came for me, with a greater force than it had had in years.
I came up from it to find myself huddled on the floor with my arms over my head, a shriek of complete hopelessness and terror echoing off the walls. All the old symptoms washed over me: cold, copious sweat, sour vomit in the back of my throat, heart bursting, lungs heaving. Then the door was flung open and Holmes was kneeling beside me with his strong hands on my shoulders. 'Russell, what is it?'
'Go away, go away, leave me alone.' My voice was harsh and hurt my throat. I stood up and nearly fell, and his hands helped me to my bed. I sat with my head in my hands, pushing the dream back into its box, my body slowing.
Over the pounding in my veins I was peripherally aware that Holmes was still beside me, tying the belt of his dressing gown, smoothing his hair back from his temples with both hands, and drilling the back of my skull with his gaze. Eventually he left off and went out of the room, but he did not close the door, and was back after a minute with a glass in one hand and his tobacco pouch in the other. He held out the glass.
'Drink this.'
To my surprise it was not brandy, but water, cool, sweet water, sweeter than honey wine. I put the empty glass on the table with hands that were almost steady, and shivered from the drying sweat.
'Thank you, Holmes. Sorry I woke you. Again. You can go back to bed now.'
'Pull the bedclothes over you, Russell; you'll take cold. I'll just sit for a moment, if you don't mind.'
He brought a chair around to the head of my bed and sat down, crossed his pyjama-clad legs, and took out his pipe, and I curled up and listened to the old, familiar sounds of a pipe being filled and lit: the scrape and tap as he cleaned the bowl, the rustle of the tobacco pouch, the rattle of the matchbox, the quick scratch and flare of the match lighting, the suck of air drawing, and several quick puffs of his lips around the stem. The sharp smell of sulphur and the sweet wash of pipe tobacco filled the air, and Holmes sat and smoked, unobtrusively, undemandingly.
My wits gradually returned from the realm of Pan and, as they had a thousand times before, turned to the Dream. This upwelling of my subconscious had driven me to the works of Freud and Jung and the others of the European schools of psychoanalytic theory — countless hours of self-hypnosis, self-analysis, dream symbolism. I had analysed it, dissected it, thrown the full force of my mind against it. I even tried ignoring it. No matter what the approach, eventually there came another night when I was flung again into the hell and the agony of the thing.
The one thing I refused to try was telling someone about it. One morning my aunt had become too persistent in her questions about my 'nightmares,' and I had hit her in the face and knocked her to the floor. My neighbours in lodgings had commented on my nocturnal disturbances, and I had passed it off as studying too hard. The thought of telling someone, and having to see their face afterward, had always clamped my mouth down on the words, but now, to my exquisite horror and relief, I heard the words trickle from my mouth. Slowly at first, inexorably, they pushed themselves into the dim room.
'My brother — my brother was a genius. Reading by three, complex geometry by five. His potential was huge.
He was nine when he died, five years younger than I. And I, I — killed him.' My harsh voice faded, leaving the low sound of engines and the burble of the pipe. No reaction from Holmes. I turned onto my back and and put my arm across my eyes, as if the hall light hurt them, but in truth it was that I couldn't bear to see his face as I told him this.
'I have this — this Dream. Only it's not a dream, it's a memory, every minute, tedious, horrible detail of it. We were in a car, you see, driving along the coast south of San Francisco. My father was going into the Army the following week. He had been rejected because of his bad leg, but finally he persuaded them to put him into — ' I laughed bitterly. 'You could guess this, I think — into Intelligence work. We were taking a last family weekend at our cabin in the woods, but I was — being difficult, as my mother put it. I was fourteen, and had wanted to go with some school friends to Yosemite, but had to go to the cabin instead.
