Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  “Hmm.” He massaged his chin with his thumb and index finger, studied her face. “Well, I know you think you can control things, but we don’t know what’s going to happen to Emily; and honestly, you could reasonably have a tougher time than you did last night. That worries me.”

  Allie’s insides burned like a hot branding iron. Everything’s ready. Can’t give in. “I hear you, Doc, but I simply can’t do this with other people around. Period. And who’s to say my discomfort doesn’t affect the data in some way we don’t yet realize? No, I just can’t do it, but I desperately want to continue the project. For God’s sake, at this point, my PhD depends on it. So please give me a chance.” She sighed, gave him a pleading look.

  Dressler took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Okay. We’ll try it.” He glanced at Ginger, who was smiling. “And what are you smiling about, Ms. Ginger?”

  The smile broadened. “Oh . . . nothing. Just listening.”

  “Really?” He smirked like a parent hearing an obvious fib from their child. “So how’s the Stanford equipment . . . ready to go?”

  “Yup. All checked out and working great.”

  “Alright. Allie, if you’re up to it, why don’t we have Ginger check you out on the equipment right now. Then you can sign it out, and Ginger can go home and get some sleep. And maybe you and I can go grab a bite and talk some theory. What do you say?”

  Allie nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  Allie swallowed a sip of juice, stared vacantly through Dressler, thought of Emily sitting by the fire in shock, staring into its depths, desperately searching for an escape from her nightmare. Allie’s somewhat-disheveled sandy hair hung below her shoulders to the tops of her breasts, which were visible in the cleavage of her blouse. Her eyes had a sad veneer that, with her unkempt appearance, gave her an uncharacteristically helpless but sensuous look.

  “Allie, you’re elsewhere . . . with Emily, no doubt.”

  She blinked. “Oh. Sorry, Doc. You’re right. I’m afraid that nasty D-word has a grip on me right now.”

  He gave her a somber psychologist look.

  “I know what you think, but like you said earlier, I’m not the depression type. I’ll get through it, and knowing we’re getting after the why of this really helps.”

  He nodded, but doubt lingered in his eyes. “Well, we need to watch it. Anyway, what I was asking was whether you’ve had a chance to get into the devil’s advocate stuff we talked about yesterday.”

  “I’m afraid not. I wanted to start by getting a better understanding of morphic resonance, but I haven’t had a chance yet. Also wanted to check out activation synthesis and Lamarckian inheritance to see how they play. You mentioned both yesterday, but we didn’t discuss them.”

  “Fair enough. They’re examples of what you were saying about several ideas nibbling on the same chunk of cheese from different sides but sometimes together. According to Hobson, activation synthesis kicks in after pro-REM neurons dominate the anti-REM neurons and REM sleep begins. The brain then strives valiantly to integrate its inputs—the same as it does for our more focused inputs when we’re awake. But when we’re asleep, those inputs are mostly random and unfocused, so it’s much more challenging for the brain to construct a sensible tale. Thus, the brain creates, or synthesizes, its own stories from these rather random inputs, and the result is dreams—often bizarre dreams. But in your case, the higher brain functions find real, meaningful inputs to integrate; and those inputs are always very focused, which occasionally happens with normal people—sorry again, I didn’t mean normal the way it probably sounded.” He smiled, hesitated a moment, studied her amused eyes. “The question then becomes, how does your brain do this, and how does it do it every time you dream? Theory says that individual dreams can reveal specific conscious mental styles or elements of an individual’s view on something but also—and this is key— their specific historical experiences. But with you, those historical experiences are those of your ancestor . . . we think . . . which brings us back to morphic resonance, the collective memory, and your unique ability to summon therefrom the experiences and feelings of that ancestor. And this, in my hypothesis, suggests a unique blend of neurophysiology and genetics, which inputs a special code, passed to you by your ancestors, that grants you unique access to the collective memory—like a secret username and password to access special data.”

  “Oh my God. This is fascinating.”

