It had been a long, slow, exhausting journey that he looked back on. It was an unknown, possibly dangerous road that lay before him. Nonetheless, he was glad it was there. His hopes were high and his faith was strong. Would they be enough? It was difficult to tell, but he pushed on anyway. Only a fool would turn away now.

***

He looked out the kitchen window as he poured the day's first cup of coffee. "Peculiar," he thought. "The fog this morning seems, not so much thicker, but somehow more substantial." It was only a passing thought and soon forgotten as he considered the day's possibilities.

He acknowledged his over optimistic view of life, but thought this felt like a very promising day. He took his coffee back to the bedroom and sat in bed while he sipped it, thinking how enjoyable little pleasures like this really were. In fact, it sometimes seemed like these were the moments we lived for.

He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, noticing, with some pleasure, the accumulation of books precariously piled next to the lamp which also shared this limited space. He knew it was past time to be out of bed, but somehow it just didn't seem right to interrupt such a moment as this. His cup was still half full. It was just cold enough in the room to make the warmth of the blankets hard to surrender. But surrender them he must. That or find himself racing against that clock to get himself ready for work.

Ah well. He didn't mind the race all that much anyway. Today he felt as if he might even win.

***

The hopes, the dreams, the memories that surface at times like these are filled with promises that most people would simply dismiss in the same way they would dismiss a fairy tale or myth. But then, most people don't even know how to enjoy a bird's song or a storm cloud. The common response is not always an accurate indication of the proper response. His response was uncommon.

***

It was later in the day. Things had not gone as he'd hoped. What had begun this morning as a hopeful opportunity had become a dismal task. Not only had the rain he loved so much taken on the role of an antagonist, but he found himself stuck in a situation he considered distasteful and dangerous. He thought he saw a way out of it, but it would be a tricky piece of work to pull it off. That and a bit of deceit, which he was not at all fond of engaging in.

He turned over the possibilities in his mind again. He realized the danger to be more imagined than actual, although the distaste was real enough...

***

How long had he had this same dream? And how often had he sat in some dream like state grasping for a way to put it into words that didn't either trivialize or exaggerate it? He couldn't say. Nor could he point to a date on any calendar to mark its first acquaintance with him. It was something that had a life of its own; it would exist with or without him. But he doubted very much that he would long survive in its absence. And yet, he recognized that the dream itself was not what he actually longed for. This dream that he had pondered over and over, again and again, was a sort of revelation; a vision of something inexpressible, yet felt very keenly in the heart. It drew him. It pulled him toward itself. He yearned for it. But all he really knew about it was shrouded in metaphor and myth. Is there any other way a thing of such wonder could be described? Does the heart need any other description?

***

"What is all this constant talk of dreams?" asked Joan. She was his friend, although the difference in gender sometimes created a barrier he knew he must respect. It was a barrier he didn't always see, and he wondered if it was always there but not always distinct enough to notice. He wasn't sure, but he still recognized its importance. And as she began to question him about his dreams, he could not decide with certainty the role this barrier had in her need to inquire.

Receiving no immediate response, she continued, "Lately your thoughts seem to be preoccupied, one might even say obsessed, with dreams and fairies and all kinds of nonsense! Please Peter, don't misunderstand me. You know I share your views about the reality of myth and all that; but why this recent increase in interest? No, interest is the wrong word. In fact, that's not even the question I really want to ask. The truth is, I'm afraid to ask what I really want to ask."

"Ask me. You know I'll answer honestly."

"Yes, I do. It's just..."

"What? You're not afraid of my ideas, are you? You know my philosophy, my theology; how and why I think the way I do. It's never bothered you before. In fact, you've always shared my views."

"I still do!" Joan exclaimed. "And no, I'm not afraid of your ideas. At least not as theories. But I think I am very afraid of what those theories might lead you to do."

"Is that it?" At this point, Peter reached across the table to her, gently resting his hand on hers, and asked, "Or are you afraid of what they might lead you to do with me?"

This startled her. She wondered if he'd guessed how she felt about him. She became nervous, as she always did when she thought a secret was about to be uncaged. She began to consider what would be the best way out of what was turning into an uncomfortable situation, when he said, almost as an afterthought, "But it's still no more than a theory. That is to say, I would look for the gate if I knew where to start, but I'm beginning to think one must be invited, and who knows if one is even allowed to bring a guest along, being a guest oneself."

