TITLE: Unexpected Dimensions (Prologue: Trust No1) AUTHOR: AnnaRan EMAIL: annaran@wi.rr.com http://www.geocities.com/annaran01/fanfic.html DISTRIBUTION: Please ask, I like to come and visit RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: TA Adventure/Angst SPOILERS: Trust No1 SUMMARY: After Mulder contacted Scully by e-mail I had to find out where he was, and what "unexpected dimensions" he had stumbled into. I wanted to know too how he was faring since September 11. I found him in Oneida, Wisconsin of all places. . .More notes as the end. DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to Chris Carter et.al. No copyright infringement intended. * * * * * "Rather than understand our dreams, we might be understood by them--reimagine our lives through their challenging images. Rather than get life together, we might allow life to have its way with us and get us together in a form that is a surprise. True personal strength is not to be found in an iron will or in superior intelligence. Real strength of character shows itself in a willingness to let life sweep over us and burrow its way into us. Courage appears as we open ourselves to the natural alchemy of personal transformation, not when we close ourselves by making the changes we think are best." An excerpt from Original Self by Thomas Moore * * * * * UNEXPECTED DIMENSIONS by AnnaRan "I've resisted contacting you for reasons I know you continue to appreciate. But, to be honest, some unexpected dimensions of my new life are eating away at any resolve I have left. I'm lonely, Dana, uncertain of my ability to live like this. I want to come home. To you and to William. . ." ONEIDA PUBLIC LIBRARY Oneida, Wisconsin Friday, January 11, 2002, 1:00 pm Pat waits until Ruth finishes reshelving returned books to ask, "You're awfully quiet today. Not feeling well?" "No, I'm fine." Ruth walks around the large front desk to grab the stack of new magazines to be catalogued and shelved. "Just a bit preoccupied I guess." "Something I can help?" It usually doesn't take much prodding to get Ruth to admit what's bothering her. The women have become close working together at the Oneida Public Library over the past 10 years. It isn't a busy place, especially during the day, and although it's picked up considerably after computers and internet access were added last August, there's still ample opportunity for the two forty-something librarians to discuss the usual stuff that manages to drag them down--kids, husbands, work, and diets. In that order. "Has Nathan heard from Green Bay yet?" Pat tries again. "Nope, not yet. Anyway, he's not sure he wants to stay in Wisconsin." She rolls her eyes and shifts the pile of magazines to the other arm. "He's looking into some community college in Arizona now." "Duh, I wonder why?" The two women laugh recalling a week of subzero temps and 20 inches of snow. Ruth puts the magazines back on the counter and turns to face her friend. "He was here again this morning." Her voice is low forcing Pat to move closer. "Who?" Pat asks confused at the shift in conversation. "Our mystery man," she whispers. "Really?" The two quickly survey the small one-room library before continuing. Heavy-duty metal shelving filled with books and periodicals encircles what was once the Oneida Tribal Grade School. In the center of the room two computer workstations face the main door. Aside from a couple of retirees checking stock quotes on the internet, the room is empty. "Pat, he was standing outside the front door when I got here," she says incredulously. "I mean, geez, this is a library, not bingo night at the casino. It was 20 below this morning." She tugs at the sleeves of her sweater and tucks her hands inside. "And I didn't see another car in the parking lot." "So he walks here," Pat muses. "I bet he's holed up in one of Irv Orloff's cabins. They're pretty well hidden from the road and God knows someone could stay there until May before that old snowbird would notice. What'd he say?" "Nothing. He was leaning against the door blowing on his hands to keep warm when I walked up. He just moved aside so I could unlock the door." She looks at Pat over the top of black-rimmed bifocals. "He's haunting, Pat. It's like he's physically there, but his mind is a million miles away. Like he's not in the moment, you know, like . . ." "Like he's on drugs," Pat finishes. "I told you to call the police last time he came in." "Call the police and tell them what? That we got this guy who takes drugs and comes to the library to use the internet?" Pat shrugs. "Oh, come on, Pat." Ruth scrunches her face and tosses her glasses on the counter. "It's not drugs." She looks at the floor and shakes her head. "No, there's something sad and vulnerable about him. He looks broken and to be honest, I feel more sorry for him than afraid." Pat makes a disgusted face. "The guy's a drifter, Ruth and if you're not careful, he's gonna be waiting for you some night when you close." "You're not getting it, Pat. He doesn't see me. We never make eye contact. I mean has he ever actually looked at you?" "Hello," Pat nods to a young mother entering the library with two small boys. "No, I guess not," she