  “It is indeed.” He studied her for a moment then continued. “So Lamarckian inheritance is the inheritance of characteristics absorbed by previous generations of a species, which would seem to be related to atavism—which, as we previously discussed, is the reemergence of long-dormant or periodically dormant ancestral characteristics in current generations of a species. Given that both Lamarckian inheritance and atavism are real, one must conclude that genetics play a pivotal role in your dreaming ability . . . probably that of others, as well, but in some different way. Thus, while we proceed with neural testing, which, as I’ve said, will become much more focused as our theories mature, we must also incorporate genetics into our theories and conduct focused testing there, as well.”

  “Which is why they chose a psychologist-geneticist-molecular biologist-practical neuroscientist like you for this job. And here I am back in the Dark Ages.”

  He smiled. “Well, I may have academic credentials, but you’re the living laboratory, the walking, talking—smart, if I may say so—vivid exemplification of every aspect of dreaming. So I’m confident we’re going to figure this out and, in the process, learn a whole lot about how other folks dream, as well . . . and we’re going to get Allie O’Shay through it in one piece.” He searched her eyes with a look that went beyond academic esteem.

  She met the look, read its intensity and meaning, felt a twinge of embarrassment but let her eyes linger.

  “I’m glad I met you, Allie O’Shay.”

  She forgot her embarrassment. “I was thinking the same about you . . . Steven Dressler.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about you.”

  She took a deep, trembling breath. “I’ll be alright. Thanks . . . guess I better get going.”

  Allie checked her email inbox. Hmm. Nothing from Mom, surprising. Must be busy with something. Probably moving cows and had a train wreck going through that patch of timber. Call her tomorrow. She’s holding something back about Ian . . . something big . . . gotta find out what it is. She opened a file on her desktop entitled Ian.

  Know:

  •Every 4 or 5 generations a woman in family dreams past—events, feelings, thoughts, emotions.

  •Great-great-Grandma Ian last to dream—4 generations before me.

  •“Ian” was Mom’s nickname for her—couldn’t pronounce real name—why not? What was it?

  •Ian:

  -Had butterfly birthmark like me—same place, shape, & size.

  -Everyone thought she was crazy.

  -Addicted to dreams like me.

  -Had meltdowns, tried to kill herself—scary.

  -Didn’t die of old age.

  •Ian said:

  -I’d be next to dream.

  -Dreams are real history, but Mom doesn’t know how she knew.

  -Dreams always about family ancestors, but Mom doesn’t know how she knew—maybe why I feel so close to Emily.

  -Not always of direct ancestors—some sibs—many died young = trauma for Ian and me.

  -When one story ends, another follows but not right away.

  -Stressful events stimulate dreams.

  -Huge emotional burden.

  •Concept of dreaming ancestral stuff corroborated by article about genetics, DNA—can possibly dream ancestors’ experiences.

  •Mom knows how dreams end, but won’t tell me, acts like it’s bad.

  Don’t Know:

  •Ian’s real name.

  •How dreamers keep dreams from dominating/ruining their lives.

  •If a
ll dreamers have birthmark.

  •How Ian knew dreams were real.

  •How Ian knew dreams were about ancestors—some direct, some sibs.

  •If she dreamed about Em.

  •How Ian died—illness? suicide? accident? drug OD???

  Okay, Mom. We’re gonna hit this stuff next time we talk. If it’s bad news, I’ll handle it. Gotta know . . . but some of it we may never know . . . unless we get more data from somewhere . . . or Steve and I figure it out. She closed the file, opened her browser, typed in symptoms of depression, selected the top entry. She copied the content, pasted it into a new file she entitled Depression. Next she typed the date at the top of the page and headlined a parallel column entitled Comments, which she then filled in for each symptom. When she’d finished, she reviewed the list.

