Dream Makers: Escape from the Shadows of Fear

By Myron J. Radio

It is early evening in eighteenth-century Eastern Europe, and two teens have just risked life and limb to escape from a lifetime of child labor at the hands of a wicked psychological mastermind, Dr. Frederick Fud. Now Will and Dee are running for their lives. But when they stumble upon a cellar with a secret door, they are suddenly transported into a community of extraordinary mentors who are about to change their lives forever.

Dr. Fud, one of the most powerful men in the Kingdom of Id, is determined to continue his quest to capture the two teens and make them pay dearly for their mistakes. Meanwhile, Will and Dee meet Master Servante, the leader of an underground community of scholars and inventors, who comforts the frightened young people with his promise to protect them from danger. As Servante and his community help the youths elude attempts at recapture and uncover their extraordinary destinies, Will and Dee must find the courage to face their greatest fears.

In this fantasy tale, the two teens must trust Servante to overcome their painful past, in order to transform their dreams into realitybefore the evil doctor finds them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462048496

Myron J. Radio

MYRON J. RADIO is the founder of the R Group, LLC, a consortium of seasoned business professionals that coaches leaders on how to transform strategies into action. He lives with his wife, Jeanie, in northern Virginia. He is the co-author of three other books; this is his first novel.

Book preview

DREAM MAKERS

Escape from the Shadows of Fear

MYRON J. RADIO

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

Dream Makers

Escape from the Shadows of Fear

Copyright © 2011 by Myron J. Radio

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-4847-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-4848-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-4849-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011915112

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 09/08/2011

Contents

PREFACE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

About the Author and Contributors

This book is dedicated to my mother, Margaret; my father, Myron; and all my forefathers and foremothers who came before them. It is also dedicated to my uncles, aunts, and cousins, who are too numerous to mention by name.

Most important, this book is dedicated to my wife, Jeanie; my son, Matt; my sisters, Anne and Beth; my nephews, Nicholas and Michael; my brother-in-law, Mike; and all the spiritual guides and guardians who shepherded me through this journey.

This is our story, the words of which came through me but not from me. Our energy is forever intertwined in love.

PREFACE

One night, many years ago, I fell asleep and had a surreal dream. It was unlike any other dream I’ve ever experienced. It felt so real that it was like watching a movie on a surround-screen monitor. No matter how many times I tossed and turned or left my bed, the dream replayed itself each time I drifted back to sleep.

Finally, around three o’clock in the morning, I decided to capture the details with pen and paper, hoping that doing so would release my mind so I could get some sleep. Rather than documenting it in my journal, where I often record my thoughts, something compelled me to reach into a stack of unused notebooks and select one at random. On the cover of the one I chose were the first five words from Mary Stevenson’s poem, Footprints: One night a man dreamed …

An eerie sense of calm swept through me. I knew immediately that the words I was about to write would come through me but not from me. I was simply a vehicle for the powerful story that gripped me, and my role in this process was to record it as it unfolded in my mind’s eye.

I had been planning for some time to write a book, one that would share what I had learned throughout my career building high-powered teams, leaders, and organizations. My expertise was shaped and developed by my experiences as well as the work of many masters in personal, professional, and organizational development. I had even outlined several processes and documented the leadership and business models I found most effective. I wanted to help leaders identify the strengths of the people within their organizations so they could position them for success. In doing so, individuals and teams would realize they could quickly tap into a higher power to achieve truly remarkable results. In fact, I’d already shared this message and my strategies with diverse audiences in seminars and workshops around the world.

Although I knew that I had a compelling story to tell and lessons to offer those with similar challenges in the business world, writing a business book felt more like a chore than an inspiration—like a report on the work of others, rather than a creation of something new. I was searching for more. I prayed for some divine intervention to help me build on what I’d learned to make my work truly unique and meaningful. Then one night, at the height of my impatience, my prayers were answered in that dream.

As I began to capture the essence of my vision, I lost track of time. But I was having the time of my life. My soul felt euphoric, and my spirit was vibrating with anticipation and glee. I thought of nothing else until the next day, when my wife, Jeanie, came into my study to ask if I’d like anything for lunch.

Lunch? I had unknowingly worked straight through breakfast. I looked at the clock. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. I told Jeanie about the events of the last eleven or so hours. She ran to get the morning newspaper. She’d already read it—including both of our horoscopes—and wanted me to hear mine. It said, Follow your dreams.

