Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Dressler blinked at her use of the word Doc—his ex-wife had called him that. Then a wave of compassion for Allie’s anguish struck like a strong gust of wind; he wanted to hold her close, console her, but knew he couldn’t, knew he’d done the right thing; wanted to tell her his game plan, decided against it. Don’t want to raise her hopes, he thought, too much of a longshot. “So, Allie . . . may I call you Allie?”

  She nodded as she rubbed tears from her eyes.

  “I can’t tell you what I plan to do, but I’ll tell you this: your dreaming capabilities are worth more than all the other candidates in this game combined, and I’m going to spend the night reviewing your package in greater detail and—”

  Allie immediately bubbled with excitement, sniffling as she whipped the folder containing her detailed proposal and attachments from her backpack and handed them to him. “Sorry to interrupt, Sir. Here’s the detailed version. Lots more meat. It’ll help.”

  He took the package, thought how amazingly prepared she was. “Thanks. I’ll do my review and some serious thinking, get back to you sometime tomorrow afternoon. But please don’t get your hopes up; the odds are slim . . . and I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. I know you’re excited about this . . . so am I, but . . . oh, you mentioned you were okay with getting wired up and being in a sleep lab, but we also, on occasion, use drugs to induce sleep and extend REM sleep—completely safe stuff and under very controlled circumstances. Would you be okay with that, as well? There can be side effects with these things, but they—”

  Allie nodded. “Sure, but why did you ask me that if I’m probably not going to be involved?”

  “Just needed to know your feelings on the subject. Please don’t read anything into it. Some folks don’t want anything to do with the drugs and—”

  I do, thought Allie. “I’d be fine with that . . . but who would write the prescriptions?”

  “I would. The state just authorized psychologists to write prescriptions, and”—he looked at his watch—“ oh . . .”

  Allie immediately stood, extended her hand. “Thanks, Doc.”

  As he rose and pressed his palm against hers; he felt a warm rush, thought how honest her grip was, how soulful and genuine she herself was.

  I like him, Allie thought. He really wants to do this, but he’s worried about something; has an idea pinging around in his head, some plan to make it happen. Trust him, Allie. Lord, please let it be.

  He walked her to the door, where she stopped and faced him.

  “Thanks, Dr. Dressler. I really appreciate your listening to me . . . and thinking about all this. I know it’s way out there, but everything I’ve told you is true. These dreams are possessing me, and I need your help to understand and control them. Hope you can find a way to make it work. Thanks again.” She stared silently into his eyes, again saw the flicker of sadness, wondered what it was.

  “You’re welcome, Allie. I’ll give it a good shot. Thanks for sharing something so personal with me.” He couldn’t pull his eyes from hers, had sensed the desperation in her voice. He thought how much he liked her, warmed to the thought of working with her but felt a lump of intimidation in his throat when he thought about the challenge ahead.

  “Oh, Doc. Can you answer a question for me? Do people in comas dream?”

  “Some do, some don’t, but I can’t tell you why. Why do you ask?”

  “Emily may be in a coma . . . actually, I hope she’s in a coma. So if people in comas do dream, are there REM and NREM periods?”

  “Perhaps, but possibly more random and of unusual lengths because the trauma that caused the coma could induce a neuronal imbalance that would cause one population of neurons to dominate another for an abnormally long time.”

  “Makes sense. That’s Hobson isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Very good.”

  “Well, that helps. So ’bye, and thanks again.” She turned, walked out the door and down the hall.

  He followed her out, watched her as she waited for the elevator; relished the thought of working with someone with such an amazing gift, resolved to find a way, but again felt a twinge of uncertainty about the prospects.

  As the door opened, she looked back at him, smiled, waved, then stepped inside.

  Nancy answered the phone. “Hi, Allie Girl. How’d it go?”

  “Uh, kinda good, kinda bad.” Allie told her the details. “So I think he’s really jacked about the proposal, but he’s worried about how to pull it off, didn’t seem real hopeful—lots of school politics, personalities, all the usual BS. So I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Well, have faith. Do some praying. I have a feeling it’s going to happen. By the way, did you dream last night?”