  Symptoms of Depression Comments

  Frequent feelings of sadness and/or hopelessness

  Getting there

  Waning interest in daily activities

  Yes

  Thoughts of death and/or suicide

  Not yet

  Weight fluctuations

  . Haven’t noticed

  Erratic eating habits

  Less

  Restlessness, inability to sit still

  Yes

  Frequent fatigue

  Yes

  Frequent feelings of unworthiness and/or guilt

  YES—drugs

  Difficulty focusing, remembering, or making decisions

  No

  Sleep too much or not enough almost every day

  Too much, but not

  enough for me

  Angst

  YES—over drugs

  & dreaming & not

  dreaming

  Damn! Steve’s right. I am getting depressed. And look at that big ol’ death and suicide up there. Yippee yay. What a future. Maybe Ian did kill herself. My God! Be careful, Allie.

  She typed antidepressants into the browser, read the top entry. That’s what I thought: antidepressants increase serotonin, decrease REM sleep like acetylcholinesterase does, counteract Mestinon, stifle dreaming . . . or instigate crazy, nightmarish dreams. Nope, can’t do that . . . but what can I do? Gotta be a solution . . . figure it out, kid . . . now that you’re about to become a druggie and make it worse. Hope Steve’s right that understanding the dreams is the cure. Try that first and hope it works. She frowned. Don’t like where this is going . . . like paddling up the creek and chunks of my paddle keep breaking off. Be right, Steve!

  Damn! Wonder if Emily’s pregnant. How will she know? You can miss a period without being pregnant. What if she’s just late? She typed symptoms of pregnancy into her browser.

  Classic Symptoms of Pregnancy

  •Tender, swollen breasts.

  •Nausea with or without vomiting. Morning sickness.

  •Increased urination.

  •Fatigue.

  •Food aversions or cravings.

  •Slight bleeding.

  •Cramping.

  •Mood swings.

  •Dizziness.

  Wait a minute. Heard you can’t get pregnant while you’re nursing. She should be okay. She again queried the browser, stopped on the first sentence.

  Women differ, and breastfeeding provides no birth control for some.

  Good Lord! Need something good to happen before we all go down. Oh . . . rape side effects. Need to know what she’s up against. She typed in rape side effects, clicked on the top entry.

  Rape Side Effects

  •Diminished alertness.

  •Mental numbness.

  •Dulled sensory and memory functions.

  •Disorganized thought content.

  •Vomiting.

  •Nausea.

  •Paralyzing anxiety.

  •Pronounced internal tremor.

  •Obsessive compulsion for bodily cleanliness.

  •Prevalent hysteria, confusion, guilt, crying.

  •Astonishment.

  •Excessive sensitivity to other peoples’ reactions.

  Wow! Lots of fun. Gonna be rough. A sudden remembrance flitted through her mind like a butterfly. Humph! Ginger said you couldn’t do a book or movie as good as my dreams. She’s right. Yet the dreams actually are like a book or movie . . . but way more suspenseful . . . because they’re real . . . and they feel like they’re happening to me . . . and I can’t live without them. Yes, Allie, you are addicted . . . and irrational and out of character . . . like Steve said could happen. You’re no longer Allie O’Shay. But suck it up. If we’re gonna do this, let’s get on with it. Morphic resonance and genetics can wait until tomorrow. She looked at her watch. Almost noon. Let’s go for it!

  She set up the Stanford equipment, removed her clothes, put on a pair of short shorts and no top, to facilitate electrode attachment. Walking into the bathroom, she accomplished her bedtime routine then stared at herself in the mirror. My, my . . . what you’ve become, Allie O’Shay. But at least you’re not in denial, and freely admit you’re an addict . . . and about to become a druggie. Tears misted her eyes; she shook her head, blubbered, “What am I doing? Mom, Dad, God . . . please forgive me.” She took two sleeping pills and one Mestinon from their containers. Deciding to be cautious this first time, she cut the Mestinon pill and one sleeping pill in half, picked up one and a half sleeping pills and one-half Mestinon. She walked back into the bedroom with the pills and a glass of water, laid them on the night stand, then sat on the bed, her eyes still misty with tears. Don’t think about it, Allie. Just do it!