Being freed from the threat of discovery, however unfounded the fear was, brought Joan such relief that she now welcomed a discussion she had been trying to avoid only moments earlier.

Peter removed his hand from hers and stood up. He walked over to the window and looked out. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, like a seer, or a madman.

She regarded him from the table. Why did she feel this affinity for him? He was more than a friend, but how much more? She wasn't sure. Sometimes she almost thought she was in love with him. She even admitted to herself that this might be so. But it was a very impractical thought. This made her giggle, and as she did so Peter turned back to her.

"What is it?" he asked. "Am I thinking too loud?" He gave her a generous smile and came back over to the table, but didn't sit down. He looked at her, and she noticed that his eyes were kind, open, friendly; but not, she noted with appreciation, intimate. They were the eyes of a close friend, not a lover. She wondered what he saw in hers.

He again interrupted her thoughts. "Do you ever read the Bible?"

"Oh no," she thought, "not this again."

"Occasionally, yes" she replied, hoping that he wouldn't carry this too far, but thinking that he probably would. "But you already know what I think about all that."

"Yes," Peter said, "I understand your position quite well." He again became thoughtful. She thought maybe even a little distracted, but he smiled as she thought this, and this made her wonder if she was the one whose thoughts were too loud.

He continued, "The story of The Fall."

She hated being baited like this. Anybody else she would have ignored. But Peter was one of her oldest friends, and his ideas had an appeal she found hard to resist. They were so much like her own, yet somehow more tangible.

"What about it?" she asked.

Peter was slow to respond, and Joan wondered if he had even heard her. She was about to call his name, when he said, "That bit when God comes looking for them; what does it say? Something about him walking in the garden in the cool of the day. Are you familiar with that?"

"With the story, or with walking in gardens?" She giggled again, and he smiled, but more out of kindness than amusement.

He went on, "There's just something about that phrase that makes me think..." His voiced trailed off. He found his pack of cigarettes, and after coaxing one out and lighting it, he took a couple of drags off of it and continued, "That phrase, it has a real sense of 'the other' about it. It has a certain taste. It brings things to mind, stirs longings, tempts me toward holiness..."

"Holiness! You mean out of fear for the vengeful God?"

"Hmmm...I won't deny that may be part of it...but not consciously. More like the merciful God to me. But no, I wasn't really thinking along those lines at all just now. I was concentrating on the phrase itself. The activity perhaps, regardless of who's doing it."

Joan looked at him somewhat appraisingly before replying, "I don't see anything particularly unusual about anyone walking around in a garden at that time of day. It seems a perfectly good time for it. I suppose it may seem unusual because, well, how many people do you know who have gardens that can actually be walked in?"

"Kings have gardens like that," said Peter. "God is a king; The King. It's his garden.

"What I'm getting at is the Land of Faerie."

"I'm sorry Peter, but I don't see the connection. Are you saying the Garden of Eden is the Land of Faerie?"

"No, not exactly. But there's something about 'walking in the garden in the cool of the day' that brings it to mind. Almost as if one were a metaphor for the other."

"Well, which is the metaphor?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe they both are. Maybe they represent each other...or something else..."

"I see. You are working on some kind of theological treatise for wee folk, is that it?"

This was met by a look of shock from Peter, which quickly turned into hearty laughter.

He reached for the ashtray and snuffed out his cigarette, and then sat down on the couch, not far from the table that sat in the middle of the room. He stretched his legs out in front of him, put his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. When he spoke again it was as if he were seeing into a different realm from the one his body was occupying. "Every one has dreams..." he began, but was interrupted by Joan.

"Dreams again! Or fantasies. Peter, dreams are one thing, but they don't always correspond to reality. I may dream that my cat talks to me, but when I wake up she's only meowing, and if she could talk she would only ask, or demand, to be fed. Or if you're talking about dreams as ideal plans for the future, we know those don't always come to pass. But whichever kind you mean, they are still only dreams."

"Well, I'm not sure why dreams necessarily have to be 'only' dreams. And I don't see how we can live in reality without them. I sometimes have the feeling upon waking that my dreams have been trying to tell me something, but I always wake up before I can grasp it.

"And I think you're missing an aspect of the other kind of dreams. Why do you say they are about the future? Some are, but couldn't some actually be a faint memory of the past?"

