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- Life as a Dream
The commonest dream of my early childhood was something like this: It
seemed that I was very small and that I lay curled up in a sort of nest of
twigs and boughs. Sometimes I was lying on my back. In this position it
seemed that I spent many hours, watching the play of sunlight on the
foliage and the stirring of the leaves by the wind. Often the nest itself
moved back and forth when the wind was strong.
But always, while so lying in the nest, I was mastered as of tremendous
space beneath me. I never saw it, I never peered over the edge of the nest
to see; but I KNEW and feared that space that lurked just beneath me and
that ever threatened me like a maw of some all-devouring monster.
This dream, in which I was quiescent and which was more like a condition
than an experience of action, I dreamed very often in my early childhood.
But suddenly, there would rush into the very midst of it strange forms and
ferocious happenings, the thunder and crashing of storm, or unfamiliar
landscapes such as in my wake-a-day life I had never seen. The result was
confusion and nightmare. I could comprehend nothing of it. There was no
logic of sequence.
You see, I did not dream consecutively. One moment I was a wee babe of the
Younger World lying in my tree nest; the next moment I was a grown man of
the Younger World locked in combat with the hideous Red-Eye; and the next
moment I was creeping carefully down to the water-hole in the heat of the
day. Events, years apart in their occurrence in the Younger World,
occurred with me within the space of several minutes, or seconds.
It was all a jumble, but this jumble I shall not inflict upon you. It was
not until I was a young man and had dreamed many thousand times, that
everything straightened out and became clear and plain. Then it was that I
got the clew of time, and was able to piece together events and actions in
their proper order. Thus was I able to reconstruct the vanished Younger
World as it was at the time I lived in it—or at the time my
other-self lived in it. The distinction does not matter; for I, too, the
modern man, have gone back and lived that early life in the company of my
For your convenience, since this is to be no sociological screed, I shall
frame together the different events into a comprehensive story. For there
is a certain thread of continuity and happening that runs through all the
dreams. There is my friendship with Lop-Ear, for instance. Also, there is
the enmity of Red-Eye, and the love of the Swift One. Taking it all in
all, a fairly coherent and interesting story I am sure you will agree.
I do not remember much of my mother. Possibly the earliest recollection I
have of her—and certainly the sharpest—is the following: It
seemed I was lying on the ground. I was somewhat older than during the
nest days, but still helpless. I rolled about in the dry leaves, playing
with them and making crooning, rasping noises in my throat. The sun shone
warmly and I was happy, and comfortable. I was in a little open space.
Around me, on all sides, were bushes and fern-like growths, and overhead
and all about were the trunks and branches of forest trees.
Suddenly I heard a sound. I sat upright and listened. I made no movement.
The little noises died down in my throat, and I sat as one petrified. The
sound drew closer. It was like the grunt of a pig. Then I began to hear
the sounds caused by the moving of a body through the brush. Next I saw
the ferns agitated by the passage of the body. Then the ferns parted, and
I saw gleaming eyes, a long snout, and white tusks.
It was a wild boar. He peered at me curiously. He grunted once or twice
and shifted his weight from one foreleg to the other, at the same time
moving his head from side to side and swaying the ferns. Still I sat as
one petrified, my eyes unblinking as I stared at him, fear eating at my
It seemed that this movelessness and silence on my part was what was
expected of me. I was not to cry out in the face of fear. It was a dictate
of instinct. And so I sat there and waited for I knew not what. The boar
thrust the ferns aside and stepped into the open. The curiosity went out
of his eyes, and they gleamed cruelly. He tossed his head at me
threateningly and advanced a step. This he did again, and yet again.
Then I screamed...or shrieked—I cannot describe it, but it was a
shrill and terrible cry. And it seems that it, too, at this stage of the
proceedings, was the thing expected of me. From not far away came an
answering cry. My sounds seemed momentarily to disconcert the boar, and
while he halted and shifted his weight with indecision, an apparition
burst upon us.
She was like a large orangutan, my mother, or like a chimpanzee, and yet,
in sharp and definite ways, quite different. She was heavier of build than
they, and had less hair. Her arms were not so long, and her legs were
stouter. She wore no clothes—only her natural hair. And I can tell
you she was a fury when she was excited.
And like a fury she dashed upon the scene. She was gritting her teeth,
making frightful grimaces, snarling, uttering sharp and continuous cries
that sounded like "kh-ah! kh-ah!" So sudden and formidable was her
appearance that the boar involuntarily bunched himself together on the
defensive and bristled as she swerved toward him. Then she swerved toward
me. She had quite taken the breath out of him. I knew just what to do in
that moment of time she had gained. I leaped to meet her, catching her
about the waist and holding on hand and foot—yes, by my feet; I
could hold on by them as readily as by my hands. I could feel in my tense
grip the pull of the hair as her skin and her muscles moved beneath with
As I say, I leaped to meet her, and on the instant she leaped straight up
into the air, catching an overhanging branch with her hands. The next
instant, with clashing tusks, the boar drove past underneath. He had
recovered from his surprise and sprung forward, emitting a squeal that was
almost a trumpeting. At any rate it was a call, for it was followed by the
rushing of bodies through the ferns and brush from all directions.
