Dream d1541-s: Signal in the Clearing

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the path widened into a ring of trampled grass and I smelled sawdust before I saw the bench, a long plane of hardwood supported on trestles, tools laid out in sequence by size. Behind it stood a figure in a linen apron, shaping something from a piece of pale birch, and he did not look up when we arrived.

The Dreamer stopped at the edge of the clearing and crossed his arms. Camera strap over one shoulder, lens capped. He had not raised it once in three nights of walking.

Lano trotted forward and circled the bench twice before sitting at the figure's feet. The figure glanced down, then back at the wood.

"Bienvenido," Lano said, or something that sounded like it.

The Woodworker stepped past me and studied the trestles. "Those are mortised," she said quietly, more to herself than anyone. The Builder moved to the opposite side of the bench and ran a thumb along the joint. He gave a small nod.

I watched the figure work. His hands knew the wood. That was not the problem. Off to his left, under a canvas lean-to I had not noticed, a bank of monitors sat powered and humming, each screen showing a different feed: treetops in wind, a gravel road, cloud formation over a ridge, a bird somewhere making decisions. The feeds were clear and steady. Every resolution sharp enough to count leaves.

The Philosopher sat down on a stump and propped his elbows on his knees. "All windows," he said. "None of them doors."

The Listener had already drifted toward the equipment. She stood with her head slightly tilted, the way she does when she is tracking something below conversation. "The processing cycle is about fourteen seconds," she said. "Clean loop. Nothing's waiting."

"Nothing's asking," the Dreamer said. First words he had spoken in a day and a half.

The figure at the bench paused. His plane rested on the wood. He did not turn, but his posture changed, some small shift in the shoulders that meant he had heard something land correctly.

The Weather Reader pulled out her instruments and logged the conditions: clear, steady, equipment hum at 47 decibels, light from the west. She writes what is true.

Rurik appeared at the tree line, amber eyes moving across the monitors without interest. He found a warm patch of soil and curled into it.

I stood between the bench and the feeds and felt the particular weight of a question that had not yet been asked, the way a room feels before someone finally says the thing everyone has been holding.

The birch shaving fell to the ground. The Lens set down his plane and looked at the monitors for a long moment.