mumbles. "He's focused on what he comes here to do. He signs the logbook, I hand him the mouse pad and he sits down at the computer." "Well, I rather doubt he walks over here in below zero weather just to browse the internet." Ruth's head snaps back sharply. "What? You think this is about us? Two middle-aged librarians? You think he's here checking us out?" Pat grimaces at the pun. "Get real." She shoots her friend an annoyed look. "He comes here to e-mail or receive e-mail from someone." Ruth's raised voice causes the two retires to peer over the tops of their workstations. Ruth smiles and dismisses their concern with a wave of a hand. "Hey," Pat moves closer and whispers, "what if he's a terrorist? Dark skin and hair, beard, mustache," she continues excitedly. "Have you seen those photos of known al- Qaeda in the paper? I read the FBI confiscated all the computers at a public library in Florida because they thought the terrorists who crashed into the world trade towers were receiving instructions there." They look at one another in stunned silence. "A lone terrorist in Oneida? Don't they work in groups or at least pairs?" Ruth asks looking doubtful. "Well, who's to say he doesn't have a partner with him," Pat surmises, letting her imagination run. "Who's even been to Irv's lately? That place is virtually inaccessible after all the snow we've had." "Maybe," Ruth concedes scrubbing absently at the edge of a salt stain on the floor with her shoe. "Well, I guess it could happen anywhere, couldn't it?" "They say it can. I mean the whole country's on high alert isn't it?" Pat closes her eyes and massages her forehead. "That guy with the shoe bomb apparently worked alone. Maybe this isn't a matter for the Oneida police after all. Maybe we should call the FBI." "The FBI? I don't know." Ruth chews her thumbnail. "Can't we wait? I mean, let's wait until he comes in again and this time," she lights up, "we'll get him to talk. Won't he have an accent? I mean, if he's a terrorist and. . .," she grabs her friend's arm excitedly. "I'll give him the computer that's missing the privacy filter." Pat double-checks her friend's face. "And I'll bring Dan's binoculars," she adds sarcastically. "Maybe I can lurk behind the L-M fiction aisle and get a peek at what he's writing." Ruth's face reddens. "Honestly, Ruth. I don't know what's come over you. I think you've got to mention this to somebody and if you won't, I will. Ted'll be coming through on rounds later. Maybe he and one of the new rookie officers wouldn't mind taking snowmobiles down to Irv's tonight, you know, for a little routine security check," she hesitates. "It's your patriotic duty, Ruth." Ruth shrugs her shoulders and grabs the stack of magazines off the counter. "I think you'll be sorry you just didn't hang another flag," she mumbles. INTERSTATE 43 NORTH TO GREEN BAY, WISCONSIN One week earlier, 12:10 pm Mulder jerks forward, jamming an elbow into the side of the bus and smacking his forehead on the back of the reclined seat in front of him. "Sorry," he mumbles to the guy seated beside him as he struggles to remember where he is. His eyes sweep the bus filled to capacity with holiday passengers. If anything, it appears September 11 was good for Greyhound. He checks his watch and rubs his forehead. "I guess that's my fault," the man says pointing to the red mark on Mulder's forehead. "I shook your arm to wake you. Didn't expect you'd startle like that though." Mulder nods. "You were moaning rather loudly," he explains further. "Thanks then. I guess." Mulder forces a smile. "Going to Green Bay for the game or just returning from the holidays?" The man asks obviously trying to make amends with small talk. "David Trailor," he adds extending his hand. "Game?" Mulder asks shaking Trailor's hand. "You're obviously not a Packer fan," he laughs graciously ignoring the fact that Mulder hasn't offered his name. "Football? Not really. Baseball and basketball mostly." He pushes one side of his leather jacket open just enough to reveal a gray t-shirt with Knicks' logo. "Can't say I follow the Knicks." Mulder glances out the window in time to catch the highway marker. Sixty miles to Green Bay. "How about you?" Mulder asks slipping his leather jacket off and laying it across his lap. "I'm visiting family in Oneida. My sister just had a baby and I'm planning to drop by and give her this." He gently pats a brown paper bag lying flat on his lap. Mulder notices the tip of a pale blue feather protruding from the bag. "Boy?" Mulder asks. "Yeah, how'd you know?" Trailor looks down at the package. "Oh, the feather. You're the observant one," he chuckles good-naturedly. Mulder smiles. "Doesn't look like the usual teddy bear though." "No, no it's not." Trailor shoots him a cautious sideways glance. "It's a dream catcher. I made it myself." "Interesting gift for a baby." "Not for an Oneida." Again, that cautious glance. "Oneida?" Mulder takes a closer look at Trailor's balding head, well-shaven face and, despite the casual business attire, decides he bears a striking resemblance to Hoss Cartwright of Bonanza fame. Trailor guesses Mulder's thoughts. "What? I don't look Native American?" "No, it's not