My brother was being particularly beastly, my mother was upset over Dad leaving, and Dad was distracted by business and the Army. A merry company, you see. Well, the road is bad there, and at several places it runs along the top of some cliffs over the Pacific. A drop of a couple hundred feet. To make a long story short, we were just coming up to one of these, with a blind corner to the left at the top of it, when I started screaming at my brother. My father turned around at the wheel to tell us to shut up, and the car drifted across the centre. There was another car coming around the corner, going very fast, and it hit us. Our car spun around, I was thrown out, and the last I saw was the outline of my brother's head through the back window as the car went over the side. Dad had just filled the petrol tank. There was nothing left of them. Any of them. They scraped together enough pieces for the funeral.' Silence.
How could I possibly have thought it right to tell Holmes this? I was empty, dead, the world was filled with a howling wind and the gnashing of teeth. The Dream had escaped my control, my past had freed itself to destroy me and the (yes, I would admit it) love (the thin waif of my mother's voice as the car went over) I had for this man.
'I went crazy for a while, kept having to be restrained from throwing myself off things. I finally came across a very good psychiatrist. She told me that the only way I could make up for it was not to kill myself, but to make myself worth something. In effect, though she didn't say it so simply, to be my brother's stand-in. It was an effective piece of therapy, in a way. I no longer tried to jump from high places. But the Dream started that same week.' Holmes cleared his throat.
'How often does it come?'
'Not often now. I haven't had it since we were in Wales. I thought it was finally gone. It appears not. I've never told anyone about it. Ever.' I lay there and thought of the time, just before I left California, that Dr. Ginzberg drove me down to the cliffs, and I had seen the sparkle of glass and the scorch marks below, and how tempting and welcoming and cool the waves looked as they pounded themselves to froth on the rocks far below. 'Russell, I — ' I interrupted him with a desperate rush of words.
'If you're going to reassure me that it wasn't my fault and say that I mustn't feel guilty about it, Holmes, I'd rather you left, because that really would finish us off, truly it would.'
'No, Russ, I wasn't about to say that. Give me some credit, I beg you. Of course you killed them. It was not murder, or even manslaughter, but you are certainly guilty of provoking a fatal accident. That will remain on your hands.'
I could not believe what I was hearing. I took my arm away and looked at him then, and saw in his face a mirror image of the pain I could feel on my own, only in his case the rawness of it was smoothed over, soothed by wisdom and years.
'I was merely going to say that I hope you realise that guilt is a poor foundation for a life, without other motivations beside it.'
His gentle words shook me, like an earthquake, like the tremor I had felt as the gout of flame came bubbling up over the cliff. I felt myself falling into a chasm that yawned up within me, and all that held me was a pair of calm grey eyes. Gradually the trembling stopped, the earth subsided, the chasm fell in on itself and closed, and the eyes saw it all, and understood. My guilt, the secret that had gnawed at me day and night for four years, was in the open now, recognised and acknowledged, and no longer would it be swept away to grow malignantly in the dark.
My guilt had been admitted. I had been convicted, had done my penance, and had been given absolution and told to move on; the healing process could begin. For the first time, the very first time since I had awakened surrounded by white coats and the smell of the hospital, a sob tore into my chest. I saw it on the face of the man opposite me, and I closed my eyes, and I wept.
The following morning we resumed our rôles, all signs of the night's revelations banished. It was bearable now, because that night and each successive night after the lights were turned out I would hear two taps at the door, and Holmes would enter, stay for a few minutes, and leave. We spoke of quiet things, mostly concerning my studies. Twice I lit a candle and read to him from the little Hebrew Bible I had bought in the old bazaar in Jerusalem. Once, after a particularly bitter day of verbal duels and bloodletting, he sat and stroked my hair until I fell asleep. These moments made sanity possible. From the time I rose in the morning until I turned off my light, Holmes was my enemy, and the ship rang with our fury, and the men retreated from the ice that spread from us. At night, however, for a few minutes, battle was suspended and, like the British and German soldiers exchanging cigarettes and carols across No-Man's-Land during the undeclared Christmas truce of 1914, we could put away the battle and fraternise, two weary and seasoned veterans.
