Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

“Well, maybe you’re suffering through that same kind of moment now, and I’m frustrated as hell that I’m not there holding you in my arms again, helping you through it. And I want you to know that I love you with all my heart and soul and miss you more than I can ever say. Know that I’m with you, will always be with you, have a special bond with you, and will do anything to help you. Please, Allie Girl, be wise in what you do; do the right thing as you always have, and be my girl. I love you.”

  Allie’s heart swelled with angst and guilt, like an over-filled balloon ready to pop. “Thanks, Dad. I love you . . . Dad, I’m sorry . . . I miss you so much . . . head ’em up, move ’em out! Bye, Dad.” She hung up, lowered her face to her hands, let her tears flow.

  Dressler said, “Well, Allie, you told her right. Though they don’t seem to dream like you, the males in the family quite probably carry the gene. So yes, it’s possible that you’re descended from Emily’s brother rather than her; but it also appears you’re going to dream about Emily until the end of her story, whatever and whenever it turns out to be; and as your mom told you sometimes happened to Ian, the ending could be unhappy . . . even if she is your ancestor. I know that’s a disconcerting thought; but based on the history, it would seem possible. Remember though, so far we’re dealing only with theories here and don’t know anything for sure . . . yet.”

  Allie stared at him with despairing eyes and a faraway look. Her mind swirled as she tried to fathom life without Emily, concluded that she could not and that Emily would therefore survive. Great logic, O’Shay. “Okay. What will be, will be. So what’s next?”

  “Well, I spent some time reviewing theories—some pretty interesting and potentially applicable stuff—which, by the way, you should begin delving into, as well. You know, it’s funny. I’ve read this stuff lots of times before, but the context added by your involvement and capabilities is astounding in terms of the life, realism, and perspective injected into what were previously dry, lifeless theories on a piece of paper . . . like a jigsaw puzzle of a map, where you can write a name and location on each piece of the puzzle until you identify them all and put them together.” He shook his head. “For sure, we’re only beginning, but I couldn’t be more excited about where we’re going.”

  Allie forced a smile.

  “There seems to be a fair amount of acceptance as to what happens, but the theories focus mostly on how it happens, and there’s some divergence there. But although there are divergences, there also appear to be connecting threads that draw theories together. And as I’ve said, what we need to do is weave the right threads together into the best possible theory and then focus our analysis on testing it.”

  “So which ones did you look at?”

  “Morphic resonance, formative causation, activation synthesis, and Lamarckian inheritance, but mostly the first two.”

  “Let’s see, I’ve read a little about morphic resonance . . . that’s Sheldrake, isn’t it?”

  “Correct, Ms. O’Shay.”

  She nodded. “And didn’t he basically say that all flora and fauna, wherever and whenever, withdraw from and input to—how did he put it . . . oh yeah—a collective memory of their species? And didn’t he also say that memory of previous generations is part of nature and integrated with it?”

  “He did indeed. And he believes it’s the result of a theory called formative causation, which suggests that organisms are ‘influenced and stabilized’ by all previous generations of the same organisms, whenever or wherever.”

  “Okay, so what does that mean?”

  “It is a little obtuse first time through, so let’s start with an example. When an animal of species A learns something—a hunting technique, for instance—we know that later members of the same species, under like circumstances, worldwide, and without any sort of contact with the first animal, will learn the same technique, but faster. And the greater the number of animals that learn the technique initially, wherever they are, the quicker the learning of the subsequent members occurs, everywhere.”

  Allie looked at him quizzically. “Wow! You mean it just happens . . . with no physical contact . . . but how?”

  “According to Sheldrake, via morphogenesis—in my words, the genesis of characteristics and shape in living organisms. Characteristics would be instinctive behavior, such as that displayed by the animals learning the hunting technique; and shape—he calls it form—is the outer look and internal structure of something, like a cell, a plant, an animal, or even a galaxy— pretty amazing concept.” He paused for a breath. “Now, Sheldrake describes form and characteristics in terms of morphic units, which are unique to each form or characteristic. Think of morphic as meaning to-do-with-form or to-do-with-characteristics.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then, he says things called morphic fields organize the morphic units through a process called morphic resonance.”

