“You’re a spellbinder—I’ll have to say that much for you.” Josh took a deep breath, grinned, and shook his head. “I never heard such a story in all my life! Do you read a lot of sci-fi?”
“I don’t read any sci-fi,” Wash said desperately. “It’s true, Josh. It really is.”
Josh blinked with surprise. “You really believe all this, don’t you? You’re not just making it up.”
“Why would I want to make it up?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t buy it.” Josh got to his feet and laughed. “I wish I could make up stories like that. You ought to write a book. You could call it The Seven Sleepers. Nobody’d ever believe it, of course, but the world needs good fantasy like that. Well, thanks for the story, Wash. I’ll see you. Don’t come back, though. I’ve had about all I can take of this.”
Wash got to his feet too, and as he watched Josh stroll away he said, “Well, that tears it. That was my best shot.”
Be faithful.
The words came almost audibly, and Wash knew that they had not originated with him. “Be faithful?” he said aloud. “Josh won’t ever believe me, not in a million years.”
Be faithful. Never mind whether you win or lose. Be faithful.
Wash turned back to the creek. He looked down into the clear water and thought for a long time. Finally he said, “All right, I’ll be faithful, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”
Josh came awake with a start. Some sound had jarred on his nerves, and when he sat up in bed he was suddenly wide awake, for he saw by the moonlight that his window was opening slowly.
A burglar! he thought. For a moment he could not move, then he slipped out of bed and looked for a weapon. The window was now wide open, and a shadowy form suddenly blotted out the moonlight and stepped into the room. In desperation Josh threw himself at the form. There was a rattling crash as he drove the intruder into a lamp. It shattered, and Josh began to yell, “Help—Dad, help!”
The intruder was struggling violently, but Josh held on. Fortunately, Josh was much stronger. He was surprised at the size of the burglar, for he had no trouble at all holding him.
Suddenly the lights came on, almost blinding Josh.
“What’s going on here?”
“A burglar, Dad,” he cried. “Look, I caught him—he came in through the window.”
Mr. Adams stepped inside the room. “A burglar,” he said, looking down at the two. He stared at the intruder, who looked back at him, and he said, “He looks mighty young to be a burglar.”
Josh’s stare focused on the burglar that he had captured. “It’s you,” he said. “What’re you doing here?”
“Josh, do you know this boy?” Mr. Adams demanded.
“Well, not exactly,” Josh said. He held onto Wash’s arm tightly. “Don’t you try to get away now.”
“I won’t try to get away,” Wash said quietly. “I just came to talk to you again.”
“How do you know this boy? Does he go to your school?”
“No, he doesn’t go to my school,” Josh said. He looked over his father’s shoulder and saw his mother come in. “Mom, go call the police. We’ve got a burglar.”
Mrs. Adams looked down at the black boy. “What’s your name?” she asked quietly.
“Wash Jones.”
“Did you really come into this house to steal?” Mrs. Adams asked.
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
“Of course, he did,” Josh said. “Look, he met me when I was going to school this morning. Said he had to talk to me. Well, I wouldn’t talk to him then, but he begged me to meet him after school. So I did, and he told me some awful tale. Didn’t make any sense at all, but I know what he wanted. He’d been casing the house so he could get in and burgle the place.”
Mr. Adams studied the face of the intruder and sighed. “Well, I’m afraid we’ll have to call the police. You did break and enter.”
“But, dear—” Mrs. Adams began.
“We won’t press charges, but the police need to know about things like this. He doesn’t look like a burglar,” Mr. Adams said, “but it’s what we’ll have to do.”
Josh expected the boy to protest, to beg, or to threaten, but he didn’t. He just turned and looked at Josh quietly. Something about his big brown eyes troubled Josh, and he could not meet his gaze. “You shouldn’t have tried to come in the house. What’d you do it for?” When he got no answer, this troubled him even more. He looked at his dad and said, “Maybe we ought to just let him go. Tell him to stay away.”
