Catcher of Dreams

Catcher of Dreams

The nightmare starts, oozing into my mind like mist seeping into a woolen sweater. Staring up into the ceiling behind tight-shut eyes, I am as helpless to stop it as I am to awaken. Hairy legs slither out from the cracks between the ceiling tiles; an immense black body follows as the spider squeezes into view and comes creeping toward me.

This time, it isn't alone.

One by one they come, crawling closer, then by twos, then hundreds of them, green eyes glowing, serrated jaws opening and clamping shut, dropping down on top of me, covering me, devouring me.

I wake to the sound of my own scream.

Shaking in the dark, drenched in sweat, I start to reach for the light but pull back my hand—is that a spider on the lamp?—then, cursing, hit the switch and sit up.

"This has to stop." There is no audience for my adjuration, but I say it aloud to break the spell, forcing deep breaths into my lungs to calm my racing heart. Rejoining the real world from the place of nightmares is like trying to punch a path through dense fog.

What passes for the real world, though, has changed beyond my known context. Anything west of Long Island has always been uncharted wilderness to me. Coming to Oklahoma has done little to change that perspective. Judging from the creepy-crawly population in this place, the Paleozoic Era never really ended.

Pulling my damp nightgown off over my head, I snatch my robe from the bedside chair but find I can't put it on—not without checking. First, the sleeves, then down the inside seams, finally shaking the floral cotton till it snaps.

So, [snap!] my friends think I'm insane [snap!] to accept a job in Oklahoma [snap, snap!]. Maybe they're right. But they don't have to pay back my student loans.

"What in the world do you think you're going to do there?" they all asked.

"Heal people!" was my righteous retort. Sweet irony. Physician, heal thyself!

Jolting the memories loose, I stumble toward the kitchen. There is no question of getting into the shower yet. A confined space with a drain in the floor?—naked, no less. Three cups of strong coffee, minimum post-nightmare dosage. I glance at the clock. Almost eight p.m. More than enough time for caffeine infusion before my eleven o'clock shift.

Bolstered by Colombian Supremo, I brave the shower then get dressed, peeking cautiously into my scrubs, silently condemning all arachnids and their relations. By nine o'clock I'm out the door with two hours to kill.

The small-town streets are nearly empty. Tires hiss on black asphalt, damp from a brief thunderstorm that writes its farewell in charcoal wraiths scudding across a full moon. I drive without purpose, seeking companionship, but not conversation. Distraction is surely the best antidote to quell the lingering nightmare shadows; an exploratory surgery through these arterial pathways I have yet to get to know. There must be more than spiders in this place.

Following the two-lane highway that meanders through town, I slow as I approach the local university. The gymnasium parking lot seems, to my novice eye, unusually full for a summer weeknight. In front, the white marquee with its black, slide-on letters is lit by a single spotlight that sprouts from the flower bed below.

"Benefit Powwow Tonite," the sign reads, and I remember hearing the story from a colleague: A father of four, critically injured in a car wreck; the Indian Hospital will cover his medical treatment, but his family has next to nothing to live on while he recuperates. Phantom spiders shrivel into momentary insignificance compared with the vagaries of real life. I spin into the nearest parking space.

Outside the gymnasium door, a group of teenagers stands puffing cigarette smoke into the muggy air, posing a vignette of Native American culture, past and present. Some wear jeans and T-shirts, others are dressed as if for competition, faces painted and feathers flowing down their backs. Their legs, wrapped in leather sheaths sporting rows of miniature cow bells, jangle musically as they move. Half expecting the usual sullen looks of disaffected youth, I receive instead mostly smiles or a soft-spoken greeting as I pass between them and edge through the doorway.

Inside, the room reverberates to the beat of the drum. Sitting on folding chairs in the center of the wooden floor, the drummers lean in to the huge stretched skin, their arms pounding a relentless beat, voices crying out the songs of their ancestors. Behind them sits a row of women singers, whose ululations pierce the warm air with compelling urgency. Circling the singers are the dancers, old and young, men and women and children, feet pounding to the call of the drum. A whirl of color passes around the outer ring as a young man in full regalia reels and spins, eyes almost closed, lost in the rhythm of the dance. Older women with embroidered shawls over their arms step with more reserve, seeming barely to move, the fringes on their shawls swaying in time to the pacing of their feet.