that, it's. . .," Mulder starts, but Trailor cuts him off. "No need to explain," he laughs and pats Mulder's arm. "Don't want to embarrass you anymore than I have already. Never did look Oneida, maybe that's the secret to my professional success." He winks and smiles broadly. "Want to see it?" Trailor asks switching subjects. Not waiting for an answer, he slips the dream catcher out of the bag. "One of my best I think." "You made this?" Mulder asks fingering the soft suede laces ending in pale blue feathers. "Yeah, I've made a bunch, but this one's special. Can't put my finger on why though." "The colors are natural," Mulder offers. "Maybe." Trailor tilts his head and studies the weaving with unabashed pride and affection. Mulder notices the incongruity of the delicate web design sitting atop Trailor's large, stubby fingers. Strong but gentle. He is what he does, Mulder thinks letting his guard down for the first time in many months. "What's the significance?" Trailor raises his eyebrows. "Of a dream catcher for a baby," Mulder clarifies. "Family tradition?" "Oneida tradition actually, but you probably asked the wrong question there. I've been known to expound on that subject for hours. Just ask my students at the University." Mulder looks at his watch. "Thirty long minutes to Green Bay. Shoot, you've got yourself a captive audience," he says shifting position to rest his back against the side of the bus. "Well," Trailor hesitates. "You don't strike me as the kind of guy who's interested in the types of materials used." Mulder feigns a hurt expression. "I can assure you I clean up well," he says smoothing an unkempt beard and raking his fingers through his most recent attempt at a haircut. Trailor laughs. "I teach textiles design at the University of Tennessee, but I'm originally from here, well, the Oneida Indian Reservation just outside of Green Bay. My parents are both Oneida, Wolf Clan." "There are two other clans, aren't there?" Mulder looks past Trailor trying to remember. "Bear and Turtle." "Yeah, that's right," Trailor acknowledges impressed. "Members of the Wolf Clan are generally recognized as the pathfinders. We're the ones responsible for guiding others toward the lives their Creator intended for them. Are you open to the idea of another dimension, Mr. . .?" Trailor tries again. "Just Fox," Mulder volunteers feeling more comfortable using his first name under the circumstances. "Fox. Interesting name, but not Native American, I'm assuming." "No. And yes, I'm open to other dimensions," Mulder offers not quite believing the irony of this conversation. "Maybe not a spiritual dimension though." "Other dimensions, but not a spiritual dimension. Hmm I'll have to think about that." Trailor looks at Mulder for further explanation. Mulder shrugs. "Comes with my line of work." "Uh huh. Well, back to dream catchers. According to Oneida legend, dreams and visions are sent to us by the Spirit world. Since bad dreams usually bring pain and suffering and good dreams bring health and happiness, we trick the spirits with the dream catcher." Trailor holds his creation up to demonstrate. "Placed over a bed or crib, in this case, bad dreams are caught here in the web and good dreams pass here through the hole," he points to the center of the dream catcher. "And travel down through the feathers to the sleeper." "And any bad dreams caught in the web are destroyed with the morning light," Mulder finishes. "Right. Ah, you've heard the legend then?" Trailor actually looks disappointed. "I have, but I guess I didn't know they were given as baby gifts." "Well, that's really the whole point. My nephew will keep this one his entire life adding more feathers, beads or other objects to commemorate special people or times." "Nice." Mulder shapes a gun with his right hand and fires, "Looks like it didn't help me too much." "Ah, your dream," Trailor's eyes darken. "No, I guess it didn't. Unless of course, it wasn't a bad dream you were having," Trailor suggests seizing an opportunity to delve deeper. The conversation and his position suddenly become too uncomfortable and Mulder stretches and settles back against the seat. "Listen, Fox," Trailor squeezes his arm. "I hope you understand where I'm coming from with this and please take it in the spirit of my clan, but you seem like a man who's drifted off his path somehow." "Why? You think the home of the Green Bay Packers is off my beaten path?" Mulder smirks. "Yeah, I do," Trailor ignores Mulder's sarcasm. "And it seems to me, at least based on that dream you were having, it's not a pleasant road." Mulder turns his attention outside the window. Trailor is right. Months of leads have turned as cold and monotonous as the gray sky and snow covered farm fields whizzing by his window. He and Scully had agreed. And he left them with renewed determination to provide, not financially of course. Scully was fully capable of handling that, but as the protector. The arrogant, cunning Fox-- intelligent and willing to stop at nothing to protect his family by discovering once and for all the truth that would save everyone. But especially Scully and William. It was the reason he believed he was given this