Rob took another swallow of his Jim Beam, then began. “It’s the Fourth of July. I’m walking along Laneda with Deb and Tim and Maria.”
Lewis interrupted. “How did you know it’s the Fourth?”
“There’s red, white, and blue bunting on all the stores and shops. A banner draped across Laneda is puffed out in the wind beneath an overcast. I can read its lettering clearly. It’s advertising the parade. The street is filled with people, bundled up, waiting for it. I can hear it in the distance, at least the bagpipes and drums.”
Lewis nodded and wrote something on his pad. “Okay, go on.”
“It’s funny, though. The music, the pipers, seem to be getting farther away, their notes floating off on the wind.” Rob chuckled, silently, to himself. “I guess dogs don’t like bagpipes. Several are tugging at their leashes, tails tucked between their legs, trying to get away.”
“Maybe they don’t like crowds,” Lewis offered.
Rob shrugged. “Deb and I stop to get some coffee to go. The kids continue walking up Laneda. Abruptly, there’s a strange silence. I can’t hear the pipers any longer. Even the wash of the surf seems to have diminished. Suddenly, several small earth tremors ripple through town, each shake growing in intensity. Within a matter of seconds, they morph into huge undulations, up and down, brutal sinusoidal waves.”
Lewis interrupted again. “You mean like ocean swells?”
“Yes. Huge ones. I see fear in the eyes of the people near me. The ground they’ve always thought of as solid, stable, and permanent, the bedrock of their physical existence, has become nothing more than quivering Jell-O.” He reached for his bourbon again, then thought better of it.
“The coffee Deb and I have slops out of our cups. Deb loses her balance and staggers against the side of a building. I pull her erect and we start to run up Laneda, looking for Tim and Maria. But it’s hard to remain upright. It’s like trying to sprint on a trampoline.”
“You’re frightened?” Lewis asked.
“Strangely not. I know what’s coming. I just want to get my family to safety.”
“What’s happening around you? What are other people doing?”
“Milling around. Some look stunned. Others seem to be staring at me.”
“Yes?”
Rob toyed with the glass on the table, sending the bourbon into a cyclonic swirl. “It’s weird. I’m wondering why they aren’t running, trying to get to higher ground. The shockwaves keep coming. A few buildings crack and slump, then more and more. Utility poles topple. Still, many people appear frozen in place. Instead of fleeing, they cluster around me, blocking my path. I see Tim and Maria ahead of me. I wave. They wave back, then point behind me. I turn, look back down Laneda. The water is coming. A surge of ocean sweeping inland, growing deeper and deeper, popping buildings and homes from their foundations, picking up cars and trucks as if they were bathtub toys.” Rob stopped talking, gripped the glass, tipped it to his lips and drained it.
“Then?” Lewis asked.
“Then I knew we were going to die.” Rob barely got the words out, his chest tight with emotion.
Lewis waited for him to continue.
“That was it,” Rob said. “Next thing I remember, I’m sitting up in bed, sweating, shaking, drained. It wasn’t like I’d awakened from a dream, though. More like I’d escaped from a terrifying reality into the safety of another.”
Lewis sat silently, tapping his pencil on the table. He appeared lost in thought, as if trying to digest and analyze what he’d heard.
Rob fixed his gaze on him. “What the hell is going on, Lewis?” he asked, his voice soft and raspy. “This is just some sort of stress reaction to my work, right? I’m not going crazy, am I?”
“No.” Lewis stood and walked to a window. He pulled its curtains open to allow more light into the room. He returned to his chair and stood next to it. “I’ll tell you one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You aren’t having dreams.”
Rob snapped his head up, stunned by the words, and stared at Lewis.
Chapter Eight
Visions
Manzanita
Sunday, June 28
ROB SLID HIS EMPTY glass toward Lewis. “I think I need a refill.”
“Maybe Starbucks instead of Beam,” Lewis said. He disappeared into the kitchen.
“So, if I’m not having dreams,” Rob called after him, “what am I having? You trying to tell me nightmares aren’t dreams?”
“No.” The hiss of a Keurig issued from the kitchen.
“What? I’m nuts then?”
“No. I already told you that. Whaddaya want in your coffee?”
“Black’s fine.”
Moments later Lewis returned to the living room with two mugs of coffee. He handed one to Rob and kept the other. “Let me tell you why I think you aren’t having dreams,” he said.
Rob set his mug on the coffee table, scooted forward in his chair, and leaned toward Lewis.
Lewis blew on his coffee, then took a cautious sip. “Hot,” he exclaimed. He placed the mug on the table next to Rob’s, then sat back in his chair. “There are lots of theories about dreams—what causes them, what they mean, what’s the neurobiology behind them—but the modern view is that they’re connected to the unconscious mind.
“In contrast, the ancient Hebrews believed dreams were the voice of God alone. Early Christians mostly shared those beliefs, some still do, and considered dreams as being of a supernatural character. The Old Testament includes many stories of dreams serving as divine inspiration or prophesy, like Pharaoh’s dream that Joseph interpreted, or Nebuchadnezzar’s that Daniel decoded.”