Joan studied him for a moment, then said, "A collective unconscious, Peter? I'm a little surprised to hear you suggest such a thing. Isn't that considered unorthodox?"

"As I'm sure you know," replied Peter, "I'm one of the most orthodox men in England."

"Yes, but we're not in England. This is America, Peter, or have you somehow gotten the location of your body muddled with your mind's romantic imagination of a land of fairies?"

"No. But the land you refer to would really be Ireland. The fairies inhabited England as well (or more properly, Britain), but Ireland has more continuity in that regard.

"The truth is, as great as I consider America to be, or to have been at one time, it doesn't hold for me the same sense of wonder. There's no history here of the things I long for. We have no castles, no royalty, no magic. I'm sure if I were in England I'd be disappointed, but the longing is sometimes its own pleasure."

Peter looked at his watch, not because he cared about the time, but because it was a kind of anchor to the mundane reality of everyday life.

He continued, "But we were discussing dreams..."

"And orthodoxy..."

"And bodily location..."

"And collective unconscious..."

"You brought that up."

"Yes, but it sounded as if that's where you were heading."

"Maybe I was, but if so it was unintentional. I was really thinking more along the lines of desire. But somehow 'memory' seems to convey the actual experience better than the word 'desire.'"

"Well Peter, when you figure it out, let me know."

"Okay, okay. I just can't help thinking with my tongue. You know that."

"Yes, and I enjoy being around when you do, but sometimes I'm caught off guard at where your tongue leads you."

"Well, I'm finished for the time being."

***

Peter awoke slowly, not yet ready to give up the warm blankets for the brisk air he felt on his face. He was not lazy, but was not above enjoying a comfortable bed at the expense of punctuality from time to time. But once he became conscious of the new day, there was no turning back, and no matter how slowly it happened, he was eventually wide awake.

He looked over at the clock. It was a good, analog clock, with a face and hands. He preferred it to the digital clocks that only showed numbers. He didn't think his preference was moral in nature, but he wasn't sure.

The time was ten minutes after seven. He had twenty minutes to dress and get to work. It was a good thing he only worked a block away.

***

The sun was shining brightly as he closed the door of his apartment and began his short walk to the office. It wasn't the job he had imagined having, when he was young and full of dreams, but he didn't mind it. It was better than working in a factory.

His dreams had been big, but they never had any plans associated with them, at least not in any organized fashion. Whatever plans he had were really only more dreams. He'd wanted to be a poet, and in some ways he was. But he was never dedicated to it the way poets should be. It was more of a hobby than anything else.

As he walked along the sidewalk, he thought about Joan and their conversation the night before. They had talked about dreams. Not dreams about the future, nor those that accompany sleep, but dreams as a sort of nebulous reality that somehow, sometimes, seem to hold more truth than our eyes can discover. Truth that is locked away from the casual observer. Truth that has to be dug up from hard packed logic. Truth that can only be understood by the imagination.

***

His childhood had been neither a happy nor a tragic one. There was nothing significant about it that he could recall. He hadn't read any of the books that were considered necessary by those who consider such things. In fact, he hadn't read much of anything as a child, but instead grew up with the television. He'd seen movies like The Wizard Of Oz, and had watched Saturday morning cartoons; but this was all he knew. The dream world of books was someplace he'd never been.

It was at a time of life when he was expected to earn his own way that he first crossed the threshold into that land of enchantment that can only be found in books. And after that, he always thought of himself as a citizen of that country. In many ways this made it more difficult for him to deal with the world he had to engage, but it also caused him to feel that life was a very wonderful thing to have. His appreciation for that other world allowed him to enjoy this one better; caused him to see aspects of it he otherwise would never have noticed. This brought him great joy. It also brought a lot of disappointment. But he did not think the cost too high for the benefit gained.

***

Childhood. What a magical time of life. But as with any potential magic, there is always a danger. The possibility of real tragedy must be accepted. All risks are not equal.

Peter know both the tragedy and the magic. The tragedy came first, and was probably the seed from which his recognition of the magic grew.

His parents had taken good care of him, by the standards of their time. He had been well clothed and fed, had a warm bed, toys, and was loved. But his imagination had been left unnourished. Books were not a very large part of his life. Neither were other children. He had no brothers or sisters. He did have a few cousins that he loved very much (although he wouldn't have described his feelings for them so), but he was able to visit them only rarely. He would have liked to have seen them more often, but it wasn't up to him. He made friends, but for some reason his parents moved him around so often that friends were hard to keep, and so it became harder and harder for him to make them. All of this was part of the tragedy.

