“Really?” For a moment I thought he looked a little disappointed. “This isn’t heaven then?”
“No. You’re in a coma and this is the place where people wait when they are uncertain about whether they want to live or die.” I was simplifying but this wasn’t a moment for a lecture about the nature of the Narcoscape.
“Oh. It seemed kind of empty.” He thought about this. I was glad that he didn’t appear disbelieving of what I’d said. “Where would I go if I wanted to die?” he finally asked.
I pointed to the left where a great cloud wall marked the edge of the Narcoscape. As always, the Egyptian temple was nearby.
“That looks… ominous.” It did. It should. It was death. “I don’t think I want to go there.”
“Okay. I can take you back to your wife then.”
“Alright.” He got up slowly. “Can I bring my painting?”
I looked at his canvas. It was good. It had been good when Monet painted it a hundred years ago too.
“Sorry. Nothing from the dreamside can cross over. Maybe you could paint some more when you get back home.”
“No. I’m not any good back there.” He didn’t sound that unhappy.
“Can you clean your hands up a bit?” I asked him.
“What?”
“The paint. Make it go away,” I instructed.
“I can do that?”
“Of course.”
Thomas stared at his hands and then grinned as the blue and green smears disappeared.
“Wow. That’s cool.”
“Very cool. Take my hand, Thomas. We’re going home.”
Using my free hand to set my sunhat on my head, I used the other to anchor Thomas so we could begin our journey back to the wakeside. My internal clock that retains some awareness of the passage of time wakeside said that we needed to hurry, but I said nothing to Thomas as he paused a moment to look a last time at our surroundings and enjoy the gentle breeze of a fine Spring day. Although the grass was still red, I had to admit that I was beginning to find the color change to be pleasantly unique if not downright appealing. Wakeside, everything was gray and gloomy as November deepened into winter.
Walking across the meadow now thick with wild flowers, I was enjoying the tickling sensation of the foliage on my ankles. I was especially enjoying the awareness that since this was a dream, the grass would probably not be infested with ticks and other forms of parasite. Ah, what a feeling to stroll through a blemish-free world with a man’s hand in mine. Thinking back, I had a hard time remembering the last occasion I’d gone strolling with a man, let alone strolling in such a romantic setting. Too bad Thomas was married and we were on such a short clock. It was a place that invited one to linger. Some days I missed my husband so much that I thought I might die from the emptiness.
Looking up into his face, I found that he could hold my gaze without being self-conscious of his pleasure, so I followed suit and allowed myself to just enjoy the moment. I didn’t let myself think and I didn’t let myself remember. Throwing my head back, I listened to a chorus of red bluebirds happily chirping as they flew across an azure sky. Thank God he at least got the color of the sky right. A green one would have ruined the mood.
We had traversed the majority of the field and were approaching the tree line that marked the border between Thomas’ dream canvas and our exit when the trouble began. I first sensed its coming as a vibration emanating from the ground and traveling up my legs.
Being from California, Thomas’s first question was: “Is that an earthquake?”
“Shit. Not an earthquake. Something worse.” I saw the earth several feet ahead of us begin to fracture as large stones were pushed up from beneath the ground. It turned out to be a huge stone wall, an impenetrable barrier, being thrust up out of the ground between us and the nearest exit. It rose until it stood twenty feet high and likely a mile wide. Inevitably I heard helicopters coming from behind. Their engines were humming the theme from Apocalypse Now. We weren’t going to be leaving by the direct route.
“The NarcoNazis must have woken up from their nap early today,” I mused as I turned to see twenty black attack-helicopters flying our way from out of the distance. The Dream Police had found us out.
“That’s bad?” Thomas asked as he squinted at the helicopters. He sounded calm.
“It isn’t good, but we’ll manage.” I sounded confident. It was very important that the lost have faith.
As they neared our position, zip lines were dropped to the ground and soldiers, also clad in black and carrying heavy arms, descended those lines in waves. I’d never seen so many Dream Police in one place.
