The Day the World Slept

1.

Peter woke up as he did every day. But, there was something different about this day. Today the Sun had not come up. Peter sat up in his bed, still half in dreams. All was silent and dark. Slowly he slipped out of his bed and put his feet down onto the cold wooden floor. A shiver raced through his arms and legs, then up his spine to the base of his neck. He held himself in his arms as he walked through the cold, dark house. In the darkness, his dream of the night before came to life before his eyes. He was riding his bike over a winding path up a steep pointed mountain. All was white with snow except for a few scattered trees. From amidst the winds, he heard a woman’s voice warning him that he was about to fall, and that this would be the beginning of a great ordeal – and that he would have to be strong and brave. And then, just as suddenly the dream disappeared, and Peter was once again surrounded by darkness and silence.

Although it was now quite late in the morning, the Sun had still failed to rise. Everyone still slept, and the world outside had an eerie silence. Even the birds were silent. Peter felt an amazing wonder at all of this – but not excitement or curiosity. The darkness and the silence were uncanny. He walked down the staircase through the dark stillness of the hallway and into the kitchen where he struggled to find a candle. He grasped a box of matches, and with his fourth attempt, the candle burst into light. He carried the candle through the now strangely illumined rooms. He gazed out of the window but all was darkness and silence. Sleep radiated from the face of all that was.

In a brief moment he heard a rustling at his door and imagined that he saw a strange blue light trail away into the night. He shook his head and returned to his wonder amidst the night of the world. The stillness of the sleeping world frightened him – an unknown feeling flickered inside him as he wondered if the world had only now revealed its truth – an eternal night, an eternal stillness and silence. The wonder upon his face was reflected back to him in the window.

Peter turned nervously away and let the candle guide him back to the staircase. But his wonder traveled along with him. He entered his mother’s room and watched her as she slept. On any other day, she would have already been up, moving around in her everyday routine. But today she slept with the rest of the world. Peter followed the candle out of her room and down the stairs. This time however he noticed a small piece of paper on the floor beneath the mail slot on the front door. He bent down and slowly grasped it in his hand. It was a note with a small picture – three swirls with roots and stems – and words – “A vapor led me to your door to tell you why the Sun did not awaken today. The answer lies in a cave at the apex of the Magic Mountain. There you must go!” Peter was terrified and once again a shiver ran up his spine. He knelt down to peek out of the mail slot. Yet, there was still nothing but silence and darkness in the world. He held the note up before the candle and whispered uneasily to himself, “Magic Mountain.”

As he gazed unfocussed upon the swirls of the drawing, his soul wandered back to the Magic Mountain and the day his father disappeared there. He and his father went to the mountain to chop wood from time to time. But, this day they had gone higher than they had ever gone before. As they ascended the mountainside, his father noticed a pine tree setting by itself alone on the edge of a cliff. “That is the one I will chop today. And, if we are lucky, it will fall all the way back home.” But as they slowly neared the tree, ominous clouds began to gather overhead. And then, all at once, lightning, thunder and rain began to attack from all sides. “Shouldn’t we turn back, father?” Peter called into the winds, but he did not answer. His father continued to climb toward the lonely pine. The rain cascaded down upon a world illumined only by the frenetic bolts of lightning and their weak lanterns. Thunder echoed between the mountains and the lesser hills.

Peter could not see his father, but through the thunder could hear him chopping at the pine. He struggled to ascend to his father but was pushed back by the winds which swept down the mountain. He fought back against the winds and came closer and closer, but was suddenly blinded and deafened by the explosion of a thunderbolt. Peter fell to the ground, disoriented by the blast, covering his head with his arms. He smelled the smoke and saw the light from a fire that mocked the wind and the rain. Peter slowly raised his head and could again see where he was with the aid of the fire. At first, he crawled up through the mud and over the stony ground, but then raised himself to his feet – he stood in wonder before the burning pine tree. It had been cracked in half by the power of the lightning. The fire raged in the rain. Steam and smoke rose and swirled in the dancing winds. But, his father was nowhere to be seen. Peter screamed, “Father!” and ran through the smoke and steam towards the tree. The heat of the fire scorched his skin as he looked over the edge of the cliff. He could only see darkness below.