Was this coincidence or fate? Was something great at work here—something deeper than anything I had experienced up to this point in my life? At the time, the answer didn’t really matter. All I knew was that I wanted to stay in this highly energized state for as long as it lasted. I had literally tapped into some energy beyond my comprehension, and I didn’t want to let go.

Over the next several months, I continued to wake up around three o’clock each morning. I’d rush to my computer, where I had since transcribed those early notes. I’d put my fingers on the keys with no idea where the story would go or how it would unfold that night. I had no plot in mind—no climax, no preconceived outcome. I simply captured the story as it came into my mind.

I completed the first rough draft of this manuscript in about four months. Then the hard part began. My book needed to be edited, designed, copyrighted, reviewed, published, distributed, marketed, publicized … The list was daunting, to say the least. At the same time, my consulting business took off. I was so busy with work that I let the book lie there, with little attention, for years.

Then one day, my sister Beth, who knew I was working on a book but was mostly just amused that someone who read only comic books as a child was writing a novel, visited a friend in Nebraska. Just for kicks, they decided to visit a local psychic. Before Beth had even introduced herself to the psychic, the woman asked, So, why has your brother stopped writing his book? My dumbfounded sister asked what the woman meant. She replied, His angels are here. They want to know why he no longer gets up in the middle of the night to write.

Spooky, right? When she told me about the exchange, I considered returning to the book, but I felt that I really needed to focus on my business. I still felt occasional pangs about the uncompleted work, but my business was thriving, and I had since published two other books on personal and team development. My current path was set, and I felt good about it. Should I really divert from it to explore fiction? Moreover, would it hurt my image as a serious business adviser?

Four years later, my other sister, Anne, introduced our family to a Reike specialist who also has some psychic abilities, which she uses as a natural way to address her clients’ aches and pains. She, too, questioned why I had stopped my creative writing, though none of us had mentioned it to her. Shortly afterward, the dreams began to recur. I thought constantly about how to edit and expand the story line. The characters seemed set on keeping my attention until I completed their story.

It seems that my guardians and guides were serious about having this book completed and published. I began to feel that this was more their work than mine. I decided to finish the book and see where the Universe would take it – which, as fate would have it, turned out to be an ironically named publisher called iUniverse. And I began to call it the book rather than my book, to recognize and honor its origins.

To all of you who have dreamed a wonderful dream and hoped that it would come true one day, I dedicate this work to you. I hope you enjoy it and learn from it. I sure have.

Myron

CHAPTER 1

Escape

BEWARE—BE AWARE

When You Cross through This Portal,

Your Life Will Be Transformed.

W ill, wake up! I heard something outside, Dee whispered urgently. At first, it was just a dog barking in the distance. But then I heard something strange. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

It was about six in the evening on an early spring night in Eastern Europe. Earlier that afternoon, the two youths had risked life and limb to escape from a lifetime of child labor at the hands of the infamous Dr. Frederick Fud, owner and procurator of the Fud Institute. Now the people who had kept them under constant surveillance throughout their short lives were hunting them down like animals.

Will’s blue eyes popped open immediately. Aroused from an exhausted sleep, he reached for his forehead, which was throbbing in pain. He could feel the cut through the blood-soaked, makeshift bandage his sister had skillfully wrapped around his head to stanch the bleeding. He struggled to his knees and crawled to the window. Bruised and battered from their ordeal, Will and his sister had taken shelter in a deserted sixteenth-century home on the edge of town, complete with dirt, dust, mold, and cobwebs. Thanks to its view of both the main street and the village beyond, it seemed like a good location for an interim hideout. For protection from the early-evening chill, they had covered themselves with musty sheets that had been strewn over bits and pieces of discarded living room furniture. Then they had huddled in the corner of what had once been an elegant dining room for some much-needed sleep.

It had grown dark during the hours that they slumbered. Will rubbed his eyes and shook his head to get his bearings. He was a thin, gaunt-looking boy of fifteen. Though he was quite pale, with the oily, acne-covered complexion of most boys his age, he also possessed many striking features that made it clear he would be a handsome man: wavy, sandy-colored hair; a strong jawline; and most impressive of all, piercingly deep blue eyes.

His sister, on the other hand, was already maturing into a beautiful young woman. Her short auburn hair set off her large green eyes. And though her olive complexion was pale because she spent most of her time indoors, her face was free of blemishes or freckles. Tonight, however, it was hard to see her complexion at all under the dirt and grime.

