Escape with the Dream Maker (9 page)

“Well, we'd still be friends, and we could do lots of stuff together. Maybe we could bum around the country. Go to the mountains in Colorado. I always wanted to see that snow. Maybe try skiing. We'd stop and work a little bit, maybe on a ranch. I'd teach you how to rope. No telling what we could do.”

He talked excitedly, and by end of the afternoon he had Wash half believing him. “You think about it, Wash. We have to make our decision pretty soon.”

“All right, Reb. I'll think about it.”

The two parted, and Wash walked the streets of Acton for a while. Finally he found himself standing before Oliver's door. “I'm gonna give this thing one more try,” he said. He walked over, knocked on the door, and found Oliver at home.

“Come in, Wash. Glad to see you.”

“Oliver, tell me some more about this other world that you're talking about.”

“The parallel universe? Well, come on and sit down, but I don't think I can explain it. I don't understand it myself. It's just too big for the human mind.”

“Just tell me what you think,” Wash said earnestly. “Everybody's going to make a decision, and I still don't really like the idea.”

“You'll have to make up your own mind, Wash, but the way I see it . . .”

Wash left Oliver's house two hours later. His head was swimming, and he felt more confused than ever. “That Oliver sure is a spellbinder!” he muttered to himself as he made his way along the darkening street.

 

“I feel like I'm being stretched two ways at once,” Wash said aloud after he had gone to bed that night. “Part of me wants to stay here and help Goél win this here final battle he keeps talking about, and the other half of me wants to go home with the rest of the bunch.” The thought of being left alone in Nuworld without the other Sleepers frightened him, and he lay awake for a long time, struggling.

When Wash did go to sleep, he had a bad dream in which he was all alone on the ocean. He was floating, and deep below were monsters with sharp teeth and tentacles and beaks that could snap his leg off in a single bite. He kept crying out, “Reb—Josh—Sarah—!” Over and over again he called the names of the Sleepers.

He woke up with a start, soaking wet with sweat and trembling with fear.

“I sure would be some lonesome dude without my friends,” he whispered, and the sound of his own voice made him feel more lonesome still.

T
he Sleepers met back at the house where Reb was camped out, and Josh eagerly asked for a vote.

“It's time to make a decision, and it's pretty simple. Either we stay here, or we go back home.” He hesitated for one moment, cutting his eyes over toward Wash. “Everyone in favor of going home raise your hand.”

Despite all of his good intentions, Wash still felt a strong unwillingness to enter into Oliver's plan. As soon as Josh spoke, tension seemed to build up in him. He wished that he were anywhere else in the world but in this room with the dearest friends he had. He had come to the meeting fully intending to go along with the crowd, but he just could not lift his hand. It was as if an anvil had been tied to it, and though his mind said,
Go on—raise your hand—do it!
he simply could not find the strength. He knew this was in his mind, not in his body, but that seemed to make no difference. He could not join in.

“You're the only holdout, Wash,” Reb said, frowning slightly. “I thought we had just about settled this.”

“Yes, Wash,” Sarah said. She glanced at Josh, then back at the small black boy. “I think this is one of those times when we have to follow the leader. Sometimes we have to follow blindly. We've done that often enough.”

Hating himself, Wash stared down at the floor. He felt the pressure of the wills of the others tugging at him to come along with them. Lifting his eyes, he looked at Sarah. “Yes, but that was when we were
asked to follow
Goél
blindly. I don't think he could make a mistake.”

“So you think I'm wrong?” Josh asked sharply.

“I think you could be this time, Josh. There's just something
wrong
with this! I don't know what it is, but it's there, and I just can't get it out of my head.”

This was the beginning of a meeting that lasted for what seemed like hours. Wash sat in the middle of the group, and each Sleeper took turns trying to persuade him. The hardest to ignore was Sarah, whom he had always admired for her gentleness and wisdom. She did not yell at him—no one did, of course—still, he wished with all his heart that he could give up and say yes.

