#finishthestory Week 39: From Dream Drought to Deluge

Alright, @bananafish folk and non-fishians alike, it’s time for another #finishthestory contest. If you’d like to participate, and I strongly encourage anyone to join, it’s a weekly contest. Once again, this week, @f3nix starts, and @you finish! (You didn’t really think that @you link would work, did you?) Here’s the Week 39 prompt.

[Img source]

A Thousand Windows
by @f3nix

From the Little Ararat’s peak, Vartan "tiger's eye" observed his hometown, Yerevan. In the ample pocket of his tunic, well sheltered from the harsh wind, his squat fingers played with two graceful jade discs, while his steed, foaming with fatigue, seemed suddenly reinvigorated at the sight of home after months of traveling. If it had not been an animal, it would seem that he was moved. In Vartan's eyes, the only veil was that of travel fatigue.

Armenian merchant of precious stones, merchant son of merchants, he did not care how dangerous the journey was, nor how many moons had rotated above the long caravan: his mind was a precision balance that incessantly weighed and estimated without respite Indian emeralds, Burmese rubies, Pakistani aquamarines. This was Vartan's life since the cradle: he made a profit, and he did it surprisingly well.

A brisk early March night, something unexpected happened to him: he had a dream. Being an unusual experience for him, he awoke to throw in a far corner of the room the brocaded bedspread, upset and wet with sweat despite dawn’s breeze. In his family no one used to dream, there was no space for these frivolities. If he reflected well, maybe a couple of times he had dreamed of carving a gem or making a good deal, but he never came across those surreal dreams like a sand mirage in the ocean. After that episode, dreams began to visit him more and more frequently, as the unstoppable progression of pot-bellied drops in an August downpour. Frankly, it was a very unfortunate situation for Vartan, who was soon forced to invent every kind of wild night escapade to justify the increasingly evident dark circles under his eyes.

Then one day, while he was dreaming, the unthinkable happened: he suddenly perceived that he was in the dream. That first experience of dreamlike lucidity did not last long, nothing but an imperceptible beating of wings of awareness before the rules of the dream came back to swallow him and to dictate the story, relegating him to a mere spectator. Night after night, he began to acknowledge the laws that governed that world and how to bend them to his creative power. Thin and rarefied realms could become dense with colors, shapes, and perfumes. The Escheresque geometries of dancing fractals disobeyed space and time. Gradually, Vartan learned to attribute a new meaning and content to the term comprehension. For every new dream he was immersed in, the breath of those universes and his soul were united in one single essence longer and longer. In those dreams, Vartan traveled in the folds of reality, learned the language of angels and played dodges with them in the heart of perennial storms of unknown planets.

Soon, what was happening in Vartan's soul could not remain hidden to the eyes of the family, his friends, and the entire city of Yerevan.

From Dream Drought to Deluge
By @Michaias

Two days’ travel remained. Maybe a day and a half if Vartan were reckless. His horse, Marmar, seemed eager to try, and Vartan empathized. He scraped his jade discs together, enjoying their raspy friction and tinny song. He resolved to be reckless.

The next evening, Marmar swooned and collapsed in exhaustion. Vartan tumbled free, barely saving his leg from being crushed. One of his discs flew from into the darkness, and Vartan wasted too much time searching for it in vain. Marmar, meanwhile, was hyperventilating. Vartan shared his remaining water, stroked Marmar’s snout, and hoped for the best.

Vartan was surprised by how easily sleep and dreams descended. In his lucid dream, he approached his equine companion. Vartan touched Marmar’s flank, whispered to him, and pushed him to his feet. As Vartan wished for more water, his flask was suddenly full. They drank their fill. Moments later, Vartan was in the saddle, and they were sprinting toward Yerevan.

At dawn, Vartan awoke beside a fountain in town. Marmar gulped the water. As Vartan shook off sleep, he inventoried his surroundings. Almost on cue with the sunrise, the fountain water ceased flowing.

Vartan, still uncertain he was awake, led his horse away by the reins. Seeming to intuit the city’s present crisis, Marmar was reluctant to leave the fountain.

When Vartan arrived home, his brother Nishan dropped a stack of papers and rushed to greet him. His arms locked around Vartan, and he unloaded a barrage of questions: How long had it been? What new cultures had he encountered? How was business? Their talk stretched well into the night.

At dinner, Nishan shared Yerevan’s troubles: a drought, the worst drought in decades. Crops had shriveled. The well was dry. Business had declined. Young men spoke of leaving and not returning. Vartan commiserated, and the baubles he had acquired on his travels felt suddenly inconsequential.

Vartan promised to depart at dawn, seeking favorable markets so he could send money back home. Nishan, however, insisted his brother stay a while. After some prodding, Vartan verbally assented, but planned to slip away before his brother awoke.

That night, having gone to bed thirsty, Vartan again dreamed of the dehydrated and hyperventilating Marmar. Again, Vartan discovered a magically full flask of water in his hand. He gave it all to Marmar.

In the morning, an unexpected rain arrived. It was welcome in Yerevan. Children danced in the streets, tongues hanging out to catch the raindrops. Vartan couldn’t be sure his dream had brought the rains, but just to be sure, he stayed in town and took a midday nap.

In his dreams, he personally carted water to every household in Yerevan.

For the next month and a half, the rains sprinkled Yerevan in refreshing bouts. Vartan, in his soporific service, made peace with every neighbor and finally with his own dreams, now set to the reassuring rhythm of rain rapping on his brother’s roof.