Portal of Dreams

By William Wallace Tara

It was just the two of them in the gallery.
Lobo turned to JK, Van Gough was intensely disturbed you know. He saw the world through different eyes. Just look. Who in their right mind could imagine a night like that? He swept his long arm out and pointed at the painting in front of them.
The tiny canvas contained an image of stars surrounded by halos of light through blue-black space and a landscape undulating with energy. His mind reeled as he was abruptly dragged back toward the dreamscape. His heart raced as he struggled to compose himself.
Im sorry. This is fascinating but Im late for a meeting. I have to run.
Lobo laughed and the shadow of something alarming emerged from within his sophisticated exterior. The eyes that looked back at JK glittered with an animal intensity. Well you can run, but you cant hide Mr. Kimble.

JKs life is in ruin. He is a reluctant dreamer in a world where dreaming is a disease. He has lost his status, his job all his money and is on the run to save his life. His only allies are a street gang, a madman and a beautiful angel he doesnt believe in. His only hope lies at the entrance to The Portal of Dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465334022

William Wallace Tara

William Wallace Tara William Tara has been a pioneer in the Alternative Health movement since 1967. He has been invited to over 20 countries to present seminars to health professionals and the general public on Natural Health Care, Macrobiotic Philosophy and environmental issues. He is the co-founder of the Kushi Institute and has worked as a health consultant and teacher in America and Great Britain. He was the first Western author to write about the body-mind connection in Chinese Medicine. www.billtara.net

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PORTAL

OF

DREAMS

William Wallace Tara

Copyright © 2011 by William Wallace Tara.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without

permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

37973

Contents

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EPILOGUE

Cover photo art by

Catherine Jansen

http://www.catherinejansen.com

Dream Affect Psychosis (DAP)

The first cases of Dream Affect Psychosis (DAP) were diagnosed in large urban areas in North America, Europe, and Asia. It is difficult to assess the exact beginning of this psychological epidemic because the increase in suicide, self-harm, and spontaneous acts of violence was not originally seen as a single phenomenon.

It was only after independent studies of patients and prisoners by Dr. E. L. Brady (University of Bristol) and Dr. Yoshio Kawahara (University of Hawaii) that it became clear that a specific psychological profile with corresponding neurological links became obvious.

Within two years of the publication of the Brady and Kawahara studies, clinical research by several major universities established that disruptions in brain chemistry were responsible for abnormal activity in the amygdala area of the brain and were the primary site for the physical and psychological symptoms.

Although there is still disagreement as to the direct cause of these abnormalities in brain function, it is universally agreed that there is a chemical-triggering mechanism that can be excited during the REM stage of sleep. Individuals with a predication for DAP seem to experience dreams that become increasingly vivid and disruptive eventually blending into the waking state and producing a psychosis characterized by anxiety and hallucinations that can lead to violent behavior.

Initial treatment with antidepressants was only marginally effective. Somatec, the preferred treatment for the condition, was developed one year following the Brady/Kawahara studies were published. The drug gained fast-track approval and was quickly accepted as the recommended medication. While the full effect of Somatec is not well understood, one of the results of treatment is the reduction of acetylcholine in the brain.

Somatec can be used with positive effect by an estimated 75 percent of the population with no serious side effects. Small percentages of the population refrain from Somatec for religious or philosophical reasons and are commonly referred to as intentional dreamers. While not required by law, it is considered socially responsible for these individuals not taking the medication to volunteer for regular screening. This screening is a requirement for most health insurance. Regular screening is also required for the small percent of the population who suffer from severe physical or psychological reactions to the drug and are forced to use alternative treatments or preventative monitoring.

Journal of Neuropsychological Studies, Volume VIII

- 1 -

We have become victims of our own intelligence. We wanted to be safe from unseen enemies so we created a society where there is nothing personal, everything is public. We are being weighed and measured for the slaughter.

George Maxwell, Primal Shift

Three weeks of rain have left a sickly gloss on the dark stone of the city. The gutters are awash in a steady stream of gray water that sprays onto the sidewalks with the passing of cars. The wind bumps against the unyielding surfaces of commerce and pushes against the walkers snapping open the flaps of coats and unhinging umbrellas. No one can remember a winter this unpleasant.

Allen Taggart is a small knot of fear pushing against the wet wind and the pedestrian tide. He is not concerned with the weather but with the watchful eyes of the security cameras that dot the shop fronts and utility poles. He is focused on that most human of concerns—survival. His mind is a jumble of conflicting emotions. He has done something incredibly stupid, possibly life threatening. His fear is not only for himself but also for his friends and all the people he has let down. The genie is out of the bottle.