Suddenly, Will heard a rustle in the overgrown bushes surrounding the property. His eyes scanned left and then right, surveying the yard as best they could in the darkness. He caught a glimpse of something in the distance—the reflection of shiny steel against the dense landscape.

Come on, Dee! exclaimed Will, now wide awake. We have to move! He grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet, and headed for the stairwell leading to the second floor.

Dee stopped abruptly. Wait, she said. The first place they’ll look is the attic. I’ve heard that these old houses have dug-out cellars with crawl spaces that could offer us better hiding places.

Will considered it for a few seconds. Okay, let’s hurry, he said, rushing around the corner and through the tattered basement door.

The wooden stairwell with its unstable handrail descended a few steps to a landing. From there, they could move off to the left or continue down another set of steps to the right. As they continued deeper and deeper, away from the main floor and their pursuers, their only light came from a nearby streetlamp that shone faintly through a small, grimy basement window. They did not stop to think; they brushed aside the cobwebs and kept going. As they descended, the musty odor of the damp cellar filled their nostrils.

After three levels of staircases, they finally reached the bottom and found themselves almost completely in the dark. Will grasped his sister’s hand tightly and fumbled about to the left. No! insisted Dee, yanking him in the opposite direction. Something tells me we need to go this way.

Will silently consented, allowing his sister to take the lead. Over the years, he had come to appreciate Dee’s unique knack for sensing what was right in tense situations. This was especially true if his logical but decisive mind didn’t have adequate time to work through the problem in its entirety. Even though Will liked to be the leader, he gave way to Dee’s intuition at times like this. He tentatively followed her lead but continued to look over his shoulder to make sure Fud’s henchmen weren’t closing in on them.

As they moved forward in the darkness, they could hear men entering the house. You two, check upstairs. And make sure you search the attic! That’s one of the favorite places for these little brats to hide, commanded a booming voice. You two, check the dining room and kitchen. And you two, search the living room and study. Open every drawer, door, and cabinet. Find them!

Without the faintest glimmer of light to illuminate their path, Will and Dee moved along the basement wall quietly and quickly. Suddenly, Will’s head brushed against something hard; the basement ceiling was getting lower! Though he wasn’t particularly tall for his age, Will was several inches taller than his sister, but soon the ceiling grazed the top of her head as well. At first, they had to bend over at the waist to move forward. Eventually, they had to crawl—and ignore the fact that their knees and hands were getting cut on the dirt and cinder floor—as the walls also starting closing in around them.

Will, this is good, whispered Dee. They’ll never be able to follow us into this small space.

Suddenly, a dirt-packed wall blocked their path. They felt the wall to determine if they could possibly get around it. Will’s fingers fumbled until he found a board securely fastened against the wall on a set of rough hinges. He ran his fingers across the board. To his surprise, he felt shallow grooves that seemed like writing. Something had been etched deep into the wood. Dee, he said. There’s a sign here, and beneath it, a small door handle!

Can you make out what it says? she asked.

"I’m not sure, but the first word seems to be beware."

Then we should probably read it before we try to get in that door, said Dee hurriedly. Last night, we found that matchbox with one match left in the kitchen upstairs, remember? We were going to use it to build a fire, but you said the light might attract anyone searching for us. Do you still have it?

Yes, it’s in my pocket, he replied quickly. But my pants are damp and cold from crawling on this floor. I’m not sure the match will light.

By now Fud’s men had found some displaced dust and broken spiderwebs on the first floor. Will and Dee heard one of the men shout, Someone has been here recently. And look! There’s fresh blood on the floor here. Suddenly, the cellar door was flung open and heavy footsteps thundered down the steps. You two, take this level, and we’ll continue down below! the leader yelled.

Quickly, Will, light the match, Dee urged anxiously. Light it now before they reach the bottom level!

The first strike didn’t work—not even a spark. The second strike was similarly futile. "The match will light on this strike," Dee said with a sense of urgency and purpose.

"It must light on this strike," Will demanded as he turned the match to its fresh side and pulled the wooden stick across the rough edge of the matchbox. The match tip exploded into light, and the pungent smell of burning sulfur filled the air.

Will held the lighted match up to the sign. Together they whispered the words aloud: Beware—Be Aware. When You Cross Through This Portal, Your Life Will Be Transformed.

The siblings looked at each other over the flame and saw the bewilderment each felt reflected on the other’s face. Was this a real warning or a silly joke played by someone long ago?

