Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Allie yawned, covered her mouth. “Still pretty groggy, but okay, let’s give it a try.”

  For the next four hours, Allie related every detail of the second dream, including Emily and Isna’s intimate moments, the Lakota circle of life, the Viking explorations in America, their time with the Lakota, Tayler choking Virginia Dare, Emily stabbing him, Isna’s plan to return to Emily, Johnny Gibbes’ murder, and Isna killing two soldiers and wounding Tayler. Though gloomy throughout the session, Allie lit up like a floodlight when she spoke of Emily’s dreams and her butterfly birthmark. “Got to be how Ian knew the dreams were real history and about our ancestors. I mean, it looks exactly like mine.” She suddenly frowned. “But it doesn’t matter because . . . because I think Emily bled to death with a miscarriage.” She covered her face with her hands, whimpered, whispered haltingly, “And . . . and because the Powhatans are coming . . . and the dumb colonists are just waiting for John White . . . and Tayler and his guys . . . doing the same for . . . for Walsingham’s ship . . . they’re all gonna die . . . and . . . and I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

  A mix of concern and hopelessness slowly crept over Dressler’s face as he watched Allie’s eyes again mist with tears, and read Nancy’s unconcealed fright as she stared blankly at the tabletop, placed her hands together as if praying, and pressed her fingertips against her lips.

  When Allie fell asleep on night two, she again saw only black; and while she slept, Dressler and Nancy discussed her growing depression. Dressler said, “Nancy, I hesitate to mention this because I know you’re already pretty upset by all this, but you should know that in cases like this, rehab can elicit self-destructive tendencies.”

  Nancy blanched, placed her palms over her mouth. “You mean, like . . . like suicide?”

  He nodded. “I don’t think Allie’s very susceptible . . . but still, we should be vigilant for any indication that she is. Candidly, I think we’re simply looking at getting her past her relatively short-lived, contrived notion that sleeping pills and Mestinon are going to help her know more about Emily—which should be a far easier task than rehabbing a long-term drug addict. By the way, I stand behind my as-yet-unvalidated theory that morphic resonance somehow knows when and how long she’s going to dream, and makes sure she sees all the important events in Emily’s life.”

  “Morphic what? I heard you use that term yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry. Morphic resonance. Let’s talk about that for a moment. What’s your educational background?”

  “School teacher.”

  “Okay. So let me give you the Steven Dressler and Allie O’Shay theory in layman’s terms. In the course of their lifetimes, all human beings accumulate information, feelings, experiences, etc. in their memories; and all of it is retained in each individual’s personal memory but also in a collective memory that resides somewhere up in the ether, wherever that happens to be. The personal memory is like your own personal hard drive of your memories and experiences; but it also includes those of all of your ancestors, as passed on in your inherited genes and DNA.” He paused for a moment, watched her expression. “The collective memory is also like a hard drive full of information, but it contains the memories and experiences of all humanity from the beginning of time to now. With me?”

  Nancy nodded. “Yup. Actually makes sense. Kinda neat.”

  “Good. Have you heard of the cloud?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that where people back up their computer files?”

  “Exactly. So think of the collective memory as being like the cloud— humanity’s hard drive—and each person’s personal memory, or hard drive, automatically backs itself up to that collective memory, which is how all of humanity’s experiences and memories come to be there. We can always access our personal memory; but most of us don’t have a clue what’s there, beyond our own personal experiences, or how to find anything specific. Same for the collective memory, but worse because it’s so huge. We therefore think a given individual needs something like a special username and password to access specific information in both the personal and collective memories, and we think that’s exactly what Allie’s gift provides. But the process doesn’t happen automatically or randomly by itself. It appears to need some sort of trigger to awaken it and stimulate the chain of events.” He paused, smiled, gave her a questioning look.

  She returned the smile with a quick nod. “Getting heavy, but I’m still onboard.”

  “Good. Now how does all this come to be? Well, without getting technical, Steve Dressler and Allie think a theory called formative causation and its instrument, morphic resonance, are what place all of humanity’s memories and experiences on the collective memory hard drive. So on the project, we’re trying to validate our theories—the roles of morphic resonance, formative causation, and genetics in preserving the experiences and memories of all of mankind. Still with me?”

