by Mike Rhynard
Nancy shook her head. “No, Hon. Honestly! That’s all I know.”
Allie shook her head in frustration. “Did she tell you where the dreams come from? Or why every four or five generations? Seriously, it sounds like a fantasy tale, or sci-fi or something.”
“No, she didn’t, and I don’t think she knew.”
“But what about the accuracy thing? Did she ever say if the dreams were true or not?”
“She . . . she . . . yes!” Nancy admitted. “She told me they were absolutely true, and . . . and . . .”
“Damn it, Mom! And what? Tell me, for God’s sake. And how did she know?”
Nancy bit her lower lip, considered her response, held her daughter’s hands, then nodded slightly, continuously until she spoke. “Allie, we’re not dealing with known science here. All we’ve got is what an old, old woman told a little, little girl a long, long time ago. No one’s ever asked a shrink or a dream expert about it, and I don’t have the answers, so I honestly can’t tell you how she knew they were real.”
Allie looked away for a moment. “Well, Mom, where does it end? I mean, do the dreams go on forever? Will I spend my whole life watching history unfold and seeing people I’ve come to love suffer and die? And when it gets to be too much, will I finally have a nervous breakdown and shoot myself, or go permanently crazy and get put away in a nuthouse? Will I, Mom? Is that what happens?”
Nancy spun away from her daughter, covered her mouth with her hand. “I . . . I don’t know, Allie.”
“Mom, what’s wrong? Something bad happens with these dreams doesn’t it? And you know what it is, and you’re not telling me . . . because it’s something you’re deathly afraid of.” She hugged her mother, laid her head on her shoulder, felt her shudder as she cried. “It’s okay, Mom. I know you’re not telling me for my own sake . . . but, Mom, I’m so afraid. Help me. Tell me what you know.”
Nancy squeezed Allie to the limits of her strength while her conscience screamed at her to tell Allie all she knew, but the consequences forbade it. “Allie, Hon, what would you think if we went to see someone who knows about this stuff, tell them about your dreams, about Great-Grandma Ian, everything . . . before it’s too . . . too . . .”
“Before it’s too late! That’s what you were gonna say, isn’t it? So something bad does happen.”
Allie pulled her mother close, felt her tremble, felt like the two of them were suddenly adrift on a tiny raft on the open sea. “Mom, I want you to stay with me. I’m scared . . . scared of what might happen when I go to sleep . . . also scared of what might not happen. Do you understand what I mean?
Nancy nodded.
“The dreams—these dreams—have taken hold of me, pulled me in, made me part of them by making me part of Emily, almost like I’m her. But now she’s dead, and I don’t know what’ll happen when I sleep. Will I dream again, see her lying dead, her head smashed like George Howe’s, or see her being buried? Or will the story go on without her? Or will I dream another history dream, or just some dumb normal dream, or nothing at all? Hold me tighter, Mom. I’m afraid.”
Drowning in compassion, Nancy held Allie close, swayed her back and forth in a gentle, metronomic motion as she had when she was a little girl.
Finally, Allie said, “Mom, I have to leave. I have to go to a lecture. It’s by a famous dream research psychologist—Dr. Steven Dressler—and I have a meeting with him afterward. If I get the chance, I’m going to tell him everything that’s happened. Maybe he can help . . . but on the other hand, since Emily’s dead and the dreams are probably over, maybe I should just forget about it.” She felt her mother tense, her mind racing, knew what she was about to say.
“No, Allie! You get your ass to that lecture! And you tell him every damn thing you know . . . everything!” She pushed Allie to arms’ length, held her shoulders, glared into her eyes with a desperate, fearful look, and prayed that Steven Dressler could explain the dreams, how to preclude their inevitable, dreadful consequences. “Do you understand?”