  Allie’s tenuously risen spirits plunged as she saw Emily lying dead by the stream, thought of the Viking dream. “Yeah. I did, Mom.”

  “Well?”

  Allie told her what she’d seen, articulated her theories, her confusion, told her she needed a longer dream session to figure it out, then said she’d call again after she heard from Dressler.

  At ten p.m., Allie dressed for bed. She pulled the comforter over her, stared at the ceiling; relived the day’s emotional extremes, realized she was mentally drained, void of emotion; prayed for Steven Dressler to find a way . . . and for Emily Colman to live.

  When the Viking ship appeared, Allie was lucidly aware she’d seen blackness for a long time, and though asleep, sensed that she was in a new dream.

  The sleek-looking ship pitched and rolled its way through the ocean swells with the grace and agility of a much larger ship. Bjarni sat in his rowing position eating some kind of dried fish while Tryggvi, the determined-looking man who had been at the prow, now stood at the stern, his arm draped over the tiller, talking to another man. Both had ruddy complexions, light brown hair, and blue eyes; the new man was taller and thicker than Tryggvi, perhaps six years older, and had a rough, menacing, less intelligent look about him.

  With the index finger of his free hand, Tryggvi pointed at a line on the roughly sketched animal-hide map he held in the fingers of his tiller hand. “So, Hefnir, when you and—”

  Allie awoke to her cell phone ringing beside her, fumbled for it, knocked it off the bedside table onto the floor, found it after the last ring. She didn’t recognize the number, glanced at the clock—11:59 p.m. Checking her voicemail, she heard Dressler’s voice; her excitement surged like a racehorse breaking from the starting gate. She hit redial and talk, flipped her hair out of her face, then rubbed her eyes with the backs of her fingers.

  When Dressler answered, she said groggily, “Hello . . . Dr. Dressler?”

  “Allie . . . whoops. Sounds like I woke you up. I’ll call you in the—”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m awake. I heard your call, but I dropped the phone.” She popped upright in the bed, eyes wide with anxious anticipation.

  “Were you dreaming?”

  “Afraid so,” she said dejectedly.

  “Not Emily, huh?”

  “No. Vikings again. I’m depressed . . . and I have a feeling I’m about to be more depressed.”

  “Well, I hope not. I’ve been looking at your package all night. It’s more amazing and exciting every time I read it. Allie, I can’t let you get away. Will you be my research assistant?”

  Allie’s lips parted as she gasped; her bleary eyes sparkled. “But . . . but what about the committee and the dissertation topic and—”

  “I’ll handle it. I’ve got a plan. I’ll make it work. Sooo . . .”

  “Oh my God, yes, yes, yes. Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t thank me. It’s I who need to thank you for showing up at this most poignant moment in my life. Can you come to my office at five thirty tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes, yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

  “Great, now go back to sleep . . . and find Emily. See you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Doc. See you then.”

  “Goodnight.”

  When Allie�
�s heart stopped racing and her excitement subsided, she thanked God for convincing Dressler then fantasized about the exciting times ahead, saw herself dreaming in the lab, immersed in Emily’s life. But then the reality of her last dream supplanted her excitement, left her lying in bed with the same dreadful question squeezing her mind like a vice. Were the Vikings Emily’s dream or her own new dream? It’s life or death for Emily, she thought. I’ve got to know. She sprang out of bed, walked to the bathroom.

  Damn it. I’m gonna find out. She opened the drawer that held her sleeping pills, removed two, shook her head: no, too much; she cut one in half, put the other half back in the bottle. Gonna dream until I know what’s happening. She figured one and a half pills would put her out for a good twelve hours without risk—maybe long enough for two or three additional REMs. She looked at her watch—12:10 a.m. “Plenty of time to un-grog before the meeting.” She swallowed the pills, walked into the bedroom, lowered the blinds. She then set her phone and clock alarms for 1:15 p.m., rolled under the comforter, and closed her eyes.

