Now just why or how these things happen, it is hard to say. One minute, Edward, age 40, thin with abundant black hair and slate grey eyes, is driving his little red sports car down the highway in the country, and the next minute, for some unexplainable reason, he decides to turn off onto a road that he has never been on before in his life. And even Edward does not know why he is doing so. The road is secondary, paved, winding through lush, evergreen-choked countryside, typical Pacific Northwest countryside—grasses, ferns, maples, fir trees and on hills where the road climbs, expansive views of mountains. Edward drives on, comes around a curve—flash! A blinding light and bang! There is Edward, smack dab in the middle of what has to be a small town in Mexico: the white adobe walls of buildings, the red tile roofs, the brown, unpaved and dusty soil and the damp heat.
Edward stops the car. He is somewhat surprised and looks about, this way, that. There is no one else around. “Well,” says Edward, more to himself than anyone, and, given he is by himself, it would in fact have to be to himself, he says, “this is interesting.” And he drives a little ways down the narrow street, comes around a corner and there is a plaza, in the middle of it, a well. You know, he thinks to himself, something tells me—He gets out of the car and goes over to the wide, broad-rimmed well. He leans over. Darkness. He reaches into his pocket, finds a penny and tosses it in. It drops for a second, then bursts into flame, looking like a miniature meteor, and then goes out. But in the flash, Edward sees rungs on the side of the well. He sits on the rim and looks into the darkness. “I don’t think I understand this too much,” says Edward. “I don’t know why I turned off the main road. This does not look like Seattle, Portland or Vancouver; I don’t know what I’m doing here; this does not look like a normal well; my car won’t start and I don’t know what to do.” He sighs.
“Dream,” comes a voice.
Edward looks around. There is no one else there. “Dream,” says Edward.
“Dream,” comes the voice.
Edward glances into the well. “Is there someone down there?” asks Edward, peering into the darkness.
“Yes and no,” comes the voice.
Edward tries to place the voice and the best he can do is the sound of wind through trees, water over stones. It is a voice—but it is hardly a voice that Edward would call human.
“To whom am I speaking?” asks Edward.
“Time,” comes the voice. “So much time. And so little of it. So much hope. Yet virtually none. All the risks to take, nothing to risk at all, yet everything to risk.”
Edward looks away. “All I asked was a simple question and I get back a verbal jigsaw puzzle. Helpful.”
“Cynic,” says the voice. Then, “Excuse me.”
Abruptly, there is much wailing and sobbing and a woman climbs out of the depths of the well. Slowly she makes it to the top rung and, oblivious to Edward, with tears streaming down her face, her black hair in disarray, she weeps and walks away.
“Oh,” says Edward, sighing, “I see. You don’t dispense water. You dispense misery. Just what I need.”
“You misunderstand,” says the well. “I dispense only what people expect.”
“Who are you?” asks Edward, looking back down into the well.
Silence.
Edward looks up. A little child approaches; a gay, smiling little girl. She tosses a wooden bucket over the rim. Splash! In a moment, the little girl pulls up a bucket of—
“Pardon me,” says Edward.
“¿Qué?” asks the girl, smiling with eyes very bright.
“What have you there?” And realizing that the girl does not understand, Edward points to the bucket.
Eagerly, the little girl lifts the bucket; inside, there appear to be large soap bubbles. And Edward looks closely: in one bubble, the little girl is running somewhere, running with another little girl—on a hill—through grass and flowers, overlooking a bright blue sea. Another bubble: the girl, older, appears in a very nice, long white dress, clean, made of coarse cloth but elegantly woven. A gentleman is with her; someone of dark mustache, dark eyes and well-dressed. The scene is a beach at daybreak. And in another bubble, the girl and her parents at a market, all very happy. The girl lowers her bucket and Edward nods. Then the girl runs off, in spite of the full bucket—it is as though feather light.
Edward sits, arms folded, staring after the girl. “A bucket of dreams?” he muses. “Realities?”
“Sometimes they are the same,” says the well.
“Not always,” replies Edward.
“But often enough,” says the well, “if you so believe.”
Edward thinks for a minute. And as he sits on the wall of the well, an old man approaches the well and looks in. He sighs. He has a shoulder bag. With great effort and very slowly, he takes it off and lays it on the broad rim of the well. And with obvious pain, he lowers himself over the rim and climbs down the rungs. Edward watches; as the man climbs down, the well takes on an aquamarine color inside and the man, as he climbs down, slowly becomes transparent and the more transparent he becomes, the deeper the hue in the well. Then the man vanishes. Abruptly, there is a wild movement in the old man’s satchel, and a beautiful butterfly, maroon of body, aquamarine of wings, emerges as though coming from a cocoon—and moving about as though admiring itself, the butterfly beats its wings furiously and flutters away.
“Impressive,” says Edward, nodding appreciatively, “very impressive.”
“Thank you,” says the well.
“Now,” says Edward, turning and looking into the now dark again depths of the well, “what about me? I take it you have me here for a purpose.”
“No,” replies the well, “you brought yourself here.”
“I don’t see how,” says Edward. “Just on impulse I—” and abruptly stops.
“You knew which road to take,” says the well, “because you were ready.”
Edward says nothing and almost distractedly, he watches his hand seemingly float up to his sports jacket, go for the inside pocket and produce a letter. He opens it and reads it out loud:
Dear Meredith:
Last time I heard from you was seventeen years ago. You were going to be married, and sent me a wedding invitation. I did not respond. I never heard from you again. I did not respond not because I did not care, but because I guess I could not bear the thought of you marrying someone else. So, after 17 years, I guess I just wanted to say that I did care but maybe didn’t express it very well. Even now I think of you and care about you and I just want you to know that and I hope your life is joyful and good. I wish I would have been the person then that I am now. But that’s the way it is. You need not reply to this letter. Just know that you meant a lot to me those many years ago and I wish the best for you now.
Edward
Edward gulps and, in spite of himself, feels a tear rolling down his cheek, then into the well.
And in the well there occurs the softest most wonderful color possible—a deep maroon of sunset, the color of a butterfly. And the letter abruptly leaves Edward’s hand and drifts down into the well.
“Dreams,” whispers the well, “dreams, dreams, dreams. How many dreams have I given? Taken? Yet the power of dreams awes me still. Eon after eon, millennia after millennia, dreams, oh, the lovely power and magic of dreams.”
Flash! And Edward is sitting in his car on the side of the road, overlooking a broad river valley to the mountains beyond. He is just a short distance from the road on which he turned off. Dazed, he looks about. It is near sunset and the color of the sky is the softest, most wonderful color possible: a deep maroon of sunset, the delicate colors of a butterfly. He looks about the car and on the seat, an envelope. His name is on it. He opens it.
Dear Edward:
What a surprise to get your letter after all these years. I thought sure I’d never see or hear from you again. I am still married, have two rambunctious teenage sons and am content. I’ve often thought about you as well, hoped the best for you and certainly missed you at the wedding. Now I understand why. Thank you for sharing that. There is no greater gift than knowing that someone cares. I wish you well, my friend, and thank you so much. God bless.
Love, Meredith
Edward holds the letter, looks out over the landscape and says to himself, “Thank you, well.”
And somewhere he hears the sound of wind, of water flowing over stones and the familiar voice, “Dreams. Dreams, dreams, dreams. How many dreams have I given? How many dreams have I taken? Yet the power of dreams awes me still. Eon after eon, millennia after millennia, dreams, dreams, dreams, oh, the lovely power and magic of dreams.”
And Edward sighs, looks into the sunset, as he comes to know the power and magic of dreams.