From every side wild hogs dashed into the open space—a score of
them. But my mother swung over the top of a thick limb, a dozen feet from
the ground, and, still holding on to her, we perched there in safety. She
was very excited. She chattered and screamed, and scolded down at the
bristling, tooth-gnashing circle that had gathered beneath. I, too,
trembling, peered down at the angry beasts and did my best to imitate my
From the distance came similar cries, only pitched deeper, into a sort of
roaring bass. These grew momentarily louder, and soon I saw him
approaching, my father—at least, by all the evidence of the times, I
am driven to conclude that he was my father.
He was not an extremely prepossessing father, as fathers go. He seemed
half man, and half ape, and yet not ape, and not yet man. I fail to
describe him. There is nothing like him to-day on the earth, under the
earth, nor in the earth. He was a large man in his day, and he must have
weighed all of a hundred and thirty pounds. His face was broad and flat,
and the eyebrows over-hung the eyes. The eyes themselves were small,
deep-set, and close together. He had practically no nose at all. It was
squat and broad, apparently with-out any bridge, while the nostrils were
like two holes in the face, opening outward instead of down.
The forehead slanted back from the eyes, and the hair began right at the
eyes and ran up over the head. The head itself was preposterously small
and was supported on an equally preposterous, thick, short neck.
There was an elemental economy about his body—as was there about all
our bodies. The chest was deep, it is true, cavernously deep; but there
were no full-swelling muscles, no wide-spreading shoulders, no
clean-limbed straightness, no generous symmetry of outline. It represented
strength, that body of my father's, strength without beauty; ferocious,
primordial strength, made to clutch and gripe and rend and destroy.
His hips were thin; and the legs, lean and hairy, were crooked and
stringy-muscled. In fact, my father's legs were more like arms. They were
twisted and gnarly, and with scarcely the semblance of the full meaty calf
such as graces your leg and mine. I remember he could not walk on the flat
of his foot. This was because it was a prehensile foot, more like a hand
than a foot. The great toe, instead of being in line with the other toes,
opposed them, like a thumb, and its opposition to the other toes was what
enabled him to get a grip with his foot. This was why he could not walk on
the flat of his foot.
But his appearance was no more unusual than the manner of his coming,
there to my mother and me as we perched above the angry wild pigs. He came
through the trees, leaping from limb to limb and from tree to tree; and he
came swiftly. I can see him now, in my wake-a-day life, as I write this,
swinging along through the trees, a four-handed, hairy creature, howling
with rage, pausing now and again to beat his chest with his clenched fist,
leaping ten-and-fifteen-foot gaps, catching a branch with one hand and
swinging on across another gap to catch with his other hand and go on,
never hesitating, never at a loss as to how to proceed on his arboreal
And as I watched him I felt in my own being, in my very muscles
themselves, the surge and thrill of desire to go leaping from bough to
bough; and I felt also the guarantee of the latent power in that being and
in those muscles of mine. And why not? Little boys watch their fathers
swing axes and fell trees, and feel in themselves that some day they, too,
will swing axes and fell trees. And so with me. The life that was in me
was constituted to do what my father did, and it whispered to me secretly
and ambitiously of aerial paths and forest flights.
At last my father joined us. He was extremely angry. I remember the
out-thrust of his protruding underlip as he glared down at the wild pigs.
He snarled something like a dog, and I remember that his eye-teeth were
large, like fangs, and that they impressed me tremendously.
His conduct served only the more to infuriate the pigs. He broke off twigs
and small branches and flung them down upon our enemies. He even hung by
one hand, tantalizingly just beyond reach, and mocked them as they gnashed
their tusks with impotent rage. Not content with this, he broke off a
stout branch, and, holding on with one hand and foot, jabbed the
infuriated beasts in the sides and whacked them across their noses.
Needless to state, my mother and I enjoyed the sport.
But one tires of all good things, and in the end, my father, chuckling
maliciously the while, led the way across the trees. Now it was that my
ambitions ebbed away, and I became timid, holding tightly to my mother as
she climbed and swung through space. I remember when the branch broke with
her weight. She had made a wide leap, and with the snap of the wood I was
overwhelmed with the sickening consciousness of falling through space, the
pair of us. The forest and the sunshine on the rustling leaves vanished
from my eyes. I had a fading glimpse of my father abruptly arresting his
progress to look, and then all was blackness.
The next moment I was awake, in my sheeted bed, sweating, trembling,
nauseated. The window was up, and a cool air was blowing through the room.
The night-lamp was burning calmly. And because of this I take it that the
wild pigs did not get us, that we never fetched bottom; else I should not
be here now, a thousand centuries after, to remember the event.
And now put yourself in my place for a moment. Walk with me a bit in my
tender childhood, bed with me a night and imagine yourself dreaming such
incomprehensible horrors. Remember I was an inexperienced child. I had
never seen a wild boar in my life. For that matter I had never seen a
domesticated pig. The nearest approach to one that I had seen was
breakfast bacon sizzling in its fat. And yet here, real as life, wild
boars dashed through my dreams, and I, with fantastic parents, swung
through the lofty tree-spaces.
Do you wonder that I was frightened and oppressed by my nightmare-ridden
nights? I was accursed. And, worst of all, I was afraid to tell. I do not
know why, except that I had a feeling of guilt, though I knew no better of
what I was guilty. So it was, through long years, that I suffered in
silence, until I came to man's estate and learned the why and wherefore of
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