Quest for a Dream

By Cindy A. Carl

In a quaint village in Mexico, Dani, a struggling, endearing, and somewhat klutzy artist, sets out in pursuit of her dream. Little did she know that the pursuit would become the dream. One night a Shadow Man appears and sends her on a quest: she must find a mysterious woman, and it can only be done through a series of ten paintings. Each painting is prefaced by bizarre situations; including a hurricane, a yellow-out storm, and an excursion into a curio shop with no doors. Three uncooperative guides: a translucent figure, a troll, and a typist who lives in a tree, hold the key. . .but to what?

Sylvia, Dani's best friend, Ivan, a carpenter obsessed with mesquite tables, and Chuy, an Argentinian Fire Dancer, are Dani's only link to the 'real' world. But eventually even they can't help as she finds herself sinking further and further into the depths. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cindy A. Carl
• Release date: Jul 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476478746

Cindy A. Carl

Cindy Carl grew up in Easthampton, MA., but has lived a nomadic life, traveling extensively throughout the U.S., Europe, Asia, and Australia. She holds a bachelor's degree from Alverno College, Milwaukee, WI, in Philosophy with minors in English Lit and Theatre Arts, and a Master's degree in Counseling from University of Maryland College Park. Cindy's characters reflect the philosophical and psychological quirks of the human experience, with a bit of fantasy and surrealism thrown into the mix. She challenges the reader to think outside the boundaries of everyday life. Cindy currently lives in Ajijic, Mexico with her two cats, Isan and Lucy. She is also an accomplished photographer, painter, and graphic artist.

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A QUEST FOR DREAMS

By

Cindy A. Carl

SMASHWORDS EDITION

***

PUBLISHED BY:

Cindy A. Carl on Smashwords

A Quest for Dreams

Copyright 2012 by Cindy A. Carl

A Quest for Dreams is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, incidents, religious depictions, and dialogue are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual places, events, religions, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal use only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Making or distributing copies of this eBook, in any format, constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book contains adult language

Cover design by Cindy Carl

Cover photo by Frederico Stevanin: http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/Other_g374-Dreaming_A_Different_World_p13313.html. This image has been used in accordance with the terms set forth by FreeDigitalPhotos. http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/terms.php.

Author URL: http://cindyacarl.com/

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Quote

Prologue

Chapter 1 ~ Chuy

Chapter 2 ~ Sylvia & Ivan

Chapter 3 ~ What the Hell Was I Thinking?

Chapter 4 ~ The Visit

Chapter 5 ~ Painting 1: The Forest

Chapter 6 ~ Critique

Chapter 7 ~ The Second Visit

Chapter 8 ~ Painting 2: The Riverboat Community

Chapter 9 ~ The Day At Sylvia & Ivan’s

Chapter 10 ~ Sylvia’s Courtyard

Chapter 11 ~ The Tree Man Dream

Chapter 12 ~ Painting 3: The Tree Man

Chapter 13 ~ The Yellow-Out Dream

Chapter 14 ~ Third Visit

Chapter 15 ~ Painting 4: Yellow-Out

Chapter 16 ~ At the Malecón

Chapter 17 ~ The Hurricane

Chapter 18 ~ The Cabin

Chapter 19: Sylvia in the Lighthouse With the Yellow Slicker

Chapter 20 ~ Joffrey in the Bar With Biscotti

Chapter 21 ~ Nacho’s Restaurant

Chapter 22 ~ Troll Shopping

Chapter 23 ~ Painting 6: The Troll

Chapter 24 ~ Freud Would Have a Field Day With You

Chapter 25 ~ Joffrey Meets the Troll

Chapter 26 ~ Failure is Not an Option

Chapter 27 ~ Day of the Dead

Chapter 28 ~ The Marble Riverboat Community

Chapter 29 ~ Home

Chapter 30 ~ Painting 7: The Marble Riverboat Community

Chapter 31 ~ The Palm Tree Becomes a Pine Tree

Chapter 32 ~ Reassurance from Sylvia

Chapter 33 ~ Painting 8: Night of the Pine Tree

Chapter 34 ~ Greeneries High Tooth Town

Chapter 35 ~ Did I Paint That Into Being?

Chapter 36 ~ Moving Day?

