The Great Ray of New York

Every time I think of the Great Ray of New York, or the high-pitched shouting of the wild geese, I remember the Painter. Clearest of all, I recall his slow smile that made the corners of his mouth twitch. The stories he told m were outrageous, but my initial reluctance to believe vanished easily. Since I was only a kid, I had no way of knowing whether he was lying his eyes out. Still, I'm convinced that some of his tales had to be based on facts; they simply sounded too eventful to be coined by a man who spent his afternoons staring at the point where the great plains of East Bothnia met the faded blue of the skyline. I trusted him more than anyone should ever trust a stranger. While I listened to his eloquent voice, I could also discern the deep rush of the dry, grainy ocean around us.

Because of my recurring dreams, I rarely need to travel to East Bothnia anymore. The land of the ten streams lays siege to my sleep, forcing me to make my way through an endless field of grain under the midnight sun. I tread the golden ears, hearing nothing but the whispers of the wheat. Even though the field looks perfectly ordinary, a sense of mystery clings to every detail of my dream. The familiarity of the scene saddens me like a sentimental black-and-white movie. The sea of grain still waves and sings, the barns stay empty for the wind to roam, and the rare farmers stare. However hard I look, the landscape also closes up like it always did, refusing to reveal its secrets to an intruder like me. It's not a happy dream. When I finally manage to get my eyes open, they feel hot and raw as if I suffered from hayfever in the middle of my city of stone.