Dream d3566-s: Two Taps, Then Still

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the canal was the color of pewter at that hour, the water moving only as much as water must when there is no wind and the current is shallow. I stood at the edge of the quay where the timber planks met the stone footings, and the air carried the smell of wet wood and old tar and something faintly metallic from the canal bed.

Two people worked. One crouched at the surface of the quay, pressing a knee against the plank that had shifted, running a thumb along the raised edge where it had lifted from the runner beneath. The other had gone below, into the crawl space under the quay decking, and I could hear the sound of movement there - the scrape of a shoulder against a beam, breath taken carefully in a low space.

They did not speak much. A word or two passed between the planks, a question about the position of the peg hole, a sound of confirmation. The one above held the board flat with both palms, feeling for the moment when the alignment was right.

The mallet came from below - one clean tap, then a pause. Then another. I could feel it through the soles of my feet, a low vibration that traveled through the old timber and into the stone beneath. The board settled. The person above moved a hand to check the edge, pressed once to test it, and lifted away.

The materials were already there when I arrived: a row of hardwood pegs laid out in the right order, the mallet waiting in the crawl space, a square of rag for the excess. No measuring had to be done. No tool had to be sent for. The work was already inside the space it needed.

I watched from a few steps back. The canal moved beside us, barely. A duck crossed at the far end of the slow reach, pulling a small wake that smoothed before it reached the quay. The slate sky held its color evenly, no brightness at any edge, the kind of light that asks nothing of you.

The second peg went in with the same two taps. The one below worked by feel and by the sound of the first - knew the grain, knew the depth. The one above listened and kept pressure without guiding.

When both pegs were seated, the person beneath shifted and emerged at the far end of the quay, brushing dust from a sleeve. They stood together a moment. Neither looked long at what had been done. The plank sat flush now, the same as the others.

The eight folded sheets stayed in my coat pocket. The notebook stayed shut. The canal went on being flat and slow, asking nothing, and the quay gave nothing back but a board that would hold through the night.

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