  Allie’s eyes bloomed with mixed interest and bewilderment. “Too much morphic. What’s it all mean?”

  He nodded. “Okay. Let’s start with morphic fields. They’re influential fields, like gravitational, electrical, quantum, or electromagnetic fields, in that you can’t see them, but you know they’re there. They organize the basic structure and patterns of activity of their morphic units—somewhat like earth’s gravity, a morphic field, determines what the atmosphere, a morphic unit, looks and acts like.”

  “And how do they do that?”

  “That’s where morphic resonance comes in. According to Sheldrake, morphic resonance affects and actually steadies the morphic fields—and this is the most important part—it steadies the morphic fields with resonance, or synchronizing, if you will, by all earlier, comparable morphic units, without regard for time and space—like the animal hunting-technique example. Now that’s one powerful concept, and he says it’s the process by which the past influences and actually becomes the present within morphic fields.”

  Allie stared at him for a moment, her lips parted but wordless. “I think I get it, but what makes the resonance by all earlier, comparable morphic units happen? Like, what physically makes the past become the present?” She smiled. “As they say, the devil’s always in the details.”

  “I love your critical thinking, Allie. To begin with, morphic resonance seems to happen all by itself—there are four theories on how. Again from Sheldrake, but in my words: the first is sort of like the old time travel idea, where people go through some kind of warp that circumvents space and time and lands them in some other age and/or place. Second is via some as yet unknown level of existence or consciousness. Third is through some kind of wormhole. And last, maybe the morphic presence of the past is always here and everywhere else, and all around us; in which case, a specific instance of the morphic presence of the past, and its present system, would somehow have to find each other and merge.”

  Allie whistled softly. “And your favorite is?”

  He laughed. “It’s all a giant extrapolation from the world of organisms to the human body and mind, but why not? And if we take that leap, the basic paradigm is that through formative causation, all the memories and experiences of our ancestors are morphic units organized by morphic fields, stabilized by morphic resonance; and therefore, all those ancestral memories and experiences become part of our present . . . whether or not we know they’re there. And to your question, I think it happens via the fourth possibility I mentioned—the morphic presence of the past is right here and everywhere else all the time—and that thought, by the way, meshes rather nicely with Jung’s theory of the collective unconscious, which we agreed we’d henceforth refer to as the collective memory. Also recall that the collective unconscious is where Jung believed all those ancestral memories and experiences reside. So the operative question then becomes, if the morphic presence of the past is right here and everywhere all the time, and it and the present system need to find each other and integrate, how the hell do they do that?”

  Allie waved her hand like a first grader. “I know, I know! By ha
ving something like my ability to dream the past.”

  Dressler pointed at her. “Bingo! I think you and any others with your gift somehow have the ability to reach out and grab, or find, all this knowledge and experience, feeling, thought, desperation—the morphic presence of the past—of your ancestors, that’s floating out there, perhaps in the collective memory, and instantly pull it into the present; and meanwhile, the rest of us aren’t even aware it exists. In other words, it’s functionally inaccessible unless you have the right search software and inputs to find it and download it. And Allie O’Shay has that . . . but the rest of us don’t, except for occasional instances where smidgeons of information somehow randomly slip through to us.”

  “I love it.”

  “And somewhere in here, we need to address the possibility of something very special also going on with your family’s genetics . . . and perhaps the possible mutation we discussed that enables some women in your family to express those genetics by dreaming like you do, every fourth generation or so, while the others can’t. So, we’ll also do some genetic analysis on you and your family to explore what’s there, but I’m getting way ahead of myself. You know, Allie, we’re barely scratching the surface of the relationship between the brain-mind, genetics, psychology, molecular cell biology, and physiology, and we’re going to have to delve into them all to get just an inkling of what’s really happening. But I think we have a start; and I’ve got to say, it’s intoxicating.”