Chapter 37 ~ The Housewarming Party That Wasn’t

Chapter 38 ~ Painting 9: The Garden Party

Chapter 39 ~ Painting 10: Joffrey Covered In My Hieroglyphics

Chapter 40 ~ Syl Finds Disaster Dani

Chapter 41 ~ The Missing Paintings

Chapter 42 ~ The Opening?

Chapter 43 ~ Knocked Out

Chapter 44 ~ I Come to On the Mountainside

Chapter 45 ~ It All Falls Into Place

Chapter 46 ~ Reality Hits

Chapter 47 ~ History, Phase I

Chapter 48 ~ History, Phase II

Epilogue

Present Day

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

I would like express my deepest heart-felt thanks to the following people, for their unremitting belief in me: Joan Carmouche-Hairston, David L. White, Mary White, Yvonne Kontny, Robert Hairston, Monica Petrowitsch, my sisters, Linda Burt and Rita Arbuckle, my brother, Tom Picard, Marie McNeil, and Lucy Henchey. Without their encouragement I wouldn’t have even started this book, much less finished it.

Thanks and respect to Katuza and Lucas for the wonderful stories that fed my imagination.

Furry thanks to Mojo and Isan, for resisting, to the best of their ability, the urge to lie across my laptop while I wrote.

A special thank you to Mary White, Joan Carmouche-Hairston, Summer Schneider, and Monica Petrowitsch for their invaluable editing skills. If it wasn’t for their constant assistance, patience, and humor, I’d still be crying over chapter one.

Thanks also to Frederico Stevanin and Free Digital Photos for the cover photo. Dreaming A Different World is a perfect fit for this story.

In loving memory of my mom and dad, Florence C. and Edward J. Picard; and all of my ancestors before them—and of Mojo, who passed away after 16 wonderful years, and shortly after the conclusion of this book.

Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while, a great wind carries me across the sky.

Ojibwe Saying

Prologue

Would you follow your dreams into madness? Did you ever have recurring dreams? Dreams of flying or finding new rooms in your home, rooms you never knew existed, rooms filled with hidden money that you never knew you had? Did you dismiss them, or forget you even had them? Or did you follow them, prepared for an adventure that may very well cause you to lose your mind? I lost my mind once, okay maybe twice, okay maybe several times. None of that matters, though, because in the losing of my mind I found my soul.

I can't start this story from the beginning of the thirty-five years that led me to this point. To be honest, I can't even remember it all. I've always puzzled at that phrase; To be honest. What is the alternative? To lie? To start with, Well, to fabricate...? Is this a fabrication? It's up to you to decide.

My life has always been a series of start-overs. Each start-over had commonalities. They began with visits to friends or family. Each 'visit' turned into years; a new life, a new home, a new job, a new sense of security. When that security turned into boredom I found a new place to go. And in that new place I created yet more security.

Mine was also a life of parties, and drugs, and different states of consciousness, which of course, is an inevitable result of the parties and drugs. I travelled beyond this world, within this world. Even then I grew stultified.

One day, it was a Saturday, ah, the treasured weekend. I was on my way out to meet friends for drinks, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Somehow a third of my life had passed by and lines had started to carve into the skin of my youth, and what had I done, really? What had I accomplished? I appeared to have lived a daring life, but hadn't I really played it safe? To be honest with myself—had I ever truly dared? Ennui had set in once more. This time I wanted an absolute risk. To challenge myself.

This time I wanted a true start-over, a pure start-over. What else could those flying dreams mean? What else could those undiscovered rooms mean? I dared myself. Self, I said, it's time for you to jump. Go to where you are not known—but where you can become known.

So I sat at my computer and I browsed Google Earth. I would have closed my eyes and spun my globe but I lost it in one of my many moves. Instead, I let my cursor find its way to Axixic, Mexico. I found a village of artisans, in a place with a comfortable climate. I mean, let's face it, the Massachusetts winters already made my bones ache, and the thick humidity of summer made me lethargic and unable to draw deep breaths.

I knew no one in Axixic, and the prospect of being caught up in creativity impelled me. How often had I sat with paint at the ready and visions in my head, convinced that never the twain shall meet? So I took my scant savings, my two cats—Ian and Mojo, my laptop, and three trunks filled with clothes and art supplies, and up and moved to this foreign place.

I rather quickly, found a small, affordable, furnished, third floor loft. I unpacked my few belongings and made the place my own. Mojo and Ian, settled in, seemingly content. Eager to explore this new village, I left them curled up on the bed, and set out.

