Dark Sanity
Chapter Five

Waking the Dreamer

After an hour of solitude, Flint mounted Donna and left the canyon. He rode northwest toward Uluru. It was darker than usual. He could hear several animals prowling in the wilds as he rode across the vast plains of the Northern Territory.

Flint observed his surroundings. He appreciated the old, mystical-looking landscape. This desolate region was flat, covered with scorched grass. Trees were scattered throughout the land. Rarely did Flint see a pond. And of course there was Uluru. According to what the aboriginals had told him, its creation was believed to be one of Earth’s birthmarks—a primordial behemoth of a rock that formed after the dawn of the dreamtime.

Most interesting to Flint was that he’d passed by these parts countless times and yet only now did he truly pay attention to the landscape’s features. Several times since November he felt as though he was becoming more self-aware, but he also felt that he was losing his mind. This time, however, he didn’t experience insanity. This particular kind of sentience had been growing more and more since he’d stopped eating bush tucker. He desperately needed to replace out why this was happening to him, and he felt Yeramba was the only person who could help him.

He patted Donna and said, “Well, girl, it looks like I didn’t lie to Sarah after all. In a way, Yeramba still has need of me. Although it’s been a few months, he did tell me to return once the ‘wild demon’ had been taken care of. So I guess we’ll pay him a visit.”

Flint passed Uluru, riding farther west in the Northern Territory. It was only a matter of time before he’d reach Yeramba’s tribe. Flint felt a few cool breezes as he journeyed through the wilds. It made him long for winter; the heat was finally getting to him. He wiped off the sweat on his forehead and nudged Donna to gallop faster.

He rode through a dry region covered with spinifex, wild flowers, and bloodwood trees. Dozens of desert oaks stood amid the northern frontier. Flint could see Kata Tjuta on his left; it looked undersized in the distance. Animalistic totems eventually became visible to Flint who thought they resembled fierce emus. He knew the Wakaya tribe lived somewhere in this region and kept searching around.

His first visit had been by escort back in November, so it proved difficult for him to replace the tribe. Then he heard a distinct sound: Yeramba’s bullroarer. It reverberated with the air as it twirled, changing and manipulating the sound of wind, which resembled vibrato melodies. Flint followed the natural synthesizer. It was dusk, but he finally saw the aboriginals on the grassland. Their dark complexions made it a lot easier for Flint’s old eyes to spot them. He halted his mare, swung down, and greeted the aboriginal tribe by bowing before them. Jatma stood there too and mutually bowed.

Up on the hill sat King Yeramba who placed his bullroarer on the grass, gesturing at Flint to join him. Yeramba remained silent, inhaling smoke. Flint advanced and wanted to speak with him but decided to keep quiet; he simply waited until being spoken to.

“Anangu come back,” Yeramba finally said. “This very good.”

“Thank you,” said Flint, feeling somewhat awkward by the warm welcome. He took his tattered hat off for a change and scrubbed his untidy, grayish hair. “So, you’re not upset with me returning after three months?”

“Altjira spoke as Emu in dreamtime,” said Yeramba who, as usual, had his eyes closed. “Much fear and confusion in your broken soul before. Now, I see strong spirit. You defeat wild demon. Altjira honor this; we honor too, Anangu.”

Flint smiled at him.

“It time you healed,” continued Yeramba, inhaling smoke again. “You prepared for great journey?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“This be journey of soul, not journey of body,” said Yeramba. “Maybe one day Anangu leave land, but not today. Now is dreamtime. Altjira guide me for teach wondering soul; creator beings help at spirit world that Anangu only see in the dreaming.”

Flint took a deep breath, trying to be patient as he tried to understand Yeramba; however, barely anything was making sense to him.

“You understand if you remember past,” said Yeramba. “Past gone but still here, hidden like treasure. We search mind and discover Anangu’s past. Dreamtime show you it all,” he said, opening his eyes. He stared sharply at Flint and asked, “You leave the tribe and rediscover soul now?”

“Yes,” said Flint, accepting this as a mental journey. The moment he said that magical word, Yeramba blew powder into his face. Flint coughed violently and said in a wheezing tone, “Not again.”

“Come to dreamtime,” said Yeramba.

Flint tilted and fell sideways. His vision become hazy. Yeramba’s voice sounded like a distorted hum. Bonfires diminished. Stars vanished. The aboriginals looked like wild, burning shadows. Whispers filled his ears. The faint voices were calling out to him. One of them called him Ethan. He soon felt groggy, closing his eyes.

One hour later, Flint awoke in the hummocks and rose to his feet. King Yeramba stood next to him. They were in front of Kata Tjuta, the rock mass of thirty-six bornhardts. The sky was cloudy; it looked as though it were about to rain.

“Good, you have awakened,” said Yeramba.

“This is a dream, right?” asked Flint.

“Yes, we have entered the dreaming. We are in the realm of the dreamtime. This is where your memories hide—deep in the mind like the distant stars; though, only you can retrieve them if you’re able to slay Wanambi.”

Flint dug his eyebrows inward, realizing that Yeramba spoke vastly better than before. “I have a feeling you’re not Yeramba.”

The aboriginal did not respond.

“Where is Wanambi?” he asked, irked.