But Mr. Adams said, “No, he may have committed other burglaries. We don’t know. Where are your parents?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Adams said.
But there was no changing her husband’s mind. Mr. Adams called the police, and very shortly two uniformed patrolmen appeared at the front door.
Josh stood watching, biting his lip, as Mr. Adams explained the situation.
One of the policemen said, “We’ll take care of it, Mr. Adams. Come along, you.”
The policeman looked very big, and Wash Jones looked very small as they disappeared. Josh stood at the door, and when they were in the car, Wash suddenly turned and looked back at him. He still had not said a word or asked for anything, but something in that look caught at Josh.
“He sure didn’t look like a burglar, but you can never tell. Appearances can be deceiving. Are you sure you didn’t know him, Josh? Before today, I mean?”
Josh started to answer his father, but something kept him from it. He wanted to say no, yet somehow that did not seem quite true. He tried in vain to think where he might have seen the boy, but he could not remember. “What will they do to him, Dad?”
“Well, he’s a juvenile. He’ll go to a reform school if they find him guilty of anything, I suppose.”
This distressed Josh no end, but he knew that there was nothing he could do. He returned to his room and went to bed, but there was no sleep for him the rest of the night.
Somehow Josh had ceased to find happiness in the things he usually enjoyed. Jock tried to get him to play, but he would shove the dog away, saying, “Get away, Jock, don’t bother me.” He had gone back twice, trying to fish, but there was no fun in that either. All he could think of was the face of Wash Jones.
His parents noticed that Josh was moody and talking very little.
“Are you unhappy, Josh?” his mother asked quietly one day. “You don’t seem yourself.”
“No, I’m all right, Mom.”
He was not all right, however, and for four nights he lay awake as long as he could, racking his brain. “I knew him somewhere,” he would say. Then he would go off to sleep, and in that sleep would come the dreams. He would dream that he and some other young people were under the ocean, riding on strange shark-like creatures—or they would be fighting with dinosaurs.
“These are those crazy stories that kid told me,” he said. “That’s why I’m dreaming about them. But they’re so real!”
He grew angry at himself. “I’ve got to forget about him,” he said. “He’s either a crook or he’s crazy, and I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”
One day his father found him sitting in the backyard, staring off into space. They talked about different things for a long time, and finally he said, “Josh, you’re not yourself.”
“I’m all right, Dad.”
“No, you’re not. I don’t know what’s troubling you. Do you think you can tell me?”
“I—I guess I’m worried about that guy that broke into the house. I’m not sure he was a burglar.”
“I’m not either. At the hearing he made no defense at all.”
“The hearing? You went to the hearing, Dad?”
“Yes, I did. I even put in a good word for him, but he had a pretty strict judge. He’ll be sent to a reform school upstate, I think.”
“I wish I hadn’t caught him.”
“Josh, I can’t tell you how to feel. You d
id what most people would have done. Now maybe it’s time for you to be a friend to this boy.”
“What can I do?”
“Maybe go visit him. Write him a letter, perhaps. Tell him you’re his friend.” Mr. Adams laid a hand on Josh’s shoulder. “You’ve always been straight with your friends, Josh. Be straight with this Wash too.”
Wash was sitting in his cell with four other boys about his own age. Three of them had just come in. They were cursing and talking loudly about a burglary they had pulled. Wash tried to pay no attention to them.
He looked up when he heard his name called. “Jones, you got a visitor.”
Wash could not believe his ears. “A visitor? Me? Are you sure?”
“Come on,” the guard said. He was a big, burly man and had an irritated look on his face. “If you’re coming, come along.”
Wash followed the guard down the hall. The keeper opened the door and said, “In there. You’ve got thirty minutes.”
When Wash stepped in, he saw Josh Adams standing there. Josh’s face was pale, and his fists were clenched. He was staring at Wash in a strange way.