Moments before the chemical shock that will kill him, he is praying he can somehow repair the damage done. His mind is focused on getting to the relative safety of home to think it out. If only he can find a place to rest and think. This fantasy is brought to an end by a sharp prod to the back. Allen turns quickly only to see the figure of a man with a closed umbrella slide past him gracefully and be swallowed up in the crowd. That is when everything in Allen’s world comes to an abrupt end.

Now he lies on the wet pavement, his usually pink cheeks a sickly grey and a startled expression frozen on his usually jovial face. As a young shop worker named Bernard searches in vain for a pulse on his neck, the lunch-hour river of workers stumble around this inconvenient obstacle without a pause. Bernard is relieved to hand his momentary burden over to the ambulance medics that appear within minutes of poor Allen’s fall but lingers as long as possible at the scene of the most exciting thing that he has ever witnessed. As he turns to go back into the overheated frenzy of bargain shoppers, his eyes lock with those of a tall man standing by the door.

He will remember looking into those strange eyes for months to come. The man appears to be one of the army of homeless crazies that roam the streets. He is wearing a long grimy coat that almost reaches the ground. His hair is swept back and tied in an unruly tangle at his neck. Bernard is held immobile by those eyes, and then the most unusual thing happens. Two questions enter his mind fully formed. They are not the kind of questions he would normally consider. It will trouble him later when he thinks about it. The questions are as follows:

—   How did the ambulance arrive so quickly during rush hour?

—   Why didn’t the medics check the man’s vital signs before bundling him into the ambulance?

Bernard feels a cold shiver move through him as the vagrant raises his eyebrows, nods, and smiles as if sharing a dirty joke before letting out a growling laugh and walking away.

It is true that everything about Allen’s removal was a study in efficiency. The ambulance pulled up within minutes of him falling to the pavement. He was picked up without ceremony by two burly men in medic coats and hoisted onto a stretcher, and the body was efficiently loaded in the back of the ambulance.

When the doors were closed, the medics meticulously stripped Allen’s clothes from his body and put all his belongings in specially sealed plastic bags. At the hospital his body would be scanned before a thorough autopsy. When the contents of Allen’s clothes and body had been itemized and catalogued, the senior investigator took out his phone and keyed a single digit.

—   Yes.

—   We’re finished.

—   And?

—   Almost nothing.

—   How complete was this?

—   I could tell you what he had for dinner last night and what kind of soap his underwear was washed in.

—   You said almost.

—   Yes, he was a dreamer. There was no trace of Somatec.

—   This is not going to go down well.

—   There’s nothing else here.

—   OK. We need to do a complete reconstruction of the video feeds. We need to know how this happened and where he has been.

—   Jesus, that’s going to be days, he’s been on the move for three hours.

—   Yeah, I’ll need you here when you finish.

—   Any family?

—   No, he lived by himself.

—   We have a crew outside the house.

—   Is the doctor on board?

—   Completely.

—   Was it a heart attack?

—   Sadly yes. So tragic in one so young.

*     *     *

Louise Rodman sat staring into a large ashtray filled with the results of the last hour of smoking. Her arthritic fingers trembled as she drew a new cigarette out of the pack, placed it between her lips, removed it, and put it on the table. Across the table sat a small man who looked out of place in this humble kitchen. He was a miniature sophisticate. His immaculately tailored black suit and starched white shirt were from another era. His silk tie matched the flash of color that peeked out of his breast pocket. He was barely over five feet tall but presented the confidant gravity of a larger man.

He had been quietly waiting for her to speak and would wait all night if needed. He was an expert in the art of watching and waiting. His expression changed little except when Louise would light another smoke. Only then would she have the pleasure of creating a slight disturbance on his inscrutable surface. She loved him like a brother, but his placid nature made her want to scream and throw things.

She breathed deeply and broke the silence. I don’t know what to say. I’m frightened and worn out.

I know, Louise. What you are doing is heroic, but we need to continue.

I’m losing it. There is movement happening that I can barely see. There is a growing darkness an unease that’s building force. I think I’m in over my head.

She was usually not indecisive or fearful and her weakness troubled her. I don’t know if we’re doing any good. I feel that I’m only preaching to the converted. Chasing rainbows. She reaches for the cigarette and stops her hand. I must really stop smoking.