  Excitement percolated in Allie’s eyes; her smile was broader, deeper, and more consuming than any she had worn since her dreams began. “It’s like several ideas nibbling on the same chunk of cheese from different sides, but sometimes together. This is totally cool, Doc.”

  He smiled. “Good. I’m glad you’re turned on because I have an assignment for my only PhD candidate . . . for her spare time.” He handed her two books: Morphic Resonance by Sheldrake and The Dreaming Brain by Hobson. “I’m betting you already have these from the library, but take these copies and mark them up at will. The assignment is as follows. First, I’d like you to carefully read Morphic Resonance with the doubting, jaundiced eye of a devil’s advocate. I want you to challenge every assumption, every leap of faith, anything that sounds like arm waving. We’ll have to defend our work, both to the research committee and to the world; and you, Allie O’Shay, will have to convince your PhD committee that we’re on solid theoretical ground.”

  She nodded. “Understand.”

  “Then, I’d like you to take the theory I’ve just laid out and critique it, try to poke holes in it; but where you challenge something, be prepared to defend your challenge and offer an alternative theory.”

  Allie’s smile was fixed to her face like a clown’s face paint. This is totally cool stuff, she thought. Then a ripple of disappointment fluttered into her heart. How am I gonna find time to dream? Everything’s all set up for max dreamtime, but now there’s no time. Damn it!

  “When you’re ready, we’ll discuss it point by point and solidify our approach. And when that’s done, I’d like you to take the list we made of your dream characteristics and assess which of them might be explained by, or related to, the various elements of the formative causation theory we settle on. Okay?”

  “Okay. And I guess I should get into Hobson’s Dreaming Brain in my spare time?”

  He resumed his professorial deportment then smiled. “You’re a superb student, Ms. O’Shay. You read my mind.”

  Allie’s spirits effervesced as she changed into her night clothes and danced nimbly into the lab. The stimulation of the afternoon’s analysis had momentarily lifted her spirits from the pit of depression she’d drowned in since the dreams began. “Hi, Ginger. How’s it goin’ tonight?”

  “Great! Got a good rest, and I’m ready for the next installment of Allie O’Shay’s novel.”

  Allie laughed; then as if preordained, her mind plunged into melancholy anticipation of her coming dreams, and an unwelcome feeling of foreboding began to smolder within her. Was Emily alive? Did she go with Tayler? Was Isna alive? Virginia? Henry? She felt like Christ lying down on the cross to be crucified, as she stretched out on the bed, stared at the ceiling, took a deep breath, then bared the top of her chest and extended her arms to the sides.

  Forty-five minutes later, she sent Ginger to Dr. Dressler for a sleeping pill. “I’m not messing around tonight.”

  A moment later, Ginger returned with a small cup of water, a little cup containing one and a half pills, and a piece of paper and pen attached to a clipboard. “He doesn’t want to mess around either. Here.” She handed Allie the clipboard. “He figures you can handle one and a half pills, but you need to sign this paper giving your permission and acknowledging the risks.”

  “Done.” She smiled knowingly at Ginger, who smirked back at her.

  As she waited to fall asleep, Allie pondered formative causation, morphic resonance, the little she knew of genetics, and Emily . . . always Emily . . . her hopes, her fears, her loves, her . . .

  Chapter 17

  The cat-o’-nine-tails, with three knots at the end of each tail, ripped long, deep gashes in Richard Taverner’s bare back. He groaned as his flesh splayed open, beaded with blood that ran down his back and onto the ground. His body trembled; he struggled to stay on his feet, braced for the next blow.

  Sergeant Myllet dangled the whip limply at his side as he glanced questioningly at Lieutenant Waters. Waters nodded subtly, at which Myllet stepped a long pace backward, jiggled the whip to untangle the four-foot-long strands, and flipped them behind him; he stepped forward with an abrupt, forceful stride, threw the full weight of his body into his next stroke.