CHAPTER 2

The Ride of

Their Lives

Whatever you can do or dream you can do—Begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now!

Johann Wolfgang van Goethe

Fearing the men were getting close and that the match’s flame might draw their attention, Dee blew it out. She looked at her brother, or rather, into the darkness where she knew his face to be. Will reached out, put his arm around her shoulder, and whispered, We have to decide. We can either stay here and risk being returned to Fud’s Institute, where we’ve felt like prisoners our whole lives, or we can trust ourselves and go through this door. She felt his hands take her by the shoulders and turn her body to face him, both comforting her and bracing her for the quick decision she had to make. I choose the chance for freedom, Dee, he urged. Let’s go through this door together.

Dee could hear the footsteps getting closer, and in her fear, she hesitated—but only for a brief moment. Will tightened his grip on her shoulders, bringing her awareness back to the urgency of the present. She knew that when Will had time to evaluate a situation, his decisions were sound. He had trusted her when her instincts led them to this door. Now she had to trust him and follow him into the unknown. Okay, she whispered.

Captain, Captain! a deep male voice shouted. Someone lighted a match down here. I can smell the sulfur.

Will and Dee joined hands to steel their courage and turned the small doorknob ever so slowly. As the door creaked open, they saw a dim light coming from within. Each heard a voice from deep inside their minds urging, Move toward the light. They pulled the door open a little wider and leaned forward.

Suddenly, they were sucked into and through the doorway, as if by a large vacuum. The wooden door slammed shut behind them, and the dirt that lined the ceiling and walls of the portal crumbled to the ground, sealing the entrance through which they’d just come. They found each other in the darkness, relieved that their pursuers could not follow them into … into … but where were they?

Will and Dee fumbled around on their hands and knees until, at almost the same instant, they discovered a thickly kneaded rope tacked into the ground beneath them.

Do you feel the rope? asked Will.

Yes, said Dee.

Let’s see where it leads. You go left, and I’ll go right.

Slow down, Will, and be careful, Dee said in a worried voice. I can’t afford to lose you now.

After inching several yards across the cold, damp floor, Will bumped into something in the path, his right leg making hard contact with metal. Ouch, he yelled and then slapped his hand over his mouth, afraid their pursuers might hear him through the rubble.

Will! called Dee, alarmed. Are you okay?

Yes, I just found something hard with my leg, that’s all, he answered, as he examined the object that had caused him such intense pain. Come here.

What is it? Dee cried.

It feels like a large lantern.

As his hands fumbled over the newfound object, Dee quickly scurried to his side. There’s a metal box attached to the side of the lantern, he told her. Hold on, and I’ll see if I can open it.

Be careful, she said, sounding even more worried. You don’t know what’s inside. Finally, his hand found the latch. He pulled up on it, and it clicked open. What is it? she asked.

It’s a metal matchbox coated with what feels a thin layer of wax, Will replied, grabbing one of the matches and swiping it across the large rock upon which he was kneeling. It broke in two without lighting.

Too hard, he explained. He tried again with added resolve, and his next strike was successful. The match head exploded into an orange-yellow flame, revealing the lantern in its entirety. A large, round white candle with three unburned wicks protruded from it. As Will lighted the wicks, the cavern burst into light, giving them a better look at their discovery. The lantern itself was built with three thick glass planes, which dispersed the light. The fourth side was constructed from a thin, shiny, concave metal shield that projected the light about fifteen yards ahead. There had been lanterns at the Institute, but Will and Dee had never seen anything like this before. It was by far the largest lamp they’d ever seen, and the intricacy of the design was astonishing.

They surveyed their surroundings and found they were in some sort of tunnel. Behind them was the blocked exit, and in front of them was a wooden cart, which stood on a sturdy metal frame resting on what looked to be a miniature railroad track with long iron rails. The rails continued a few yards ahead of the cart and then disappeared around a sharp curve, which blocked everything else from sight.

What is that? asked Dee.

I have no idea, said Will. It looks like a normal coal cart, except for this rail in front of it.

Look, Will, there’s a rack, she said, pointing to a metal contraption on the front of the cart. I think the lantern goes here.

Will carried the lantern to the rack and affixed it to its designated position. It fits perfectly, he said.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, knowing without any need for conversation that both of them were trying to muster enough courage to climb inside. After all, there was really nowhere else to go. Will was the first to speak. He took his sister’s hand in his and said, Shall we?