A makeshift dais stands at the far end of the room, elevating a long folding table. Several tribal members are gathered behind it, surveying the crowd. Seated in the middle is the moderator, a huge man, his imposing appearance softened by the hand-made calico shirt he wears, salmon pink and pale orange ribbons dangling on each side of his chest. His voice booms into a microphone, urging everyone to join in the dance.

Not ready to immerse myself that deeply, I wander through the crowd, keeping close to the wall, taking it all in. Along the sides of the room, crafters sit at card tables selling their handiwork. I shuffle past the merchandise, anonymously sandwiched between shoppers, awed by what I see. The sheer number of hours invested in producing the work is impressive enough, the price of some items almost humbling. I pick up a ballpoint pen encased in a mantle of beadwork. Zigzags of red, black, white and yellow intersect a sky-blue background, laid so tightly together the beads feel like snake skin under my fingers. Ten dollars, the price tag reads; how many pennies per hour would that fetch for its maker? Untucking the purse from my arm, I mean to count my available funds, but before I can open the clasp my eye is caught by a sign at the next table: "Dream Catchers."

Dreams are a topic foremost on my mind tonight—too many nights of late. I lay the pen down and move closer to examine this alleged captor of dreams. It is a ring several inches across, wrapped tightly in leather, with ends that trail below, capped by beads. Within the ring is a crisscrossed network of thin strands, pulled toward the center by a lustrous bead, caught in its mesh like a bluebottle fly tangled in a spider web.
The girl behind the table smiles shyly at my glance. I self-consciously return her smile and pick up the nearest item to read its tag. Above the price is inscribed the story of the dream catcher. Traditionally, it says, they were hung over a baby's crib to catch the bad dreams and let the good dreams pass through to the sleeping child.

"Just what I need," I murmur.

"Pardon me?" The girl leans forward, her blue-black hair cascading across the table's edge, swinging with her movement.

"Oh, nothing." I'm embarrassed; science is my realm, not myth or fable. Still . . . there is little of science in my monstrous, human-devouring spiders. Perhaps battling a chimera requires otherworldly weapons.

"Do these things work on grown-ups?" I find myself asking.

"Sure." Her smile is more confident now. "Works for me."

Sales pitch or sage wisdom, I'm drawn toward the possibilities. "Do bigger dream catchers catch bigger nightmares?" She has the gamut, from four-dollar key chain size to elaborate wall hangings suspended from a pegboard behind her, dangling price tags in the thirties.
"Well, they all work, but . . . " She studies me, sizing up my need, or perhaps my pocket book. "I'd go this big, just to be sure." The one she hands me is beautiful, about six inches across, in turquoise leather and silver-black beads. Fifteen dollars: split the difference. Smart girl.

"I'll take it," I say, handing over my last few bills. She wraps the dream catcher in white tissue paper and slips it into a small paper bag.

"Sweet dreams," she says.

"I'm counting on it," I tell her.

***
The dream starts, its patchwork of grimy ceiling eerily familiar, yet hauntingly surreal. I gaze upward, waiting for what is to come. As I watch, the ceiling opens, tiles peeling back like the petals of a flower awakened into blossoming. I squint at the light radiating from the sky above.

"They're all gone," says a voice. And then the dream is gone as well, and I'm blinking against a shaft of golden sunset that pierces the space beneath my window shade.

As I yawn and stretch luxuriously, my hand touches something on the wall behind my head. I turn over and smile to see the dream catcher hanging there, its beads luminous in the evening light. A fluff of lint clings to the webbed strands and I reach up to brush it away, but let my hand fall as I see its true form.

Caught in the dream catcher's snare is the dead husk of a spider.

Fighting back a shiver, I grasp the hoop and warily bring the spider trap in for a closer look. As I do, one spindly brown leg breaks off from its lifeless body and floats away.

I hear a sound, the thrumming of my heart against my chest, I think—then discern the deeper echo of a thousand ancient drumbeats.