A few feet away from the burning tree, he saw his father’s axe, which stood straight up in the mud. Peter feared that his father had fallen from the cliff to the darkness below. Overcome, Peter collapsed unconscious to the ground and was found the next day by a search party that was dispatched when the weather had cleared. They found Peter crunched up next to the smoldering pine tree, clutching his father’s axe to his chest. He is said to have been chanting under his breath, “He is gone, he is nowhere.”

Peter awoke from his memory, the swirls of smoke and steam still dancing before his eyes. “Magic Mountain,” he again whispered to himself. Outside, the world still slept in darkness and silence.

2.

Peter returned to the kitchen, guided by his candle. He poured out a mug of water and sat down upon a small wooden chair. He placed the candle onto the table, next to a bunch of dried flowers. Peter fingered the note nervously, holding it up again before the candle. He gazed at the swirls and the backward writing that shown through the paper. He turned the note around and again read it. But as he was about to whisper the words “Magic Mountain,’ he suddenly remembered his dream and the haunting voice of the woman. Who was she? A goddess? A spirit? An echo of his mother? The voice told him that he would fall from the mountain – and only then would his most proper task begin. Was the note left by the woman who had spoken to him in his dreams? Questions danced in Peter’s head and heart as he succumbed to uncertainty. But while he was in this cloud of unknowing, he slowly became convinced that there must be some connection – obscure and unspeakable, though it is – between the note and his dream. Was it merely Chance playing her games? Yet, this was, Peter thought, the day of all days that chance must have a deeper meaning. The Sun still slept and the world outside was dark and silent.

Fear and doubt overcame Peter – “Am I really to go to the Magic Mountain? What will I find there… what must I do there? Am I to wake the Sun? Why me? Why do I not sleep as the others do in the night of the world? Why do I see light, if it is only my candle and the sparkle of the questions in my soul? Am I truly dead, and have I not yet awoken to this truth? Or, is there something I must find there, do there, that only I can find and do?

Peter raised his eyes and was greeted by the bundle of dried flowers setting upon the table. These were the flowers his father had given his mother on the day he disappeared. They had never found the body of his father – he left the world without a trace. The flowers were now brown, covered with a satin gown of dust. They had not been moved from their place since that day. At once, Peter stood up and grasped the bundle. He held them close to his heart, closing his eyes, trying once again to see the face of his father. But, he could not – no image emerged, no matter how hard he tried. He could only remember his red flannel shirt, his cap and his axe. He was nowhere to be seen.

Peter opened his eyes and gazed upon the silhouette of the flowers upon the table. Dust had gathered around the bundle and descended between the stems, tracing a pattern on the table. But, all at once, he saw that the pattern on the table looked exactly like the Magic Mountain. “Is this another coincidence, another play of chance?” Peter mused.

The day was well into its hours, but there was still only darkness and silence in the world. Peter grasped the candle, and still clutching the dried flowers, walked cautiously through the strangely illumined rooms. He ascended the staircase and entered his mother’s room. Still she slept. Peter whispered to her, “Mother? Mother? Are you not yet awake?” She did not stir, her breath was steady and calm. Peter whispered to her again, but with more insistence, “Mother? Will you not rise with the day?” At this his mother stirred. In the silence, Peter could hear her faint voice, muttering under her breath, the same words again and again, but ever fainter, “But the day did not rise.” She again returned to her silence and calm. “Mother!, Peter called out gently shaking her. “But you must go…. But you must go…” she muttered, and then was silent.

Peter was shocked by her words. “But I must go?” he asked himself. “But go where? To the Magic Mountain? How could she know? Does she know?” Peter stepped back from his mother, still holding the flowers and the candle. “Surely this cannot be another coincidence.” Peter set the dried flowers at the foot of her bed and began to walk slowly backwards. As he left the room, his mother fell again into darkness and silence.