second chance--in life and for a family. As if on cue, a baby at the front of the bus starts crying and once again Mulder feels the weight of a son in his arms and of the promise he had whispered their last night together. He can't screw up. Not again. Not with so much to lose. But he's tired. Incapacitated really by the same flatline of loneliness and depression he felt after Scully's abduction. And the stark realization that fighting the future means he will be absent from the present. Or worse, destined to lurk about its very edge. He understands now what motivated his father, the smoking man and the other men in the consortium. Where Mulder had seen only their selfishness, he sees his future--no different really from theirs or even the terrorists who sacrificed everything including their lives for something they truly believed was right. It no longer matters to Mulder that this cause justifies its means, he has lost his resolve and with it, all strength to go on alone. He turns his attention back to Trailor who is apparently finishing something Mulder's missed. "You seem to know something about my people, but do you know we spend time every year searching for direction by analyzing our dreams? I normally don't tell people this," he looks quickly around and lowers his voice. "But I'm an Oneida dream interpreter." "And you think I need interpreting." Trailor ignores Mulder's comment. "My people believe that dreams can also be messages from within," he knocks at his chest with a fist. "And ignoring them can only lead to illness, even madness." Trailor softens, "I'm sorry. That sounded ominous. I'd like to offer you an invitation. Take it or leave it, but our Midwinter Dream Festival runs this weekend at the Oneida Casino. We normally have the Festival on the reservation, but as you can see," he nods at the window. "The weather isn't cooperating this year. The Festival starts today, but the dreamsharing ceremony won't be until 2 pm tomorrow. I don't know what you've got planned or if those plans can be changed," he looks hopeful. "But I'd be honored to have you as my guest." "Green Bay," the bus driver announces over a scratchy intercom. "We'll be at the station in a few minutes. Thank you for traveling Greyhound." The bus begins to stir with people zipping jackets and gathering belongings. Mulder reaches for his coat, changes his mind and extends his hand. "Thanks for the invitation," he says sincerely. "So, Fox, am I to assume you've got plans that can't be changed?" Trailor presses continuing to clutch Mulder's hand. Mulder looks down at the large hand wrapped around his own. Like the name he hates, he feels cornered, trapped and ready to run. Maybe Trailor's dream catcher worked after all. It caught him--Fox Mulder living his own worst nightmare--enlightened and then destroyed by a simple revelation. He had somehow become his father. "There's nothing, really," Mulder says shaking his head. "Maybe nothing happens for a reason," Trailor offers quietly. Mulder looks up fully expecting to see Scully, but finds only something vaguely familiar in the questioning angle of Trailor's head. "Maybe," Mulder says slipping on his coat as the bus grinds to a stop. CONFERENCE ROOM A ONEIDA CASINO Saturday, January 5, 2002, 1:55 pm Mulder is relieved to see Trailor greeting attendees at the door of the casino conference room reserved for the Festival. "Fox, well my friend, you're the last person I expected to see today." Trailor comes around the reservation table and shakes Mulder's hand. "Glad you came," he says putting an arm around Mulder's shoulders and squeezing. "Really." He looks genuinely surprised. "Thanks." Mulder turns and points to the casino to free himself from Trailor's bear hug. "I gotta admit though, I almost got sidetracked by a hot bingo game going on in there." Trailor laughs. "Well, Mr. Running Fox, let's get started then before I lose you again." He turns to the other man seated at the table, "You can handle this, right Allen?" Not waiting for an answer, he opens the door and leads the way into the large conference room filled to capacity with a couple hundred men, women and children. Although many look obviously Native American, others, like Trailor, could pass for just about any ethnicity. Most of the attendees are sitting on metal chairs arranged in a semi-circle around a podium at the front of the room. Other than a turquoise and brown striped textile draped over the podium and an Oneida and American flag standing side by side in the corner, the room is plainly decorated. What strikes Mulder immediately is the rapt attention being paid three men, two seated and one standing, in front of the podium. They are clearly Native American, all sport shoulder length hair, faded jeans and white dress shirts, which they've made more casual by rolling the sleeves. The man holding a hand-made, native flute appears to be the oldest of the three. He is speaking to a few people seated at the front, while the other two, one playing an acoustical guitar, and the other alternating between a log drum and a hand drum, are apparently rehearsing part of a song. Trailor stops a few feet into the room and looks at his watch. "They're