The Dreamer
May Nicole Abbey
Published by River Valley Publishing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Cover design by Scott Carpenter
Editing by Valerie Susan Hayward
Manufactured in the United States of America
Copyright © 2012 by May Nicole Abbey
First Ebook Edition
DEDICATION PAGE
To our willing family. We couldn’t have asked for a sweeter set of guinea pigs. To JD DeWitt who, with unfailing support, hard work, and faith helped expand our vision and encouraged us see this through to the end. And to God whose tender mercies and constant help made this book possible.
Chapter One
I had a dream once that I flew.
While I flew nowhere of note or for any significant duration, I did fly, and this nonsensical situation was strangely tantalizing, exciting a reaction I can hardly fully explain. And I usually have no trouble explaining myself.
Soaring through the air with nothing to stop me, the wind on my face and through my hair, I was unshackled, free! Released from hard realities and heavy cares of life, I was unhindered even by gravity itself. Long after I awoke, I lay there in my small bed relishing a newfound sense of freedom and peace that I’d never experienced before and never knew existed.
Slowly my mind began to clear and my surroundings gradually came into focus: my faculty dorm room, my small, tidy desk organized painstakingly so that my copious notes might never be lost or confused. As elated and free as I had just been, I was now dejected and dissatisfied.
And that is how it all began.
Before this incident, I had never veered off the well-defined and established path of academic and societal agreement. Indeed, I’d been a great advocate and teacher of the laws I thought I understood. My career at the university seemed all at once meaningless and full of drudgery. The work in geophysics, nanoscience and nanotechnology that I had once loved with a passion turned to ashes in my hands.
I did nothing as ineffectual as curse the stars above or spiral into immobilizing depression. I did what any logical person would do when faced with such a dilemma: I simply turned away from my life’s work and ambition and moved forward into a new, hitherto unexplored field of study.
My thoughts went to time travel. Though I don’t suppose it would be obvious why. It isn’t clear to me, either. I can only say the progression from my first thoughts to these was so easily done and with so little conscious effort that I must conclude some kind of force, some kind of power directed me. It was time I was after. It was time that held the answers for me. It was time that blocked my way. With all my being I knew it, even if I couldn’t trace the logic behind it.
There seemed to prevail an idea that modern technology in its most complex form held all the answers. Instinctively, I knew this was incorrect. Humankind did not hold the key; it was Mother Nature. We could neither harness nor control time. Time had us by the throat, never the other way around. It might be caressed and cajoled, but never yoked and commanded.
And, as with all forms of art, one must first understand time before one attempted to manipulate it.
So I read. I read about history and human life. I read about art, about wars, victories, inventions, tyrannies and the strength of the human character. I not only gained knowledge but also respect for what this world had experienced. She had witnessed it all. She knew everyone’s secrets, desires and talents. Throughout history, she could not be hidden from or deceived. If anyone knew the answer, it would be her.
But how does one converse with a planet? This question baffled me for a long time until I saw a television special on tornadoes. I saw how well tornado chasers had learned to read Mother Earth. They read signs she tossed to them warning which direction a tornado would turn, or other dangers that lay before them. They were learning to be bilingual. I wanted to become fluent.
Again I turned to books and read up on tornadoes, avalanches, earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes and blizzards. By the end of the year I was a fountain of knowledge on anything Mother Earth could throw at us.
But I again became stumped. I now had book learning but I had no idea what to do with it. This is where passion plays a big part in the success of any venture. The reason I did not give up the course no matter the obstacles presented before me, was sheer force of will. Faith and determination alone kept me going.
My views eventually became known in my field of study, and I was questioned, disputed, and even openly ridiculed. But I did not retreat from my hypothesis despite the ever growing condemnation under which I found myself. Inevitably, the board became aware of the controversy surrounding me, and so in concern for the establishment and reputation of our institution, I came under their scrutiny. Hearings were held, and I was told in no uncertain terms that I must recant my former arguments or leave the institution.
I did not recant.
There I unwillingly became entwined in a heated debate with a particular gentleman about mistakes that were made in our history. My adversary declared that humankind would never change, that the mistakes made thousands of years ago will be made thousands of years in the future. It was no use. Man would never learn from that which had gone on before him. Wars and contentions throughout history were presented as proof.
I, on the other hand, was vehement about the ability of the human character to learn and change, as evidenced by the history of technology and scientific knowledge. We could change – nay, it was our destiny to change. We could not remain in a form of stagnant sameness even if we attempted it. The disagreement was heated and passionate, and soon I became so overwhelmed that I hurried out of the building, frustrated, angry and injured. I, quite literally and insensibly ran away.
I’m not a great runner. But I ran until I could run no further, and then I ran more. I couldn’t breathe, my sides ached, my feet hurt, and I was drenched in sweat, yet I continued on out of the city until I came to a cliff that overlooked the ocean.