Yeramba pointed skyward and said, “Mount Olga—what we call Kata Tjuta. But beware, Anangu, he is the king of all snakes and has become stronger than ever.”

Flint sulked and started climbing the largest bornhardt. As he scaled it, the sun blazed down on his back, which seemed strange to him since it was a cloudy day. He looked up at the sky, yet he saw no clouds. Instead the clouds were beneath him. Flint gasped when he realized how high he suddenly was. For a split second he lost his grip but managed not to fall down. He groaned, attempting to reposition himself. After regaining control, he continued climbing and eventually reached the peak of what was supposed to be Kata Tjuta.

This area of Mount Olga made Flint feel as though he were standing on Mount Olympus. Kata Tjuta, outside the realm of his dream, was a colony of natural skyscrapers—the peak being higher than Uluru. In the dreamtime it was above the clouds. Flint, ready to confront Wanambi, observed the summit, his hand hovering over his holster.

“Come out, snake,” he said, grimacing.

Looking ahead, he spotted a scaly creature on the ground. He walked over to the center of the peak, stepping on the already dead snake. The sight of the serpent made Flint feel nauseous; he was expecting to replace Wanambi. As soon as he saw the dead snake, however, he had a feeling that Wanambi no longer existed—perhaps he never existed. Flint felt the snake was once him—a devious devil who had died long ago, and yet he’d managed to come back from the dead. But this time he wasn’t the devil incarnate; this time he was a savior. He wondered, what did all this mean? Were they clues about his long forgotten past? Were these thoughts utter nonsense or did they actually mean something? And where did Hamarah fit into all this?

“I don’t understand,” he said to himself.

“Trust your mind, Ethan,” said Yeramba. “The answers you seek are deep within you.”

“Eh?” Flint noticed the aboriginal appear from the corner of his eye and felt suspicious, wondering how much Yeramba knew. “Is my name truly Flint Cross, or is this name some kind of joke someone created just to mock me?”

Staring at him, Yeramba replied, “You are Flint Cross as long as you will it. Names are mere labels; it is the body’s inner spirit that defines us.”

“But why can’t I remember anything else? Why can’t I remember the war or Hamarah?”

Yeramba pointed at the cloudy sky and said, “Your answer is beyond this world, Ethan. There is nothing left for you here on this wretched planet. You must break free of this illusion and leave.”

Flint unexpectedly felt queasy, convinced that the person before him wasn’t Yeramba. He bent down, vomiting, and fell sidelong to the ground, blanking out. After what seemed like a few hours, he awoke on Yeramba’s hillside. It was past midnight. He removed the remaining powder around his nose while coughing. Then he sat up, gazing at Yeramba.

“Why did you tell me I had to kill Wanambi?”

Yeramba smiled and said, “Wanambi be fear. You fight fear and defeat it. You battle him with spirit. Dreamtime not always different from real, but sometime it distort with fear. In dream, enemy be fear—enemy be you.”

“How can I be my own enemy?” asked Flint, unconvinced. “No, more importantly, how can I have fear of something that I can’t even remember?”

“Ah, what body want be different from spirit,” said Yeramba. “You very troubled soul, Anangu. You not aware of this trouble. Emu in dreamtime know. All spirits aware—only they. But today is victory; it be first day Anangu awaken.”

“But what have I awakened from?”

“The dream,” said Yeramba. He put his hands on Flint’s shoulders and added, “Returning not coincidence. Rest. We talk in dawn.”

Flint nodded, grabbed his hat, and walked away.

“Wait,” he said abruptly, turning around. “I almost forgot.”

Yeramba raised an eyebrow, listening.

“In Panzo Mine,” went on Flint, “the miners were attacked by a mons…by a beast I’ve never seen before. I thought it might’ve been what your people call a yowie.” He noticed that Yeramba had a pale face, though it may have been caused by the bonfire. “It resembled a man, but it was hunched with green skin and claws. I don’t think it had eyes. Actually, it did have eyes; though, for some reason it looked blind. Do you think that was a yowie?”

“Anangu,” began Yeramba in a befuddled tone, “you in dreamtime more than spirits led me believe.”

Flint sighed out of frustration.

“Rest now, Anangu,” said Yeramba. “Tomorrow is new day.”

Flint left the hillside and rejoined his mare by a campsite. The tribesmen had surprisingly made a bonfire for him and his horse. He approached Donna, who nickered, and gently rubbed her fur.

“Sleep well, girl,” he said to her.

Flint lay by the fire, trying to sleep. He thought of Amanda for a brief moment, feeling an ounce of shame for not returning home. A voice within him, however, told him that he deserved this freedom because he’d helped the miners. He then let go of his wife and tried to embrace the nature before him. With the exception of the insects’ sporadic chorus, it was a quiet night. Flint felt safe among Yeramba’s tribe. This was the first time he decided to stay with the Wakaya, or any tribe for that matter. The complex feelings within him were doused while he rested outside in the wilds. After a few minutes of listening to the sounds of wildlife, he fell asleep.

In the distance, Uluru sank into the ground. The landscape near it gradually changed into the East Alligator expanse of Kakadu, which looked beautiful unlike months ago when Flint had awakened to the burnt wetland that was near Nourlangie Rock.