“Thomas, I hope you’re feeling fit and that you’re ready to lead these jerks on a bit of a chase ‘cause I’m not sure they’ll let you go home if they catch us.”
“I’ve never felt better, actually,” Thomas said, looking more fascinated than afraid of the approaching army.
“Good,” I replied as I watched the soldiers pursuing us form a line and point their armaments our way. I concentrated on our opponents as their leader issued the order to fire. Rather than hearing the rattle of automatic weapons and being riddled with bullets, the barrel of each gun in the line ejected a small rolled up flag that unfurled quickly and displaying a single word: BANG!
Thomas found this to be funny. I, on the other hand, knew that this would likely enrage them. As I watched, the soldiers threw down their rifles and came running at us brandishing swords which had appeared from nowhere. Obviously they didn’t share my sense of humor.
I suppose this is as good a time as any to explain a few facts about the Dream Police and their operation within the Narcoscape. First, their official function is to police the Narcoscape, keeping dream raiders— which they consider me to be— from traversing multiple dream canvases and thereby supposedly siphoning off dream energy, or polluting the Narcoscape and in other ways causing emotional devastation and mayhem in dreamers’ psyches — yadda, yadda, yadda. I suppose that someone has to perform this function, but suffice it to say that these guys are no friends of mine. Second, no one is exactly sure who pulls the strings of the NarcoNazis, but it’s widely assumed that they get their marching orders from somewhere amongst the loose association of dream authorizers my family calls The Absolutes. Whoever or whatever it is that runs the NarcoNazis, they have substantial power within the Narcoscape and they wield a large portion of it via their Dream Police. Alone, Thomas wouldn’t have stood a chance against them.
Finally, it’s also worth mentioning that these guys aren’t actually out to kill anyone, not outright. Instead, they’re out to imprison one’s dream essence, bring the dream-self to trial, and expel the dreamer from the Narcoscape—sometimes for a few days, sometimes forever. This last sentence is of course tantamount to murder since no one can live for very long or with any quality of life without dreaming. I for one had no intention of falling into their hands, nor would I leave Thomas behind to face his fate alone.
I wished passionately that Josh was there. My husband and I had been a great team. He would create the diversion and I would rush the package home while everyone was dazzled by his sleight of hand. Now I had to play both roles.
“Thomas, have you ever wanted to be a gopher?” I asked nonchalantly.
“A gopher? Like a real one, or in a cartoon?”
“Either. But I need a yes or no, Thomas. Are you up for this or not?”
“Well, yes, I suppose,” he said with a broad, foolish grin. “I always did like Looney Tunes.”
With a wink of my dream essence, the dreamside equivalent of wiggling my nose or crying “Shazam”, we became gophers. I immediately started to burrow my way under the stone wall and soon sensed that Thomas was busy doing the same. Arriving on the other side I continued to burrow underground at a fast pace. There’d be no popping my furry little head of the ground until I was out an exit or safe in someone else’s dream.
Dead ahead I heard a thud and felt something heavy penetrate
the ground.
“Thomas?” I shouted down the tunnel. “They’ve blocked the exit. Go right!”
My warning came too late. Thomas wasn’t digging deep enough and I heard a loud bonk from behind as Thomas hit his head on the bottom of the new wall. He swore in cartoon fashion, then we were off again, this time side-by-side, burrowing rapidly toward the tree line and the safety beyond.
Having no intention of being denied their prey, the Dream Police were soon back on our trail forming themselves into a huge mechanical beast that pounded its way through the stone wall (this was just for effect, because they could have as easily willed the wall away) and then began punching into the ground with some kind of pointed stake. The massive mechanoid followed our collapsing tunnels, stomping on the raised earth with huge metallic feet in a feeble attempt to squash us before we could get away. Surfacing a few feet from the tree line I assessed our chances of escape. Not Good. They could stomp faster than we could dig.
Trying to keep things as cartoon-like as possible, in the hope of not terrifying Thomas unless I absolutely had to, I exerted my dream-essence in the direction of the metal beast. A huge steel foot transformed into a giant orange carrot that landed a few feet away from me and snapped off harmlessly. Thomas had surfaced too and feeling cocky, he decided to take a large bite out of the carrot stump with the set of preposterously huge buck teeth he had provided himself. This sent the mechanoid hopping away holding its damaged vegetable appendage.