Finally a small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Yes, we both agree on that.

She picks up the cigarette and lights it. But not now. She pulled the smoke in deeply and let it out with a sigh. I’ll keep it up for now.

It was his eyes that she loved the most. They were the eyes of a sad child, and now they met hers, and she felt silly and ungrateful. She owed him her life. He saved her from self-destruction those many years ago and taught her how to use her talents. Now sitting here in this cosy apartment, she felt his trust and quiet confidence push her fears aside.

He reached across the table and placed a hand on hers. It will not be long, and we will all know if our work has made a difference. We have good people in place, many good people. This is the hard part, holding fast till the end.

He left her alone with the rain sliding down the windows and the rumble of the city in the background. Eventually she roused herself to start a meal. John would be home soon, and he would be full of stories of work and news of the world, and she would settle into an evening of quiet domesticity. John would not expect any talk about her vocation. He feared the realm she roamed every night. They loved each other deeply, but that part of her life was for her alone. When bedtime came, her true self would slide into the dreamscape, and she would do her real work.

*     *     *

About one mile north of the apartment building where Louise and John sat down for their evening meal sits a building that has become a major landmark in the changing face of the city. It takes up the better part of a whole block. Its thirty stories are faced with clouded glass that displays a dark reflection of the buildings around it and the endlessly cloudy sky. People in the city call it the Black Box. Entrances on three streets service its dark mass. Above each entrance the word Malford is etched in the black marble portico.

These entrances lead to the various divisions of the largest corporation in the world. The enterprise is the creation of one man. He is rich beyond most people’s dreams. His empire spans broadcast media, medical research, pharmaceutical manufacturing, and recreation. He has the largest private security force in the world and the rights to Somatec, the world’s most used prescription drug. At this moment he is looking out from his penthouse office over the windblown landscape of the city and talking on a secure line.

—   Tell me.

—   We have found our man and neutralized him.

—   Neutralized? The instructions were to question.

—   Unfortunately he had a bad reaction.

—   I am not happy with this, I expect some disciplinary action.

—   Yes, sir.

—   Did we find the information?

—   We did, but it may have been copied. We also discovered that he was a dreamer.

—   I see. I will want a complete report, Kelly. I want no more events like this. I want increased security at New Vision till the transition is finished. I want to know for certain if a copy exists.

When the connection is broken, the room is silent. Up the avenue toward the park he can see the pedestrian traffic moving along as the offices empty. The thought of them as microbes moving from one part of a large organism to another passes through his mind. The thought is pleasing to him.

The force that built his empire was not forged with muscle but with brutal will. Outwardly he seems ordinary in every way except his eyes—they are dark as night, and against his white hair and pale skin they give him an intense yet ghostly quality.

As he looks down on the city below, a slight flicker of movement catches his eye. He moves closer to the corner of the window and sees that a spider has built a web outside. Moving his face closer to the glass, he stares at this web as it pulses with the wind. Just imagine, he thinks, thirty stories above the surface and this creature has created its hunting ground against all odds. The winds at this height are strong and the web pulses, yet the threadlike strands flex and hold, the spider continues its work. A rare sight is reflected in the glass—Malford is smiling.

As he moves his head back from the glass, he can feel a distant pulsation not unlike the wind. This dark presence that animates his desires and drives his ambition knows no schedule and needs no prompting. He is sometimes faint when it rises in him. It ripples up his spine like electricity through a bare wire. It is a presence he knows well and embraces fully. As the feeling passes, he looks back to the spider, moves to his desk, and speaks into the intercom, Please see that the cleaning crew does not disturb the outside windows on the northwest corner of my office.

*     *     *

Helen McCarthy steps out onto the sidewalk, huddles against the wind, and pushes off for the subway entrance. The subway is crowded as usual, and she is carried along with the human traffic. Two stops later she joins the crowd to another platform, steps around a corner, reverses her raincoat, pulls a cap down around her ears, and boards another train. Thirty minutes later she exits into another world. This is where the poor and marginal live. She moves toward a sign that says Mall 24 and descends. Day and night workers of every race and belief are brought together by their shared poverty to this underground precinct.

The aisles between the shops are narrow and the ceilings low. The air is humid and stale in every season. This is where the poor come to buy their food, bargain for their goods, and trade their hard-earned cash for cheap imitations of what the wealthy use and wear.