Finally, in disgust, Jake threw up his hands. “Well, that settles it. We'll just have to leave you here.”

Fear came into Wash's heart, but he could not find a word to say. His throat seemed to be closing up. He got up numbly and stood looking around. These faces were dear to him, and he studied them all. Josh Adams and Sarah Collingwood. Then there was Bob Lee Jackson—his closest friend—and Dave Cooper and pretty little Abbey Roberts, whose blue eyes seemed yearning to draw him into the circle. Last, of course, there was Jake Garfield, glaring at him pugnaciously as if he wished to come over and pummel him with his fists.

“I guess you folks will want to be alone,” Wash said quietly. He turned and left the room, and once he stepped outside into the darkness he had never felt so alone in all his life.

 

Wash slept very little that night. He was afraid to go to sleep because of the nightmares that might follow. He fought sleep by walking around and taking sips of the tepid water that was in the jug on the bedside
table. Again and again he argued with himself, sometimes aloud. “You are
stupid,
Gregory Randolph Washington Jones!” he addressed himself sternly. “You think you got more sense than the other six Sleepers? You're the youngest one. They're all smarter than you are—and older. Why do you have to be such a nerd?”

The temptation became stronger than ever to run out of the room, to find Josh, and to cry, “I'll go with you, Josh. It may be wrong, but I'm trusting you.”

He made up his mind that eventually he would have to do this. “I can't stay here alone,” he mumbled as he lay down on his bed. His eyes were gritty, and his speech became slurred. “Gotta go find Josh . . . tell him I'll go with him and the rest . . . can't stay here alone . . .”

Warm darkness closed around him, and he dropped into a sound sleep. His mind was at rest, as was his body, and he slept dreamlessly.

“Wash . . .”

Wash stirred. His body moved, as somewhere inside his head a voice seemed to be speaking.

“Wash, listen to me . . .”

Wash knew that he was asleep, but the figure of Goél seemed to materialize before him. He could not see clearly except that Goél was standing across the room, almost hidden by the darkness. A single light came from somewhere and illuminated his strong features.

“Goél, is it you?”

“Yes, my son. Can you hear me?”

“I'm dreaming this, aren't I?”

“There's a very fine line, Wash, between dreams and reality. In any case, I'm here to give you comfort.”

At once Wash knew a start of fear. “Please, Goél—you're not going to ask me to do something real hard, are you? I don't think I could take it.”

Sorrow crossed Goél's face, a sorrow so deep and profound that it could not be expressed in words. His eyes were hooded, but Wash could see the pain and the grief reflected there. “All of us must face things that are difficult.”

“Have you ever done that, Goél?”

There was a long silence, and the voice came in a whisper, “Yes, I've known the grief and sorrow of all mankind.”

Wash, even knowing it was a dream, could not respond to this. The sorrow and pain that he saw in Goél's eyes were too great, and finally he whispered, “What do you want me to do?”

“You love your friends, do you not, Wash?”

“You know I do, Goél. Next to you, better than anybody.”

“They're in terrible trouble.”

“What's happened to them? Where are they?”

“They are in a prison that has bars much stronger than any steel you have ever seen. Of all the prisons that can be known, I think they are in the most secure.”

“Well, we can break them out. We can get some dynamite—”

“Dynamite will not touch the heart or the mind. It can destroy bodies and things but nothing more. The prison they are in is of their own making. They must be delivered, or they will perish.”

In Wash's dream, the faces of his friends floated into sight, and he saw that the faces were all filled with hurt and grief. This was not the way he had left them, and he knew then, somehow, that they had surrendered to some awful force that now had them trapped.

“Where are they, Goél?”

“They are trapped by their own hearts. They longed so for relief from the difficult things I have
asked of them that they took an easy way. And the easy way is almost always the road that leads to the destruction of heart and of mind.”

“It has something to do with that dream machine thing.”

Goél smiled. “You are quick to understand, my son.” He paused, then said, “You are the only one that can help the Sleepers, your friends. You must find them and set them free.”

“Tell me how. Just tell me how to do it, Goél.”