  “Brain’s getting a little saturated, but keep going.”

  “Okay, so here’s the punchline: our minds usually can’t find a coherent recent experience to place in tonight’s dreams; so a thing called activation synthesis energizes our minds to fashion dream content from available tidbits of information, which is why our dreams are often weird and disjointed. But for Allie—and her great-great-grandma, and apparently Emily—we think this is not the case because once triggered by some special event, their gift repeatedly takes them, in a very real, movie-like manner, directly to a true piece of history being lived by an ancestor . . . in this case, Emily. And as I said a moment ago, Allie’s gift does this by inputting a unique username and password for a specific story into both her personal memory and the collective memory, to find and download the stories of an ancestor and all the ancillary players in the saga.” He raised his right index finger. “Almost done. And last, we think this gift is passed on in your family’s genes and DNA, and manifested every fourth or fifth generation in females via a generation-skipping mutation. So, there you have it.” He smiled sheepishly. “Now all we have to do is prove it”—he paused, watched her digest the information—“and Allie’s incredible capabilities are what give us the opportunity to do so.”

  Nancy raised her eyebrows. “Wow!”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s a little hard to get your head around, isn’t it? It’s a little hard for Allie and me, too. But I’m convinced we’re on the right track and gaining momentum, and that’s why it’s so important for us to get Allie back to being herself.”

  Nancy nodded thoughtfully, but her fearful look slowly re-emerged as an uninvited scene crept insidiously into her mind. She suddenly saw herself as a little girl sitting beside her mother, crying at Ian’s funeral. Then a new scene appeared: she saw herself in the present, standing beside an open casket, tears again flowing down her cheeks. She shivered as she slowly leaned over the head of the casket, kissed Allie’s pale, cold cheek. My Allie, my little Allie Girl.

  Allie awoke, stared at the ceiling fan. Nothing. Nothing but black. She’s dead. Sucks! A solitary tear fell from each eye as she rolled out of bed. Wonder when I’ll start a new dream. Damn it! She snapped her fingers. Just like that, she bleeds to death with a fricking miscarriage . . . all because of that jerk. She glanced at the clock. Nine. Wow, they let me sleep in today.

  When she walked into the living room a while later, Dressler and her mother again sat at the kitchen table, talking and drinking coffee. “Any coffee left, Mom?”

  “Sure, Hon.” Nancy stood, hugged Allie.

  Allie started crying. “This really sucks, Mom. She’s dead.”

  “Are you sure? Did . . . did you see it?”

  “No . . . all I saw all night was black—black, black, and f’ing black.”

  “So you slept?”

  “I guess.”

  Dressler said, “Allie, I’ve been thinking about this blackness; and it occurs to me that it could be some kind of permanent NREM condition, perhaps stimulated by withdrawal from the pills or a hangover from the pills. Could be that one or both cond
itions temporarily deactivate your gift. So I’d be wary of assuming Emily’s dead.”

  Allie shook her head, looked glumly at Dressler. “No, Doc. I feel it in my heart . . . like something wonderful that flourished there is gone forever . . . left nothing but an overwhelming, stifling emptiness . . . like when someone you love passes away in real life.”

  Nancy’s face was a portrait of anguish; she again pulled Allie close.

  Allie sniffled, began to sob, blubbered, “Anyway, Doc . . . I . . . I think I’m cured. I don’t ever want to dream again.”

  At eleven p.m., Allie opened the bedroom door, stared at Dressler and her mother with bloodshot eyes. “I can’t sleep . . . and I don’t want to sleep.” She started crying. “But . . . but I have to . . . as long as there’s a chance she’s alive . . . I have to . . . in case you’re right, Doc. But what if you’re wrong? What if she’s already dead? What then?” She clasped her hands, dangled them in front of her like a little girl begging a favor. “And what if I do dream . . . and I see her die? Oh, Mom, I can’t bear the thought of that. Please help me.” Tears filled Allie’s eyes; she walked briskly to her mother, laid her head on her shoulder. “Mom, don’t let me dream again.”

