Mosswood Hollow, Duvall, Washington
I am in a pleasant rural setting, looking out across fields and meadows, with deep woods beyond. My companion is a beautiful boy-man who looks about twelve years old.
He starts running across the fields, skipping and circling.
As he runs, the high grass, which is ready for haying, is instantly baled. At I watch the bales and haystacks rise effortlessly, as if shaped by unseen hands or machines, I am awed by the magical powers of harvest this young one seems to have.
I watch him more closely. It seems he can run on four legs as well as on two.
More striking is that one of his feet is nothing like a normal human foot. It is bulbous - the shape of a bulb you might plant in the soil - and it is glowing green. This is the green of spring fire, the verdant green of growing things. My young friend may have the gift of sowing as well as of harvest.
I know now that I want him to be my special assistant in the community I have decided to settle here. But maybe he's a bit young.
I ask him, to be sure, "How old are you?"
"I am twelve," he confirms. "I am in the fourth grade."
Fourth grade? Surely not in the American school system! Maybe "fourth grade", to him, means something else.
As I seek to understand his identity and his powers, I hear a voice. It sounds like a wind off the sea, like a sea breeze skimming the white caps. "Sidhe!" it whispers, drawing out the syllable. "Sheeeeeeee."
Sidhe. I know the word. It is a name for Faerie folk in Irish.
"You are of the Sidhe," I tell the man-boy.
"So are you," he responds.
I woke from this dream on my first morning back at Mosswood Hollow with a sense of happy enchantment. I felt that a beautiful magic charm had been cast over me and perhaps the whole group. I loved the image of an effortless harvest of benefits from the techniques of Shamanic Dreaming we are gathered here to practice. Prior to sleep, though weary from a long and choppy day of travel, I had set the intention to dream for the group, for our weekend together.
The Sidhe. Yes, I know a little of them. When I heard stories and poems about humans taken into their realm, in my boyhood, I wondered whether that was what happened to me when I died and seemed to live a whole life in another world, aged nine. I tell more of that story than I have chosen to tell before in my new book, The Boy Who Died and Came Back.
I love the idea that all this magic belongs to a twelve year old. Twelve years ago, I embarked on a novel whose protagonist is a twelve year old boy. I am sure my twelve year old Robert would like me to finish that unfinished work, or something similar. For now, I will make drawings from my dream, because he also loves to draw and paint.