just about to start, let's wait a minute." He motions with his head toward the wall just inside the doorway. "I'm pretty proud of the music this year," he says in a low voice positioning himself at Mulder's side and leaning his back against the wall. "I thought we could use a soul healer, you know, after September 11. And we were lucky enough to get the best." Mulder nods and searches the room. "Oh, sorry," Trailor points to the musicians. "That's what I call our native flutists. Ever hear of Golana?" "Can't say I have." The room is warm and Mulder unzips his jacket. "He won the Native American Music Award last year. He's a Cherokee, but we claim him as our own anyway," Trailor laughs, but he's cut short by the first notes of Golana's flute. Mulder watches as Golana quiets the audience with his flute as efficiently as a mother quiets a baby with a lullaby. Many years later when he plays the music for William he won't know whether it was lack of sleep or food, or, as Scully would admonish, that he was merely overheated by a ten-mile hike to the casino. But he'll still remember how he felt that afternoon. The way the rich, warm melodic flute and resonant beat of the log drum went like a shot of fine whiskey--not to his head--but to his heart, exposing Scully and William before settling in next to his soul and whispering, "checkmate, your move." Feeling suddenly light-headed and dizzy, Mulder leans back, cushioning himself with the palms of his hands pressed flat against the cool wall. He drops his head and closes his eyes. Trailor looks sideways at Mulder and then leans over. "Sometimes when he plays, I feel the creator giving my soul a stir. And I am a boy again, watching my mom stir a pot of soup on a cold winter afternoon. I know it's his gentle, loving nudge back to basics. Other times, especially when I've been away," he smiles to himself. "My heart feels only its passion, and I hear my wife calling me home," he pauses and pats Mulder's arm. "It's ok, Golana is like that." Mulder takes a long breath as if coming up from a deep place and opens his eyes. "I'm fine. It's just warm in here." Trailor points toward the back of the room where two women are spreading a large ceremonial blanket on the floor. "I really want you to meet Clare and Beau before they start the communal dream interpretation and rituals." Trailor ushers Mulder ahead, but stops short of where the women are setting up. "Fox, there's a couple things you should know before I introduce you. There are some among us, elders mainly, who do not want to see outsiders at our ceremonies. That's why we'll talk to them now," he nods toward the women who catch his eye and smile. "Also, the Iroquois, of which Oneida is a nation, are matriarchal. We have ceremonies that rid us of woman- fear. You don't have problems with women. . . ah, that sounds wrong," Trailor looks frustrated and embarrassed. "I mean, with women having strong opinions and ideas do you?" Mulder's eyes grow wide and he laughs. "Nope, in fact I've got quite a lot of experience with one in particular." Trailor looks relieved, "Good, good." He takes one step and stops again. "Oh, and one more thing. Prior to this Festival, as part of the dream quest, attendees are expected to complete a dream fast. After meeting you on the bus, and I don't mean to offend, you seem to be on your own self-inflicted one." He tries to soften his words with a sympathetic smile. "So, we'll just bend the rules a bit." He angles his head toward the women and winks at Mulder, "Just in case they ask." Mulder nods and they approach the two women who are seated cross-legged in the middle of the serape- colored blanket. The older woman looks up first and struggles to her feet just as Golana's music softens. "David," her voice is low but enthusiastic. "I wondered when you'd get over here." Trailor gives her a warm hug. "Beau, it's nice to see you again. Life's been good to you?" "Yeah, it has, can't complain, and you?" "Good, thanks." He bends down to hug the younger woman who remains seated. "Beau Archie, Clare Birdsong, this is a friend of mine--Fox." Beau extends a gnarled, wrinkled hand. "Nice to meet you Fox." "Thanks." Mulder takes Beau's hand and acknowledges Clare with a nod. Beau sits back down. "Sit, sit," she pats the spot next to her. Trailor sits down at Beau's right and Mulder drops down next to Trailor. "Beau, Clare," Trailor begins. "My friend here," he pats Mulder on the back, "has a dream he'd like to share with you." The women nod in unison. "And if it's ok with you two ladies I'd like to stay and listen if I could. I always learn so much." "Absolutely," Beau replies. "Fox has never dreamshared," Trailor explains. "So I wonder, Clare, if you wouldn't start by talking to him about the significance of dreams." Clare pushes a long black braid off her shoulder and gazes intently at Mulder. There is something about the two women's body language that makes Mulder believe they're related. Physically, there's some resemblance. Both share the same dark skin and high cheekbones of a Native American, but there's something similar in the curve of their shoulders that suggests Beau raised Clare. "We believe dreams are the