She weaves her way through the crowd, coming at last to a large arcade with hundreds of screens lined up in aisles. Tangled lengths of cable are stretched around the floor or hooked to the beams of the ceiling. People crowd around screens exchanging calls with loved ones, playing games, or engaging in business too small for corporate interest. Helen slips a credit card through the reader at the door and then drops it in the trash can inside. At the desk the sleepy-eyed clerk nods at her and holds up two fingers.

She walks down the long line of aisles to the one with a large numeral 2 stenciled on the floor and quickly makes her way along the bank of screens till she comes to one with a large yellow card taped on it. The card reads, Out of Service. In the corner is a double spiral insignia. Helen looks around to see if anyone is watching, tears the card from the screen, and sits down. Her fingers skate over the keyboard entering a series of letters and number codes. The screen comes alive immediately with the double spiral. She looks down the aisle to see the sleepy clerk standing at the very end. He smiles—she has not been followed. She enters a site advertising items for pet owners, waits till dog-training tapes scroll onto the screen, and punches in her code. Immediately the screen is filled with plain copy.

It only takes a few moments for her to file her latest report and discover that Allen Taggart, a young man she had only briefly met, has died.

—   Should I have known him?

—   Certainly not. He was planted. We think by the Molly McGuire’s.

—   Oh hell.

—   He tried to hack into Malford from New Vision. He may have even done it.

—   Poor guy. Probably not natural causes then.

—   No, not poor guy, foolish guy, stupid guy. Good you didn’t figure him out or make contact. There are either too many lone wolves out there or not enough.

—   Time’s up.

—   Dream on

Even in a safe place like this, it was best to be brief. The screen saver of a tropical beach with two palm trees animates when she finishes. The leaves of the trees are being gently moved by a quiet breeze, you can hear the surf in the distance. Helen smiles, shuts down the screen, and walks out the door. At the shop facing her, two women stand silent and unmoving, their attention fixed on cheap replicas of expensive shoes. Helen pauses and watches. They do not move or speak; they are transfixed by the shoes. A tremor runs through her as she turns away and makes her way home.

Home is where she is safe and protected from the daily round of danger and tension that has become her life. The ancient elevator creaks and groans as she rides up through the ten floors of poverty that she lives in. She touches the lights and checks the screens that flash their coded messages all day long. With the press of a button a small chime sounds, and she is assured of yet another day of safety; no one has entered the system or the apartment.

She lies down on the couch and wraps herself up in an old quilt. She likes to imagine that her grandmother has made this quilt but it was bought at a thrift store. The sound system comes on and music fills the air as the loneliness settles in. Is it worth it? Is it necessary to live this life of isolation to make a better world? She hopes so.

- 2 -

The betrayal of the natural mind is perhaps one of the greatest crimes of human society. The increased flattening out of the emotional landscape through the use of drugs designed to regulate our mood is robbing us all of imagination and vibrant thought. Some people say we are ‘losing our minds.’ We are not losing our minds we are giving them away.

George Maxwell, Primal Shift

The interior of the clinic looks more like the lobby of an expensive hotel than a medical facility. JK is seated on a low couch and has been offered tea or coffee. He has refused them both. He is not in the mood to be made comfortable. He is upset, angry, and intends to stay that way. He has not slept through the night for weeks. He is a reluctant dreamer and tired of it. While his friends take Somatec for dream-free sleeping he is doomed to rattle around in his personal surrealistic nightmares like a panicked child. It is not that JK refuses to take the drug—he is simply allergic to it.

A young woman in a pale green uniform approaches him with the wistful manner of an old friend. Mr. Kimble, how nice to see you. The doctor is ready for you, please follow me.

JK refuses to be seduced by the calming atmosphere, the soft music, the padded carpets, or the sway of the nurse’s hips as she glides ahead of him down the hall. He has made a pledge to himself that this will not be like his other visits. He wants answers to his questions. This is one of the most expensive facilities in the city. They owe him more than the usual medical doublespeak and prescriptions that leave him like a zombie. When he enters the office he is presented with a new doctor who continues to squint at the screen in front of him as he gestures for JK to sit in the armchair by the desk.

What can we do for you today, Mr. Kimble?

Where is Dr. Mackie?

He’s on vacation, I am Dr. Alvarez. I’m seeing his patients while he’s away.

JK sits silently while the doctor ignores him and continues reading the screen. Without looking up the doctor repeats his question, So what can I do for you?

I would prefer it if you would look at me if we are going to have a conversation. JK feels like a fool as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Why say that? Irritation never works in here; nothing works in here except humble obedience. He should know, he has been down this path before and knows where it leads.