Rob picked up his mug, hovered his lips over it, then placed it back on the table. “Ancient history. What about the 21st Century?”
“Fair question. The modern prevailing hypotheses link dreams to our brain, not to God. They seem to be more post-cognitive than precognitive.”
“Translation, please.”
“We dream about things past, not something that might happen in the future. The concerns, anxieties, frustrations, angers—all of the pressures that gang up on us in everyday life—can be the catalysts for our dreams. But the images and vignettes that visit us in our sleep are never straightforward or clear. They may be bizarre, surreal, or metaphorical. More often than not we don’t have a clue what they mean.”
“Yea, verily,” Rob said. “Being chased by monsters. Forgetting my pants in public. Getting lost in familiar locations.”
Lewis swilled some coffee, raised an eyebrow, and looked askance at Rob. “Really? No pants? Maybe we should explore this further, Rob. I don’t want you slipping any deeper into sexual deviancy.” He chuckled. His emerald eyes danced in ribald merriment.
Rob allowed Lewis his moment—perhaps his friend had been a widower too long, over seven years—then said, “This is all very interesting, but you said I wasn’t having dreams.”
“Exactly. The point I’m driving at is that there’s nothing metaphorical, nothing puzzling, nothing phantasmagorical about what’s been terrorizing you in your sleep.”
“No?”
“It’s pretty damn straightforward. It’s Cascadia letting go in a full-rip megaquake and unleashing a devastating tsunami. There’s nothing post-cognitive about that. You’re seeing the future, Rob.” He paused, then said quite firmly, “It’s a vision, not a dream.”
A tightness coiled around Rob’s chest. Lewis’s proclamation wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He clutched the arms of his chair in a fierce grip and inhaled deeply to steady his breathing. He tipped his head back and gazed at the ceiling. “Jesus, Rev, you told me I wasn’t going loopy. Visions?” His voice rose. “That’s the kind of shit that gets you stuffed into a rubber room.”
Lewis stood and wal
ked to him. He rested a hand on his shoulder. “No, it isn’t. Calm down. We’ll work through this.”
“We? I’m the one flying over the cuckoo’s nest. Or do you think God is my copilot?”
“That’s the real quandary, isn’t it? ‘The Lord spoke to me,’ are the words of the insane and prophets of God. So which are you? Looney Tunes or the Lord’s Lieutenant?” Lewis retreated to his chair.
Rob’s respiration rate slowed, and he fastened his gaze on Lewis. “You told me you didn’t think I was off my rocker.”
Lewis shook his head. “Don’t pay any attention to me. What do you think?”
Rob remained silent, pondering the ramifications of his response.
“Come on,” Lewis said, “there’s no right or wrong answer here.”
“Oh, I think there is,” Rob said. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands grasping one another. “I just don’t know which is which.”
Lewis waited, not moving or uttering a sound.
Rob took a sip of coffee, leaned back embracing the warmth of the mug, and closed his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve punched my ticket for the asylum yet, but I don’t like where that leaves me.”
Lewis adjusted the sleeve of his tattered cardigan and cleared his throat. “There’s a school of thought,” he said, his voice low, “that believes consciousness may be as much a fundamental property of matter as such things as mass, spin, and charge—”
“Whoa,” Rob interrupted, “where are you—”
“Hear me out,” Lewis said, raising a hand to signal Rob to give him a chance to finish. “I’m not going to lead you down a metaphysical rabbit hole. I just want you to consider something.”
Rob shrugged and nodded.
“Spirituality is essentially a subjective experience,” Lewis continued. “It’s basically a polar opposite to the scientific method that we, especially scientists such as yourself, are so enamored with. I’m not saying that’s good or bad, I’m just setting a stage.”
“Go on.”
“Okay. If you can accept there might be some validity to the notion that a universal consciousness exists, I would argue that such a phenomenon could complement what hard science tells us about the world. And here’s my key point: It might not be clergy or theologians who are best attuned to such an eventuality. It more likely would be artists, musicians, and scientists who are tuned in to this, well, let’s call it ‘virtual reality.’”
“You lost me, Rev.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to sum it up in a simple sentence or two. What I’m getting at is that it may be people like yourself, with a foot in religion and a foot in science, who experience dreams with a vision of the future. That’s because your mind envisions the past, present, and future as a single, timeless eternity.”
“Sure I can’t have another shot of Beam?” Rob asked.
“No. So here’s the wrap. You aren’t bat-shit crazy and you aren’t an oracle of the Lord.”
“So where does that leave me?”
“That really is the bigger question, isn’t it?” Lewis stood and began pacing. “It leaves you, really, in an untenable position.”
Rob rolled his eyes. “I know that. That’s why I’m here.” His gaze followed Lewis as he stalked around the room.
Lewis remained silent.
Growing impatient, Rob asked, “What would you do?”
Lewis stopped pacing, rested his hands on the back of his chair, and stood behind it. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They stepped outside into a cool swirling wind and summer sunshine battling with fragmented stratus clouds. They moved up Manzanita Avenue, a street running parallel to Laneda. Children on bicycles coasted past them. Families carrying picnic baskets and blankets trudged along the shoulders of the road, presumably heading back to their vehicles or rental homes after a day on the beach.
