Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  “I shall now speak of each charge that’s been brought against me, beginning with Gibbes’ sister. Please forgive my bluntness, but she was a whore.” He frowned. “ ’Tis true I spent a night with her . . . lost my head in several tankards of ale and fell prey to my own distorted judgment. ’Tis also true that she became pregnant, but there were so many who’d been with her that it was impossible for anyone to say who the father was. So the Gibbes clan seized the opportunity to accuse me, attempted to extort a vast sum of money from me in return for their silence. I refused, but . . . but of my own volition, I paid for the girl’s care until she died . . . even though I was certain the child was not mine.”

  Emily shuffled her feet, squeezed her hands into fists, wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say. God o’ mercy, this challenges my mind. I’m adrift in a sea of confusion . . . who to believe? She glanced around the village, saw several people watching.

  Tayler spoke louder, mirrored his emotions with his hands; more people cast their glances upon him. “The battle in Holland occurred exactly as I described to you. I can show you my honorable discharge papers, which clearly state it was due to wounds incurred in the line of duty. I can also show you the citation they gave me for bravery. Anything else you’ve been told of that battle is a bold lie. Then there’s the myth of the duel with the major . . . the most outlandish assertion.”

  Two Powhatans lay on the ground, one motionless, one twisting in pain. The one with the arrow in his side stood ten feet from Isna, raised his hand for the others to stop.

  Soft-Nose whispered to Isna from behind, “Isna’s Lakota brothers are here.”

  Isna nodded, held his position, watched as surprise then uneasiness crept into the Powhatans’ eyes . . . all but the man he’d wounded. The man hung his club at his waist, glared hatefully, defiantly into Isna’s eyes while he reached behind his back, snapped off the front of the arrow, pulled the shaft forward and out of his side, threw it on the ground, then looked slightly to Isna’s left, spoke angrily in a language similar to that of the Chesapeakes.

  One of the Chesapeakes approached Isna from behind, signed that their attackers were Powhatans, that their leader, the one he’d wounded, was called the Panther and was a great warrior. He said the Panther had told him they were trespassing on Powhatan land, so the deer belonged to them.

  Isna regarded the Panther with a casual, disdainful look, signed, “The land belongs to no man. The Lakota will keep the deer.”

  The Panther’s eyes tightened into tiny black dots fixed on Isna while he again spoke to the Chesapeake.

  The Chesapeake looked back at Isna, signed, “The Panther wants to know why the Chesapeakes hunt with outsiders, enemies of our peoples and the Powhatan paramount chiefdom. I told him the Chesapeakes are not full members of their chiefdom and hunt with whomever they please. I also told him that while the Lakota speak a language like their enemies, the Monacans, they are from far away and came in peace to trade. He then told us to go away so they can kill the Lakota, but I told him we will fight with the Lakota if they attack.”

  Isna nodded respectfully then looked at the Panther, who seemed oblivious to the steady trickle of blood running down his right side and leg. He smiled, signed, “The Lakota are warriors such as the Powhatans have never seen . . . but the Lakota come to trade, not to fight. Still, if the Powhatans want a fight, the Lakota will oblige them.” This man is worthy and brave. I shall touch him with my bow one day.

  The Panther smiled a stiff, tight smile, twisted with frustration and stifled rage, thought, two dead, one wounded, too many losses, not a good fight; these two strangers fight well, have humiliated us today . . . I shall kill them slowly, painfully when we next meet . . . and the Chesapeakes, though they have not fought us, shall be punished for helping them. He nodded at Isna then signed, “This Lakota wears many feathers. The Panther has seen that he is unafraid and a worthy foe. He and the Panther will meet again one day . . . but when the sun sets that day, only the Panther shall live.”

  Isna answered, “If Isna and the Panther meet again, the Panther’s puny half-a-head of hair will hang in Isna’s lodge on the bottom of his scalp pole . . . a new scalp pole because the old one is already filled with enemy scalps.” Isna stepped slowly toward the dead deer.

  The Panther leered at him, lifted his weapons from his waist, eased forward.

  Isna held his pace, grasped his club and knife. The two groups closed toward one another, weapons drawn and ready. It will be a swift, deadly fight, thought Isna. It’s a good day to die.