Peter descended the staircase and returned quickly to the kitchen. He clutched the note from the table and whispered, “I must go… I must go, if only to find the truth.” He put on his boots and coat, and quickly packed a small knapsack with the essentials – bread, butter, a knife and spoon, candles, his lantern, matches, rope, a jug of water and an apple. He all at once fell into the well of memory, of apples and their golden reflection in the autumn Sun. His father chases him around the apple tree until he falls laughing. Just as suddenly, Peter awoke from his remembrance of things past and threw the knapsack over his shoulder. As he walked, he wrapped his neck with a scarf and covered his head with a small woolen hat. He took one look back at the strangely illumined rooms of his home and exited the kitchen door into the sleeping world outside.

3.

“The Magic Mountain is far away,” Peter thought. Yet, despite the portent of his dream, he still decided to ride his bike to the Magic Mountain. The bike was a gift for his sixth birthday. His father and mother bought it from a junk dealer and his father fixed it up – he mended the tires, soaked the chain in oil and painted it red. Peter again felt the joy of that day, and he still loved his bike even though it had grown quite small for him. But he re-learned how to ride his small bike. He knew that a new bike would be out of the question as things were now. He hopped onto his bike and began to peddle, slowly at first, and then feverishly toward the Magic Mountain through the night of the world.

Peter’s eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, his ears to the silence, but the world remained an obscure flashing of shapes and distances. But as he continued along the path in darkness, out from behind a cloud stepped the new moon crowned by four stars, creeping just over the Magic Mountain. “Then you will be my guide,” Peter shouted into the air in laughter. “Yes, I must go – especially now that the Crowned Moon beckons me!” Peter peddled for what seemed hours. But he could not fathom the time of day as the Sun still slept and the Crowned Moon did not leave her perch over the Magic Mountain.

As he began to see the silhouette of the Magic Mountain, Peter stopped to rest, eat and drink. He sat down upon a log and lit a candle, which he pushed into the soft ground. He took the apple out of his bag and gazed upon it in the light of the candle. The yellow of the apple in the flashes of fire reminded Peter of his task, his purpose – of the note and the dream and of the Sun which failed to awake with the day. “How am I to remedy that?” Peter asked himself. An unknown feeling made Peter return the apple quickly to his knapsack. He took out the bread, butter, knife and spoon, and the jug of water instead. He broke off a piece of bread but rubbed it across the small slab of butter. Peter raised it to his mouth, remembering the countless times he had shared bread with his father on the Magic Mountain. He bit into the bread, slowly chewing, he closed his eyes, flooded by the memories of better days.

As it was now getting dark, Peter lit the lantern and hung it on his right handlebar. He jumped onto his bike and peddled toward the opening of the Spiral Pathway which led up to the apex of the mountain. Peter stopped again and took one more drink from the jug and then he peddled, slowly at first, between large rocks and potholes which blemished the steep pathway. But as he stood up on the peddles, pushing harder and harder, Peter was able to navigate the hazardous pathway by the light of the Crowned Moon, which illumined the face of the Magic Mountain. “Only the scattered trees block out the light,” Peter told himself as he ascended, around and around the Spiral. But, as he approached near to where his father disappeared, all at once, the winds began to dance, pressing against Peter and making him wobble on his bike. The winds also pushed the still clouds back into the face of the Crowned Moon. Once again, all was darkness, but the stillness and silence were drowned out by strange howling winds rushing down the mountain. Peter pushed upward and around ever more unsteadily as rain began to fall and stream into his face, his eyes, ears, and nose.

The panic of the day of his father’s disappearance once again came alive for Peter. This remembrance coaxed him to continue, onward, ever upward along the Spiral Pathway. He pushed and pushed the peddles, fighting against the unsettling winds which came from all sides. As he rode, the pathway became ever more perilous as the wind pushed him near to the chasm beneath the cliffs. Peter glanced into the abyss of darkness below on each turn around, until all of these glances become a gaze into the unknown.

4.

Peter continued to resist the onslaught of the winds and the danger of the cliffs, fighting his way around and around, up and up, along the Spiral Pathway. But as he neared the apex of the mountain, the winds shifted and began to push him from behind and pull him toward the entrance of the cave at the apex of the Magic Mountain. As he slid toward the dark entrance, lightning lit up the world and Peter saw where the winds were leading him. He began to resist the push and the pull, frightened of the unknown that lay before him. Yet, just as much as he resisted, the winds pushed him ever more forcefully, until Peter stared face to face with the abyss.