He slowly awoke, replaceing himself on the painted rocks of Ubirr. Rising to his feet, he gazed at the lush vegetation surrounding him and noticed Hamarah who sat by the outcrops of rocks, watching the sunset. Flint smiled, relieved to see her. Upon joining her, he observed the floodplains and escarpments. Hamarah hummed a song when he sat down. Flint calmly listened to her hum, also watching the sunset. After a while, however, he turned, gazing at his beloved soul mate.

“I’m starting to remember,” he said.

Hamarah smiled, gracefully staring at him. “Once you remember, you’ll never be able to go back,” she said.

“I don’t want to go back,” he said, embracing her. “I want to replace you.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m so happy you’ve made up your mind. But this is only the beginning, Ethan. Your life will be in danger from here on.”

“I had a feeling you’d tell me that,” he said. “I’m prepared for the worst; though, I keep thinking about what Browder told me—his words have made me concerned. Please tell me, is there anyone whom I’m able to trust?”

“Andrew Browder was too paranoid; he had no idea who to trust when he woke up from the dreamtime,” she said pensively. “If you ever have any doubts, confide in Yeramba.”

“Thank you.”

“I believe in you,” said Hamarah softly. She gleamed at him with affection and gently kissed his lips.

Flint closed his eyes, holding her while the sun finished setting. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself back in Yeramba’s territory. It was already dawn, and yet, to Flint, it felt as if only mere seconds had passed since he’d gone to sleep. He sat up, smelling the burnt residue of wood that belonged to his now lifeless bonfire. Smoke still lingered, creating a hazy effect. Most of the aboriginals were gone. Flint assumed they were hunting.

He then noticed Donna eating grass and felt hungry; he hadn’t had an opportunity to eat last night. Putting on his hat, he walked toward the hillside. A few women and children smiled at him while he passed by. He, in return, tipped his hat. Eventually, he approached Yeramba who was currently the only male aboriginal there.

“Good morning,” said Flint, doffing his hat. Yeramba remained seated and silent, smoke blowing out of his nostrils. “Do you do that every day?” he asked, amused.

“Spirits say Anangu remember past,” said Yeramba. Before Flint could reply, Yeramba added, “This good. Much healing on mind, but too much break soul again. It be good to cleanse spirit. And, at time, let go of thoughts. Dreamtime same: we go to Altjira like birth. It source of healing on spirits and creator beings; we fly and journey but not remember.”

“How come we may not remember?”

“If spirit remember all lives, spirit probably think always on many lives,” said Yeramba meditatively. “This life very important.”

“But if I can’t remember my past lives, then how will it help me in this life?”

“Your spirit strong,” said Yeramba. “It be like instinct of animal. We know soul from dreamtime—doorway to past lives. This true light guide us on what all must do.”

“Does this mean that the war I experienced was from a past life?” he asked. Yeramba did not answer, causing Flint to feel anxious. “How about Hamarah? She feels so real. Is it possible she’s still alive in this life?”

“I not have all answers, Anangu,” said Yeramba. “I point you in direction; it guide you to replace the lost. Only you, Anangu. You go now: desert of many gods.”

Flint knew that the “desert of many gods” was the dead world itself. Yeramba apparently wanted him to leave this continent to replace what he seeks. And while it was something he longed for, he knew deep down inside that he couldn’t do that—not yet at least. Although he was willing to leave his wife, he could never abandon his children.

“You are ready?”

“No,” said Flint. “I’m sorry, but I have a family. I can’t just leave whenever I want. In fact, my wife is probably furious enough as it is because I spent the night here.”

“Family important, Anangu,” said Yeramba considerately. “Homage to Tjurunga—the ancestors place where Emu totemic body on Olgas—that be only thing more sacred than family. My eight wives knowing this as one law above love.”

“Eight wives is a lot of love,” said Flint, trying not to laugh. Ironically, Yeramba was the one who laughed. “Well, it’s been a pleasure.” He rose to his feet, doffing his hat. “My wife and children are waiting for me. Maybe we’ll meet again someday, my friend.”

“If creator beings will it,” said Yeramba, pressing his palms together. “May white angel wake after dreamtime. Ride safe, Anangu.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Good hunting.”

Flint waved goodbye to the aboriginals while approaching his mare by the smoldered campsite. Taking hold of Donna’s reins, he tugged her to gallop northward. The morning was proving to be another beautiful day. Unlike the dreamtime, it was a clear sky with no clouds in sight. Traveling home, Flint saw a bustard flying. He smirked, spun out his revolver, and aimed at the bird.

“This one’s for you, Joey.”

He shot down the bustard with a single bullet and nudged Donna to canter over to where the bird fell. It was difficult for him to replace it amid the grassland, but he eventually spotted it and placed its body in his knapsack. Gently tugging the reins, he continued to ride north. After three hours of traveling, he returned to Desonas. Strangely, he saw a group of horses standing by the hitch rail of Steve Harrison’s church. Some of them belonged to the miners.

“What the heck?”

He couldn’t remember the last time so many people were at the church at the same time. Despite how odd this seemed to him, he shrugged and waved off the strange feeling he had in his gut.

“Let’s go, girl,” he said to Donna.