  “Waters, Myllet, and Gibbes contrived the entire story of an affair. ’Twas naught but a fabrication they perpetrated to wound and discredit me; and their dishonesty was soon discovered . . . by my benefactor, as well as by the major. But as is the custom with the army, when someone sins, but not grievously enough to warrant court-martial, they’re banished; and so it was with these three slanderers . . . banished to Roanoke Island, they were . . . and they now continue to defame my character here at Chesapeake.” He looked at her with eyes as sad as those of a man at his true love’s burial. “Emily, everything I’ve told you—the good and the shamefully bad—is true. I swear it to you. And I swear to you that my love for you is undying, deeper than the sea, and it begs earnestly for your acceptance.”

  Emily’s mind spun in confusion. “Hugh, I . . .”

  Two ladies working at the closest cottage had been watching the discourse. One said, “Are you well, Mistress Emily?”

  “Aye, I am. Thank you.” She rubbed her eyes.

  “Well, you certainly don’t look so.” They glanced back several times as they whispered quietly to each other, glared at Tayler.

  Emily thought, ’tis impossible to know the truth. He’s heartfelt, sincere, seems nakedly honest. What am I to do?

  “Emily, there’s something more I must tell you . . . something of the gravest nature and greatest importance . . . more so than anything we’ve yet discussed. It too will eventually come from the lips of these three liars, and I must inform you of the truth of it before they speak it.”

  Emme Merrimoth ran up to Emily and Tayler. “Emily! Emily! Come quick! Elyoner needs you immediately.”

  “ Emme, what is it?”

  “I don’t know. She’s in a desperate frenzy over something, shouted to me from her window. Perhaps ’tis one of the babies.”

  “My God!” Emily started after Emme, looked back at Tayler. “We shall finish later.”

  “Emily, we cannot finish this here in the village. We must speak privately somewhere . . . anywhere, outside the village . . . without intrusion. Please, I beg you. ’Tis of the greatest urgency.”

  She stopped, regarded him with a tormented look. “Very well, Hugh. I shall go with you.” She quickened her pace toward Elyoner’s cottage.

  As she approached, she heard Elyoner scream, “Nooo! Lord, please don’t let this happen. Nooo!”

  Chapter 16

  Allie opened her eyes, rolled onto her side, stretched. “Damn! Something’s happened to Virginia or Henry.”

  Ginger said, “Hi, Allie. Awake for good?” She took a huge, gaping yawn. “Oh! Excuse me. You slept a long time, Hon.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About nine . . . I told you those little pills were potent.”

  Isna and the Panther. Someone’s gonna die. Emily’s in love . . . big love. Wow . . . with an Indian . . . but he’s . . . he’s really neat . . . a hunk. Oh, my Emily. Don’t go with Tayler. Something’s bad wrong, feel it, scared. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, thoughtfully.

  “Hello . . . Allie. Are you there?” Ginger waived her hand in front of Allie’s face.

  “Oh . . . sorry . . . I was thinking about something. Can we get the rest of these obnoxious cups off? I need to get to the girl’s room before I embarrass myself.” She sucked in a big gulp of air, exhaled as if catching her breath after a sprint. “Whew! I’m wiped out: really tired, a little dizzy and queasy, too.”

&nb
sp; “That’s normal . . . side effects of the pill.” Ginger popped off the remaining cups. “Get up slowly, or you’ll face-plant on the floor.” She held Allie’s arm as she stood.

  “Whoa, you’re not kidding . . . shaky.” She shook her head, took two deep breaths. “I’m okay now. Thanks, Ginger.” She shuffled toward the changing room.

  “You might as well take a shower and freshen up. Doctor Dressler and I will collect the data and be ready to debrief when you get back. Want a cup of coffee and a doughnut?”

  “Sure on the doughnut, pass on the coffee. Got any juice?”

  “Yup. Orange okay?”

  “Perfect. Thanks. See you in a bit.”

  When Allie returned, Dr. Dressler sat at a long table across the room from the bed. A partially unrolled scroll of paper with rows of squiggly lines on it spanned the table in front of him; an empty chair sat beside him; and Ginger sat behind, holding a small tape recorder. “Hi, Doc. How’s it look?”