Wash swallowed and said, “I’m glad to see you, Josh.”
Josh Adams stood so still and for so long that Wash was afraid that he had come to berate him again. The boy did not look natural.
“Wash, are you telling me the truth?”
“Yes, it’s all the truth, Josh.”
The statement seemed to tear Josh in two. “What do I do then? What can I do?”
“You can go back to Nuworld,” Wash said simply. He repeated the instructions that he had read on how to break off a dream, and he said, “But you have to do it yourself, Josh. I can’t do it for you.”
Josh Adams stood silent for a long time.
Wash waited quietly, knowing that the future hung in the balance for him and for the work of Goél—maybe for Nuworld itself. If Josh didn’t go back, none of the other Sleepers would be freed. Maybe the Dark Lord would win after all.
Josh suddenly put out his hand. “All right,” he said hoarsely, “let’s go home.”
Wash took the boy’s hand and held it tightly with both of his. “I know it’s hard, Josh,” he whispered, “but you’ll know soon. This place isn’t real. You’re going to where you’re supposed to be. Now, here’s what we do . . .”
11
A Calico Dress
Josh looked around at the Sleepers, their faces pale, lying on the cots, then turned to face Wash. “Well,” he said quietly, “it’s all true.”
“You didn’t have to come back, Josh,” Wash said. “I know that it would have been real easy to stay there. But remember, that place wasn’t real. It was just a pleasant dream.”
Josh stared at the small boy, who had explained how he, alone, had resisted Oliver and his Dream Maker, and how he had, through his own efforts, found the way to bring Josh back. “You’re something, Wash,” he said, his voice tinged with admiration. “You’re the toughest one of the Sleepers.”
Wash had to feel a surge of pride at the praise. Josh knew he had felt at times that he didn’t amount to much, for he was the smallest and the youngest.
Now he grinned. “I’m glad I could do it, Josh.” He too glanced around, then said, “But we’ve got to get the rest of ’em back quick. I don’t know how often they check on this place, but if Oliver comes back and catches me here, and you up walking around, he’ll know something’s wrong.”
“I know it. Now, tell me again how it all works.” He listened carefully as Wash explained, then he made an instant decision. “I want you to go get Reb back. You’re his best friend. You two are closer to each other than any of the rest of us are.”
“Sure, I was hoping I’d get to go after Reb. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go get Sarah. I got her into this,” he said soberly.
“Do you have any idea at all what sort of dream she had?”
Josh had thought about this at some length. “I doubt that the dream machine let her go home. She always liked to read books and watch TV programs about farm life. She was always looking for novels about things like that.” He straightened his shoulders and said firmly, “Well, now it’s up to me to try and get her out—wherever she is. And like you say, we’ve got to get this done quick. You just attach this headpiece and throw the switch?”
“Better lie down first, or I think you’d probably fall over and maybe bust your head,” Wash said. “Good luck, Josh.” He put out his hand.
But Josh ignored the hand and gave him a quick hug.
“Good luck to you. Reb’s a stubborn outfit. It’ll take all you can do to get him to come back. If I know Reb, he’s in the midst of some wild, dangerous adventure.”
“What do you think Sarah’s doing?”
“I have no idea. Sarah was always so quiet, but wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, I’ll do my best.”
Josh stepped over beside the sleeping Sarah and looked down at her still face. Without another word he picked up the headset, lay down beside her cot, reached up, and pulled the switch.
Josh awoke to the sound of water running and thought at first it might be the stream where he caught the bass. But when he sat up, he knew that this was a place he had never been. There were blue-tinged mountains over to the north and another long ridge to the south. He was in a valley, and a road led toward the mountains on his right.
“This is Sarah’s world all right—just the sort of place she always said she wished she’d lived in,” he murmured. “Always said she’d like to live in a place without cars and TV. I’ll bet she’ll be around here somewhere.”