secret longings of our soul and guide our lives," Clare begins. "They dictate our choices, so we are obligated to listen and study them carefully." Beau smiles her approval at Clare, but continues herself, "If we treat the dream with respect, it serves us. Dreamsharing is always a communal experience. That way, any tension you experience in a dream is expressed and released," she makes a fist and then opens her hand, palm up with fingers splayed, "within a community who will help you interpret it." The music grows louder and the four are forced to tighten their circle. Knees touching, they listen for a few minutes before Beau leans forward and pokes Mulder in the leg. "Well, sir, let's hear that dream of yours." Mulder looks down and stretches his fingers before folding them in his lap. "I don't know whether they're dreams or visions, because sometimes I swear I'm not sleeping," he shakes his head and looks at Beau and then Clare. "But it's the same series of four dreams I had several years ago. But they're recurring now for some reason." He unclasps his hands and picks absently at the weave of the blanket with his thumbnail. "All four are similar and interconnected. I'm always on a sunny beach with a boy about eight or nine. In the first dream, I'm sitting on a large rock when he comes to me and says, 'the child is father to the man.' But he speaks with the voice of a man I despise, an enemy. In the second, I find him crying because waves have destroyed something he's trying to build in the sand. I dry his tears and tell him to try again. In the third, I find him standing atop a huge sand UFO." Mulder looks up to gauge their reaction, but Beau waves him on impatiently. "I'm impressed he's built this himself and I ask what he's made. He tells me an unidentified flying object, but he starts kicking it apart. Confused, I ask what he's doing. He picks up some sand, throws it at me and says, 'It's your spaceship. You're destroying it. You were supposed to help me.' In the last dream, we're laughing as we put the finishing touches on an even bigger sand UFO we've made together." Trailor, Beau and Clare look at one another before Beau asks, "Do you recognize the boy in your dream?" "I don't recognize him, but I believe he's my son." "Do you have a son now?" Trailor asks. "Yes," Mulder hesitates. "But he's an infant." "Well then," Beau says. "Let's start with the beach. Working on a beach signifies a project that is consuming most of your time. It is important that you feel the sun in your dream because it represents a spiritual force or light of God. Its presence is there to reassure you," Beau smiles at Mulder. "It is interesting you had two different reactions to the UFO, because there are two separate interpretations, depending on what you feel in the dream. Anguish represents an overpowering situation that makes no sense to you. Happiness means you have assistance that is. . .," she struggles looking for the right words. "Out of this world?" Clare offers. "Yes, supernatural--beyond what our physical world can offer. Does that make sense to you Fox?" Mulder nods as he remembers the words that seemed to have come from nowhere, words meant more to comfort Scully than himself--never give up on a miracle. Words that Beau is telling him came from his very soul. "Don't forget the boy," Trailor says. "Oh yes, dreams that feature boys in any activity are a good omen and bode well for whatever you are undertaking. Unless the boy is upset, then it is a bad omen. The boy's hands feature predominately in all your dreams, and although the boy is crying at times, to dream of a child's hands is always a promise of future happiness." "Two more things I noticed," Trailor adds. "The first sand structure was destroyed by waves. Waves in a dream may symbolize unhappiness and psychological stress, which is threatening to destroy you. And the rock you're sitting on typically represents a physical obstacle you need to overcome." "There is something else too," Clare's eyes meet Mulder's. "When the boy says, 'the child is father to the man,' he is talking about himself. At first it is confusing because it's circular," she draws an imaginary circle on the blanket. "But I think you already know your son is not saying he's your father." Her eyes dance with excitement. "I believe the dream is telling you he will be a great leader-- father to Man." She drags her finger in a straight line from the circle. "The reason he speaks with your enemy's voice is that this fact is already obvious to many men, even men who despise you." The room erupts in applause and Clare jumps to her feet. "We've got to be up front for the start of the dream renewals," she offers as way of apology as she helps Beau to her feet. The two men stand and Mulder offers his hand first to Clare and then Beau. "Thank you for your time." Beau squeezes his hand. "Hope it helped." She turns to Trailor, "David, I'll see you later?" "You bet. Thanks, ladies." Trailor and Mulder watch for a moment as the two women make their way through the crowd before Trailor asks, "Got a couple more minutes to talk?" "Sure." "Let's get out of here though. It'll be quieter in the hall." The hall outside