  The darkening gray sky melded with a narrow band of dirty, faded blue dotted with puffy pink clouds that seemed to float on the western horizon, where the endless black sea had just swallowed the sun’s last, shrinking rays. Rising into the thickening darkness, the dragon head on the ship’s prow seemed to search the horizon and point the way for the pilot at the tiller. And except for small spaces at the stem and stern, the entire deck was covered by a red- and white-striped tent, its ridge pole extending fore and aft with lingering drops of rainwater occasionally dripping from its sides.

  Other men sat under the tent engaged in various endeavors: some sharpening swords and axes, some eating or drinking, a few fishing, some staring forward at the horizon, some staring aft toward home, and some watching the school of porpoises that followed the ship. One man, who was dressed more richly than the others, strummed a six-string, two-inch-thick, oblong instrument about three feet long with rounded ends. One end was hollowed out inside, leaving a two-inch-wide perimeter frame, to form an empty space where the strings were strummed. Another man accompanied him with a thin, hollowed-out-bone flute.

  All of the men wore knee-length tunics and cloth pants covered by fur leggings which were held in place by spirals of ribbon wrapped from the ankles to the knees, and a few wore round metal helmets with nose plates in front. Tryggvi, Bjarni, and Hefnir sat in the front section of the ship, just inside the tent, engaged in animated discussion, occasionally pointing at the map.

  Tryggvi said, “If the Skraeling stories are true, there will be many portages before we reach the largest freshwater seas. But first, my friends, we must find the bay. And I think we’ve drifted a little south of course, so”— he looked at Bjarni and Hefnir—“ do you think you can find it if we make landfall on the coast to the south?”

  The two nodded. Bjarni said, “Aye. The huts and fortifications will still be there, and it’s a unique-looking place with a large island in the entrance to the bay, so you have to sail north or south of it to enter the bay and reach the river. Also, the camp was on the north tip of the island, on a long peninsula that runs northeast from the west side of the island—an unusually long and straight peninsula . . . like my poker.” He pointed between his legs, smiling proudly. “Then you have to—”

  Tryggvi and Hefnir snickered at one another.

  Bjarni pretended surprise. “What? What’s so funny?”

  Tryggvi said, “It must be a very short island, indeed, if it looks your poker, Bjarni.” He punched Bjarni’s shoulder as all three burst into laughter. “Go on.”

  “Well, the mouth of the river is at the northwest corner of the bay.”

  Hefnir said, “The river flows into the bay from the southwest; so we go upstream and then portage a great waterfall before we find the first freshwater sea, which is smaller than the others. And after that, all the seas are connected by short rivers until we reach the last, largest sea, which extends back up to the northwest . . . I think. Everything was on the map, but as you’ve seen, it’s too faded and smudged to be of much use. Besides, I think Albrikt was drunk when he made it; and remember, all the directions were from the Skraelings, and none of them had ever seen a map, so . . .”

  “Well,” Tryggvi said, “I’m still undecided whether it’s best to explore Vinland or find the freshwater seas. How many days’ sail to Vinland from the bay camp?”

  Bjarni said, “At least four days south with good wind, and . . .”

  The scene vanished.

  Chapter 10

  Ananias Dare, Thomas Colman, and George Howe sat on stools in front of Colman’s cottage. Though the brutal summer temperatures had begun migrating toward those of fall, it was still too hot and humid to sit close to a fire; so the three sat some ten feet from the flames, dark shadows and firelight comingling on their faces in a primitive, wavy dance.

  Ananias said, “But Thomas, there are too many angry Savages between here and the main for us to simply sneak our way there undetected. They watch our every movement. No, I think going to the Chesapeake was the right decision . . . the only decision. The governor spent a winter with the Chesapeakes on the last expedition and found them friendly and helpful, as did our recent emissaries. On the other hand, we know nothing of the tribes in the main; and even if we successfully bypass the belligerent tribes along the river, who knows what we’ll find there? No, Chesapeake was the only real choice. And don’t forget that the Chesapeake is where Raleigh granted our charter and acreage. ’Twould be rather presumptuous of us to think we can take our charter and settle wherever we please. Again, Chesapeake was the correct choice.”