  A while later, after her tears had subsided, the three sat at the table. Allie rubbed her eyes, looked at Dressler. “Okay, I’ve got myself together, Doc.” Her forlorn expression became tenuous, uncertain. “So what happens to the project if Emily’s dead . . . or if she dies the next time I dream? What will we do?”

  He thought for a moment. “Well, I guess that depends on what happens afterward—whether or not you start a new dream. But since you’re a vivid, lucid dreamer, we could probably continue on and explore your lucid dreams . . . even if you don’t dream another saga right away.” He looked suddenly contemplative. “But the fact is, I really don’t know; and for sure, we should start thinking about it.” He paused for a moment, studied Allie’s face. “You’re having a tough go of this, aren’t you, Allie?”

  She snorted. “Yeah, Doc, I am . . . constantly pinging between terrifying apprehension of what I might find if I dream and aggravated frustration when I don’t. I don’t know what I want to do anymore, and it’s killing me.”

  “I see that, and it concerns me a lot.” He thought for a moment, glanced at Nancy. “Maybe we should call the project off, let you do a real rehab. Maybe this is too much to deal with right now.”

  Allie bristled. “No! I don’t want to call it off. I won’t call it off. Not while there’s a chance Emily’s alive. So help me sleep, Doc. Give me a pill.”

  He shook his head. “Can’t do that, Allie . . . much as I’d like to see you happy . . . and get more data. I can’t. All I can do is tell you that I think Emily’s alive, and you need to get back there and find out what’s happening. And if I’m right, and you shake your pill dependence, we can immediately move on to time and event correlation of your dream reports with the neuroimaging and tomography data we discussed . . . which, by the way, I’ve already scheduled. Hate to lay all this on you, Allie; but I think if we get through these tough times and press on as planned, we will get to the heart of your gift and the dreams . . . find out what’s happening when and where . . . and begin to focus on validating our theories. Also, as we discussed, I’d like to get comprehensive genetic characterizations done on you and”—he glanced at Nancy—“ you, Nancy, if it’s okay.”

  She smiled. “You bet it is. Always thought that would be kind of neat.”

  Allie stared blankly into his eyes, looked frightened then ready to cry; but a second later, a determined look supplanted the fearful one; resolve suddenly glistened in her eyes like sparkling frost in early morning sunlight. “Alright . . . I’m convinced. So let’s go for it.” She paused, gave him a superficial smile. “Now all I have to do is figure out how to fall asleep.”

  “Don’t worry, Allie. Mother Nature will see to that. Just relax and let it happen.”

  Allie nodded, sighed. “Okay, Doc.” She eyed her mother then Dressler. “So help me relax.”

  After two hours of TV, three games of Hearts, and reading a chapter of Morphic Resonance aloud, Allie announced that she was ready to sleep, said goodnight; walked into the bedroom, closed the door, removed her bathrobe, and crawled into bed; then looked at the ceiling fan, started counting revolutions.

  In the living room, Dressler and Nancy sipped shot glasses of scotch. Dressler said, “Sure been a long day.”

  “Yeah, it has. But if we get her through this, it will have been worth it. Oh, I need to call Mike in the morning and fill him in on what’s happening.”

  Dressler broached a faint grin. “He probably wasn’t too keen on me hanging out here, was he?”

  “Not at first, but he understands how important it is and realizes you’re the Holy Grail of this whole deal. So he’s okay with it.”

  “Sounds like a cool guy from everything I’ve heard about him.”

  “He is. And he’ll do anything for Allie.”

  “Well, I think she’s settled enough that I can head on home for the rest of the night . . . I’ll come back midmorning.” He flashed a cautionary look. “But call me immediately if you need help.”

  Nancy nodded. “I will.”

  He took a sip of scotch. “Oh, before I go, what can you tell me about your Great-Grandmother Ian?”

  After she relayed what she knew of Ian and her dreams, Dressler shook his head. “Got to be damn scary going to sleep every night wondering if you’re going to see someone you’ve come to love die before your eyes . . . has to play on your mind . . . sure seen it in Allie.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Oh, been meaning to ask . . . Ian’s an unusual name for a woman. Where did it come from?”