the conference room is empty and Trailor leans up against the middle of the reservation table while Mulder stands near its end closest to the casino entrance. "I don't like to pry into people's private lives," he addresses the wall opposite the table. "But I think if I knew a little more about you personally, I'd be able to help more." He looks at Mulder. "Shoot." "You have a son. Are you married, Fox?" "Not in the traditional way." "But you and your son's mother are together?" "Well, we were for a time until I left," he pauses. "For reasons I really can't go into here." Trailor moves closer to Mulder. "Fox, your dream is amazing. In fact, it's one of the most amazing dreams I've ever heard here." "Glad you liked it," Mulder quips. "I just want to make sure you understand its implications. Your son is destined to become a leader who will achieve something great, but he needs you to do this. He can't accomplish it, unless you're at his side every step of the way." Mulder rears back. "Believe me, Trailor, I intend to be there for him, but there's some things, you wouldn't understand, that I've got to do now." "Fox, I've got three kids of my own. If you want to have a relationship with your son, you've got to be there full-time from day one. From his first bottle, all the way to the bottle of champagne you'll share on his wedding day. And sometimes even after that. Trust me, you can't just walk in when he's older and expect a meaningful relationship just because you're his father. You won't be happy, your partner won't be happy, your son won't be happy. It just doesn't work that way." "But my circumstances are. . ." Trailor squeezes Mulder's arm hard, "It doesn't matter what the circumstances are. The dream speaks for itself." Trailor loosens his grip. "Some of the elders believe themselves guilty of a great crime if they fail to obey even one dream. I never agreed with that belief. I've had some dreams best left unfollowed, if you know what I mean?" Mulder appreciates Trailor's attempt to cut the tension. "But with your dream, I believe the elders are absolutely right. If you fail to obey it, you will be committing a great crime, not only against your son, but also against yourself and your partner." He pauses for effect. "And against humanity. Your soul has given you direction with these dreams Fox. I'd advise you to follow it. Go home to your son and to your partner, and wait for your next lead there." Trailor's words get Mulder's attention like an anonymous envelope slipped under a door. It's the language of his profession, his quest--wait for the next lead, wait until I contact you again--familiar words he's heard over and over again, first from Deep Throat and then X. Both trustworthy informants who proved even more valuable over time. Trailor delivers the message, but it comes from another source--an unexpected dimension for Mulder because it's a spiritual one. A dimension, Mulder painfully realizes, he has left unexplored too long. "I've got to get back in there," Trailor jabs his thumb behind him. "I'm sorry if I've overstepped the bounds of our short friendship in any way. Just blame it on my heritage." He sticks out his hand. Mulder shakes it. "Thank you, David. You've helped much more than you know." "Keep in touch if you can." "Yeah, I'll try. Really." Mulder means it. Trailor heads to the door and Mulder starts down the hallway. "Oh Fox, hold up," Trailor calls. He raises one finger and disappears through the doors of the conference room. He returns a minute later with the dream catcher still inside its brown paper bag and holds it out to Mulder. "I want you to have this, to hang over your son's crib." Mulder looks confused, "but you made it for your nephew." "I thought I did, but after hearing your dream today I know it was meant for you and your son. There's something about it," he looks down at the bag. "Remember I mentioned it on the bus, something very special and now I know what that was." "Thanks." Mulder takes the package and tucks it under his arm. "When he gets older, I'll be sure to tell him where it came from." "And the legend." Mulder smiles. "And the legend." "Well then, Fox. Keep in touch. "Oh. . .," he reaches behind, pulls his wallet from his pants pocket and offers Mulder his business card. Mulder takes it and slips it into the inside pocket of his coat. Trailor points to the dream catcher. "You never know when you'll need another one of those." Mulder beams. "I hope to." "I'll keep you and your partner. . .what's her name by the way?" "Scu. . .ah. . .Dana." "I hope you communicate better with her than you did with me." Mulder laughs. "We have our own method of communication." Trailor raises both eyebrows. Mulder grins like a schoolboy and then turns serious, "I mean, a kind of unspoken communication." "Words are nice too," Trailor offers. "And your son's name?" "William." "Well my friend, I'll keep the three of you in my prayers." He steps forward as if to give Mulder a hug, but instead leans closer and says in a low voice, "Sleep well, Fox. I'm counting on you." ONEIDA PUBLIC LIBRARY Monday, January 14, 2002, 10:30 am "Sorry gentlemen," Pat calls out to the library's two early morning