  Colman shook his head. “I understand, Ananias, and I basically agree with the vote, but going somewhere other than where the governor thinks we’re going is risky, makes me wonder if he’ll find us when he returns.”

  George Howe said, “But didn’t he know we might go to Chesapeake when he left?”

  “Aye, he did,” Ananias replied, “and I think we’ve devised a foolproof plan to inform him of our decision, one that follows his instructions precisely.”

  Colman frowned. “But, Ananias, that’s the part that worries me. There’s no such thing as a foolproof plan . . . something can always go awry. And leaving carvings that imply we went to Croatan Island instead of Chesapeake will send him in the wrong direction . . . and what if misfortune overcomes the three people we leave on Croatan Island, and there’s no one there to guide him to our Chesapeake village? In that case, he’d have to rely on the Croatans; but they’ll know only our general whereabouts, and that’s no different from telling him we went to Chesapeake in the first place. So you see, there’s a risk, my friend, and I’d prefer we simply tell him we went to Chesapeake in the first place and then let him locate the village when he arrives there.”

  “Well, I agree there is a slight risk, Thomas, but there’s always some risk in everything. However, with only modest luck, at least one of the three at Croatan will be alive to show the governor exactly where we are. Think about it. He may return as soon as three months from now”—he counted on his fingers—“and certainly no later than seven or eight months from now. So really, how much can happen to the three at Croatan in so short a time?”

  “But, Sir,” George said, “though I have no vote, I agree with Master Colman. Why not simply tell him we’re going to Chesapeake?”

  Ananias said, “Here’s why. Who knows where we and the Chesapeakes will be when the governor finally arrives? What if it is eight months, or longer, before he returns? Their territory is large, and we may move. Why send him searching all over Virginia when he can simply sail down to Croatan Island, a safe place he knows well, pick up the three men, and sail directly to our exact location? By the bye, thanks to Manteo, the Croatans have already agreed to let our three men live with them until John returns.”

  “But how will those three know where we—”

  Ananias nodded. “Well, since we’re moving people and supplies
to Chesapeake over a period of days, we’ll take the three Croatan volunteers up to the Chesapeake village on one of the early voyages. We’ll then take them down to Croatan Island on the return voyage. ’Tis only a short distance south of here and not far out of the way. So all three will know exactly where the new village is; and if for some reason we and the Chesapeakes move from that location to another, we’ll simply leave John a message at the first location telling him where we’ve gone, or we can sail the pinnace down to Croatan and tell the three people where to find the new site. Thus”—he looked at Colman and George—“ if ill befalls one, or even two, of the three, someone will still know our exact location . . . and the Croatans will know our general location. By the way, we’ll carve the word Croatoan, rather than Croatan, here at Roanoke, since that’s what the governor knows it by, even though ’tis incorrect. And as Roger promised the governor, we’ll carve it on a palisade post here in the village and on that large tree on the pathway from the shore.”

  “Well,” Colman said, “though I see the logic of it, it also worries me that we’re not leaving a cross of distress by the word Croatoan. He told us to do so if we leave in danger—emphasized it, in fact—and”—his voice suddenly cracked with emotion—“and I do believe we’re in danger.” His eyes sparkled with sudden tears; he blinked, looked away, rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, gentlemen, thinking of Emily . . .”

  George’s eyes misted, as well, as he and Ananias waited for Colman to regain his composure.

  When he looked back, Colman said, “My apologies.”

  “None needed,” Ananias said. “We share your feelings about Emily.”

  Colman continued. “Anyway, I think we should carve crosses by the words.”

  “I agree,” George said.

  “Well,” Ananias replied, “I can’t disagree that we’re leaving in distress, but I also agree with Roger and the majority that by the time the governor returns, we’ll be out of danger and safely settled with the Chesapeakes. So why unnecessarily alarm him and, more importantly, the new colonists with him. Think about it; if they get off the ship here and find crosses of distress, they’ll be terrified, probably reboard immediately and sail back to England.”