  “Hi, Allie. Looks really good. Certainly leaves nothing to the imagination regarding your emotional involvement. Here.” He pointed at the doughnut and bottle of juice. “Grab a bite, and we’ll get started.”

  “Thanks.” Allie sat, wolfed the doughnut, chugged the juice, then looked self-consciously at Dressler and Ginger, smiled. “That wasn’t very ladylike, was it? Must be hungry.”

  Ginger looked amused. “Want another doughnut?”

  Sheepish, tentative grin from Allie. “Sure. Thanks.”

  Dressler had his eyes on the data chart. “Dreaming must make you hungry . . . and I see why.” He pointed at the printout. “You really get involved.”

  Allie looked at the lines. “Wow. Lots of activity, huh.” She wondered if the Panther had killed Isna . . . or vice versa.

  “Yup. But let’s debrief while everything’s fresh in your mind, and then we’ll compare with the data.” He reached behind, took the recorder from Ginger, pressed record. “Allie O’Shay, dream one, July 31, 2000, nine thirty a.m., Dr. Steven Dressler and tech Ginger Johnston present.” He pushed stop. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Okay. Just talk like you’re telling us a story and tell everything you can remember, starting from the beginning of the first dream if you can remember it . . . also state when each dream ends and the next begins. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  He pressed record, set the recorder on the table in front of Allie.

  Two and a half hours later, Allie said, “And that’s it . . . fini.”

  Ginger blew out a long, breathy whistle. “Wow! That’s incredible. I’ve done a ton of these, and I’ve never ever seen recall like that . . . or such intimate detail. Amazing!”

  Dressler looked at Allie, nodded repeatedly as if his head was locked in motion. “Allie, I thought your earlier summaries—the ones you gave me in the office—were detailed, but good grief. This was like a book reading: every word, detail, thought, feeling. I mean everything . . . it’s unfathomable.”

  “Am I a freak, Doc?”

  Dressler and Ginger laughed. Dressler said, “No. Not at all. There may be some kind of mutation—along the lines we discussed—that lets you dream like this, but hell no, you’re not a freak. You just have a gift that’s more astounding than anything I’ve ever seen or heard of in my entire life. That’s all.”

  “Well, they’re all like that . . . and they always leave me hanging at the end . . . like we talked. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded philosophically. “Yes, it does . . . it would definitely be gratifying to get closure on each dream, but look on the positive side. You can’t sleep and dream all day and night.”

  “Why not?” She smiled. “Just kidding.”

  “Because if you did, the whole story would be over before we had a chance to analyze and try to validate anything. I mean, even Allie O’Shay couldn’t remember all the details if she dreamed Emily’s entire life in one or two long sleeps. So your waking up, albeit frustrating, gives us a little reaction time to try and figure out what’s going on before the next dream. What amazes me is the amount of time it took you to tell us all that . . . it was far longer, by at least an hour, than the amount of time most people spend in REM sleep each night, which means two things: you probably have more frequent and longer-than-normal REM periods, and you have near-total recall, which is completely unheard of. And your incredible recall will, of course, make correlation with the data much easier. Here, let me show you.” He stood, leaned over the table.

  Allie and Ginger stood on either side of him. Allie wondered if Emily would really leave the village with Tayler after promising Elyoner she wouldn’t. He’s pressing her too hard; something’s wrong . . . but what if he’s telling the truth?

  He ran his index finger across the chart. “Now the horizontal axis is time, and here on the left end”—he pointed at the vertical axis on the left edge of the strip chart—“at time-equals-zero . . .” He glanced at Allie, who was staring at the wall, imagining Virginia lying motionless and clammy white in her crib. “Hello, Allie.”

  “Oh . . . sorry, Doc.”

  “So here at time-equals-zero, we have the name of each data parameter and its unit of measure. And as we proceed from left to right with time, you can see right here”—he ran his finger across the chart—“ when you’re still awake and most of the lines have some jitter in them. Then here in NREM, all of the parameters change.” He pulled the chart across the table to his left. “And here when you begin REM sleep, they all change again and show a very high—wow, incredibly high—level of activity, mental and physical involvement, and excitation.” He looked at Allie. “You really get into it.”