He rode past the town square and made his way through the farmsteads owned by the Steward and Froehlich families. They were also missing from their fields—apparently in the church, thought Flint. He finally reached his homestead, guiding Donna into the corral. Flint removed her saddle and then rubbed her snout.

“I’ll keep you and your friends here for a while since it’s nice out, okay?”

Donna nickered, trotting over to the other horses. Flint watched them eat grass when his stomach growled. He rubbed his slim belly while letting out a sigh, making his way back home; however, he stopped as soon as he reached his porch. He realized that there was something he’d forgotten to pack and take with him on the journey. His widened eyes gazed at the porch’s bench and table—no journal. Flint gulped and quietly went inside his house.

No one greeted him. The hall was silent and empty. Flint felt a slight feeling of relief as he hung his hat on the rack, but then he noticed that his trophy had been ripped off the wall. He groaned while he stepped into the kitchen, ready to scream at Amanda; yet she wasn’t there. Flint spotted a few shattered mugs on the floor. He had a feeling that this was Amanda’s doing rather than the result of someone breaking in and vandalizing his property. His house looked derelict for the first time in his life. Wasn’t it he who wanted to abandon his home? It shouldn’t be the other way around, he thought.

He was thinking irrationally; he knew his wife and children were probably out in the farm somewhere. And it was better this way because he knew an argument would ignite the moment he’d see Amanda. Flint started cleaning up, removing as much glass as he could with his hands. He then used a broom to sweep away the sharper, smaller pieces into a bag.

Just before he finished, he heard a faint creak. He turned around, noticing Sarah and Tom by the kitchen entrance. The three of them stared at one another awkwardly. Flint looked calm, but his children wore miserable expressions on their faces; they looked as if they couldn’t handle another second of life any more. After a few seconds of silence, Sarah and Tom rushed over to their father’s arms. Flint embraced his children while they cried.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Mo-mom…mom is dead,” said Sarah, sobbing hysterically. She looked at her father in despair, tears pouring from her eyes, and went on, “Sh-she hung herself.”

Flint felt as though his innards twisted. The anger he had after seeing his trophy ripped off the wall immediately vanished. He backed away, nearly choking. Everything made sense to him. Amanda had found his journal—she read his most private thoughts about Hamarah and his fantasies of leaving to replace her.

All the arguments he had with Amanda exploded from his subconscious—they resurfaced into his conscience, making him feel despicable. This was the last straw, he miserably thought to himself: Amanda could no longer live happily after knowing how much he hated her. In fact, she couldn’t bear to live at all. He knew family meant everything to her, and since hers was more dysfunctional than any other, she must have felt she’d failed, hanging herself.

He dared to wonder if this was a dream. No, he didn’t wonder; he dared to hope that this was a nightmare. It was, however, all too real. At least thirty horses stood by the church—most of the townspeople must have been attending her wake, he thought. And while they were doing this, he was out in the wilds like a mindless kid. During his married life, all he’d done was think about himself. He betrayed his wife so many times that it killed her.

Flint staggered against the wall. His children were still holding on to him. Yet he could barely feel them. He almost felt numb. What little feeling he had made him drown further in despair. Suddenly, he pushed his children away. He shook his head, turning to the stairs. Flint wouldn’t look at his children; he refused to look at them. All he wanted to do was escape, so he ran upstairs and locked his door as he heard his children cry out to him. He ignored them, hoping he would wake up from this nightmare.

No, he wouldn’t be waking up this time; he was already awake. The days of his dreaming were over. The dreamer was wide awake. His fairytale life was as dead as his wife, and he knew that the life he had lived just hours ago would never be the same again. He curled at the bottom of his bed, crying hysterically. One day he was a hero, the next he was a creep on the brink of insanity.

Australia had finally died. Now the whole world was literally dead. Everything was dead to Flint. Maybe his wretched body still pulsed with life, but his soul was dead. And to him, if the soul was dead, then the body was dead too. He remained in his room for hours—for days. His children had stopped crying; they had stopped knocking and waiting for their father to come out. They soon became the parents, taking care of the farm while Flint regressed to being a child. The folks in the desolate town of Desonas continued living except him. He was frozen in time despite him turning sixty, and he made sure it stayed that way.

Flint was nearly starving himself to death. He lived on whatever alcohol was in his home and only ate the food that Sarah would leave for him in the kitchen. Not once did anyone speak of the travesty that took place in their house. Several months had passed, or at least it felt that way to Flint. Time was lost to him. His adventures as a cowboy were over. The dreamer had finally awakened; it was a rude awakening. All of his mesmerizing dreams were lost—gone for what seemed to be forever. The only thing he had left was his sanity, and even that was slowly fading away.

Perhaps he’d already be insane if it were not for one more thing he had in his life. Yes, he had just realized that there was something else other than his sanity—his two children. But at this point, he felt he’d betrayed them as much as he had betrayed Amanda. So much time had passed; they were taking care of the house and farm. And what was he doing? He wasn’t doing anything. In the end, he was exactly what Doctor Tutherfield had proclaimed—a narcissistic man who only cared about himself.

He nodded at this realization, on the verge of drinking more alcohol on his reeking bed. Just before taking another gulp, however, he stopped and stared at the bottle with an expression of disgust—he was disgusted with himself. He screamed, hurling the bottle at the wall. Then he cried again. His tormented body desperately wanted to escape reality. He’d always been running away from old age, his late wife, his children, the dead world; he’d been running away from everything in existence.