Owing to this kind of childhood, he began to dream of a different kind of world, filled with friends who were never left behind, and who never moved away; and cousins who lived next door; and brothers and sisters who were always around to play games with, tell stories to, confide in. And fairies. He began to believe in fairies, and they were very much a part of this world.

Laughter, joy, companionship, love; the first and last he had known, but those two in the middle had never really been his, and these are what he dreamed about and filled his world with.

***

He got to the office ten minutes late that morning. No one said anything about it. They never did anymore. In all the years he'd worked there he'd only been on time a couple of dozen mornings. At first comments were made. He'd had a few talks with the boss. He said he'd try to not make it a habit. But a habit it was, and one that was unlikely to ever be broken. But nobody even seemed to notice any longer.

His co-workers thought well of him and sought his expertise regularly. He was happy to give his assistance and considered it the best part of his job.

He usually brought a book with him to read during his lunch break. His job did not provide the satisfaction that others seemed to find in their work, so he looked for it in a book. Sometimes he found it, sometimes he didn't; but he always looked for it.

After work he would sometimes take a walk through the park that bordered the business section of town, watching the children play, and young lovers holding hands. And he would imagine a world where this was the biggest part of the day, rather than just the last hour before sunset.

***

He didn't see Joan for the next couple of days. He spent the time writing. He was easily distracted because of their recent conversation. His mind kept asking the same questions Joan had asked. And each time his answer were a little different. But in spite of this inner dialogue, he kept writing. First an essay about the universal attraction to myths as an explanation of the deepest desires of man. Nothing new there and he knew it, but he couldn't keep himself from writing it anyway, as a way of organizing his own thoughts. Then he wrote a poem about the possible danger in such a wholesome desire. Lastly, he began a story about someone very much like himself, but he soon put it aside, not knowing where to go with it, and also a little put off with the autobiographical direction it was taking.

He picked up his pack of cigarettes and stepped to the window. He loved the view. It overlooked the park, which was practically a forest, with huge, old-growth trees with gnarled roots, rabbits and squirrels. It completely blocked out half of the city, and gave the impression of living on the edge of Faerie.

He took a cigarette out, put it between his lips, and lit a match. He rolled the lit match between his fingers a few times, watching the fire, then put the flame to his cigarette and puffed twice to get it going. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, blew out the match, dropping it into the ashtray he kept by the window, put the cigarette back to his lips and took a deep draw on it.

As he blew the smoke out he watched it bounce off the window like dust from the moon, or like water hitting the ground in slow motion. He wondered if watching the smoke curl and drift in the air wasn't the real reason he enjoyed smoking so much.

In the midst of what would very likely have become a metaphysical contemplation, the phone rang. He looked at it for a moment, took another look out the window, and then picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Peter? It's Alex"

Alex...this is unexpected."

"Yeah, I knew it would be. How have you been?"

"Oh, I've been fine...what about you?"

"I'm doing well, reading a lot, as usual, a little drawing, still working at the factory."

"It's good to hear. But you still keep pretty much to yourself these days..."

"Yeah...I see Kathy sometimes, you know, dinner, maybe talk awhile. In fact I just saw her last night. She stopped by on her way to the airport. Her dad died and she's going back home. I don't know how long she'll stay, but it could be awhile."

"Sorry to hear about her dad. Was he sick?"

Alex paused for the briefest of moments before answering, "Yeah, it turns out he was."

Peter caught the pause and knew that Alex was holding something back, He also knew that if it was a secret Alex would keep it, so he left it at that.

"Alex, would you like to come over?"

"I'd like to talk, but do you think you could come over here? I'd hate to be gone if Kathy calls. She probably won't, but if she does I'd like to be here."

"Sure, that makes sense. Okay, I'll be over as soon as I can."

"Thanks Peter."

"Sure. I'll see you in a bit."

Peter hung up the phone and walked back to the window. He put out his cigarette and turned to pick up his jacket. He put it on, put his cigarettes in his pocket, and started for the door.

***

When Peter arrived Alex was standing outside.

"Hi Alex."

"Hello Peter. Thanks for coming. I felt funny calling you after such a long time, but there aren't many people I feel comfortable with these days. And I wanted to talk...and...well, you always were a good person to talk to."