  Nine new gashes appeared: more raw flesh, blood. Taverner cried out; his legs buckled; he hung by his wrists, which were bound to a tree, turned his head partially to the side. “I’ll kill you, Myllet. God damn you to hell. I’ll kill you.”

  With the exception of the perimeter guards, the entire contingent of soldiers stood at attention behind Myllet and Waters; civilians, including Emily and Elyoner, watched from around the green. As Myllet prepared for another blow, Waters held an expressionless stare on Taverner, let his mind drift, wondered where the discipline and morale of his men would be in another month. It was only fall, and they ware already acting like they’d been through a full winter of starvation and deprivation. Tempers were short, grumbling rampant; he wondered how the hell they’d survive the long winter ahead. The Chesapeakes had told them that strange animal behavior, the premature departure of certain birds, the sudden, early falling of leaves, and the calm, crisp evenings meant that the winter would be severe. He prayed it would not be so then wondered how many more times he’d have to mete out punishments to maintain discipline. Taverner had been a clumsy thief, gotten himself caught. Waters was certain there’d been other, more careful or lucky thieves who hadn’t been caught, knew there’d be more, knew he’d inevitably have to judge a capital offense, impose a death penalty in the face of deteriorating morale and discipline. He then admitted to himself the disquieting but inescapable plausibility of a total breakdown in discipline, knew only John White’s timely return could preclude or salvage such a situation.

  Taverner screamed as the fourth lash ripped into his mutilated, bloody back, which looked like a piece of raw meat being sliced for stew. Spontaneous, breathless gasps rippled through the civilians.

  Waters doubted Taverner could survive another sixteen lashes, decided to end it after six more . . . if he remained conscious that long. How convenient, he thought, that Taverner was so disliked by the other men—he’d been suspected of stealing before and frequently started fights over foolish matters. No, there’d been no grumbling from the men, and Myllet hadn’t blinked when ordered to deliver the punishment. How much more difficult ’twill be, he thought, when a popular man has to be disciplined. Yes, that day—and he knew it was coming—would challenge his leadership; for he’d heard of entire units refusing to participate in punishments of p
opular soldiers, which then left their commanders no option but to do it themselves and prosecute those who’d refused for insubordination; and that action, in turn, had inevitably prompted a death plunge in discipline. His stomach felt like a bag of down feathers fluttering in the breeze; he nibbled on his lower lip, acknowledged that the small size of his unit fostered uncommonly close personal ties among the men, greatly enhanced the potential of a death plunge scenario. So he prayed that John White would soon return with a bevy of enthusiastic colonists and a large contingent of uncynicized soldiers to save them from seemingly inevitable disaster.

  Myllet winced with involuntary compassion as he struck Taverner the fifth time, splattering blood on the front of his own shirt and pants. He glanced at Waters, who again nodded for him to continue, then stepped back to prepare for the sixth blow.

  Waters’ mind swirled between pity and his resolve to make a convincing example of Taverner, but how much was enough? Taverner was still able to pull himself to his feet, so Waters decided he could suffer a few more lashes to solidify discipline, further establish his authority and credibility with the men. But to escape the discomfort gnawing at his heart, he drifted his mind to the previous night’s Assistants meeting—another unpleasant, worrisome affair—at which he’d reported that palisades construction had fallen behind schedule and completion now looked improbable, if not impossible, before winter. ’Twas only October, but they’d already seen snowflakes, and he’d grown increasingly uneasy about the impact of the food shortages Baylye forecast. So since the existing palisades provided a modest amount of cover—an amount that was unlikely to increase materially before deep winter—he’d proposed they reallocate their manpower to increasing the winter food supply. The Assistants had voiced immediate, unanimous assent, and the proposal had been adopted. But while the Assistants had celebrated their reprieve from the detested palisades, Sergeant Smith had knocked on the door, called him outside, reported that James Lassie, a member of a hunting party, was missing, then explained what had happened.