But just this once he wanted to be irrational and face reality while sober. Despite his odd act of bravery, he soon regretted smashing his last bottle of alcohol. He had a horrible headache and suddenly felt the urge to puke. Slowly rising to his feet, he stumbled to the bedroom door, unlocked it, and wobbled into the bathroom. The moment he entered it, he vomited all over the floor.

Sarah quickly ran up the stairs, holding him. It was the first time since—no, Flint could not remember the last time his daughter had held him. He coughed violently and vomited again. Fortunately, he vomited in the toilet this time. He felt deathly ill, and he certainly looked it: his lurched, skimpy body and face were awfully pale, and his forehead was covered in sweat; he was no longer the strong cowboy he used to be. Flint knew he looked frail, and he had a feeling that his daughter thought the same. Yes, he regretted smashing his bottle of booze. It would’ve been better if he’d stayed in his room, drinking until dead, he conceded.

“Dad,” muttered Sarah.

Hearing her sweet voice felt like a sting from a vicious insect, thought Flint. He wanted to cry again. He was so pitiful; so weak; so ghostly. And yet when he heard her voice, he felt a pulse deep within him—it was the pulse of life. But he hated that pulse. A part of him no longer wanted to feel it. He wanted to scream at Sarah for coming upstairs to help him. He wanted her to forget about his wretched existence. Yet he cried over her shoulder instead.

“Sh-she’s gone,” he sniveled. “It’s all my fault.”

“No, dad,” she said softly. “It’s her fault.”

“Huh?” he uttered, almost choking. He could hardly believe what he heard his daughter say. He needed to hear it again. “What?”

“Mom gave up,” she said. “Mom will always be in my heart. I will always love her. But suicide wasn’t the answer. And it will never be the answer. Even though we have a difficult life; even though the world is barely hospitable anymore, life is still worth living.”

“You were always the strong one,” he said feebly. He managed to stand straight in the bathroom, leaning against a wall. “I’m proud of you, Sarah.”

She smiled, embracing her father. “I love you, dad.”

“I love you too,” he said, holding her tight.

Now he remembered; the last time he’d held her was on that miserable day—the day he’d come home from his last adventure, only to replace out that Amanda had hung herself. He wondered to himself, was she that miserable? To kill herself over a journal; over an imaginary woman? He knew the answer but refused to admit it.

“Let me help you back to your room,” she said.

He gave her a nod. His daughter unexpectedly made him feel stronger. The pulse of life wasn’t so bad after all. And for the first time in months, he felt that he deserved to live. Sarah helped him back to his bedroom. Though, when entering, she tried to hide her face; she wore an expression of revulsion, accidently inhaling the putrid air inside. She laid her father down on the bed and tried fixing the sheets. As she did so, Flint stared at her curiously.

“How is Tom?” he asked.

“He’s all right,” she said, tucking Flint in with the sheets. “He misses you.” She paused for a moment and then added, “We both miss you.” Sarah could no longer stand the disgusting odor in the room and lifted the window. She waved her hands a few times and tried to smell the fresh air outside. “That’s a little better,” she whispered to herself.

“What have I missed?”

Sarah walked over to the bed and sat at a corner next to her father. “Everything is almost the same,” she said, putting her hair in a ponytail. She held his hand and said, “I have something important to tell you.”

Flint waited for her to speak, but she didn’t continue. Instead she simply looked at him with an awkward expression.

“Well, out with it already,” he grumbled.

She lowered her head and finally said, “I’m pregnant.”

At first, when he heard the word “pregnant” he felt numb inside. Normally, hearing such a thing from his daughter would have made him want to kill Jake for taking her before marriage. But this news strangely felt trivial in comparison to Amanda’s death. He stared blankly at his daughter who didn’t know what to expect from him. Letting the news settle in, he managed to accept it without screaming.

“Why?” he inquired.

“I needed him,” she said flatly. “He wanted me, and I needed him. We were already engaged.”

“Are you still engaged?” he dared to ask.

“Yes,” she said as though it were a stupid question. “As a matter of fact, we’re getting married on Friday.”

“Huh?” he uttered, faintly coughing. “I don’t even know what month it is.”

“June,” she said, chuckling. “Today is Tuesday, June twenty-fourth. Just don’t ask what year it is.” This time Flint chuckled. “By the way,” she went on, “Steve is going to marry me to Jake. Do you think you’ll be able to come and walk me down the aisle?”

Flint finally sat up and said, “I wouldn’t miss it even if the world was coming to an end.” He thought that was rather stupid to say, since the world had in fact ended long ago. “Ah, forget that last part. Of course I’ll be there.” He hugged his daughter who gleefully hugged him back. “I just hope Tommy is the best man.”

“He is,” she said, smiling.

Flint shook his head. “Just a moment ago you told me everything was just about the same.” He sighed. “I missed a whole lot.”

“You’ll make it up by coming to my wedding,” she said.