Allie’s excitement pushed her grief to the back of her mind. She couldn’t think of a time in recent memory she’d been so stoked. She’d read Steven Dressler’s biography three times, agreed with Dr. Jackson that he had all the right tools for leading-edge dream research. Then in his talk, he’d mentioned all of the dream theories and terms she’d read about; and by the time he was halfway through, she’d decided she had to meet him, even if Emily was dead and the dreams over. But his summary comments invigorated her like a transcendental revelation; he spoke his conviction that dreaming’s governing science lay hidden in some yet-to-be-discovered combination of the concepts he’d presented and that his task as the university’s endowed chair would be to formulate governing hypotheses and subject them to conclusive experimentation. Wow, she thought, this is for me. I’m going to play a pivotal role in his discoveries. Not sure how I’m going to lead him to that conclusion; but damn it, I’m gonna do it.
As she stood and applauded with the audience, Allie fantasized about the future. Dressler had been relaxed, casual, affable, displayed none of the self-exalting peremptoriness she’d witnessed in so many academics. Rather, he’d exuded a straightforward, honest sincerity, her type of sincerity, and it had ignited a burning determination to know and assist him. But as she worked her way down the row of seats to the aisle, dream logs in hand, a shock wave of intimidation hit her like a blow to the head. Jeez, O’Shay! Just who the hell are you that you think you’re gonna dance right up to a world leader in dream research and say, “Hi, I’m Allie O’Shay. You don’t know me yet, but I’m here to guide you to the penultimate discovery of dream science, be your mystifying keystone of success, the one who leads you to the Nobel Prize.”
Yeah, right! Okay, now I’m nervous. My God, she thought, he’s gonna think I’m nuts when I tell him about the dreams and how I feel about Emily. A flash of Emily lying dead near the stream on Roanoke Island wisped through her mind; but she again blocked the vision of her battered, bloodied arms and head, winced as a sudden spit of pain knifed its way through her excitement and into her heart. She quickly supplanted the vision with one of Emily alive, laughing, joking with George, sparring with Hugh Tayler, verbally jabbing her father.
As she walked toward the podium, two thoughts suddenly hit her: she’d had a series of incredible dreams, perhaps such as no other living person had ever had; and if she was, in fact, unique, Dressler might actually see her as the valuable linchpin she believed herself to be. Yes, she thought. That’s it. That’s my selling point, my only selling point, unless he cares that I’m reasonably intelligent, have a probing mind and common sense, apply myself like no other, and . . . oh yeah, am decent looking. But you better put it across the right way, Allie, or it’s dead on arrival. Okay, go for it!
She walked up behind a woman who was talking to Dressler, her deportment that of a professor. While she waited, she studied Dressler: decent looking guy, almost handsome; about six feet, early forties; slightly oval head, proportional features; nice brown hair, slightly long and pushed back, no gray, vivid green eyes; decent build and shape for an old guy; looks confident, but who wouldn’t with his credentials?
The professor said, “Well, thanks, Steven, looking forward to it. See you soon.”
As the woman turned away, Allie wondered if she’d asked him for a date. She walked up to Dressler, looked him in the eyes, forgot what she was going to say.
He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Steven Dressler. How are you today?”
Allie felt like she’d just swallowed a softball. “Uh, hi, Sir, I’m, uh . . . I’m Allie O’Shay. I think Dr. Jackson talked to you about me?” It was more of a question than a statement. “I wanted to talk to you about—”
“Oh, yes. Glad you said your name.” He snickered. “Dr. Jackson couldn’t remember it, but he described you perfectly.” He stared silently and deeply at her for a long moment then continued. “He said you wanted to ask me some questions related to your dissertation.
How can I help?”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about dreams . . . actually some dreams I . . .” Slow down, Allie, ease into it.
“Whoa, let’s back up a minute. Why don’t you give me a quick rundown on your dissertation proposal. Dr. Jackson said you have a very interesting dream aspect to it, but it would be helpful to know the overall context.”
Uh oh, she thought, what did I tell Jackson? Damn! Flushed it after I talked to him. Stupid twit, why didn’t you anticipate this? Pull it out, Allie. The group of people behind her waiting to speak to Dressler annoyed her, amplified her stress, gridlocked her mind like a car stuck in a traffic jam. After an awkward silence, she blurted, “Well, it’s about melding psychology and science to help people cope with severe stress, so they can become motivated contributors to society. And the dream connection—”
“Wait a sec. Tell me more about what you mean by melding psychology and science.”