But I did not slow down even then. As I approached the drop, I did not falter or hesitate. In fact, I increased my speed, suddenly exhilarated by a renewed sense of power and comprehension, that the stars, moon and sun stopped in their courses, aware of me, that the elements themselves had driven me here. “Come!” they sang to me in unison. “It is the answer!”
I cried, “I’ll prove you wrong!” at the top of my lungs, and I hurled myself off the cliff.
The drop was lethal, easily two hundred feet down into rocks and trees. I was jumping to my death … yet I was not committing suicide. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t plan to die. Somehow, amid my passion, I knew I would not perish, that I would be saved. This you must understand, for I believe it was key.
I can’t begin to describe the sensation I felt. Nothing on earth was quite like it. Even parachuting from a plane wasn’t comparable. I was utterly and completely free, and totally unafraid. It was exhilarating and awe inspiring, soaring through the air with the wind on my face and through my hair, with nothing to stop me, not even gravity itself.
My dream, you see, had been the answer, even before I knew the question.
In mid air I became increasingly dizzy and my eyes blurred. I believe I lost co
nsciousness for some moments because I don’t remember hitting the water. Water. It came from nowhere. The next thing I knew, I was swimming, the water cold and choppy, and when I surfaced, I saw that it was suddenly twilight, whereas before it had been day. I looked around, but the cliffs were nowhere to be seen. I was in the middle of the ocean. There was nothing but me.
I looked up to behold an accumulation of ominous clouds, and seconds later I felt the first drops of rain. Quickly the rain increased until I could hardly tell where the rain stopped and the ocean began, pelting me without mercy there in the open sea. I felt terribly insignificant, as though the earth had decided to suck me in and swallow me whole to punish me for my impertinent pursuit.
I began to regret my hasty jump. Something tremendous was in the making, and I knew it. But my circumstances were somewhat unnerving, and perhaps, given the choice, I might have been short sighted enough to place myself on solid ground again back at the university.
I was tired and worn, my lungs hurt, and every breath became torture. I heard voices, but I couldn’t locate the direction they came from, nor did I allow myself the luxury of looking around to see if they were real. I was well aware of the mind’s ability to create rescue where none existed.
My arms and legs told me time was running out. I tried to concentrate, but my head became distressfully cloudy. Death became as appealing as rescue at this point as I struggled to stay above the waves. I caught a futile breath before going under for the last time. Darkness overtook me and the pain became unbearable before disappearing completely.
I was flying again, just like in my dream, soaring down, down, down. I saw colors I could never describe and a freedom I had felt before, beginning with the dream that started it all.
Fascinating, the tricks of the human mind in times of duress.
*** *** ***
The next thing I remember was the cold, how it ate at my skin and dug into my bones. Heavy rope tangled and scratched my arms and legs. Hands pulled at me, working to release me from the rope, jerking me back and forth between them. I heard voices throughout the entire experience, even when I was unconscious. They were shouting, their tones gruff and loud.
So much is confused. I have some difficulty sorting out the details, but I remember looking up and seeing faces floating in and out of my line of sight. They saw me, but they didn’t try to talk to me. I began to tremble and the cold became excruciating, my head fuzzy and my thoughts scattered. I tried to speak to them. There was a question I had to ask. It was plaguing my mind. Yet strangely, I was uncertain exactly what the question was.
I would have blacked out again if I’d allowed myself, but I knew it was imperative to stay awake. The faces parted and there was a man dressed in a black overcoat, a tricorn hat on his head. The others looked his way and waited for him to speak. I made eye contact with him and tried to talk, but I still couldn’t. I was too cold and too tired. He abruptly turned away.
“Capt’n, I be the one who set me deadlights on the wench first.”
This was quickly, though quietly followed by something that sounded like, “Shiver me timbers, matey, we can all be sharin’ her. She be plenty for all of us.”
Ah, then the man in the overcoat is the captain, I thought. It was the only thought I could take a hold of with clarity, my mind too numb and shocked to truly understand anything else. He was the captain, and he’d decided to take me in. I was grateful to him. I held my hand out to take his, but I was too weak, and my knuckles only brushed the ruffles of his cuff.
The captain barked orders I couldn’t understand, and the men rushed to obey him. I was taken up and began to be carried away.
There was a whisper near my ear. “Begad, looks to be the capt’n be havin’ her for ‘isself.”
The others laughed, but quickly squelched it.
“And who gets her when she freezes to death, scoundrel?” the captain growled, “I swear, vermin have better judgment!”
Darkness suddenly consumed me, and there was nothing.
*** *** ***
“How is she?”
“She’ll live, sir.”
“Any idea who she is?”