Flint continued to hug Sarah. As he held her, he thought to himself, after all this time, life had managed to go on. Not everything was dead after all. He slowly appreciated the pulse of life. And he finally felt rejuvenated enough to face the real world without wanting to escape into the wilds, his dreams, or by means of alcohol. He made his decision this moment—he would be the father he’d failed to be for so many months.

“Get some rest,” she said, kissing her father on the forehead. “We can talk more about it tomorrow.”

Flint complied and lay back down on his bed. He let his daughter gently tuck him in again and watched her leave. When she closed the door, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The dreary past was finally behind him. He wanted to start over tomorrow, he happily thought. That’s right, he conceded—no more alcohol, no more adventures as a cowboy, and no more dreams.

He felt comfortable on his soft bed. It was nice and quiet. And with the window open, he received fresh air with an occasional breeze. After all, June was winter in Australia, and he really needed a nice, cool breeze. Even though he’d been hiding from reality in his room, he had spent most of his time drinking himself to death. But now it was time for him to sleep in peace. While he lay in his bed, however, it started to feel rough—a bit too jagged. He turned around, yet it felt the same.

This rough feeling was the strangest thing, he thought. Just a moment ago his pillow was soft and fluffy. Now it felt hard. And the putrid smell in his room was completely gone. When he breathed the air, it felt absolutely clean. He decided to open his eyes, wondering what this was all about. He probably should’ve kept them closed because when he opened his eyes he gasped and nearly had a heart attack; he was no longer in his room.

Flint lay on cold granite, his head resting on a jagged boulder. He stood up and felt dizzy and nauseous. The wind blew against him, and mist enveloped him. The fog seemed unnatural, sweeping through the cracked badlands within seconds. Wherever Flint was located, he was far from home. But, somehow, his instincts told him that he was still in Australia.

He squinted, attempting to scout ahead. Despite how hard Flint tried to look, he couldn’t see anything due to the mist. He turned around, unexpectedly seeing King Yeramba standing in the middle of nowhere on one leg; his left foot rested along the side of his right knee. He had one hand lifted skyward while the other faced downward. Yeramba’s body, as usual, was painted all around with various aboriginal markings.

“I’m done with your games, Yeramba,” said Flint sharply.

“Games?” said Yeramba, raising an eyebrow. “It is true: your entire life has been a game. But am I the host? No. I’m afraid that it’s the other way around, Anangu.” Not once did he flinch or tumble while he spoke in his absurd position. “Open your eyes.”

“Stop this!” shouted Flint, approaching Yeramba. “My wife is dead because I confided in you and your ridiculous dreams.”

“These are not my dreams,” said Yeramba. “They are yours.”

Flint, enraged, glanced down and realized that he was dressed like a cowboy with a black duster over his vest. This didn’t make sense to him, though it worked out in his favor. He quickly reached for his revolver, pointing it at Yeramba.

“This ends now.”

“If you shoot me, you shoot yourself,” said Yeramba. Flint was startled when he heard Yeramba who continued, “Do you still think I am an aboriginal?”

“Stop,” said Flint, his hand shaking. “Stop this madness.”

“I am not the dreamer,” said Yeramba. “Only you can put an end to the dreaming. But first you must awaken.”

“I awakened when my wife killed herself!”

“She was never your wife,” said Yeramba.

Flint couldn’t take it any longer. He trembled and trembled, and then he pulled the trigger of his revolver. The sound of his bullet being released was like booming thunder. Smoke puffed from the barrel of his gun like a lit cigarette, and the delicate bullet projected out of his revolver, jamming straight between Yeramba’s eyes. He croaked while blood trickled down the hole in his head, and he fell flat on the granite. The mist enveloped him, and he disappeared.

“You can’t kill me,” said a whispery voice.

Gasping as if out of breath, Flint turned around and saw Yeramba standing unharmed in the same exact position he was in before.

“Who the fuck are you?” he inquired, pointing his gun at the aboriginal.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Yeramba. “I am many things. Sometimes I am the love of your life: Hamarah. Sometimes I am your mentor: Yeramba. But most importantly…”

“Spit it out,” said Flint.

“Most importantly, I am you.”

Flint squinted, ready to shoot Yeramba again.

“I was so sure that you’d finally awakened on Mount Olga,” continued Yeramba. “I was so sure that you’d faced your fears and defeated the evil within you. But you never killed Wanambi. It was only an illusion—I know that now. You climbed Mount Olga merely out of curiosity, ignorant of your situation. Not once did you do it for Hamarah or your old comrades. You did it only to please your ego.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The sound of a bullroarer suddenly pierced Flint’s ears. It was so deafening that it shook the land. Flint dropped his gun and clamped his hands over his ears, kneeling down. When he kneeled down to the granite, however, he gazed at Yeramba who now looked identical to him, except he was naked. Flint could hardly believe what he saw. He stared at his naked self and fell to the ground, screaming in pain. His ears bled while the bullroarer continued to bellow its odd, discordant melody.

After a few seconds, the sound stopped. Flint let go of his ears, gazing up. The aboriginal was gone. Breathing deeply, Flint grabbed his revolver and rose to his feet. He scouted the area menacingly, ready to kill Yeramba. The mist was thickening. No matter where he looked, he couldn’t see anything. Flint followed his gut and walked north. The silver spurs on his boots chinked loudly with each step he took. He occasionally turned, aiming his gun around, and continued north.