Music and enlivened chatter drew me to El Bar del Lago. The local dive where even the low lights couldn't hide the worn, leather bar stools, and crusty wallpaper peeling with age. That is where I met Chuy, Sylvia, and Ivan. Their dreams overlapped mine and soon our lives were entwined. This is where it truly began.

Chapter 1 ~ Chuy

I caught my toe and tripped. Mother Fu...Damn that hurt. I had been in Mexico for four months now and still hadn't gotten used to the cobblestones. I caught my balance, using the wall for support. My big toe throbbed and felt warm. I squatted so I could examine the wound. It was nothing. Just a scrape. My ego took the brunt of the fall. I looked around. No one had seen me. Relieved, I kept on. Then I heard my name.

Dani! Dani!

Crap. Someone saw. I looked back. He looked like a ninja, covered head to toe in black, and my heart skipped a beat. Was I going to be arrested? He pulled down the black knit scarf that was covering the lower half of his face, and revealed his thick black mustache and chiseled chin. Then I recognized him.

Oh, hey Chuy!

How are you? He approached for the traditional kiss on the cheek and his stubble scratched my skin. I always found those kisses awkward. What happened to personal space and a handshake? To add to matters, Chuy always had to kiss both cheeks.

If he saw me trip he didn't mention it. I'm glad I ran into you. He was exuberant. I want to take you swimming.

I reflexively sucked in my stomach. You know of a pool?

No, in the lake. My sucked-in-stomach churned at the thought of the brown water. I envisioned tangles of weeds around my ankles, green foam lapping at the shore, and the ghosts of fish, whose lives were cut short from pollution.

He must have seen me choke the bile back down my throat because he quickly added; We can swim out. Past the ugly. It's clear farther out and we can swim with the egrets. Do you have a bathing suit?

No. It was one of the things I regretted not bringing with me...well that, and clothes that fit.

I'll take you and we can get one. His eyes ran up and down my body. It was the second occurrence of self-consciousness in less than five minutes. He continued. Browns, I think, and yellows, I know a cut that would be perfect for your body.

Now how could he possibly know what my body looked like? My clothes were a size too large to begin with. I was twenty pounds heavier when I moved here—a whopping 140 pounds. Not expecting to lose weight, I packed only my ‘fat’ clothes. If Chuy's mind could wade through my ill-fitting outfit then let him imagine. I knew this wasn't really an invitation to buy me a suit, anyway. He had marginally more money than I did. He was an artist and a dancer, and though neither had yet taken off he never despaired.

His dark eyes sparkled and he continued. Do you want to go now? I am reckless. Is that the word? Reckless? Even through Chuy's thick Spanish accent, his English was perfect, except for the occasional struggle with similar sounding words.

No, I think you mean 'restless'. You have lots of energy, right? You want to do something? That's 'restless.'

Yes, I am restless. Want to go now?

I can't. I'm meeting a friend at the plaza. I glanced down at his bare feet. He was always barefoot except when he danced. Then he wore black boots, for the resonance of his stomping heels against the wooden the floor.

Okay, then. Another time. Come by the gallery. I want to paint you. He stepped back and studied me again. I tossed the bangs out of my eyes.

Chuy's thick, black eyebrows furrowed. But your hair will be difficult. We can work around that. I think. Maybe a hat.

My disheveled short hair had a mind of its own. It was uncontrollable, no matter how I tried to style it. I couldn't afford a haircut and so it lingered in that in-between stage, neither short enough nor long enough.

He shrugged. Okay. Good. Come by soon. Hasta Luego.

Hasta Luego, Chuy. I was stubble-scratched once more with his good-bye kisses, and then he headed off, back the way he came. Swimming. Right. That was so not going to happen. Even if I had a suit I was not about to put my nearly naked, spindly-ass frame next to Chuy's still youthful, dancer's build.

I walked carefully, with a slight limp from my stumble. I wanted to look around and take in the charm of the village, but those old, gray cobblestone streets, that looked so quaint and benign, were a killer on my ankles and knees...and toe.