On cue, Dr. Alvarez takes a deep breath and presents JK with a sad smile. The tone for the exchange is now firmly established; the patient is emotionally upset, and the doctor is calm and reasonable.

The young doctor leans forward, with a sincerity that extends no further than his lips, and says, I am very sorry, Mr. Kimble. I was only getting up to speed with your file. What can I do for you?

JK’s firm purpose evaporates like steam. After all these years he has still not learned how to plot a route through the medical minefield. He tries a fresh start. My dreams are getting more exhausting and frequent. I cannot sleep. Sometimes I dream several times a night.

I certainly can understand your discomfort, but your records say you refuse Somatec.

I don’t refuse it, it refuses me. You’ll see that in my file. I experience bad side effects. I get violent headaches and nausea, my skin breaks out.

Dr. Alvarez has already made up his mind about JK. His diagnosis is decidedly more personal than professional. He sits and pretends to listen while this overpaid weakling whines about his symptoms. The real problem in Dr. Alvarez’s mind is that JK is a hypochondriac. He has seen pictures of JK in magazines. He is some kind of TV big shot. His view is that all creative types secretly want to be dreamers. They love the drama and fantasy of a screwed up life. If he wasn’t on a particular assignment he would completely tune out Mr. Jerome Kimble and simply move to prescription. Dr. Desmond Alvarez is not here by coincidence.

It is his job to do an informal and discrete psych profile for all the big players at New Vision Media. Whenever his corporate bosses buy a new company Dr. Alvarez is called on to review the human capital. Having Kimble actually request an appointment was an unexpected gift. Alvarez has put on his compassionate face as he listens to the rambling account of walls of fire and mysterious women and doors that bleed light. What a bunch of crap! He finds this guy particularly pathetic. He is brought back into play by a typically absurd question.

What does it all mean?

The dreams? What do the dreams mean? Dr. Alvarez has to stop himself from laughing. "They mean nothing, Mr. Kimble. They are random static from neuron to neuron—a disruption of normal brain function, an abnormal bioelectrical event, an extraneous and useless remnant from our evolutionary past. They are deranged imaginings and have no meaning. Trying to find meaning in them is about as useful as interpreting the entrails of a sacrificed animal. Put any other explanation behind you."

JK is taken aback by the force of the reply. Then what do I do? This is getting worse, and I am really not feeling well.

When are you next scheduled for some time off? Dr. Alvarez has shifted back into his friend and helper mode.

In about a month when I finish this season, says JK.

"I am going to prescribe you some medication for sleeping, and I suggest that you spend your vacation at one of our clinics. Go somewhere with a nice climate and use some autogenic training so you can learn to relax—after all it’s included in your health plan."

Out on the sidewalk JK slipped the prescription into his pocket and started to walk. The traffic on the sidewalks was light due to the weather. He has no destination in mind and finds himself in the park.

He knows the doctor thinks he is making up his symptoms, but he isn’t. After every visit he has a strange feeling of guilt, as if he is letting everyone down by not responding to the treatment the way he should. Damn it, he would love to take the drug. He craves normalcy. Everything in his life is perfect except this dreaming. He doesn’t want to be a freak or an outsider. He loves the life he has created for himself; he is a success.

What about the doors? What about the women? Those elements weren’t random. The damn women and the doors were always there, and the noise, what about the noise? Every single dream ended with that strange and frightening sound—a long hiss followed by a crash.

He had made his way deep into the park by the time he realized it was getting dark and turned back. The path was lined with benches; most of them empty due to the gray sky and cold wind. One was occupied by a large bundle of ragged clothes with two long legs protruding out. As he passed the bench the bundle came to life and the legs swung out, causing him to move aside. He was joined by a shaggy tramp that matched his pace. JK kept his eyes ahead and tried angling over to the other side of the path, but his unwanted escort kept pace as if the two of them were out for a stroll together.

In his discomfort JK ignored him till the man spoke to him in a harsh whisper, It’s going to rain.

JK stopped and turned. The man he faced was a good foot taller than JK and had a hat pulled down over a greasy head of hair. What did you say? The man immediately started to walk again.

This time the man called out with his back to JK, It’s going to rain. Better get moving. It’s going to rain hard.

JK shouted back, Yes, it might, thanks.

The man turned quickly to face him and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Not might rain—will rain!"

The force of his shout barely reached him when the flash and crack of lightning erupted