Flint was angry, anxious, distraught, curious, and tired. Still, he pressed on. Fortunately, when he walked farther ahead, he saw the shape of a mountain whose peak was almost as high as Uluru. Though, he couldn’t see it very well due to the mist.

“Where the hell am I?”

He eventually broke into a run. His duster blew back when he sprinted. The violent wind brushed against his old, rugged face as he ran. He was soon panting. His thick, gray goatee felt heavy. His legs—weak and shaky. And despite it being winter, Flint felt as though the heat had begun to pour over his dreary body. Not even winter in Australia held the furious sun back. He gazed up while he ran, but the thick mist and clouds covered the black-spotted sun. Flint slowed down, catching his breath. When he stopped, however, he could finally make out the gargantuan mountain. It wasn’t Uluru. No, he wished it were. Standing before him was Kalkajaka, the black mountain of death.

How he ended up in Queensland, he had no idea. But this was the dreamtime. Anything was possible within the dreaming, thought Flint. After catching his breath, he had the nerve to walk forward. He wasn’t going to let fear hold him back. The only thing that mattered to him at this point was replaceing Yeramba and putting another bullet in his head. He’d do it again and again if he had to. The dreaming meant nothing to him. He just wanted to wake up and live out the rest of his days in peace.

Flint was ignorant when he’d climbed Mount Olga during his previous experience in the dreamtime, but he knew that the key to his salvation—returning back to reality—was somewhere within Kalkajaka. As he approached the black mountain he heard whispery screams of torment; he heard echoes of tortured souls who’d been imprisoned within the rock of death. Flint stopped and stood still for a moment, listening to the agonizing voices that were fading. He gazed at the mountain harshly, realizing that this was it—if he walked any farther, he would reach the point of no return; he’d reach the deepest sanctum of his subconscious. Nodding at this realization, he pressed on, entering the darkest realm of his being, where sanity was nonexistent.

The scorching heat increased as Flint approached the mountain. Little by little, the mist dwindled. When it dissipated, steam blew out of the ground’s cracks. Looking down, he noticed magma beneath him through the wiry-shaped fissures. Just then, an earthquake started. Flint ran while splintered boulders fell from the black mountain.

He continued to hear whispery voices screaming in agony as he drew closer to the base of the mountain. Upon reaching it, he realized the mountain was covered with black lichen. At first he didn’t see an entrance to a cave, so he decided to climb. Though the jagged granite was hot, his leather gloves dampened the heat for him. Glancing down, he saw chasms throughout the grayish mountain and made sure not to fall.

Upon climbing midway, he finally saw a slight opening that seemed to lead into a cave. He felt wary about entering the mountain; however, he’d already journeyed this far. It was time for him to replace out what lay inside. He pulled out his Peacemaker and cautiously stooped into the hole, which led him into a nearly pitch-black cavern that reeked with a stench of death so awful that it made him think his booze- and vomit-scented bedroom smelled like a rainforest. A single sniff made him cough and stagger to the side.

At that moment, the cavern lit up with sparks of fire as magna flowed beneath him. His eyes widened when he saw the lava. Steam, once again, billowed out from the cracks. He kept hearing faint sounds of ghostly voices screaming as if being tortured. It was unsettling to Flint, but he refused to give into fear and walked ahead. The heat pressed against his waning body so much that he started to feel dizzy. Still, the air was dreadful. It was so rotten that Flint nearly suffocated in a feeble attempt not to breathe the air. Then he dared to look down and found the source of the stench—thousands of dead bodies.

Flint nearly screamed. He accidently stepped on someone’s head, and then he stepped on the ruptured body of another person who seemed to have fallen from one of the large chasms above. The corpses were innumerable, and they were impossible to avoid. Flint began to run, stepping on countless bodies. He wore a ghastly face while steam blew against him. Sounds of hisses pierced his ears. Were snakes living within the mountain of death? The thought simply terrified him. Flint ran as fast as he could, accidently falling down a chasm hidden in the dark passage he’d been dashing through.

He slammed against several ridges, continuing to fall farther down the pitch-black hell that the aboriginals had proclaimed to be a warren of evil. Here, in the depths of Kalkajaka, was Flint’s final destination. His fall was interrupted by solid ground. His wail resonated louder than the bullroarer outside, echoing throughout Kalkajaka. Without a doubt, if this was reality, he’d be dead now. The only reason why he was still alive in this godforsaken mountain was because he was within the dreamtime.

Flint painfully uncurled himself and slowly stood up. Although it was extremely dark, the ruby-red lava allowed him to see. His gun, however, was nowhere to be seen; he’d unfortunately lost it in the midst of falling. He walked in a hunch. The stench of death was finally gone. But the blistering heat was still empowering the dark, rickety depths of death, clinging onto Flint in an attempt to roast him and feed him to whatever beast still lurked within these blackish walls of torment.

He eventually heard someone crying; it was the lament of a miserable woman. Flint had heard this voice before. The weeping voice gave him an irrational chill. He then defied the heat pressing against him, urgently trying to replace the person who was crying. At the end of the tunnel, curled in a corner, lay Amanda who wept hysterically with Flint’s gun in her hand.

“No,” he muttered, taking a step back. “No, this isn’t fair.”