He began walking down the dusty road. A bluebird flew by, a brilliant patch of color, and he watched it fly to a fence post and disappear into a hole.
He must have walked for more than an hour. The road had grown steeper until finally he was in the mountains. He grew thirsty and drank from a small stream, flat on his stomach. The water was so cold it hurt his teeth.
Getting up, he said wryly, “These dreams are sure realistic. I know I’m not here—I’m really lying flat on my back in Nuworld. Sure does seem real. If they could’ve marketed this thing as a game years ago, somebody would’ve gotten rich.”
He had not gone more than a quarter mile farther when suddenly the road curved and he saw a house and barn sitting back from the road. A boy was working in a garden.
Somehow Josh knew that this was the dream that Sarah had chosen. She’d shown him pictures from history books of houses just like this one.
Josh walked over to the boy, who stopped hoeing beans and turned to him.
“Hello,” Josh said. “Suppose I can get a drink of water?”
“Sure thing.” The boy was not as tall as Josh. He wore a pair of faded blue overalls and was barefooted. His hair was blond, and he had a pair of guileless blue eyes. “Come on up to the house. I think maybe we got some fresh buttermilk.”
“Well, that would be good,” Josh said. He’d always loved buttermilk, and even if this was just a dream, he determined to enjoy this imaginary treat.
As they walked toward the house, a large rambling place that could’ve stood some paint, Josh said, “How are the crops this year?” He had no idea about crops, having never been a farmer, but he had heard people talk about them on television.
“Well, the corn’s doing good. It needs some rain, though. Are you from around these parts?”
“Oh, no. I’m from pretty far away. My name’s Josh Adams.”
The boy stared at him. “Adams? You any kin to Harold Adams over at Pine Ridge?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m new to these parts.”
“My name is Robert Faulkner—but folks call me Rob.” For one moment the young man hesitated, then asked, “Are you from Chicago—or New York?”
“Neither, Rob. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason—except you talk funny.” Rob looked down at the ground, kicked a stone, then lifted his blue eyes to Josh. “I’m g
oing to the big city someday. Going to go to school and learn how to be a doctor.”
“Well, that’s real fine, Rob.”
“Don’t tell my ma. I don’t want her to know it.”
“Why don’t you want her to know?”
“Nobody in my family ever went to school much. Ma and the rest of the family would think I was uppity if they found out.” He stopped suddenly, “I don’t know what I’m telling you this for. I never told anybody else.”
“I won’t mention it.”
“Well, come on into the house. I’ll see if I can get that buttermilk.”
Josh stepped into the house and instantly was face to face with a tall, strong-looking woman who said, “Who’s this, Rob?”
“This here’s Josh Adams. He was walking down the road and asked for a drink of water,” Rob replied. “I told him we might have some buttermilk. Could he have some, Ma?”
“Did you ever know of us refusing a stranger hospitality? Of course, he can have some buttermilk.”
Josh smiled. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Faulkner. Always was partial to buttermilk.” He took the glass that Rob brought to him and then happened to glance at a newspaper lying on the table. The headline said, “Garfield Elected President.” Leaning down, he saw the date on the paper—November 1880.
When Josh straightened up, Mrs. Faulkner asked, “You from around these parts? You don’t look familiar.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Your people from around here?”
“Well, not exactly,” Josh stammered. He didn’t want to lie, but of course he could not tell the whole truth either. Suddenly he had an idea. “Actually I’m looking for a girl who might have come this way. She’d be about fourteen, fifteen years old, and she’s got brown eyes and real black hair.”
“Ain’t no strange girls like that come down our way,” Rob replied. “We don’t get many strangers around here. We’d sure notice a girl like that.”
“What you got to do with this girl?” Mrs. Faulkner asked.
“Well, she’s a real good friend of our family, and I thought she’d come to visit over in this part of the country. Wasn’t sure where, and since I was close I just thought I’d stop and ask.”
Escape with the Dream Maker Page 9