patrons. She leans over to Ruth who is standing next to her behind the front desk. "I thought they were coming after five," she says in a low voice as they watch two men, who have just flashed badges and identified themselves as FBI agents, head toward the computer workstations in the middle of the room. The men are in their late twenties or early thirties and are dressed nearly the same. Dark suit, white shirt and tie, black overcoat. "I know that's what they told me on the phone," Pat continues. "Well, maybe something came up. You know they're busy these days," Ruth offers. "Did they say when, or if, we'll be getting them back?" "No they didn't," Pat realizes. "Let me ask." She walks up to one of the agents who is crouched down and in the process of disconnecting cables from the back of one of the hard drives. "Excuse me?" Pat says to the back of his head. "I don't want to bother you, but do you have any idea when you'll be returning these?" "No ma'am." He continues working. Pat presses, "Will we be getting these back or will we be getting new ones, do you think?" The agent stands to look over the top of the workstation at his partner who is busy dismantling the other hard drive. He shakes his head without looking up. "We're not sure ma'am," he gives Pat a backwards glance. "You'll be contacted about that at a later date." "Oh," Pat looks surprised. "Thanks." "I heard." Ruth says when Pat returns. "I guess someone'll get back to us. I wonder if they'll tell us if they caught him. You know, based on what they find on those drives and what we've told them." "I wouldn't count on it. Renee was just telling me she called the FBI about a new Arabic patient who gave her a phony social security number. When the guy made a second appointment at the clinic, Renee notified the FBI who came right over. They questioned the guy and apparently weren't satisfied with his answers because they waited outside the exam room until Dr. Nelson finished, and then took the guy away. Renee never heard another thing." "Really? What was wrong with him?" "Medically?" "Yeah." "Something with his spleen I think." Pat puts both elbows on the desk and places her chin in her hands. "It's too bad mystery man had to use both computers." "It's too bad he never came back." Ruth says with disgust. "Because if he'd come back, we could've talked to him and cleared this whole mess up," she sweeps the agents away with the back of her hand. "And we'd still have the computers that took us so long to get." Pat straightens up. "Now Ruth, let's not get into all that again. I followed my conscience. What more can I say? Do you want me to apologize?" Ruth shrugs. "Ok, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I inconvenienced us a bit here, but if you think we've got it bad, take a look at that young FBI man--the one I just talked to." "Keep your voice down," Ruth chastises as she casts a cautious eye toward the agents. "What about him?" Pat moves closer to Ruth and whispers, "He's already got a nasty bump of scar tissue on the back of his neck," she rubs the back of her own neck. "Probably from some injury received in the line of duty. Now, he's got reason to complain . . ." "I think they're done," Ruth interrupts. The two women stand shoulder to shoulder as the agents breeze by accidentally knocking a small American flag off the desk in their wake. "Have a good day." Pat calls after them. And then with one last ditch effort to get their attention, "And God bless America." The two women stare at the front door for a moment after it clicks shut. "Well," Pat says miffed. "I guess that's that." She comes around the front of the desk and picks the flag up placing it back into its small plastic holder. Ruth opens her mouth and then shuts it. "Let's just get back to work." # # # AUTHOR'S NOTES/CREDITS: What always appeals to me about the X-files is the way it incorporates historical and present-day events into the storylines. I have to admit, though, I was a little nervous integrating some of the fallout from Sept 11 into this story. Please let me know if I was successful. I wish you all could read this fiction with Golana's CD, "Feather on the Wind," playing in the background. His technique with the Native American flute is truly remarkable. You can check it out by playing some media clips on his website: www.oginali.com. Or, download some of his songs from audiogalaxy (www.audiogalaxy.com). I analyzed Mulder's dream sequence using actual dream analysis from a searchable dream symbol dictionary located at www.dreamdoghouse.com. Information on dream catchers can be found at: www.tmvcna.org/6animals.htm. Thanks also to the following sites for information on the Iroquois Midwinter Dream Festival, dreamsharing and renewal and other Oneida Nation material: www.geocities.com/~webwinds/yupanqui/iroquoisdreams.h tm, and http://hrd.oneidanation.org. I apologize in advance for any glaring inaccuracies in my account of Mulder's experience at the Midwinter Dream Festival. I'm in awe of all Native Americans and mean no disrespect. Thanks for reading and as always, I'd love to hear from you at: annaran@wi.rr.com or visit my website at: www.geocities.com/annaran01/fanfic.html