FlOoD--Part Twenty-Two

Helm's Deep

TwEnTy-TwO

   While Johnson's serenade wafted through the boat, Davis' head had gradually fallen forward onto his knees which were encircled by his arms. He formed quite a compact package, sitting in the bottom of the boat with his lower back resting against the side. After having crafted his coat, which was actually Peterson's, into the bulky cushion that had done so much to relieve Smith's backside of its torment, he had gradually folded back in on himself and, to the accompaniment of Johnson's unconventional music-making and the occasional spurt of conversation from his fellow boaters, he'd returned to his favorite place: Dreamland. Davis sojourned in Dreamland (the capital was his, although the word itself had come to him from the mouths of his teachers, his parents and other grownups who had major influence in his life) at every opportunity that he could seize, whenever there was nothing interesting happening in Realworld (capital also his). And when did anything truly interesting happen in Realworld? Now, when Davis entered Dreamland, several amazing things happened. First, was the transformation. As Davis slowly oozed between the barriers which separated Dreamland from Realworld, he gradually grew taller until he reached six feet and four inches. He grew older, also, right up to the age of twenty-two. The muscles on his arms began to swell and harden, as did his chest. His hair became golden, but not yellow, a dark rich gold that would occasionally sparkle in the sunlight. A moustache grew on his upper lip and trailed around his chin until it became a goatee. His hands became large and his legs became long and he was no longer a scrawny and homely kid but a full-blown and handsome young man. And his name was no longer dull and commonplace. Davis' name in Dreamland was Vincent. Or, on occasion, Phillip.

   As he finished melting through the barrier on the present occasion, he found himself striding along a large stone wall. The wall was winding through a countryside of rolling meadows and trees. The top of the wall was wide enough for about ten men to walk abreast along it, although there were only two at the moment, beside himself. There was a low curb running along both sides of the wall right at the edge. And he could see, at intervals ahead of him, several towers built directly in the path of the wall, so that it passed right through them. They were approaching one now. Phillip was wearing a long tunic of a dark blue-green color over brown leggings. He had boots on his feet and a cape around his shoulders. And a large ring on his right hand. The two men on either side of him were arguing. "Master Phillip," said the first, "we need more urns to put the people in. They won't be satisfied until they're settled in their urns." Phillip saw that he was carrying a large golden urn which had a window in it. Through the window, he could see a little man. The man was jumping up and down and waving a gun in one hand. Every so often, he would fire the gun and Phillip would hear a tiny pop, as of someone snapping their fingers. "Bricks, bricks, bricks," said the other man. "Master Vincent, how do you expect to keep the wall in trim if we don't have more bricks?" Vincent heard a crumbling sound and he turned around. There was a green man following some yards behind them. He was drinking from a green bottle and as he walked he would occasionally stamp his foot quite hard and a portion of the wall would crumble into ruins.