Our team of medieval warfare scholars is hiking across a European landscape. Coming over the crest of a hill, we all see the body of a 13th-century peasant woman, blond, wearing course but clean clothing and a snowy apron, her arms and legs extended cross-like, murdered, her hands and feet severed, her tongue cut out. She is young, pretty, her face calm. We all hover around the body, searching for clues, and all the other scholars, simultaneously, decide she represents a medieval murder that should be filed under "H"--I suppose that this is because of the symmetry of the butchery. I'm standing by her head, and I look out over her feet and notice, in the distance, an old tree that's been blasted by some storm, its roots torn out of the ground, hanging naked in the air. "Look over there," I say, pointing, and all the medieval scholars gasp and take off running towards this new clue, which appears to be much more "significant" than a murdered and mutilated peasant woman. The scholars enter a heated debate over what sort of tree this is, the exact trajectory of the tree trunk (north-north-west, or north-west-west?), the causative event (earthquake? storm? war? supernatural force?). "H" is left far behind; this new event merits a "V", a "W", possibly even an "X". The scholars argue passionately, pacing around the huge felled tree. I realize that this is the sort of event is what they long for, an event that is much more mysterious than the mundane ritual murder of the peasant woman. The tree has druid connotations; it's ancient. Indeed, the death of this gorgeous old tree--either through natural or human means--fills me with deep sorrow while the discovery of the peasant woman's body only made me feel a little sad.

I'm in a sprawling old house in the country somewhere, trying to amuse or impress some young children; I don't know them very well. I look out the window at a fenced-in yard and happen to see a tiny spotted fawn dart out from behind a tree. Snow everywhere. I'm surprised that a deer would have given birth in this season. I rush out the back door to look for the fawn, encouraging the children to follow, and notice it ducking behind a tiny perfect pine tree. When I approach, two tiny fawns bolt, exquisite, incredibly delicate. I know that I should leave them alone, but justify my desire to catch one by rationalizing that their mother wouldn't have left them so near an inhabited house if she was really bothered by humans. The children egg me on as I quietly make my way to the miniscule pine. I see the hind flanks of one little deer and just grab hold of it when I am slammed from behind. I stand and turn and the mother deer, also quite small and delicate, rears up and grabs me with her front legs. She is nearly weightless but very strong, and we are grappling and flinging each other around. It's more like a ritualized dance than a real struggle, our eyes locked. Then she leans forward and bites me on the forehead and I let go and she and the fawns zip away. Adults from the house gather around me, very concerned, and somehow, through their eyes, I can "see" the deer's bite on my forehead, widely spaced blunt teeth marks, very red but she didn't break the skin. I accept everyone's help, and the thought crosses my mind that I should check myself for deer ticks. But secretly I'm delighted with the encounter.

I am trying to find my way through a rundown section of a strange, small city. I am meeting someone, and finally find the right building (early morning Hopper-like light, dusty and bright), a ramshackle storefront. As I peer through the window, I come face to face with a coyote crouched in the space slightly underneath the sidewalk. She is sleek and black and both of us finally relax as we stare at each other; her cool nose against my palm. Very busy agenda in this new place, quick car rides through the streets, up steep, rickety, wooden staircase to some apartment, split-level. It's one of those dream houses, part hotel, part old farmhouse, mish-mash of estate-sale furniture and lots of other guests. I get assigned a room, and encounter another coyote, long-legged, almost white with blotches of caramel and chesnut coloring. She is deeply joyful to meet me, and, like the other encounter, we stare and stare, her size fluctuating with the intensity of our mutual study. At one point, her nose seems to grow long and flexible, like an elephant's trunk, as she leans in to sniff my face and neck. Again, I am late for some appointment, and as I rush through the streets of this odd city (broken concrete, lots of short, steep blocks and hills), I scoop the coyote into my arms and then I am going so fast that it's as if I am wearing her mottled pelt like a wrap. We arrive at some hall, full of women who I know from all different eras of my life. We're making preparations for some party or dinner, hauling boxes of linens and table decorations. Many women are nervous about my large coyote companion, but she is so sweet and eager to please, that it's easy to treat her like a pet dog. Then, as in a film, there's a jump cut, and I am back in that hall after having been away for 10 weeks (in Asia?). Everyone expresses regrets that I have just missed Wendy M.'s graduation party (another all-female event). I've also missed a wedding and a lecture-dinner and I feel terrible about having missed these events. Wendy hands me a paper plate with a last slice of cake, and I ask about her plans next. She starts explaining her ambitions, but I can't pay attention because my coyote has leapt across the room and is pressing against my legs so avidly that it feels like our bodies are merging.