I tried to stay on the narrow single-file sidewalks, but they often ended abruptly, crumbling into loose clumps of concrete before solidifying again. The obstacles were unrelenting; telephone poles planted smack in the middle of the walk, individuals taking siestas on doorsteps, or vendors selling tacos, tamales, or cut-up fruits and vegetables from their curbside carts. So taking in the scenery while negotiating the unstable cobblestones always made for treacherous walking. I opted to keep my eyes focused on the ground before me.

Occasionally I stopped to glance into the galleries. Creativity was buoyant in the air.  Paintings, sculptures, handmade jewelry, indigenous wood working, you name it. Just being out felt good. It felt like I belonged. Google Earth served me well. I could envision myself living here. Now I just needed to find a way. My intent was to make a living from my art, but my hand still couldn't grasp what my mind was trying to show it.

Chapter 2 ~ Sylvia & Ivan

When I reached the plaza Sylvia was already there. She sat on a bench, sipping her cappuccino and smoking. She could look elegant no matter what she was doing, and I felt motley beside her. She was one of those people who even made smoking look glamorous, making it harder for me to quit.

One long arm draped over the back of the wrought-iron bench; one knee supported the other while her foot swung under her flowing blue skirt. She wore calf-high black boots. Like Chuy, she was chronically restless.

I desperately wanted a cigarette. I had quit a month ago. It was an indulgence I could no longer afford. Still, the cravings were ceaseless. I considered bumming one from Syl but knew that she wouldn't give it to me anyway, and that would only piss me off.

Have you been waiting long?

About ten minutes.

I ran into Chuy. He wants to take me swimming.

She smiled. He wants to take me belly dancing.

Chuy's fantasies were a source of entertainment for us. Poor guy. He took them so seriously, and tailored them to each woman he tried to charm—and he was very charming. Rumor had it that he was hoping for an invite to move in with someone—rent free, of course. No one really objected. He was not at all offensive.

In fact, I always came away feeling, for just a moment, like I was the most admired person in the world. It was nice—just for a moment. I liked Chuy, but I have my own fantasies, and letting him move in would certainly damage that. I've always preferred fantasy relationships to the real thing. They’re far less complicated.

I dropped onto the bench and leaned into the secondhand smoke, breathing deeply.

No. You can't have one.

Dammit. I wasn't even going to ask. I watched Sylvia tap the ashes to the ground and take another drag. I missed the ritual far more than the nicotine.

I turned my attention away from the wispy smoke trails, and towards the art exhibit off to the left, scanning the paintings. The colors were striking, the subjects were interesting, but I wasn't very impressed by the technique. I knew I could do better. If I could just get myself to actually do something.

Sylvia held her necklace between her forefinger and thumb to show it to me. Look.

Did you just make that? It's gorgeous.

And matching earrings. She tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder so I could see. I finished them last night.

You're so productive. I hate you.

So...when do I get to see your work?

Don't ask.

What's the problem now?  It wasn't a rude or inappropriate question. She knew that I had come here with six months of savings, and four of those had already passed. This was a time when I needed that proverbial kick in the ass—even if I did resent it. The busy season had just begun; a time when tourists and snowbirds—those who came here for six months to escape the brutal winters up north—were in numbers. I should have something to sell… But I had nothing.

Don't hound me.

I'm not hounding. I'm motivating.

Feels like hounding.

You're the one who's always bitching that you're not getting anything done. She was right.

In the short time that I had known her she had become my sounding board and confidante. It was mutual. We had the same friendship-code. We agreed that it was the level of honesty, and ability to work through disagreements, that determined the truth of a friendship. Sometimes that could be irritating.

I leaned forward and propped my elbows on my knees, prepared to justify my idleness with lame excuses. I was sick for a while. That damned cold that was going around. I'm still tired all the time.

No one will buy if you have nothing to sell.

No shit. But I can’t seem to get past prepping my canvas. So there it stays, on the easel, collecting dust while I nap. Sleep was such a great escape. Good God, Syl. What did I do?

You mean by coming here? You're looking for the extra rooms you dreamt about. You wanted to fly, remember? It is possible for dreams to come true. Look at Chuy.

She was right. Chuy told me about his recurring dream of twirling fire sticks. He never understood it, until the day his uncle announced that he was going to Argentina to visit distant relatives. Chuy asked if he could join him. He never made the connection to the fire stick dream until the day he arrived. That night his great aunt took them to an Argentinean Fire Dance performance, and Chuy was mesmerized. He knew immediately that was what he