"How long did you say this crap lasted?"
"If you're lucky, seven, maybe eight, hours man."
"And if I'm not lucky?"
"Four hours tops. Your journey will be over."
"I can't believe you actually enjoy this feeling."
"Man, it's like watching Disney films, but on the inside. I can't believe you don't."
We'd left the marina when I realized that I was becoming introspective to the point of catatonia. Running seemed to be the thing to do. I was carrying the black briefcase, my left hand pocketed inside, holding the wooden totem. I hadn't mentioned it to Tomlinson, but touching the totem, feeling the hard curvature of wood beneath my hand, gave me an irrational sense of peace that I attributed to the very powerful hallucinogen circulating through my brain. It reminded me of Dorothy. But… why would that matter?
"Or we could stop at the Paradise Pub. They got pretty good food."
I interrupted him. "Are there really pineapple streaks in the sky, or is that just more bad data?"
"No, man. Those streaks are real. The sunsets here, that's one of the good things about the Keys. With all the colors, it's like being on shrooms half the time anyway. Even when you're straight."
"Good, good, okay. What about the rainbow stripes down the middle of the road?"
"I'm afraid that's the toadstool God pulling one of her little tricks."
I said, "Uh-huh, that's what I thought. I'm starting to understand. It's like code. I have to unscramble everything. At least my stomach's feeling better. So maybe that's not a bad idea, go somewhere and get something to eat."
"The munchies, I hear you. See? Now you're getting into it…"
That night, dizzy, exhausted, passed out on the couch in the Mandalay's apartment, I was awakened once again by an abrupt tug on my ankle. The fishing line outside, broken by a late-night visitor, popped once, then twice.
I'd been immersed in a dream so real in terms of awareness and visual details, and so emotionally powerful, that it seemed I had the very real choice of staying in that dreamy world, or of returning to reality.
Had it not been for the fishing line pulling at my ankle, and what it meant, I would have chosen to remain as long as possible in that place of imagination-for it had to be imaginary, fabricated, no doubt, by the lingering effects of the psilocybin mushrooms circulating in my brain and my heightened susceptibility to Tomlinson's suggestions.
In the dream, I was wearing clothing not of these times. It was rough-woven, hand-loomed. There was some kind of weapon strapped to my hip, something heavy. I could feel it thump my left leg as I walked.
It seemed a comfortable, familiar feeling; a weapon so customary that it did not require inspection or definition.
I was walking through a stone chamber with a vaulted rock ceiling framed by rough-cut beams. There were windows in the walls without glass. Through the windows were muddy streets where oxen pulled wagons. Beyond were gray moors. There was an oak forest so green it appeared to be black.
I could smell the mud. Could smell lichen on bare rock.
It was cool, nearly cold. Half of one wall was a fireplace. Stones dissipated the heat. There was a bough of evergreen, like a good luck charm, tacked above the hearth. I crossed a hallway, then another. I knew the building well. At a set of double oak doors, I stopped and tapped. Heard a woman's voice say, "My love…?"
It was a voice that I had never heard. It was a voice that I've known forever.
Then she was there, dressed in white crinoline that touched the floor, long blond hair hanging to her waist, material clinging to her body, her arms held out to me. Her face was luminous in golden light, a woman so beautiful that seeing her caused me to linger upon detaiclass="underline" lighted portions of chin and cheek, strong nose creating shadow, perceptive eyes unaware and uncaring of her own beauty. Her voice was a kindred chord as she said, "I've waited so long for you, my dear. So many, many years. Now, finally, you've come back to me…"
Then we were lying together on a feather bed beneath a canopy of royal blue. Being able to hold her, to touch her, to turn and touch my lips to her pale cheek, seemed to neutralize all that was hurtful in me. Negated a universe of uncertainty, a lifetime of confusion and solitude. I could feel her warm breath; hear the fragile beating of her chest against mine. She was real. My skin was against hers. I was no longer alone.
Into my ear, she whispered, "I have tracked you through the ages, just as you've searched for me. In small ways, through other good people, we've touched briefly, briefly. But I know that it's never been enough, my dear, because it's never been enough for me. It is why people like us are alone even in a crowded room, even in an intimate bedding place. We are waiting. Forever waiting.
"But take comfort in this, dearest: I will find you. We are always of one heart, one mind, and I will find you. Love is religion, not emotion. It requires a leap of faith. Remember that. Have faith in me. There are so many destinations, so many way points, but we will arrive on the same small island once more. On that island, we will make ourselves free. Never lose hope."
Feeling a delicious sense of well-being and contentment, I turned to her, braced on one elbow, looked into her dazzling blue eyes; eyes that would be forever familiar on the distant rim of memory, and I leaned to kiss her…
Which is when I felt a violent tug on my ankle. Then a second tug on my ankle, monofilament fishing line cutting skin.
As sometimes happens in dreams, that strong, physical sensation imposed itself and became part of the dream-a rope being roughly constricted-but now the rope was around my girl's neck, hurting her, pulling her upward and away from me, as my big hand reached to stop her…
It was Dorothy's face, though older. Looking at me were Dorothy's water-clear eyes.
I sat up so violently that I rolled off the couch.
Waited there, crouched on my knees, listening.
Had the fishing line really been broken? I found my ankle and gave it an experimental pull.
Yes, a person was out there.
Then I heard a metallic sound at the door. A key? No. Some kind of lever, a crowbar perhaps. Someone was trying to break in.
I studied myself for a moment. Confirmed that I was still dressed. Apparently, I'd passed out in my clothes. I reached and found the sap I'd made, right where I'd left it the night before. Then I stood, my head pounding. I felt like vomiting. I spit onto the carpet, then went out the open glass doors, moving very fast and quiet.
This time, it couldn't be Nora. It was someone coming for me, coming for the totem.
I peeked around one corner, then the next: I saw a big man standing there, something in his hands. Very wide shoulders, a belly. No facial features at all. I realized he was wearing a ski mask.
No doubting his intent.
I watched him lever the bar into the doorjamb and lunge. The door popped open. He went in quickly.
I swung around the corner and stepped in behind him, close enough to smell his sweat and the metallic tobacco stink of him. He must of heard me or sensed my presence because he started to turn. As he did, I sapped him once low on the head, just behind the ear.
I didn't hit him hard. It's not like the movies. Hit a man behind the ear with much force and you will kill him. Or he will spend the rest of his life in a hospital attached to complicated machines.
The intruder went down hard enough to make the walls shake. He started to roll toward me, and I sapped him again on the left shoulder, this time much harder. He gave a whistle of pain, then lay still at my feet in darkness.
He almost certainly wasn't unconscious. It is a predictable reaction: twice clubbed, a man feigns unconsciousness so that he won't be clubbed a third time.