The dream starts and ends at AS's new apartment, with rooms on the ground floor and a guest room up some narrow, winding stairs. He's there with his wife and young daughter (so he's really JC). I'm excited that he's actually moved...to Kingston, close by. His wife and child sleep; I make tea for myself and another old friend (L?) who will be staying with me in the guest room. There's a mess of cups and old teabags and spoons on the narrow counter near the sink. I rinse out a small pot and use it to brew tea; I'm going to take a cup up to L. in the guest room. AS's wife gets out of bed and explains why I shouldn't make tea in that pot, but her language is garbled (as I struggle to listen, her words reel out like paint on canvas, with the "dark" parts of words coming out too thick, hence slurred), not quite English, and she's still half-asleep, so I don't pay attention but just smile and nod politely. In the middle of the dream, I leave that apt. on some mission. I have 2 backpacks to carry, one quite large, and as this is cumbersome, AS lends me an even larger backpack. I stuff my backpacks inside, noticing that there's a down coat (black and red, very large) and another smaller backpack, both belonging to AS, already inside, but I'm in such a rush that I don't bother to take them out. I go to a store (hardware store?), a depressing place caught in a time warp with hardly any merchandise and a depressed, listless proprietor. That part of the dream remains obscured. When I walk out, I immediately get lost. I'm in a run-down industrial area, near a river, no people, no traffic. One exotic old car finally passes me and I start running after it, calling for it to wait. The car stalls. I open the passenger door and the frame of the dream zooms in on the other door, where the driver is fiddling with an intricate copper gear and old-fashioned coil spring through a tiny hinged door in the door, using tiny screwdrivers, but he is too excited and frantic to answer my simple request for directions: P.... Street. Some wonderful name that escaped upon awakening--Peacock Street? Peplum Street? I start walking and end up emerging from a steep wooded hill in Hurley, on the street where I grew up. It makes no sense, and I'm horrified to be there. And there is my mother, pulling out of our driveway (in my father's old Rambler, a car she never drove). I don't have time to hide or run, but in any case, she stops and very pleasantly offers me a ride. I'm crowded in the back seat with my sister. I don't think she takes me all the way to my destination because I'm back near the old store again. Why didn't I pay attention when AS drove me here, I think, but we were too excited, madly talking to each other. I open the pack, hoping that there's something in there with AS's new address--and see that one of my backpacks and AS's pack and his coat are gone. Stolen. Somehow I get back to the apt. on P... Street. AS's daughter wakes up; she's been sleeping in a cardboard box under lots of blankets and quilts and she jumps up wearing a snowsuit. I tease her about this (she is JC's daughter and a younger version of A.). "Yes, I slept in all my clothes so I can go right to school," she says, laughing. It's not true, and her mother is trying to hurry her into changing into appropriate school clothes. This first floor of the apt. has been painted blue, walls and ceiling, a lovely, deep blue. The walls have also been treated with textured cement, so there's a grotto effect going on. One wall also has photos of the daughter embedded in the cement. I notice all these details, perhaps because I'm procrastinating about telling AS about the robbery; I have that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach--guilt, I guess, about having allowed such a stupid thing to happen. And he looks stricken when I tell him--his backpack had a bunch of his writing in it. Neither of us mention the down coat, but it's clear that he was delighted to find it in his mother's attic since he hadn't owned a coat in Mexico City and it is going to be a very cold winter and he really can't afford another. I almost say, "If I had the money, I'd buy you a new coat tomorrow," but bite my tongue. More people are in the room then, asking where the robbery might have occurred. I did put the pack down while I was in the hardware store, though I didn't notice anyone else there. Some people think there's a chance I could find the stolen packs again; all I have to do is hang out at the mall and watch people going through check-out. This makes no sense to me. Suddenly, Ted comes into the room, the light behind him making his hair look blonde. He takes my hand, pulls me to my feet, and envelops me in a hug. "Don't worry...everything's going to be alright," he assures me, very serious, and then leaves.