“The mouth of the mountain wishes to swallow me whole,” Peter screamed, as he struggled to hold onto his bike. But, the wind conspired with the rain and Peter’s hands slipped off the bike and he slid into the mouth of the Magic Mountain. He plunged into a dark wet vortex, spinning, flipping over, a whirling of arms and legs as he fell ever deeper into the abyss at the heart of the Magic Mountain. Amidst this free fall, Peter began to see a subtle glow in the darkness below but soon lost awareness and plunged back into his dream of the night before.

The first thing that Peter remembered was a sudden stop – he was no longer falling, but was suspended in darkness. He could not tell if his eyes were open or not. He raised his fingers to his face, but could not see them. Yet, his ears could hear vague cries and winds echoing into the depths. All at once, an unworldly voice spoke, “Who is it that transgresses my realm?” Peter felt a blast of wind from the unknown voice, echoing from the abyss. “Who has entered here?” Although terrified, Peter managed a whisper, “It is me… Peter.” A strange light all at once lit up Peter’s body, but all around was only darkness. “Who are you, Peter?,” the voice asked. “I am a boy from the world beyond the abyss. I come from the Valley the sleeps below the Magic Mountain.” The voice was silent. Peter mustered up the courage to ask, “But, who are you?” After a pause, the voice answered, “I am the Protector of Souls and this is my realm, one fit only for those who sleep.” The Protector then demanded, “Why have you come here into my realm? You are not dead. Only the dead may enter here.”

Peter grasped the note in his shirt pocket and held it up, exclaiming, “I have been instructed by a Goddess to come here and awaken the Sun. Look! It is written here on the note.” Suddenly the note disappeared from his hand, and for a time, Peter could only hear the vague cries below. “In that case,” the Protector then said, “you are most welcome. I too wish that the Sun would be on its way. The Goddess who led you to me is the Crowned Moon at the apex of the Magic Mountain.” “But why has the Sun not awoken?,” Peter asked. “Indeed, it has awoken,” evoked the Protector, “but it is being held captive by one of my souls. Behold, it is him!”

All at once Peter saw the vision of a man grasping the Sun in his arms. “It is my father!” shouted Peter. “Your father!” exclaimed the Protector of Souls. “But why does he keep the Sun captive?” asked Peter. “He is an awakened one,” the Protector responded. The thunderbolt that struck him thoroughly vaporized him, engulfed him, and its surging power has kept the soul of your father awake. The other souls sleep and dream of their former lives in the valley. But your father is awake and wishes to return. He grasps the Sun as this reminds him of the life he seeks.” Peter was suddenly overcome with the longing to see his father, and speak to him. “Will you let me speak with him? Perhaps if I could convince him to let go of the Sun…”

“By all means,” said the Protector, “You could try, but he is steadfast in his desire. Yet, something must be done. This overlong visit of the Sun has unsettled my realm. Even now other souls are beginning to awake, and they too seek to return. Do you not hear their cries? My realm will be destroyed if they all awake… and, all will perish…”

All at once, Peter found himself on firm ground, standing before his father who was grasping the Sun. He called out to him, “Father, Father, it is me, Peter.” His father began to weep, “Even now I hear the voice of my long lost son.” Peter called out again, “Father, Father, it is me, Peter!” His father became distraught, screaming, “Why do you plague me so Protector?”

“It is not I who plagues you,” responded the Protector, “but it is your son who speaks to you, calls out to you.” His father turned his eyes upon what he thought was the ghost of his son. “What trick, illusion is this, Protector? Are you so desperate the I let go the Sun?” The Protector responded, “It is no trick, no illusion. This is your son.”

The father became frightened, and exclaimed, “If this is true, are you dead my son? Have you too come to the Protector of Souls?”

“Yes, I have come, father. But, I am not dead,” Peter answered.

Perplexed, his father asked, “But, how is it possible that you are here and awake?”

“I was told to come here by a Goddess,” Peter answered, “and was pushed into the mouth of the Magic Mountain by the dancing winds. I was sent to awaken the Sun.”

With these words, his father held the Sun ever more tightly, “But, it is all that I have left. It is all that is left of the world, of you and your mother.”