*@#!* exploded into the air above us. The mechanoid had not been provided with a voice and this was its only way of cursing. Thomas snickered, still thinking that this was play. It only looked funny because we were in his dream space and he had decided on a cartoon environment.
Now is a good time to mention a few things about dream manipulation. We all do it in our own dreams to a certain degree. It’s just that some of us are more adept at it and more creative in our manipulations because we are aware that this is what we are doing. I’ve had a great deal of practice over the years manipulating the Narcoscape for fun and profit, and often to facilitate my escape from the Dream Police. What surprised me was Thomas’s ability to consciously manipulate his dream. Novices usually weren’t that good first time out. I wondered if there might be something special about him. Some people are born with latent abilities that can be developed with proper training.
Still in Thomas’ dream canvas where he had a reasonable amount of power, we had succeeded in redirecting the attention of our pursuers for the moment but we had yet to deal with the dream membrane that separated us from the next canvas and what I hoped would be an unguarded exit. This is a simple procedure when one has the time for delicate manipulation. We didn’t have time for delicacy though, so instead it would involve me plunging through the membrane, which I can do very easily as long as I apply the mental equivalent of brute force, and then dragging Thomas’ sorry ass after me. The membrane was protean and would close up after us without any harm to the neighboring dreamer as long as our entrance wasn’t witnessed and we didn’t tamper with the dreamer’s basic reality. The problems would begin when we had to interact with what we found on the other side. Although I had already traversed the next dream canvas on the way in and found it safe, no work of art remains the same for long. There was no knowing what we would be facing and how much the dreamer might fight against my dream manipulation.
“Ready?” I asked, looking into Thomas’ cute, whiskered face as I grabbed a hold of his paw with my newly transformed hand. “It would be better if you let me handle the dream manipulation when we get to the other side, okay? And don’t be freaked out if things look weird.”
“Squeak,” Thomas answered through massive front teeth.
Jumping through the dream membrane, I felt the familiar sensation of satin sheets being dragged across my naked body. There was then a slight sucking sound as the last of my body passed through the gap. It was followed by a gentle pop. I like the sensation but I know that many others do not. Of course, there was a strong tug as Thomas hit the membrane and panicked at being pulled through the curtain. Hauling on his paw with all of my might, I wondered if he had transformed himself again and I was dragging a fifty pound sack of potatoes through quicksand.
I paused for a second to catch my breath. No, I remembered the quicksand dream now, and it was much worse. I just needed to pull harder. Bracing my feet, I yanked with all my might. Thomas came through the barrier with a much louder pop, and it took a while for his face and other features to snap back into human shape.
“Ow! My teeth hurt,” Thomas complained.
“Yeehaw!” A shrill voice screamed before I could answer.
I looked over my shoulder and sighed. Things were about to get athletic and Thomas didn’t have long to adapt since we were now in the middle of another dream.
“Hang on!” I shouted as we were spun up into the air and dumped onto a pair of horses.
Most people would find it somewhat alarming appearing in a new dream, mounted on horses running at a full gallop. Fortunately, although I had never ridden a horse bareback before, I had been incorporated into this dream as a fully qualified rodeo rider.
“Howdy partner, Wyatt Jones is the name,” I heard in a comfortable drawl from beside me. Looking to my right I saw a man who was undoubtedly the dream owner, also running at a flat out gallop. He had a long walrus mustache and wore a dirty hat and bandana.
“Howdy, Nicodemus Smith is my moniker,” I replied.
“I think I’ve heard of you, young lady. You must be the one they’re after,” he said, nodding over his shoulder. “The whole damn injun nation is ridin’ up on our asses. Never seen that before.”
Springing onto my feet and performing a kick-flip so I landed in my newly imagined saddle facing backward, I observed the Indians galloping through the dream membrane, hot on our trail though wearing a strange mix of costumes from various tribes of the Plains and South West.
