Fantasy

Berg woke up for the seventh time this week in a cold sweat. That same dream had invaded his subconscious again, the dream where he is in the jungle, where through the thick brush he can make out a light, like a campfire. And there is also the rhythmic throbbing of voices and the steady beat of crude drums being pounded. Each time he had come closer to the fire only to wake up when he is right about to part the ferns that separated him from the circle of people around the fire. Normally, Berg, being a sensible and down-to-earth kind of person, would have dismissed the dreams, but this was no normal dream, it was very vivid, so vivid that, sometimes, he forgot whether that reality was just a dream, or the dream was a reality. I ought to see a therapist about this, he thought uneasily while climbing out of his rickety old bed, careful not to wake his fellow orphans who were sleeping in the large “nursery.” Berg climbed down the cold, metal steps that led to the large common room that dominated his orphanage. From there he turned to a hallway that led to the kitchen where his favorite nun was sure to be working on making the children’s breakfasts. “Well hello, Howard, what are you doing up so early?” “The dreams,” he said simply, while Sister Amy nodded knowingly “Also, I’ve asked you, please call me Berg.” The homely nun rolled her eyes and continued cracking eggs into a large bowl. “I’ll call you by the name this orphanage gave you, not some nickname you made up.” “The dreams,” he said simply, while Sister Amy nodded knowingly There was a brief pause, broken by Berg asking hopefully, “Any news?” Amy looked at him sadly and said, “No, I’m afraid not.” They were talking about the news of Berg’s origin. He had been given to the orphanage five years ago, and ever since then he had been obsessed with learning about his past. The nuns did what they could, which was to ask other orphanages around the state if they remembered him, and to pray, of course. “Darn it,” he said, feeling the familiar suffocating grip of hopelessness tighten around his body. “Oh, don’t worry,” said Amy. “There’s always Fleming’s Domicile for the Destitute,” she said, squeezing his arm and giving him a wink. He laughed. It was an old joke of theirs. When he had first come and expressed his desire to find out who his parents were, the first orphanage they checked said they had no record of him. It was then that Amy had come and consoled him and said that it was always the most strangely named place that held all the information you needed. They had spent the rest of that afternoon making up different names for this unknown, strangely named orphanage, and Fleming’s was his favorite. Berg got up from the stool he was sitting on and walked out of the kitchen, flopping on a brown, bumpy couch in the commons. He had just gotten a wave of vertigo, that feeling when it seemed like nothing was real. He gripped his hand tightly on the couch armrest until it passed. He looked around at the familiar settings of the large room. In the northeast corner there was a ping-pong table that would most certainly be used over a hundred times today. Lining the room were cushy armchairs and rather overstuffed couches, and in the southwest corner was a large bookcase. Soon though, Berg’s relaxation was broken by the sound of a large alarm clock and the thunder of feet stepping down the staircase. Like a large herd of cattle, the student body tromped through the commons and into the dining room, where breakfast was to be served. Berg got up shakily and walked over to where his two best friends were, near the back of the line, as usual. “Hey, Clare, Nathan,” said Berg when he reached them. Nathan nodded in recognition and Clare smiled happily, glad that all of her few friends were around her; Nathan only stuck his hands deep in his pockets and whistled a tuneless song. Finally, when they had progressed through the line and were sitting at a table, Nathan asked, “So, dreams again?” Berg smiled. He knew, of course. Nathan was the most normal and predictable person you could and probably ever would meet. It was for this that Berg had liked him so much. It was his normalcy that made him strange, because while everyone had their own unique style, Nathan had none. This in itself was a type of style that Nathan took special pride in. “Yeah . . . They’re getting much more vivid, ya know?” said Berg after much thought. Clare and Nathan both nodded wisely, although both were hoping that the strange nightmares that had settled on their friend’s mind would simply go away. There was an awkward silence, broken only by Clare looking down at her plate, sighing, as if to change the subject, and pushing it away. “Do they expect me to eat this? ‘Cause I am not eating this,” she declared, although there was never an answer. It was purely a rhetorical question, more like a ritual really. She looked disdainfully at the gray metal tray that held some sorry-looking eggs and piece of toast with a smidgen of jam on it. Then, as if accepting her fate, Clare picked up her plastic fork and grudgingly took a small bite of the egg. The school bell was like an old woman, yelling at them hoarsely, telling them to get to class, or suffer the consequences. Because every student knew what the consequences were, they all hurried. Clare and Berg had to part with Nathan as they went to the math class while he went to English for his first hour. In math they were covering dimensional analysis and many students were having trouble. Just