What Dreams May Come

What Dreams May Come Page 10

MY FIRST IMPRESSION, as I entered, was one of absolute reality.

The room was immense, beamed and paneled, furnished with impeccable taste--and filled with light.

"We don't have to worry about 'catching' the morning or afternoon sun," Albert told me. "All rooms get the same amount of light at all times."

I looked around the room. No fireplace, I thought. The room seemed made for one.

"I could have one if I wished," Albert said as though I'd voiced the thought. "Some people do."

I had to smile at the ease with which he read my mind. We'd have a fireplace, I thought. Like the pair of fieldstone fireplaces we had in our home. For atmosphere mostly; they provided little heat. But Ann and I liked nothing better than to lie in front of a crackling fire, listening to music.

I moved to a superbly crafted table and examined it. "Did you make this?" I asked, impressed.

"Oh, no," he said. "Only an expert could create such a beautiful piece."

Without thinking, I ran a finger over its surface, then tried to hide the movement. Albert laughed. "You won't find any dust here," he said, "since there's no disintegration." "Ann would certainly like that," I told him. She always liked our house to be immaculate and California being what it is, she always had to do a lot of dusting to keep the furniture polished.

Standing on the table was a vase of flowers--brilliant shades of red, orange, purple and yellow. I'd never seen such flowers. Albert smiled at them. "They weren't here before," he said. "Someone left them as a gift."

"Won't they die now that they've been picked?" I asked.

"No, they'll stay fresh until I lose interest in them," Albert said. "Then they'll vanish." He smiled at my expression. "For that matter, the entire house would, eventually, vanish if I lost interest in it and left."

"Where would it go?" I asked.

"Into the matrix."

"Matrix?"

"Back to its source to be reused," he explained. "Nothing is lost here, everything recycled."

"If mind creates it and loss of interest can un-create it," I said, "does it have any reality of its own?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "It's just that its reality is always subject to mind."

I was going to ask more but it all seemed too confusing and I let it go as I followed Albert through his house. Every room was large, bright and airy with massive window openings which overlooked the luxuriant scenery.

"I don't see any other houses," I told him.

"They're out there," Albert said. "It's just that we have lots of room here."

I was going to comment on the absence of a kitchen and bathrooms when the reason became obvious. Clearly, the bodies we possessed did not require food. And, since there was neither dirt nor disposal, bathrooms would be superfluous.

The room I liked best was Albert's study. Each wall had a floor-to-ceiling bookcase packed with finely bound volumes and there were large chairs, tables and a sofa on the polished wood floor.

To my surprise, I saw a line of bound scripts on one of the shelves and recognized the titles as my own. My reaction came in layers--surprise first, as I've said, then pleasure at seeing them in Albert's home, then disappointment that I'd never had my own scripts bound while I was on earth.

My last reaction was one of shame as I realized how many of the scripts dealt with subjects either violent or horrific.

"I'm sorry," Albert said. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"It's not your fault," I told him. "I'm the one who wrote them."

"You'll have lots of time to write other things now," he reassured me. Kindness, I know, kept him from saying "better" things.

He gestured toward the sofa and I sank down on it as he sat on one of the chairs. Katie sat beside my right leg and I stroked her head as Albert and I continued talking.

"You called this place Harvest," I said. "Why?"

"Because the seeds a man plants in life create the harvest he reaps here," he answered. "Actually, the most authentic name--if one wants to be a purist--is the third sphere."

"Why?"

"It's somewhat complicated," Albert said. "Why don't we wait until you've rested first?"

Odd, I thought. How could he know that I was starting to feel weary? I'd only become aware of it that very moment. "How can that be?" I asked, knowing he would understand the question.

"You've been through a traumatic experience," he told me. "And rest between periods of activity is nature's way; here as on earth."

"You get tired too?" I asked in surprise.

"Well, perhaps not tired," Albert said. "You'll soon find that there's little actual fatigue here. To refresh oneself, however, there are periods of mental rest." He gestured toward the sofa. "Why don't you lie down?" he told me. I did and looked up at the beamed ceiling, then, after several moments, at my hands. I made a soft, incredulous sound. "They look so real," I said.

"They are," he replied. "Your body may not have fiber but it isn't vapor either. It's simply finer grained than the body you left behind. It still has a heart and lungs to breathe air with and purify your blood. Hair still grows on your head, you still have teeth and finger- and toenails."

I felt my eyelids getting heavy. "Do nails stop growing at the right length like the grass?'' I asked.

Albert laughed. "I'll have to check that out," he said.

"What about my clothes?" I asked. My eyes closed momentarily, then opened again.

"They're as real as your body," Albert told me. "Everybody--except certain natives, of course--has, in their mind, the conviction that clothes are indispensable. The conviction garbs them after death."

I closed my eyes again. "It's hard to comprehend it all," I said.

"You still think it's a dream?" he asked.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. "You know- about that too?"

He smiled.

I looked around the room. "No, I can hardly believe that," I said. I looked at him sleepily. "What would you do if I did though?"

"There are ways," he said. "Close your eyes while we talk." He smiled as I hesitated. "Don't worry, you'll wake up again. And Katie will stay with you, won't you Kate?"

I looked at her. She wagged her tail, then lay down with a sigh beside the sofa. Albert rose to put a pillow underneath my head. "There," he said. "Close your eyes now."

I did. I actually yawned. "What ways?'' I murmured.

"Well--" I heard him sit back on his chair. "I might ask you to recall some relative who died, then show the relative to you. I might bring, to your recollection, the details of what happened just before your passing. In an extreme case, I might take you back to earth and show you your environment without you."

Despite the mounting grogginess I felt, I reopened my eyes to look at him. "You said I couldn't go back," I said. "You couldn't, alone." "Then--"

"We could only go as observers, Chris," he said. "Which would only plunge you back into that terrible frustration. You couldn't help your wife, only watch her distress again."

I sighed unhappily. "Will she be all right, Albert?" I asked. "I'm so worried about her."

"I know you are," he said, "but it's out of your hands now, you can see that. Close your eyes."

I closed them again and, for an instant, thought I saw her lovely face in front of me: those childlike features, her dark brown eyes.

"When I met her, all I could see were those eyes," I thought aloud. "They seemed enormous to me." "You met her on a beach, didn't you?" he asked. "In Santa Monica, 1949," I said. "I'd come to California from Brooklyn. I was working at Douglas Aircraft from four to midnight. After I finished writing every morning, I went to the beach for an hour or two.

"I can still see the bathing suit she wore that day. It was pale blue, one piece. I watched her but didn't know how to speak to her; I'd never done that sort of thing before. Finally, I resorted to the age-old 'Have you got the time?' '' I smiled, remembering her reaction. "She fooled me by pointing to a building in Santa Monica with a clock on it. So I had to think of something else."

I stirred restlessly. "Albert, is there nothing I can do to help her?" I asked.

"Send her loving thoughts," he told me. "That's all?"

"That's quite a lot, Chris," he said. "Thoughts are very real."