Allie’s brain felt mired in thick, nearly dry concrete. “Well . . . uh. . . hope I don’t offend you, but I’ve always thought clinical psychology was far too clinical and egocentric, and that a larger dose of science would make it more focused and effective. And the dream part—”
“You’re headed right up my alley . . . Allie.” He smiled. “Excuse the pun.” He glanced at the group of people waiting behind her. “I have a thought. Why don’t we continue this in a better setting . . . perhaps tomorrow afternoon? I’m very interested in what you have in mind, but I really should have a word with these folks behind you before we’re kicked out of here.” He pulled out a pocket calendar, flipped it open to a paper-clipped page, and glanced at it for a second. “Can you come to my office at two tomorrow?”
“Sure. I mean . . . yes, sir.” She looked into his eyes, shaped a feeble smile, nodded repeatedly, as if nods substituted for the words she couldn’t find. Finally, she said, “Thanks . . . uh . . . oh, by the way, I really enjoyed your lecture . . . the one last year, too. And sorry for taking so much of your time. See you tomorrow.”
“Great.”
As she turned and walked away, he looked at the next person in line. “Hi, I’m Steve Dressler.”
Well, Allie thought, you blew that one big time—klutz. Ever talk to anyone important before? Sensing imminent tears, she darted into the ladies’ room, looked in the mirror as the flood started down her cheeks, then noticed she’d worn an old t-shirt, cutoffs, and a pair of thongs to the lecture. Oh my God, you idiot! Probably thinks you’re a flake or something worse. Where’s your frickin’ head, O’Shay? Buried in a pile of horse shit, that’s where.
When Allie returned to her apartment, she found a note from her mother: Out shopping, back around 12:30, quick lunch and visit before I go back to the ranch. Allie was already depressed by Emily’s death and her abysmally awkward encounter with Dr. Dressler; and she had hoped to persuade her mother to stay another night, further console her, hopefully reveal her secrets about Great-Great-Grandma Ian. So her mother’s surprise departure delivered a third dose of depression.
She walked into the bedroom, sat down at the computer and reread the Roanoke write-up, scanning the page for related links, then clicked on one entitled “Names of the 1587 Virginia Colonists.” Oh my God, look at this. Wonder if Emily’s there. The listing wasn’t alphabetical, so she put the cursor on the top name and dragged it slowly down the list. Hmm, all men on this side. John White was first, then Roger Baylye. “Wow. Never heard either name before the dreams . . . how in the hell . . .” George Howe was next, followed by Thomas Colman, William Waters, and Hugh Tayler. Wow. She tingled with anticipation as she started down the list of women, saw Elyoner Dare at the top. Two-thirds of the way down the page her heart rippled; a chill enveloped her neck like a wet comforter on a subzero day. She saw Colman with no first name given. Has to be her; wonder why they didn’t have her first name on the manifest? Maybe it was smudged out . . . or the guy making the manifest screwed up. Who knows, but it has to be her . . . I’ll be damned. Emily’s real. Allie stared at the name, felt a swell of emotion in her breast, salty tears in her eyes. She recoiled instinctively from a sudden, unseen touch to her shoulder, inhaled a sharp yelp, and turned to find her mother standing behind her. “Jeez, Mom! Don’t do that. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry, Hon. Didn’t mean to.” Nancy glanced at the monitor. “Is she there?”
Caught off guard, Allie glanced at the screen. “Oh. Yeah, Mom. She’s there. All the others, too.” She stood to face her mother, wrapped her arms around her, pulled her close, then soaked her shoulder with tears. “Mom, what am I gonna do? This whole thing sucks!”
“Did you talk to the dream guy?”
“Yeah,” she sniffled, “but I blew it.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed. “All my words came out wrong, couldn’t think, got ahead of myself, flustered, which I never do. Then I realized I was wearing these clothes.” She pulled away and motioned her hands up and down at herself. “Cool, huh? Tight cutoffs, thongs, no bra, bouncing boobs . . . look like a real erudite PhD candidate, don’t I?” She resumed sobbing as if on cue, pulled her mother close again.
“Allie O’Shay, what am I going to do with you? If anything, he probably thinks you’re hotter than a two-dollar pistol in a gunfight.” She chuckled to herself.