  “I know.” She looked at him with hopeless resignation.

  “And look at this.” He ran his fingers back and forth across the chart. “Your first REM occurred way sooner than normal, and—wow again— looks like you do have more frequent and longer REMs than normal, which gives you far more dream time than Ginger or I would have.” He looked at her, smiled. “No, Allie. You’re not a freak. But what’s strange is that this sort of behavior is typical of someone who’s had acetylcholine injected into their bloodstream, but it happens naturally with you.”

  Mestinon will give me more. A guilty tremor raced down her back. She gave him a bored look, “Why am I not surprised? But why are my excitation levels so high?”

  “Probably because your mind is right there in your dream . . . like, physically there; and the intensity you feel is real, lifelike, vivid . . . as if you were awake and experiencing real emotional extremes like fear, compassion, love, or whatever. Look here.” He ran his index finger across the horizontal lines. “Here’s brain wave activity, and muscle tone . . . see how tense you are . . . and heartbeat . . . same thing . . . really takes off. Probably something frightening you right here . . . and here. Look at that eye movement. It’s a fact that everyone feels desperately involved in their dreams but not to the degree that you do; and you yourself aren’t even in your dreams, which makes it that much more surprising.”

  “I see what you mean . . . probably why I always feel wiped out when I wake up. Here, let me look at something.” Allie pulled the chart back to where she had started dreaming, traced her finger along the bank of lines to a big, momentary blip in each parameter. “I’ll bet this is where Tryggvi was thinking about his true love back in England, when he teased her about her weird dreams. Right?”

  Ginger said, “Exactly right! Look here.” She pointed to a red hash mark on the timeline at the top of the chart. “That’s what we call an event mark, and it can get there either from me punching a button or automatically if the data really go crazy. That mark is mine, and I put it there because you actually sat up and opened your eyes for half a second . . . then flopped back and immediately resumed your sleep. I knew something important had happened, so I hit the button, but it’s also possible the system beat me to it and put the mark there because the readings were so dramatic.”

  Allie nodded. “I
nteresting. I must have been lucid because I remember twitching and sitting up. And that was because I realized Tryggvi’s Brit girl was a dreamer . . . like me . . . and Ian . . . and Emily; and we’re somehow connected, maybe related; and damn, this is cool.”

  Dressler smiled at Allie. “Good work, Allie. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but I’m damn sure there’s something incredible happening, and we’re going to bust our butts to figure it out. At a glance, it looks like there’s excellent correlation between your debrief and the data. So let’s let the analysts”— he looked at his watch—“ do the detailed data correlation. They should be here any minute. Meanwhile, Ginger can go home and get some sleep, and how about you and I grab a bite somewhere and continue the discussion?”

  “Sounds good.” A dour look shadowed her face. “While we’re at it, can we discuss the lab format? I had a helluva tough time last night, Doc”—she smiled at Ginger—“and I’m afraid Ginger got the worst of it. Sorry.”

  Ginger shook her head, smiled. “Not to worry. All in a night’s work. It was worth it just to hear your debrief . . . got me hooked on the story.”

  Dressler smiled at Ginger then looked at Allie. “Sounds good. Remind me at lunch.”

  Allie took a swig of lemonade. “But when both brothers decided to ranch, well . . . game over. Don’t get me wrong; they’re both totally cool guys, and we love each other as much as siblings possibly can . . . but that’s just the way it is . . . kind of old Europe . . . the guys get everything, and the girls do something else. But it’s okay. I understand it. So I got into psych because I was always interested in why people act the way they do . . . and here I am, a mutant eccentricity of nature—feeling alternate exhilaration and sorrow over someone else’s life, utter hopelessness and pessimism about their prospects because I know the ending, total frustration because I’m more emotionally involved with them than I’ve ever been with any person or thing in my own life, and guilty as hell because I can’t do a frickin’ thing to help them. Oh yeah, and I also get to look forward to a nervous breakdown, or maybe suicide, when it all comes crashing down. And that’s my story, Doc.”