“None, sir, though she must be foreign.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Her strange clothes, sir. Though I know little of women’s things.”
The words were quiet, as though coming from a great distance. I stirred but couldn’t open my eyes.
“We are still four weeks from land … the men liked the look of her.”
There was silence.
“They’ll be hard to persuade. I can’t hardly blame them after a year at sea.”
I stirred and sighed, trying to pull myself from the darkness, but it was so difficult.
“Captain, she’s in real danger.”
“What do you suggest?”
“They would be more easily persuaded if they believed someone had a claim on her … if you had a claim on her.”
“Me?” he sounded alarmed. “What am I to do with her?”
“It would only be until we reached land. I know it wouldn’t be your first choice, but really, sir, it would be the saving of her.”
Silence.
“At least think about it, sir.”
With great effort, my eyes finally opened. I looked up, straining to focus, as though I were looking through a thick fog, and I could just make out two men staring down at me. It was the captain, and he was standing with another man. They stood side by side, accentuating their differences. Where one was dark, the other was light. Where one was muscularly built, the other was slight. Where one was young, the other was old. But in their careful expressions, the ready form of their stances, the look of wariness in their eyes, they were similar. In fact, the ways they were the same greatly outstripped the ways that they were not, and one might have easily fallen under the conclusion that they were somehow related.
A surge of excitement burst through me, and my pain dissipated somewhat.
“Who are you?” the captain asked curtly. “Where did you come from?”
I thought feverishly. “I-I’m Rachel Madera. I’m from ... the Americas. The ship I was aboard sank. I seem to be the only survivor.”
The shorter, older man looked kindly at me and said, “You ought to sleep now. Rest. We’ll try to keep you safe.”
“What year is it?” I asked them when they turned to leave. My voice sounded odd, like it was coming from someone else, weak and young. I cleared my throat.
Both men looked at me in surprise, and then at each other. They were concerned. It was an odd question.
“The year … tell me what it is. You don’t know the significance!”
They eyed me curiously and the older one told me it was 1714.
1714.
I stared off into the distance in ecstasy. They must have left soon after because when I looked up again, they were gone.
Momentarily I had difficulty believing it. I worried it might all just be a dream, an imaginary manifestation of the passionate pursuit of my work. But the impression was fleeting, and I soon embraced the reality of my situation.
I’d finally achieved my goal merely by jumping off a deadly cliff? No wonder the answer had eluded me for so long. Though I must admit the answer is still somewhat elusive, for obviously not every person who has jumped off a cliff has been thrown back in time.
As of yet, I’m ignorant of the specific function I’m to perform or why I was dropped in this particular place at this particular time. However, I anticipate a role of some significance. I’m also unaware of the possibility of returning to my place of origin.
Consequently, throughout my visit I’ll keep a detailed journal of my adventures, in preparation for all eventualities. If I myself am unable to get back to the future, I hope my writings might be found and studied, used to increase and improve our knowledge and understanding.
My name is Rachel Davis Madera, age 26. I was born in 1986 to Carol Beth Jones and David Richard Mader
a. I have lived most of my life in Northern California.
The year is now 1714.
Against all odds, in rebellion of all established law and understanding, in defiance of my academic colleagues and associates, I have successfully traveled through time.
I am gratified.
Chapter Two
Notes: Captain informed of position. Anticipate cooperation. Personality disorder a possibility. Further analysis necessary before final diagnosis. Vital error in preparation: Apparel education overlooked.
Captain, as per culture, restrictive, excessively harsh.
A crash of thunder.
My head was steadier, the frigid cold gone. I was exhilarated at my success and eager to begin my adventure. I jumped out of bed to explore, but my attention was soon captured by a sound at the window. I went to it and peered out.
A storm was gathering. And the captain was on the deck. Though his dark hair and eyes were largely hidden by his three cornered hat, I could clearly see the wide line of his jaw and his slightly crooked nose. His chin was covered in stubble and a thick scar at his neck was visible under his collar. I would not have called him a handsome man, but his face was not unpleasant.
He buttoned his coat, and seemed to take note of the weather, looking at the sky and increasingly choppy waters. He didn’t seem overly concerned. I could easily guess that he’d been through storms before.
A smudge on the railing caught his attention, and he stopped to wipe it away, carefully rubbing his fingers over the grime. His fingers removed most of the dirt, but still he removed a kerchief from inside his coat and cleaned off the rest, polishing the rail until it shone.
I began to move away to join him but there was a noise. The captain turned toward it, and I peered out again to observe.
A group of men emerged, dressed in their black coats and wool caps, their forms dark and difficult to make out. They held something between them, and they deliberately kept their voices muffled and quiet. The wind assailed them, and they crouched to their knees, but not out of the captain’s sight.
The Dreamer (The Fall Series) Page 1