Meanwhile, the Protector became increasingly agitated, “Hurry! You must convince him to let go of the Sun. Too many souls awaken, I cannot hold them.” Peter’s father continued to tearfully mutter, “The Sun is all that I have left.” All at once, Peter remembered his knapsack and the yellow apple that was inside. He grasped hold of it and held it up to his father. “Father, look here! Here is something else that you may have!” His father turned his eyes toward him but could not make out what lay in Peter’s hand. “Step closer, so that I can see,” his father said. Peter stepped towards his father, who clutched the Sun ever closer to his chest. Peter held the apple up to his father and asked, “Do you not recognize this – a yellow apple from the tree in our garden? Do you not smell its sweet aroma, the fresh bouquet of the world?”

His father’s eyes suddenly filled with the light of remembrance and he tried to grasp the apple. But as he reached for the apple, the Sun began to struggle to free itself for it too wished to return to the world. But in the struggle, Peter’s father drew his hand back and once again clasped hold of the Sun. Peter turned around and called to the Protector, “The Sun is all that he has to remember his life. He is tempted by my apple but fears losing the Sun. Can you help me?” The Protector responded, “There is nothing that I can do with an awakened soul – do you not see the chaos that now threatens my realm?”

An idea suddenly came to Peter and he spoke to the Protector, “Since my father is already awake, and will continue to sizzle with the lightning in his soul, can we not leave this realm instead – can he at least return if he will not sleep?”

The Protector was silent for a moment, but frazzled by the pandemonium of the awakening souls,” shouted, “Such a thing is rarely done, but if you can convince your father to give up the Sun, then you will be free to go.” Peter turned again to his father, holding the apple up to his face. “Do you not see the apple, its yellow light? Do you not smell it? Peter put the apple up to his father’s mouth. “Do you not taste it?” Peter’s father bit into the apple and became awakened still further to the life of the world beyond. As he became more fully himself, he slowly loosened his grip on the Sun. “Father, the Protector has said that we can leave this place of the dead and return to the world outside. Take the apple and let go of the Sun. It is time to go home.”

Slowly Peter’s father reached out for the apple, letting the Sun slip from his hands. The Sun began to sail towards the birth canal of the earth through which he would be reborn into the world. Peter clutched at his father and kissed him. His father grasped the apple and gently caressed his son’s cheek. “Now we can go, father,” Peter said, pulling his father up from the damp earth upon which he kneeled, “we can go home.” In the darkness, the Protector put each of the souls back to sleep in turn, and with the return of the calm, he beckoned Peter and his father to return to the world. “Depart now, before you too fall asleep in the darkness, before you can no longer find your way. Take the rope from your knapsack and grasp hold. It will lift you back up to your own realm.” Peter removed his rope from his knapsack and with his father began the long journey back to the world. As they emerged from the cave of the Magic Mountain, they could see the Sun awaken in all of its brilliance. Upon the ground before the mouth of the cave, Peter’s bike lay shining in the light of the Day. Peter and his father laughed. “Shall we do what we used to do, father?” Peter asked with a smile. “Yes, I think we should,” his father beamed back at him. Then, all at once, his father sat on the seat of the little bike with his legs outstretched. Peter climbed onto the handlebars and they set off down the Spiral Pathway, but not too fast as Peter’s father dragged his feet upon the ground.

When they reached the bottom of the Magic Mountain, he gave the bike to Peter and walked alongside him in silence as they traveled the road home. After an hour or so, they began to spy the silhouette of a figure approaching them. As the figure drew closer and closer, Peter recognized his mother. “It is mother! Father, it is mother!” They began to run toward her, and she to them. When she saw her husband, she slowly approached in wonder. She carried the bundle of dried flowers close to her chest. “Is it you? Is it truly you?,” she whispered. “Yes, dearest, it is me… I have returned.” She reached out to him and Peter and touched their faces. After a brief silence, they came together in an embrace under the noontide glow of the sun. Tears falling from her eyes, Peter’s mother whispered, “But how is this possible? By what chance could this be?” “It is a long story, mother, I will tell you everything when we get home,” Peter said with a smile.

“You know I had the most amazing dream last night,” she said laughing as they all walked arm in arm down the road. Peter pushed his bike alongside. “So did I,” he said.