  Nancy smiled. “Well, I have this big box of her stuff at home that my mom gave me when she herself was getting old, and I’d never even opened it . . . until the other day. Allie and I were going to go through it when she was home; so Friday, before everything hit the fan, I dug the box out of the attic and opened it. And right on top was a piece of paper explaining Ian’s name, and . . . damn it! Meant to tell Allie about this. Anyway, Ian was her family nickname . . . because no one could pronounce her real name very well . . . least of all me. Even Great-Granddad called her Ian. But her real name—her Sioux name—was pronounced Ee-hahn-blay Ween-yahn. And Ian was short for the Ee-hahn part, so—”

  “Sioux name?” Dressler looked stunned, set his scotch on the table. “She was an Indian?”

  “Yes, she was. Guess I’ve never mentioned it.”

  “My God, I’ve got goose bumps. What does it mean?”

  “It means Dream Woman.”

  He looked away for a moment then back at Nancy. “Wow. And it’s a Sioux name.”

  “Yeah . . . but, you know, there are several subgroups of the Sioux, and Ian’s branch always called themselves Lakota . . . still do.”

  He stared blankly at her. “Are you kidding me? Did you know that the Native American Emily loves is Lakota? Heard Allie say it a million times.”

  “No . . . no, I didn’t.” A chill raced down her back; her mind swirled like grains of sand in a dust storm.

  “The plot’s thickening, Nancy. Where did Ian come from? How did she—”

  “She was a Hunkpapa Lakota, a band of the Teton Sioux—same as Sitting Bull, who was one of the main leaders of the Lakota at the Battle of the Little Big Horn, here in Montana, when they wiped out Custer in 1876.” Nancy’s eyes suddenly swelled with excitement; her heart rate soared. “My great-grandfather was a teamster in North Dakota . . . he was in Custer’s pack train, a day or two behind the troops . . . they found the bodies . . . buried them.” She stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, placed her hand on her pounding heart. “He then went on to Fort Ellis, near Bozeman . . . hauled freight for the government for a number of years, often to the Sioux reservation after the tribe was forced there. And that’s where he met Ian . . . when she was sixteen. I remember her telling m
e how he always looked her up, brought her flowers, and courted her when he came to the reservation; she said she used to giggle and blush when she saw him coming. Then when she was eighteen, they got married and settled on the cattle ranch he bought with his freight-hauling profits . . . the very ranch succeeding generations of our family have expanded to what we have today.”

  Dressler stared at the tabletop for a moment, finally picked up his scotch, belted the remainder; he studied the empty glass trembling in his hand, then looked slowly at Nancy. “Nancy, I’ve still got goose bumps. This whole thing boggles my mind. Could Ian have been descended from Emily and Isna?”

  When Dressler departed, Nancy checked on Allie, found her in bed, unsettled, constantly shifting positions on her stomach. She grimaced as she looked at the clock. Three thirty. This is gonna hurt. She set the alarm for eight, slid into bed, stared at Allie for a few seconds, then began to softly caress the back of her neck, felt the warmth of her butterfly birthmark. The sign . . . the sign of the dreamer . . . and one close to God . . . so say the Lakota. When Allie settled, Nancy relaxed onto her back beside her, continued massaging her neck. When she finally closed her eyes, she visualized Allie as a newborn lying in her arms in the hospital bed, remembered studying the tiny birthmark, wondering why Allie had it, what it meant. She then saw Allie as a little girl, learning to ride her bike and her horse, saw in a quick flash of time her entire growth to adulthood. She smiled, opened her eyes, looked over at her. “Sleeping . . . at last. Your mommy loves you, little girl. She loves you very, very much.”

  After Nancy silenced the alarm, she looked at Allie. “What are you so smiley about?”

  Allie looked at her, broadened her smile. “She’s alive, Mom. I dreamed . . . and she’s alive.” Her smile faded. “But I don’t know how much alive . . . could be she’s . . .”