Side by side, Rob matched Lewis’s long, shambling strides.
“I can’t really tell you what to do,” Lewis said. “It’s a dilemma unique to you, your background, your beliefs, your values.”
“I know,” Rob responded, his voice subdued. “There are no easy answers, nothing in black and white.”
Lewis slowed his pace. “The problem is, there are just too damn many factors involved, and there’s too much subjectivity, all tied directly to you.”
Rob kicked a pine cone along the street. He waited for Lewis to continue, hoping he had more to bring to the table than just how complex the situation was.
“Look,” Lewis said, after holding his thoughts for some time, “if I told you to go public with your—let’s call it a premonition—and everything goes south, then I’ve ruined your reputation and career. On the other hand, if I advise you to clam up, and a megaquake and tsunami slam the coast, then we’d both live out our days knowing we could have saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives, but didn’t act.”
“We’d feel like Noah would have if he hadn’t built the ark.”
“I can’t help but think Noah was more certain of his course,” Lewis mumbled. “I think he had a hotline to God, or vice versa.” He turned his head toward Rob and spoke with more authority. “Anyhow, I think I can bring some perspective to your dilemma.”
A dune buggy clattered by them. One of its occupants, a sunburned young man, called out to Lewis. “Hey, Rev, wanna take a ride on the beach?”
Lewis smiled and waved him off, then addressed Rob. “I think in the end, it boils down to a cost-benefit analysis.”
“I’ve done a few of those for my business.”
“This one’s different, though. The stakes are human, not monetary.”
Rob stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and kept walking, head down, listening intently to Lewis.
“Let’s assume you decide to remain silent, and no earthquake occurs. You’ve made a good decision. Your reputation, and the Pacific Northwest, remain intact. There is no cost.
“But what if the ‘Big One’ hits and the Oregon Coast has its ‘Banda Aceh Moment’? The cost is horrendous, in terms of lives lost, in terms of what the impact is on you, knowing if you’d had the guts to speak up, many people could have been saved.”
“Thanks for laying that on me, Lewis.”
“I’m just defining the grid here. Nothing more. So let’s consider your other option: going public, speaking up. If you do, and nothing happens, the cost is also horrendous, but only to you. You become an object of scorn and ridicule, the Chicken Little of the geological world. Your reputation is in the toilet and so is your business. Basically, you’re ruined.”
Instead of responding, Rob merely drew a deep breath. Fresh sea air. Sunshine. Life.
“Finally,” Lewis said, “if you go public with your concerns, and your visions prove prophetic, you’re a hero. Not everyone will believe you, of course, maybe very few. But you will have at least triggered awareness in the back alleys of people’s minds. They’ll have escape options and contingency plans within reach whether they acknowledge it or not. Others will actually prepare for the disaster by staying away from the coast or by taking protective actions and laying in emergency supplies. Sure, there will still be deaths, but not to the extent there would have been had you failed to speak out. So there’s a reduced cost in terms of fatalities, and maybe a positive return for you.”
They neared Highway 101 at the upper end of the street. The two men halted. Rob turned to Lewis. “But everything hinges on the validity of my vision.”
“Yes, it does. Unfortunately, that’s something we won’t know until after the fact.”
Rob extended his hand. “Thank you, Lewis. I appreciate your insights. I really do.”
Lewis accepted the proffered hand and gripped it firmly. “I wish I could help more. I know you’re bearing a heavy load.”
“I need t
o talk with Deb.”
“One thing,” Lewis said.
“Yes?”
“If you decide to go public, whatever you do, don’t say God has given you a revelation. That would mark you as a Looney Tunes nut job right out of the starting gate.”
Chapter Nine
A Prophet in His Own Land
Manzanita
Monday, June 29
IN THE MANZANITA Community Center, Rob sat adjacent to the podium preparing to talk at a hastily called press conference. He’d made his decision to “go public” late the previous day. As suggested by Lewis, he’d weighed the costs and benefits of speaking out, and then discussed them with Deb.
The back and forth with Deb hadn’t gone well. She’d pointed out the general public and media would not understand the concepts that had factored into his decision, abstractions such as “universal consciousness” and “virtual reality.”
“They aren’t going to get it,” she’d said, her voice firm. “They won’t give a shit about the philosophical and psychoanalytical nuances of how you reached your conclusion. All they’re going to hear is that an expert in the field believes a big quake and tsunami are going to hit on the Fourth of July. They aren’t going to give a damn about the uncertainties involved, or the doubts you wrestled with.”
“So you’re saying what?”
“Keep it low key and close-hold. Don’t go public. Talk to emergency managers, police, mayors, and maybe that Coastal Threats Expert guy.”
“Pete Cameron?”
“Yeah. Let the decision makers make the call about how to handle your concerns. If you broadcast your visions,”—she hit the word hard—“and they don’t materialize, you’ll be pilloried in the media. Please, please, please don’t risk everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve.”
He’d remained silent for a long while, reanalyzing, reevaluating, and reweighing the consequences of acting or not acting on his vision, or whatever it had been. Finally, he’d reached for Deborah’s hand and grasped it.
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