

Oddly, I didn’t seem to write anything else down.

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