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Jake Conroy (Chapter 12):

From some place deep in the dream came the drone of bagpipes and he thought he recognized the tune they played.  He sensed the long, stone-lined corridor as he passed through it, and the music became more pronounced the further along its length he moved.  Blue again, he thought of the color of the light around him, the color of the stones surrounding him. 

At the end of the corridor stood a huge door; the wood had been painstakingly carved to a continuous knot in which no discernable beginning or end could be found.  Its mere appearance impressed upon him a feeling of solidity beyond comprehension.  The cool, tarnished brass handle was a hand-worked masterpiece of opposing dragons coming together at their fiery snouts.  It coupled down to a formidable lock, but opened easily when he pushed. 

A blast of the bagpipes came hurtling from behind the door as it opened and euphoria flooded his being like a wave hitting the rocks of a jetty.  It took a moment for his head to clear, and even once it did, he remained afflicted with a sense of buoyancy and a toothy smile, reminiscent of the perma-grin he’d occasionally suffered at the expense of some high-grade marijuana.  He laughed out loud and his voice echoed back at him, startling him into awareness once again. 

His gaze rose slowly from his vantage point to the chamber around him.  Steps of stone coiled up around the walls of the most enormous…place…Jake had ever seen.  The steps rose and rose around a hollow center, climbing higher and higher until they were too far away to be detected.  Although Jake wouldn’t have thought it possible, the light seemed even brighter, and almost thicker, up there.  Looking down into a wide chasm the blue deepened…not into darkness, but in actual depth, bottomless and ocean-like.

Even knowing that he was really asleep in his own bed wasn’t quite enough to convince Jake that he was dreaming.  He knew that his conscious-self would be dumbstruck by what he was seeing, and assumed that his dream-self should react accordingly.  He was fascinated, but he had no fear of this place…and in fact felt better here than in any other place for a long time.

Spoons (Chapter 9):             Jake watched Spoons look off into some distant memory that only he could see and smile.  I was a bluesman.  Used to travel a good bit.  Now I’m a blue man—I s’pose. I gits to stay right heah. This information intrigued Jake.  He loved blues music, and had an extensive collection.  “Have I ever heard anything you’d have done?”             Spoons chuckled from his weathered front porch, a backdrop that was new to Jake.  Not less’n you was ‘round befo’ nineteen-hunnut ‘n thirty-two, you ain’t.             “I have a lot of old records,” Jake mused.  “Some real old ones.  Got the original Robert Johnson recordings from back then.”             Robert?  You got him on a record?             “Sure do.  All twenty-nine of ‘em.”             Spoons rocked back in his chair.  Jake noted how the man—or ghost, he still hadn’t come to terms with which yet—was dressed; well-pressed yet worn brown pants with pleats and suspenders and a neatly ironed beige shirt with a brown bow tie.  His shoes were wingtips, also brown; the soles were worn but the leather was highly polished.  Spoons obviously took pride in his appearance.  The longer he let his new vision take in the old black man, the more astounded he was with the details.  He turned his head and saw how the vision seemed to come from the periphery, as if he were peering into a small rip between the reality he knew and stood within to where ever it was the old man existed.             I nevah got round to singin’ into them lil o’ boxes.  Didn’t seem right somehow.             “So . . . you played—er, play the spoons?”             The old man laughed hard and slapped a weathered hand to his knee as he quickly lifted the edge of his sleeve up to his lips to wipe a bit of drool.  Oh, no.  I nevah did play no spoons.  I plays the harp. The old black man’s gray eyebrows rose.  I spoons d’girls. He laughed again, and Jake smiled.              With that, the old man pulled a harmonica from his shirt pocket and played long, wailing blasts of melody as Jake walked down Crystal Beach.  Jake liked the sounds.  For a time, he let all other thoughts drift off into a corner of his mind.  Spoons’ music was so relaxing it caused Jake to think of color again.  Spoons is a blue man...