Allie pushed her mother to arms’ length, looked at her with a half smile. “ Mommm. Quit making fun of me. It wasn’t funny at all.” Her smile broadened to a full impish grin as she jiggled her breasts up and down. “Woo, woo.”
“Allie O’Shay, cut it out. So where do things stand with him? Did you tell him anything? Can he help?”
“Well, I’m probably being too hard on myself because he wants me to come to his office tomorrow afternoon, so we can talk more. I mean, there were like twenty impatient people waiting behind me to talk to him—not a great environment for discussing the weirdest dreams of the century. But I’ll tell you this, when I go see him tomorrow I’ll have my act together and my head screwed on because there ain’t gonna be another chance if I blow this one.”
“That’s my girl. Get ’er done.” Nancy nodded along with her words; prayed that the dream guy could understand Allie’s dreams, help her deal with their impact; feared for her future if he couldn’t. “So give me a call and let me know how it goes.”
At her desk, Allie drafted and printed a list of the dream characteristics she’d presented to Jackson. She then made a copy of her dream log and summarized what her mother had told her about Great-Great-Grandma Ian, emphasized the “true history” nature of her dreams but didn’t speculate as to how they’d been verified. Next she conceived her own theory, based on the limited reading she’d done, for why the dreams were happening and how. And last, integrating all of it together, she wrote a proposal on how she could use her unique gift and inherent capabilities to help Dr. Dressler discover and validate the governing science of human dreams. At the end of the proposal, she wrote:
Dr. Dressler,
I couldn’t feel the way I do about Emily Colman unless I were experiencing a live, emotional connection with a real human being, somewhere in a genuine instance of human history. Therefore, I respectfully request you accept my unique capabilities as a subject of investigation in your endeavor. I will willingly and enthusiastically submit to any and all scientific experimentation and validation techniques at your disposal.
Very respectfully yours,
Allie O’Shay
Allie placed the proposal on top, put tabs on each of the individual documents in the package, and typed and printed a cover letter that included a tab index. After she proofread the entire package, she tweaked a few statements, signed her name, and slid the papers into a large envelope with Dressler’s name on it. She set the package on her dresser then suddenly hesitated as an unsettling thought parked in her mind. Too much detail for a meeting, need to summarize it in a point paper, maybe even a PowerPoint presentation. Yeah. Good idea!
An
hour later, Allie printed two copies of her presentation, laid them on top of the package. She walked into the bathroom, took the bottle of sleeping pills from her drawer, then debated taking one or two. After thirty seconds of deliberation, she put the bottle back in the drawer. Maybe another night. I’m not going to like what I dream tonight.
She prepared for bed, returned to the bedroom. Rubbing her birthmark, she turned out the light, then slid under the sheets and closed her eyes.
At first there was total blackness, as black as the inside of a womb, followed after a time by gray until the black returned. The cycle repeated itself until an hour into the fifth gray period, when a faint haze appeared then slowly yielded to a fragile light; and out of the hazy light appeared a sleek, graceful ship, a fierce dragon head atop its tall prow, a single square sail pushing it nimbly through rhythmic ocean swells. As the ship drew closer, a row of colorful shields became visible on each side above lines of stowed oars that protruded from her sides. Rugged-looking, bearded men—some sitting, some standing, some wearing metal helmets—talked to one another or looked silently out at the gray sea. At the prow of the ship stood a sturdy, determined-looking man about twenty-five, his long, light brown hair flowing behind him with the wind. His blue eyes had a strong set but also a touch of sadness that hovered quietly behind the resolve. After a while, he turned toward the men behind him, looked at one who sat in the second row, and motioned him to come forward. “Bjarni, let us talk.”
Bjarni rose and walked toward him. “What would it be, Tryggvi?”
Allie rolled to her side, squinted at the bright sunlight pouring through the window; she sank immediately into a melancholy disposition, began analyzing what she’d seen. Black and gray, black and gray, black and gray, five times, for different lengths of time, then . . .
She refused to acknowledge the new dream, blanked it from her mind, resolved not to let it replace Emily, then focused on the black and gray scenes, ransacked her mind for a thread of explanation. “Okay, let’s start at the beginning. What’s black?”