It was the final year of recorded history. Sages were calling in favors, while ordinary men and women found novel ways to exercise their capacities for denial. The Dreamtime was, as it had ever been, a holy mess.
Let it be revealed, then, that everything of consequence that happens in a person's life, happens in the threshold of the dreaming. Every momentous decision made - marriage proposals, declarations of war; zagging, instead of zigging, away from instead of into the pathway of oncoming traffic, or vice versa - was foretold, by the arbiters of such things, in the Dreamtime.
We have known this, always, in our hearts of hearts. It is not the heart that rebels against this, but the mind, insisting as it does on the autonomy of - it can't say.
It had been a brief age, measurable in months, of which hot summers, cowardly violent acts and flock-like movements of refugee populations were characteristic. When the end came, for most, it would come quickly: a sudden grace, a warm velvet blanket of swiftly dropping darkness. And yet, for now, the living endured restless sleep, troubled by omens of unwelcome truths.
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