  She hooked up the electrodes, ran the self-test function on the equipment. Hurry up, damn it! The green light finally flashed. She took a deep breath, stared at the picture of her family, which she’d placed beside the bed, sniffled, felt thin tears trickling down her cheeks. God, this is awful . . . so very, very not me. She sighed, shuddered with a sudden chill, then moaned; she glanced again at the family picture, held her teary eyes on it for a long moment. Finally, she tossed the pills into her mouth with a sip of water, lay down, pulled the comforter over her, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter 19

  On the morning Emily cut the twenty-first notch in her period stick, she and five other women, escorted by two soldiers, carried buckets toward the water hole. Twenty yards outside the palisades, they found James Lassie. Emme Merrimoth saw him first, stopped still as a boulder; started to cover her mouth with her hands, hesitated; screamed, then screamed again and again and again. Others joined her while some, including Emily, simply stared in speechless horror at the pile of bloody body parts before them.

  The two soldiers hesitantly approached the pile, looked at one another. One leaned close to the other, whispered, “Find the lieutenant . . . or a sergeant. Tell them what we’ve found . . . has to be Lassie . . . no way to tell for sure. But who else could it be?”

  The other soldier said, “By the saints, what a death he must have had.” He nodded toward Lassie. “Hard to see how that was once a man.”

  “Aye.” He shook his head. “Better be on your way . . . and get those women out of here if you can. I’ll stay and keep people away until the lieutenant comes.” He stared at the hideous mess, suddenly cupped his hand over his mouth, puked between his fingers, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he glimpsed others approaching from the village.

  Lieutenant Waters arrived first. He stopped, stared at Lassie. “God’s blood!” Lassie’s legs and arms had been pulled from their sockets, piled on top of the man’s disemboweled torso, which had been completely skinned. His toes and fingers, all missing their nails, had been chopped off and stacked on top of the arms and legs like small pieces of kindling. His scalped head sat atop the pile, its severed ears, nose, lips, and gouged-out eyes stuffed, along with his genitals, inside his open mouth. Except for the four Powhatan arrows stuck in the forehead, the skull’s empty eye sockets and thin circle of residual hair, below where his scalp had been, conjured the image of a vacantly staring monk in song.

  Waters
turned away as more soldiers approached. “ Myllet, Smith, form a detail; get a tarp, remove this poor man to the cemetery, and bury him; then post guards all around the perimeter . . . inside the palisades, where possible. No one is to leave the village until I say so. Gibbes, summon Governor Baylye. Tell him what’s happened and that I propose an immediate Assistants’ meeting.”

  “Aye, sir.” The three spoke in unison but stood fast, their eyes locked on the morbid scene before them.

  “Move out, men!”

  Emily sat by the fire, the image of James Lassie’s mutilated body vivid in her mind; but as the image slowly faded, she again looked at her period stick, tallied the notches, prayed she’d miscounted . . . nay, twenty-three again. She looked at her sleeping father. Chest rattle worse: louder, thicker, gurgling, as if he’s drowning. Dying, he is . . . so jaundiced and weak. Naught I can do but comfort him. Pray, Lord, let this pass him by. She hid her face in her hands, felt tears on her palms. When she finally looked up, she glanced at the stick again. Two days past my time, tired, weak, muddled in my mind, so afraid, sick to my stomach. She held her hands on her midriff. Tight, some cramps but not like usual, not nearly as many or as bad. Mayhap I’m late . . . no. Never late, always early. Afraid, punishment for my pleasure. Doomed to be with a man I despise for all my days, naught but a lowly whore, now condemned to be used at will—all just retribution for my sin. God, have mercy on my soul. I’m so sorry. She looked back at the fire. Ellie knows something’s happened, see it in her face, asks where my spirit and smile are, commands me to smile. Tush! And what might I smile about? My dishonor? Being a harlot? Alack! I should have hung myself from that tree. She shook her head. Ellie must never know, for Virginia’s sake. But what will happen when I show? How will I conceal it, hide my shame? Should I tell Tayler of the baby when he comes for me again? I think not. No, not until I show . . . if I haven’t ended my life by then.