Goél was again silent for a moment. “You know by now that I do not always give total knowledge in advance to those who serve me. You must walk by faith. I will guide you, but you yourself must find the way. I will lead you, and you will know I'm there, but you must sometimes take steps out into what seems to be total darkness. And I must warn you, you yourself are in danger of the same prison that the others are in. Be careful, Wash. Be very careful. Trust only in what I tell you.”

He hesitated for one moment more, and the silence seemed to fill Wash's mind and heart. “Enter into the prison where your friends lie. Only by entering into their prison can you bring them out to freedom and health and life.”

“Goél, wait! Don't go!” Wash woke up to find himself crying out loud for Goél to return. He sat up in the bed and stared around in the murky darkness.

“It was all a dream. Just a dream,” he said. But somehow he knew it was more than that. Goél had appeared to other Sleepers. Wash himself had once talked to Goél in a dream. He remembered it clearly. Now, as the small boy sat there wondering about the meaning of this dream, he knew fear. Yet somehow, even with the fear, came the knowledge that he was
not quite alone in the room. Though he could not see anyone or hear a voice, still he knew that he had a friend.

“I'll do it, Goél,” he said aloud. “I don't know where I'm going or how I'm going to get there, but I'll do it or die in the attempt!”

T
hough Wash had discovered what to do through his dream of Goél, there still remained the problem of
how
to do it. He had never felt so alone in all of his life. Over the past two years, Wash had been constantly supported by his six friends—the other Sleepers—except for very short periods of time. All he had to do was reach out and touch one or lift his voice and call. Now, however, there was no one to touch and no one to call.

For one whole day he paced the floor of his small room, racking his brain for a solution. After dark he put on his coat, pulled a hat down over his eyes, and slipped out into the darkened streets of the town.

Faint stars twinkled overhead. He eyed them for a time and noted that the moon was rising. It was a mere sliver of a moon, a Cheshire-cat grin, yellow as old cheese. He wished it were a full moon, for that would have been somehow more cheerful. But on the other hand, he was glad that there were the faint stars and the glow of the yellow slice above to guide him.

When he reached the edge of town, he paused and peered down the road to where it turned. Then he turned back determinedly. “No sense going down that road,” he muttered aloud. “If I'm going to find anything, it'll be somewhere back in town, but I wish I had someone to talk this over with.”

“Whooo!”

“What's that?” Wash almost jumped out of his boots. Looking up, he saw the shadow of a great horned owl
glide silently through the sky, and he gave a sigh of relief. He saw the huge bird drift by, then plummet downward. There was the sound of a brief struggle in the weeds of the field, then silence.

Wash shivered, for the instant death of the owl's prey seemed somehow ominous. Quickly he hurried back to his room. He had a little food stashed in a box beside his bunk—the heel of a loaf of bread, somewhat stale, two teaspoonsful of butter in the bottom of a tin, and the remains of some grape jelly. Hungrily he ate it and muttered, “Sure wish I had a moon pie. That'd go down good—and maybe a Pepsi.”

Wash sat on his bed and thought hard. Somehow he had to carry out Goél's orders, and his brow furrowed as he tried and rejected half a dozen different plans. Then his head snapped up, and he whistled. “There's only one cat in this town that knows something about all the Sleepers.” He stood up and started for the door, then halted abruptly. “But I sure don't trust that fellow Oliver. I don't know why. He seems friendly enough and all that. But that dream-machine stuff—it don't set well with me.”

For some time he paced. Finally he said, “But I've got to go to him. He's the only one who can help that I know in this whole part of Nuworld. I can't go running to any old friends—they're too far away. It'll have to be Oliver.”

He slipped out the door, noting that the moon was now high in the sky and that the stars were twinkling more brightly.

There were lights in Oliver's windows. He approached the house reluctantly, wishing there was something else that he might do, but nothing came to mind. When he got to the door, however, he had reached up to knock when an impulse stopped him.
Swiftly he glanced around—
nobody this way—nobody that way.