“Damn.” I had hoped we had lost our pursuers. Since one of their primary functions is to prevent tampering with dreams, they themselves will often avoid dream canvas contact, let alone inter-dream transit if at all possible. I guess they really wanted me bad. Or they really wanted Thomas to stay behind for some reason.
Becoming concerned for Thomas, I looked to my other side to find that he was having the time of his life, galloping along on an old paint, swinging a lariat in the air, though there was nothing for him to rope. I could only imagine what he was making of all the crazy colors appearing in this dream. Doing another kick-flip, I once more faced forward to see that we were apparently racing after a steam locomotive upon which we were closing fast.
“You head on after the train,” Wyatt Jones yelled to me. He pulled a giant revolver. “I’ll head back and slow down them injuns. I think maybe a cattle stampede would do it.”
“Thanks, partner! I won’t forget it.”
Having no better plan in mind, I kicked my booted but consciously unspurred feet into the sides of my mount and received an amazing power burst as the horse surged forward in response to my silent plea. Our host was helping us get away. In no time at all, I was swinging from my mount onto the engine of the puffing train and reaching out a hand to help Thomas aboard. No Hollywood stuntman could have done better.
“Yeehaw!” Thomas screamed as I pulled him onto the engine. “I’d never have thought of this, but from now on I’m a cowboy dreamer,” he added. “And check out all the wild colors. It’s like a psychedelic dream. That Wyatt guy must be nuts.”
“Or eating magic mushrooms.”
Seeing that we were pulling safely ahead of the NarcoNazis who were lost in a sea of rampaging cattle, I shared a laugh with Thomas before picking up a shovel of coal to stoke the fire in the hope of even more speed. Feeling a surge of energy with every shovel full of coal that I threw into the tinder box, I was vaguely hopeful when I leaned my head out the window to check on our lead.
One look was enough to assure me that our poor ste
am engine wouldn’t be fast enough to escape the NarcoNazis. The cattle had been turned into prairie-dogs and a streamline, diesel locomotive was gaining on us from behind. It was painted flat black and had a flaming skull mounted on the front on the engine.
So much for remaining within the proper context of the dream. It looked like the Dream Police were out for blood this time. I began to feel genuine alarm. Not for myself. I had a sort of emergency, dial *69 and get-out-at-once escape route I could use. But that would mean leaving Thomas behind. He had adapted well to this dreamscape but I didn’t think he had enough understanding of The Narcoscape to get home on his own, even if I convinced the Dream Police to follow me and leave him alone.
“What are we going to do?” Thomas shouted, hanging his head out the other side of the train. “They’re gaining on us! Should I shoot them?”
At that point I was convinced that the Dream Police would do anything in their power to stop our escape. What remained to be seen was just how much power they had. I had never tested the limits before.
“Don’t start shooting. So far, they’re just mad at me.” I hoped this was true. I handed Thomas the shovel. “I’m on it. Just keep out of sight, shovel the coal and make sure we don’t run out of track.”
Thomas went to it with a will and I think that on some level he understood that it was our determination that fueled the engine. It just happened that it looked like lumps of coal.
My next action would take a bit of effort and was overtly hostile, but I also knew that it would produce spectacular results if I timed it right. Up to that point, I’d kept things playful—adversarial, but no one had ever been killed. If you could kill a NarcoNazi. I mean as in kill them forever. Making unnecessary enemies wasn’t my thing, but they had made me angry. I was ready to take the gloves off and put on some brass knuckles if that was what it took to get Thomas away from these guys.
We were traveling as fast as good fortune could carry us, but it wasn’t fast enough. We needed another diversion. Concentrating on the tumbleweeds and sagebrush that flew by the engine, I gathered my dream energy and everything Thomas had to spare, and focused it on the ground. The air around us filled with smoke and bright cinders of brimstone as Thomas’s own determination grew. Sparks began to fly from the iron wheels, the noise like nails on a chalkboard. It was unproductive activity, but quite threatening, so I didn’t stop him.
Murder on Parade Page 8