She simply nodded. He kneeled down to give her a boost and then climbed in himself. As soon as his feet hit the wooden bottom, their combined weight caused the cart to lurch forward over the small rock that had been holding it in place and began to move down the slight decline. Surprised by the sudden movement, they grabbed the cart’s handrail and held on tightly. As the cart rounded the bend, it suddenly dropped sharply downward, as did Will and Dee’s stomachs, taking away their breath. When the track reached the bottom of the grade, they were horrified to see another steep hill in front of them. They tightened their grip and prepared to crash, but the cart used the momentum from its descent and its sheer weight to quickly scale the climb. Once they reached the peak, they had only a moment to catch their breath before the cart slowly turned to the right and then fell straight down again, causing their feet to temporarily lose contact with the bottom of the transport. The ups, downs, and swerves to the left and right continued for several minutes, but the cart moved so quickly that neither Will nor Dee had time to think much about the danger; they could only hold on.

Finally, the cart began to slow. The front wheels bumped into some sort of small barrier, which tipped the cart forward and dumped its passengers into a metal chute.

As Will and Dee slid down the long chute, air rushed past their faces and blew their hair wildly; it was so strong, they could hardly catch their breath. Scrambling to resist both momentum and gravity, they had no luck in slowing themselves, and both quickly gave up the effort. After what felt like minutes but was really only a few seconds, they landed face-first on a sea of straw.

Will and Dee sat up immediately, looking for each other. Each scanned the brightly lighted landing area—a small room with nothing but a giant pile of straw in the center of the floor, directly beneath the mouth of the metal chute. Fortunately, they’d landed only a few feet apart and could quickly tell that although both were jostled, neither was hurt. Uncertain and confused about their surroundings, they were still so giddy with adrenaline from the ride that neither felt the degree of terror they would have expected.

Will held his finger to his lips, signaling for Dee to remain quiet. She nodded, with a sisterly look that let him know she didn’t need to be told to do so. They sat up enough to peek over the straw without being seen. Through the door of the room, they could see a much bigger room full of people busy at work. They counted one, two, five, eight, twelve, or more people working in groups. Some were clustered around a large sheet of paper, talking and furiously scribbling notes. Others were working together on a huge mechanical model of what looked to them, from the little they could see around the workers in front of it, like a large creature. Still others were gathered around a giant table map, moving objects around on it as they talked. Occasionally, someone from one group would call out to someone in another, and people from all the teams seemed to mingle with and help one another, often sharing a laugh or a pat on the back.

Will and Dee made eye contact and, without words, expressed their shared fears with each other. This was all so strange and confusing. Was it a dream, or was it real? If it was a dream, they wished it would end soon.

CHAPTER 3

The Dream

Taker’s Rage

Power flows to the person who knows.

Adapted from Elbert Hubbard

W hat do you mean, you haven’t found them? roared Dr. Frederick Fud. How far could they have gone? Don’t you know how important those two are to me? His henchmen stood with bowed heads and slumped shoulders. They said nothing.

Gore, I pay you well to deliver, Fud bellowed, banging his fists on the large mahogany desk in his library. Tell me, what have you been doing for the past twenty-four hours?

Captain Gore raised his eyes—which were full of shame and fear—to meet Fud’s rage. Well, sir, we have searched the entire countryside and the village, he replied. We sent riders to see if there is any word from our contacts in the surrounding villages. We even checked abandoned homes, barns, and sheds. We found no trace of them anywhere.

Except for that house on the edge of town, added Nicholas, one of Gore’s men.

What do you mean? shouted Fud. What home on the edge of town?

Gore shot his underling a quick glance with enough vengeance in his eyes to make them almost glow. Pleased to see Nicholas shudder in response, Gore quickly returned his attention to Fud. He’s talking about the old Miller estate. It’s been deserted for years, but last night we found evidence that someone was in there recently—fresh bloodstains on the wooden floor in the old dining room. We searched the entire home, from the attic to the sub-basements. We tore the house apart, but we found nothing. It was probably just a vagabond who stayed there for a night or two. He looked expectantly at Fud, hoping his description of the exhaustive search had earned him some points. But the fury on his employer’s face showed that it hadn’t.

Dr. Fud was a handsome man, though at the moment his face was screwed up so tightly that it was hard to tell. Though he was middle aged, his dark hair and strong face showed little sign of aging—only some sparse gray hairs, a slightly receding hairline, and a few worry wrinkles around his pale blue eyes. Though his presence instilled