In my dream, I was walking down a fire lane in the woods behind my house. Kept hearing someone whistle a melody that seemed vaguely familiar. In a little clearing off to the side, sat a man, sitting on a log, and whittling. He looked up at me and smiled, then continued whistling and whittling. I walked over to him and looked down at what he was carving. Some kind of animal shape was emerging from the piece of wood he held. Then, as dreams will do, one scene merged with another, and I woke up.
The same dream came to me again and again over the following years. I would go on with my ordinary life and the dream would fade from memory, only to be dreamed once more. A couple of times I walked back there and looked around for little clearings in the brush, but found none similar to the place in my dreams. Two years later, things got strange.
One night, a huge summer moon hung in the sky. No clouds obscured the fury of its presence, and it grew brighter as it rose. I was awakened from sleep by the jolt of my dog’s bark. She was sitting next to the sliding glass door in my back bedroom, gazing intently into the night. I knelt down beside her in order to see what she was watching. And froze.
There, in the moonlight in those nearby woods, sat a man, whittling and whistling that soft tune. In disbelief, I threw on some jeans and a shirt, and went back to the glass door. Grabbed a flashlight and stepped out into the night. But there was no man, no whistling. Just the insistent call of an owl, somewhere in the pines.
The next morning, I dismissed it as one of those half dreams that seem so real. Life went on with it’s drudgery, not leaving much time to wonder. Then, August rolled in on its heavy haunches, bringing such humidity that my world was enveloped in perpetual mist. I was late getting home from work one night and had just locked my car and was headed for the door. But the sound of that elusive melody flowed from somewhere in those moonlit woods. As I walked back there, the sight I beheld stopped me in my tracks. Whittling man was back. A short distance into the forest, he sat as before.
This time I was going to find out for sure. Fear that might have stopped me at one time was overcome by curiosity and determination. As I walked towards him, he looked up at me and smiled. I was immediately overcome by his angelic presence. I stood still and looked more closely. Then, there was nothing but pine and scrub in the honey moonlight.
Over the next few weeks, I worried about delusions and my dubious sanity. But, as time went on, the night visions and recurring dreams did not return. I chalked it up to too much wine and an overactive imagination. Once, I thought I heard that old melody on the radio, but by then, it seemed insignificant. Fall came along and temperatures dropped. I thought it a fine time to clear a path through the woods. Found my choppers in the shed, then trimmed and chopped until almost dark, then sat on a fallen log to survey my work.
Looked down and there, at my feet, half buried in the dirt, was an old rusty pocket knife. I could hardly pry the blade out, but finally did. It was well worn and had tiny bits of wood stuck to it. My head swam with dream images as I picked it up and headed back home. And just as I reached the door, the clear whistling of an ancient melody wound through fading twilight.
