It’s nearly impossible to describe dreams in any kind of intelligible manner, so I’ll lay this down how I remember it, and if it drives you into the night wailing, so be it. You had fair warning.
I was in the North Carolina woods; they were mostly pines, and I remember a thick cover of pine needles underfoot, and not much in the way of shrubs. Just endless copies of pine trees in formation. Everybody else was having a birthday party up the hill, in the big house with white pillars, but I was down in the woods rooting around for a possible gift, since I’d forgotten to bring one.
“They could use some more meat,” my dad said. “I’d go further in; you’re not going to find anything this close.”
“All right,” I said.
Then he was gone, back up the hill, back into the house. It was oddly silent, for a party. I felt shabby for not bringing anything, but I knew that finding the meat would redeem me. I walked further in.
There is a gap in my memory here. I suppose my subconscious is protecting me, because I didn’t know what I found, or how I killed it. But now I had a black duffel bag beside me in the woods, and it was full. I could still see the house from where I stood. It was a hike, but not too far.
I hauled the duffel bag up to the porch, and someone asked me what was in it. “Orca,” I said, and was, at that moment, thoroughly convinced I’d killed a whale in the forest. They didn’t believe me, so I opened the bag.
A dusky brown, short haired dog-rabbit with wide, tufted ears and a potbelly lay in there like the bag was a coffin, with its paws crossed over its chest. It was grinning with perfectly straight human teeth, and obviously dead. “See?” I said. “Obviously an orca.” I have never been more sure of anything. They were dubious. Still, I know what a whale looks like, and I had one in that bag.
I tried to figure out how much of it I should carve, because the orca would go bad soon. I went inside to ask someone, because I don’t know a lot about hunting, though I was sure it was an orca. In the kitchen, a lot of people I couldn’t really see were reading a poem tacked to a cutting board. They said it was a villanelle, but it didn’t rhyme right, and had too few lines.
“Guys,” I said, “that’s not a villanelle.” But they ignored me. “It’s really not.”
I was getting frustrated, but I knew I had to carve the orca, or it would go bad, and I’d have nothing to give at this party, and that would be really awkward.
At that point, I woke up.
It’s obvious to everyone now that I’ve either gone completely mad, or I’m a prophet, and if the latter is true, then this world is about to get very weird. Read sf as prep, children, or you’ll never make it through the night.
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