Johnnie's Waking Dream

The undulation of the drum beats matched the throbbing in Manu’s head. The hunts were growing longer as the people became withered in hunger. How could she catch something when the last morsel consumed was rotten fruit from a dying tree? With a loud sigh, she let the transformation take her over — the hunts went best when the hunters used the pulsating bum-tap, bum-tap, doom, doom, doom of the sacred songs of the long-gone ancestors to match the form of the hunted.

Her people had held on to the ability to shift for generations. Through voluntary and forced migrations, war, and famine, the gift of transformation had belonged to the few chosen within her tribe for as long as the sacred songs foretold. No one knew when they had begun to transform into never-before-seen winged creatures; some could even shift into giant cat-like animals who blended seamlessly into their terrain. Manu had the unique ability to do both and became a hybrid beast. When she morphed, she changed into an undetectable giant winged caracal.

Bum-tap, bum-tap, doom, doom, doom reverbed through the trees as the sound of bones crunching and reforming echoed across the canopy. Hands became long, spindly appendages as nails became finely pointed daggers at the ends of heavy and wide paws. Feathers pierced through skin like spikey tufts until they reached their full plumage, and from Manu’s shoulders grew the most magnificent set of iridescent wings that her people had ever seen. Her wingspan was twice her height, and the subtle streaks of translucent gray and white spread through them, making it seem like Manu’s wings were made of the most delicate crystals when moonlight beamed down upon her. Whenever she shifted, the beauty of her feline-avian form was always unmatched – as were her speed and strength. And as soon as the transformation was complete, Manu began to flap her illustrious wings in time with the talking drums.

Woosh.

Bum-tap.

Woosh, woosh.

Bum-tap.

Whoosh.

Doom.

Whoosh, whoosh.

Bap-bap, doom-tap.

With the final bum-bap, Manu lept from her perch atop her favorite ancient tree. Its sandy tan coloring, gnarled branches, and bent trunk always reminded her of the everlasting nature of her change. Every bone within her was twisting, just like the very roots of the place she perched. Yes, she and this tree were indeed old friends, moving through time until meeting again each dusk for the hunts.

With that thought lingering in her mind, Manu was in the air, weakly searching for food. Her people needed to eat; soon, their hunger would grow too desperate. Her feathers shuddered at the memory of what happened during the last famine they went through.

Johnnie lurched from the dream, her head throbbing to the rhythm of faint drums. This was the third time she’d dreamt of people from a forgotten time. Johnnie couldn’t wrap her head around who Manu was or why she kept returning to those barren grasslands in her dreams. She’d never been outside of the South before, but Johnnie Mae knew enough to wonder if there wasn’t a more profound message buried in her dreams. Could her ancestors be trying to tell her something in the present day?

Johnnie gently shook her head and gingerly let her long, lean, ebony legs touch the ground. There was no need to linger in the dream world and waste time. It was early, and the pastel pink and honeydew orange sky reminded her that the pre-church meal needed to be made if everyone was going to get out of the house on time.

Doom, doom, doom, bap-bap-bap.

Johnnie couldn’t get the steady beat of those eager drums out of her head. As she placed her satin bonnet on the dresser and quickly dressed in her cooking clothes, she heard a faint whisper, “Why do you resist us?”

Indeed, that was just the autumnal wind blowing through the naked birch trees, standing like woodland guardians around the old creaky house.

“Ain’t no way I just heard that!” huffed Johnnie as she tip-toed down the stairs to the kitchen. “Ain’t no way.” She turned on the living room lights and walked timidly to the fridge.

Once in the safety of her domain, Johnnie felt at ease. She breathed deeply and surveyed the biscuits rising under Grannie’s heavy bread towel. They were perfectly shaped and ready to go into the oven. The eggs she’d collected from the chatty hens in the newly constructed coop had been sitting at room temp for several days and would be perfect for whisking and frying.

Johnnie Mae always loved the sounds that whipping up eggs made; it made her feel like she was churning up the sea and creating yellow whirlpools in deep, milky waters. The motion always put her in a peaceful trance-like state, making the meal preparation enjoyable. But today, there was something else inside the big bowl: an image of a younger-looking Johnnie Mae shapeshifting into a creature she had never seen before.

“Manu, is that you? Are you me?” She asked the bowl.

“Yes,” replied the sturdy wedding china that Grannie loved so much as it tumbled and shattered on the floor.

*Please note that this is a fiction short story I wrote for a few writing competitions that I wanted to share.