Steven Harper - Nightmare

"What is it?" Mother Ara asked.

"A meditation spear. The Real People use them to …commune with the Dreamtime. I’m willing to bet the Dream is really the same thing."

Mother Ara cocked her head. "Why do you-they-call themselves the Real People?"

"The Real People-Australian Aborigines-consider ourselves to be the original human race," Kendi explained. "My ancestors lived in the proper way, recognizing themselves as part of the world and universe around them, no more or less important than any other living thing. Mutants-other tribes of humans-try to separate themselves from the universe. They build houses and cars and ships. When that happens, they lose contact with each other and lose their connection with the Dreamtime. As a result, they fight and kill and enslave one another."

As Kendi spoke, he realized that he was mostly parroting a lecture he had heard Neluuketelardin give many times. Back then, he had barely listened, wanted nothing more than to get out of the hot sun and go home. But now the words took on a new meaning. Kendi had fully experienced the contrast between Real People and mutant societies. Despite the boredom and harsh weather on walkabout, everyone in the group had watched out for everyone else and built a strong sense of community. Every single person had value, every single person counted the same as every other. A far cry from mutant slave auctions.

"What’s the Dreamtime, then?" Mother Ara asked.

"It’s kind of hard to describe," Kendi said. "Time and place have no meaning there. It’s the beginning of everything, of all things and all traditions. This world got started there and is sort of an extension of it. Lots of powerful creatures live in it, and the Real People can walk there. Or we could until the mutants destroyed our society. After a few generations, we forgot how to do it. We forgot how to do a lot of things."

"So the Real People are Silent, then," Mother Ara mused.

Kendi shrugged and sat down again, still holding the spear. "Maybe. We were around a long time before Irfan Qasad genegineered people for it. Anyway, I can’t sit when I meditate. That’s not how we do it."

"There are lots of ways to meditate, Kendi," Mother Ara said. "You can use any method you want as long as it works for you."

"Then I want to try this."

Mother Ara gestured at him to continue. Kendi got up. Around his wrist he wore the medical bracelet which monitored pulse rate, respiration, brainwave activity, and blood pressure. It was slaved to Mother Ara’s data pad so she could keep an eye on him with it. Kendi took a deep breath. He had spent a little time practicing his balance, but he wasn’t perfect yet. He bent his left knee and fitted the short spear under it like a peg-leg. The rubber tip kept the spear from skidding on the smooth floor. Then he held his hands over his groin. At first this had made him feel uncomfortable, but he had found it easier to keep his balance when his arms and hands weren’t allowed to dangle loosely. He was a bit wobbly, but steady enough, and it definitely felt better than lying down.

"Hm," Mother Ara said. "Well then-let’s try it. Do you want the drumming?"

"Yeah. The rhythm helps."

He closed his eyes and a moment later, a recorded drum playback filled the room.

"Focus on your breathing," Mother Ara said in a calm, soothing voice. "Feel the air fill your lungs as you breathe in and out, in and out."

The meditation exercise continued. Once, Kendi lost his balance and had to reposition himself. All throughout, Mother Ara’s quiet voice urged him to leave his body behind, ignore it. But he couldn’t ignore the physical sensations-the spear under his knee, the floor beneath his feet, the clothing on his body. He suppressed a grimace, frustrated. He couldn’t keep up the concentration to ignore anything. It felt like something was there but just out of reach, and harder he tried to reach it, the further away it moved. Maybe the spear was the wrong idea after all.

Some time later, Mother Ara told him to open his eyes. The drum playback ended.

"That was pretty good," she said. "Better than before, in fact. Your heart rate dropped, and your breathing slowed considerably. Brainwave activity was a little high, but-"

"I can’t do it." Kendi disentangled himself from the spear and dropped onto the couch. "It’s still not working."

"Kendi, you haven’t been doing this for even a week," Mother Ara reminded him. "You’re doing very well. It takes months or even years of work to get to the point where you’re ready to enter the Dream."

"Months," he muttered. The frog farm and its months of unchanging labor flashed before him. Had he just traded one kind of mindlessness for another? And how long would it be, then, before he got a chance to look for his family? Years? Martina would be all grown up before he saw her again, and Mom and Dad would be old and gray.

"Don’t get discouraged," Mother Ara said. She shut off her data pad and put it away. "Your Silence is very strong. When other Silent touch you, they get a serious jolt. I don’t think we could keep you out of the Dream if we tried. How are your dreams at night? Still vivid?"

Kendi shrugged, again feeling hemmed in by the tiny room. He glanced at his fingernail and the new chrono-display implanted on it. Lesson time was almost over.

"Practice on your own, too," Mother Ara continued. "Every moment helps."

"Okay." He gathered up the spear and checked to make sure his own data pad was in his pocket. "Are we done?"

"Not quite." Mother Ara’s voice took on a more serious tone. "I got a call from your history teacher today."

Uh oh, Kendi thought.

"She says you skipped out. You also missed language studies and philosophy. I checked."

"I had to work on this," Kendi protested, holding up the spear.

"Kendi, you can’t skip class. Everything you learn there is important, especially language studies. You have to learn to understand the Ched-Balaar."

"It’s boring," Kendi mumbled. "Why can’t we just wear a translator or something?"

"You might not always have a translator on you. Besides, the Ched-Balaar learned our language. It would be rude not to learn theirs."

"I can’t sit that long."

"Learning to concentrate in class will also help you meditate," Mother Ara pointed out. "And you can’t take formal vows as a Child until you complete your education. You have to go to class, Kendi. This isn’t a choice-unless you want to leave the Children entirely. Clear?"

"Yeah, okay. Can I go now?"

"Not until you swear to me that you won’t skip again."

"Fine. I swear."

Mother Ara got up from her chair and sat next to him on the couch. "Kendi, I know a lot of stuff is hard for you. You went through hell. You lost your father and brother and sister and got sold into slavery, then you got sold again and lost your mother, and now you’re here on a world where people live in treehouses with aliens. I can understand why you’d have a hard time caring about the history of Bellerophon or deciphering Ched-Balaar teeth-clacking."

Kendi didn’t say anything. He just stared at the floor and let Mother Ara’s words coast past him.

"If you want to talk about any of it," Mother Ara said, "let me know, okay? A lot of times just talking makes people feel better. Or if you don’t want to talk to me, you can talk to someone else. The Children of Irfan take care of their own, Kendi. Maybe we’re not the Real People, but we do our best."

Kendi still didn’t answer. Mother Ara sighed and patted his shoulder. Abruptly, Kendi felt like he was going to cry. He held his breath to avoid it.

"Well, all right," Mother Ara said. "You’d better get going. And I have a dinner to cook. See you at the Festival games tonight?"

"Yeah, okay." Kendi took up his spear and pad and left before Mother Ara could see the tears gathering in his eyes.