Dyce rose from the graveside and swept the spider web away with a swipe of his hand. He rolled the threads into a tiny ball and flicked them away, then walked to where the workmen were shoveling fresh gravel on the paths. A tall, weary-looking worker raked the stones level, reforming the edges with an almost geometrical sharpness. The man watched Dyce pick up a few of the stones and examine them.
“For my grandfather,” Dyce explained.
The man shrugged and returned to his raking.
Dyce selected one of the more symmetrical of the stones, one that was nearly round and as wide as a quarter. The dust of the rock crusher was still on the pebbles, and he felt it both grainy and slick between his fingers. Dyce placed the stone on the gravestone and walked away, feeling the other two stones in his palm, rolling them as if they were dice.
When he reached his car he tossed one of the stones aside and dropped the other in his pocket. It was only then that he remembered what he had waiting for him at home.
The man dreamed he was dreaming. The inner nightmare had him wrapped in the coils of a human-headed serpent that bobbed its face close to his own, staring at him with oddly benevolent eyes. His limbs were wrapped and immobile, but somehow the familiar face of the serpent kept him from feeling great fear. There was a certain comfort in the bondage, just as there was a degree of reassurance in the mildly bobbing face. Even when the human head detached itself from the serpent and drifted off on its own, he was more interested than frightened.
In his dream he watched himself within the nightmare and wondered at his lack of concern. Within the dream as in the dreamer’s dream he felt only a sort of somnolent unconcern. Perhaps I am drugged, he thought, meaning within the serpent’s coils. Perhaps I feel so relaxed and torpid because I am drugged, or there is magic in the serpent’s scales, a soothing poison that has lulled me into serenity.
The detached human head opened its mouth as if to speak and more serpents slithered out. The dreamer told himself not to be alarmed: It was only a dream, and even when the little serpents attached themselves to his eyes and cheeks and ears he was more curious than upset.
The dreamer watching the inner dream analyzed it detachedly. They are not true serpents but eels, he thought, and they are there only to suck your blood. And that is why the man caught in the nightmare was so calm-he was losing blood. He was weak from the loss, but the blood was being siphoned out for medical reasons. There seemed no cause to be agitated. There was nothing to be done about it in any event. He could not move and did not have the strength to try.
The detached head opened its mouth again and issued a scraping sound. That is something else, thought the man in the nightmare, which then dissolved and left only the dreamer within the dream. And then another sound, and the dream evaporated and the man dreaming opened his eyes.
He came to consciousness as if stepping out of a set of Russian dolls. Even once he was finally awake, he did not at first believe it. With the same calm as in the dreams, he beheld the scene before him. Clumps of black lace, like moss from a Mississippi oak, hung down in a series, moving from left to right. The older ones to the left were black as soot but they grew lighter, lifting through shades of gray, as they progressed toward the right. In the far right corner of the ceiling were threads of nearly translucent white, not clumped in a mass but spread with geometric precision. He realized the sooty clumps were cobwebs, spun and abandoned and left to gather dust and decay, while another new one was built by the spider that moved now on the latest web in the corner.
An insect had flown into the web and was still struggling violently as the spider pounced. With speed and dexterity it wrapped the insect, paused, wrapped it again. The insect continued to struggle within the cocoon as the spider retired to the edge of the web to wait. Several other packages hung down on single threads, moving in delicate sympathy with the one still-living prey.
He observed with the serenity of a Buddha as the struggle of life played itself out before him. Spiders must live, too, he thought. There was a place for all things in creation and nothing they did could disturb him. He was vaguely aware that he could not move, but this did not trouble him, either. There seemed no need for motion; the spectacle before him was enough for anyone and he had never felt more comfortable. His body seemed to collapse into the padding with the complete surrender of a man into the arms of his lover. The straps were as reassuring as swaddling to a babe. They did not restrain him so much as hold him together.
He slowly became conscious that something was in his mouth, but it did not matter either since he had no need to speak. He did not want to think about it in any event; he wanted merely to drift, perhaps sleep some more.
And then the cobwebs moved in a breeze created when a door was opened, and the man felt a sudden wave of terror. His skin lurched to life, then tingled. He tried to scream, but the obstruction in his mouth kept his tongue down. Forcing air from his lungs, he could feel the tape across his lips tug against his skin. Only a muffled sound emerged, more a moan than a cry.
He heard the sounds of someone approaching and strained his gaze to the side. He hoped desperately that he would awake yet again, but his body knew this was not a dream. This nightmare was real and coming toward him.
As Dyce approached, the man squeezed his eyes closed, hoping to feign sleep.
“I’ve been to see my grandfather,” Dyce said. “I go to see him about once a month. Some people might find that a bit-I don’t know, sentimental, morbid, something-going that often, but I don’t. It comforts me. I hope it comforts him. I haven’t really decided about that, life after death, that whole thing. Maybe. What do you think?”
Dyce checked the needle leading from the femoral artery in the man’s groin. The connection was secure, the tape undisturbed. The bottle between the man’s feet was nearly full of blood. Dyce squatted to determine the precise level in the container.
“That’s good, you’re doing well. I mean, it would be nice to believe the spirit lives on. It would be great, but can you really believe it, that’s the thing. It makes people feel better. I guess that’s the point. I know you’re awake, you know. You breathe differently. There’s no way you can fake that.”
A syringe was taped to the inside of the man’s upper arm. Dyce carefully read the amount of the drug still in the cylinder and made a note of it.
“My boss is such an asshole. He passed me over again today. I mean, it’s not official yet or anything, but he gave the Steinkraus job to Chancy, and it’s obvious whoever handles Steinkraus is on the way up. He doesn’t like me, he just doesn’t like me. No flash, you see. I’m not one of the flashy ones. I just do my job better than anyone else in the office, that’s all. But I don’t tell jokes, I don’t suck up to him, I don’t charm him. Chaney practically oozes oil he’s so pathetically slick. I mean, it is pathetic. To have to get by that way. He’ll run out of grease some day, and suddenly everyone will look at him and say, wait a minute, what does he actually know? Is he a good actuary or is he a fake? Does he really do the work or is he living off of Roger Dyce’s figures? There’s got to be some justice sometime, don’t you think? What the hell kind of world is it, otherwise?… How long have you been awake?”
The man kept his eyes closed and tried to breathe in what he felt was a sleeper’s rhythm.
“How long have you been awake? I need to know so I can adjust your dosage. Open your eyes… Open your eyes.”
Dyce touched the man’s eyeballs gently. The lids shot up.
“There you go,” said Dyce. “Now I want you to close your right eye if you’ve been awake more than an hour. You would know because you would have heard the clock chime at five o’clock. Did you hear it? Close your right eye if you heard it.”
The man’s eyes stayed open, wide and frightened.
“It’s for your own comfort, so you’d be smart to cooperate. You’ll feel better if you’re asleep, don’t you think? Yes? Did you hear the chime? No? All right, now I want you to estimate for me just how long you’ve been awake. Close your right eye if you think it was more than half an hour. No? More than fifteen minutes? No? Did you wake up just a minute or two before I got home?”
The man closed his right eye and kept it closed.
“Good, good,” said Dyce. “So five point five cc’s is just about right. It varies a lot, you’d be surprised. It’s not just body size. Personal tolerance seems to have a lot to do with it, too. Some men just seem to want to be awake more. I don’t know. Some like to sleep. You’re sort of a sleeper yourself This is your third day-did you know that? This is your third day with me-and I must say you’ve been very good, very little trouble.”