Amanda noticed him and said, “This isn’t fair?” She wiped away her tears as she sniveled and added, “What you did to me was unfair!” Amanda nearly stuttered and stammered with each word she uttered. “Yes, this is fair. This is justice, you narcissistic scoundrel!” She lifted the gun, putting its muzzle on the temple of her head. “You never loved me.”

“Don’t do it,” he said, surrendering his hands. “Please don’t.”

“You never loved our children,” she went on. “You never even loved that whore in your dreams. No, you have only been in love with yourself.”

“Give me a chance,” he pleaded.

“I gave you so many chances,” she said, sniveling. She pulled the hammer of Flint’s gun, cocking it back. “So many chances…”

“Amanda,” he whispered fretfully. “Please don’t do this. I lov—”

She pulled the trigger before he could finish, blowing half her face apart. The sound of the gun going off was loud, but not as deafening as Flint’s anguishing shriek. He ran to his wife and held her bloody corpse in a tearful outrage, screaming at the top of his lungs. The languish he thought he’d laid to rest had returned within seconds. He was the same pitiful mess of a man he’d become when she had committed suicide in the real world several months ago. Flint lay in the corner, feeling helpless.

“Why do you mourn that which was never real?” asked Yeramba, coming out from the shadows.

The moment Flint heard Yeramba speak, he grabbed his revolver from Amanda’s lifeless hand, aimed it at the aboriginal silhouette, and fired the remaining rounds into the shadow. None of the bullets, however, harmed Yeramba.

“Give me back my wife!” bellowed Flint, standing up.

“I already told you, she was never your wife,” said Yeramba. He stepped into the dim light, showing his features. Flint gasped and took a step back, seeing himself again. Yeramba, who looked exactly like him, smiled and added, “You still don’t get it, do you?” He laughed went on, “They’ve been playing you for a fool. This entire world has been a stage, and you are their entertainment—their joke.”

Flint felt his heart pound heavily as his mirror image spoke. He remembered everything Browder had told him. And he knew, deep down inside his frail soul, that something was wrong with his life. All of his feelings on the matter had vanished when Amanda committed suicide; he had blamed himself and even considered the possibility that he’d gone mad. But if he was insane, it’d be impossible for him to think clearly, trying to put all the pieces together. Yes, something was definitely wrong. He cast his eyes down, noticing that Amanda was no longer there.

At that moment, Flint came to the conclusion that everything here had been an illusion. His eyes widened, and he realized that he hadn’t been defeated.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he said. “Hamarah…is she real?”

The doppelganger nodded.

“What must I do to remember everything?”

“You have already stepped into the deepest depths of your subconscious self,” said the doppelganger. “You’ve entered what you were once terrified of—what you never truly wanted to face before.”

“Those corpses above,” began Flint, looking pale, “they were my comrades during the war, weren’t they?”

Once again, the doppelganger nodded.

They died for me,” said Flint despairingly. “I acted as a martyr, and they followed me blindly until the end.” Closing his eyes, he could hear their screams again—the bullets, the bombs, the sounds of blowing rubble and death. He staggered as a tear ran down his wrinkled cheek. “And my punishment was this life.”

“It’s not too late,” said the doppelganger. “You can still redeem yourself. I have waited here, locked away in your subconscious mind by the drugs in the bush tucker. You listened to Browder; you knew something was wrong. And now it’s time to take back what’s yours. Now it’s time to avenge those who died for you—it’s time to help those who still need you.”

“Hamarah,” whispered Flint. “Hamarah needs me.”

“She is but one of millions who need you,” said the doppelganger. “But yes, Hamarah needs us.”

“Us?” asked Flint, raising an eyebrow.

“I am you, and you are me,” said the doppelganger. “I am your lost memory. Join with me, and we will pick up where we left off decades ago.” He raised his hand and curled it into a fist as he added, “Together we’ll bring forth a war so menacing that the tribunal will wish they had killed us instead of creating this pathetic charade of a town for their amusement.”

Flint stared at his mirror image in awe, nodding at it. Slowly, he approached his mental doppelganger. While he approached him he pondered about many things. He once desperately wanted to forget each and every dream he’d experienced, especially those since November. Life had never been so forthcoming. Wishing for something was one thing, but having it come true was another. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and merged into his doppelganger. It felt like he was in water, drifting freely for the first time in his own consciousness.

In fact, when he merged with him, the entire cavern of Kalkajaka leaked with water. The jagged ground became soft and puffy, as did the walls. Then they burst like bubbles, and in came waves of water, engulfing him. The waves were seemingly endless, and before Flint knew it he was drifting in a blue sea. It was the most intoxicating feeling Flint had ever felt. He was as free and calm as the lucent water.

The indignity and sorrow that he’d had since Amanda had killed herself was wiped away. Suddenly, he wanted to remember everything. His conscience of Amanda’s death withered into silence. He pondered about his previous, glorious life. He saw Hamarah clearly in his mind—her Tunisian beauty. She was more real to him than his children. Everything became lucid to him at this point. No matter the situation, he knew that he had to replace Hamarah. She was somewhere out there in the dead world. Regardless of what others thought about this, the dreamtime was real—a gateway into his past. And at long last, he became the master of his dreams.