The Pull of Dreams

By T.R. Quiñones

Mankind was not meant to interfere with the nature of Dream Realm.
But what is Dream Realm?
Scholars of old could sense it, but not explain it. Plato touched on it in his Theory of Forms, but the best he could achieve was a dubious narrative. The Ancient Egyptians tried to catalogue it, but came up short in their Book of Dreams. The I Ching,the Chinese Book of Changes, came surprisingly close to pin pointing it, but its clarity was lost to the test of time.
Its defi ning nature is Chaos and Enlightenment. Composed entirely from the sum of mankinds desires and the totality of his imagination, Dream Realm is potential unrealized. Where our creativity is born and nurtured. Where the constraints of our naivet is broken, allowing our minds to glimpse at what could have been. A Perfect Paradise.
Dream Realm is the balance to our waking world.
But in his hubris, mankind has compromised that balance.
There are cracks and fi ssures along the wall that divide us.
The pressure is building and the dam is about to burst.
The fate of all that is, and all that might have been, has fallen on the shoulders of one man.
Daniel.
The Dream Warden.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469153087

T.R. Quiñones

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Copyright © 2012 by T.R. Quiñones.

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.

Rev. date: 04/05/2013

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Contents

Chapter 1

The Story of Eve

The Story of Daniel

The Story of Samuel

First Encounters

He Who Hesitates Is Lost

The Kindness of Strangers

A Moment of Clarity

Out of the Shadows

A Coin Has Two Faces

Another Piece of the Puzzle

Inner Turmoil

The Northernmost Isle

An Unfortunate Truth

A Clearer View of the Big Picture

All Is Not Lost

The Choices We Make

What Have We Here?

Where Have You Been?

A Sight for Sore Eyes

Refusing to Let Go

Twist the Knife

These Be Turbulent Times

The Open-Door Policy

Picking Up the Slack

The Unforeseen Gift

The Serpent in the Garden

Outside

Inside

Men of Action

In You I Put My Faith

Abigail

No Rest for the Weak or Weary

C’est La Vie

Two Hours Earlier

No One Walks Away Unscathed

Eve’s End

The Deceiver

You Look Familiar

You Do What You Have to, to Survive

The Wisdom of Mr. Goldsmith

An Hour Later

Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

Fealty Rescinded

When the Well Runs Dry

Between Victory and Failure

The Truth Is What I Make It

By Your Bootstraps

Epilogue

I dedicate this book to my family. Past, Present, and Future.

Do not lose hold of your dreams or aspirations.

For if you do, you may still exist but you have ceased to live.

—Henry David Thoreau

I will tell you of the three who changed Dream Realm—the Guardian, the Dreamer, and the Deceiver. Of course, I will not yet tell you who is who. If I were to do so at the beginning, you would not see them as I do—as three remarkable individuals who fought the Dark Ones with selfless bravado. It is my deepest regret that one of the three did succumb to the dark and at such a crucial time. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I was given a task to chronicle their story from the beginning. This particular entry began twenty years ago with the birth of Eve . . .

T hat’s how it all began. As far as stories go, it started out somewhat slow. I nearly dozed off as she droned on and on about this special little girl in the big city. But hey, it was a paying gig (my first), so who was I to complain? As far as assumptions go, I just figured she was retelling a story about when she was young—the kind of story that starts slow, continues slowly, then ends with a heartrendingly drawn-out (and painfully dull) ending. But being a starving writer, I kept my mouth shut and clickity-clicked away.

My matron employer had just donated a large chunk of change to my school. I’d give the name, but I don’t wanna sound pretentious. Anyways, she was given a tour of the campus by the dean of admission, and they made a stop at the campus newspaper.

Now I have a big mouth and a way with words. And it just so happened that the tour had stopped outside the bull pen while I was hitting on the paper-delivery girl. Two words: red hair. I know, right? Yeah, I know you feel me on that. Well, this particular afternoon, I was on a roll. Slinging witty verbiage and flattering this and that. I was smoother than chocolate mousse with twice the amount of heavy whipping cream (yeah, I can cook too), but when she cleared her throat and looked over my shoulder, I knew whoever was there was giving me the stink eye.

The dean and I had an understanding: I don’t embarrass him, and he wouldn’t kick me out of his school. Why? Well, I wrote a little article about him a year before… Never mind, that story is unimportant. What was important was the rich lady who was with the dean. She told the dean she was impressed with my flow. Sorry, sometimes I tend to fall back on my Puerto Rican verbosity. Had to look it up, huh? That’s all right. Back to the story.

OK, she didn’t use the word flow. That was all me. But she did say she was impressed with my ability to weave words in and out of a conversation. How did she put it?

Your speech pattern reminds me of a Latin dance. Full of rhythm, fast-paced, with movement from the hips that aren’t intentional. The motion is a natural consequence of changing weight from one foot to the other.

Yeah, I was a little weirded out too. She even did a little shake to demonstrate the dance. Eccentric rich people—they can do anything, and because they have money, it’s perfectly acceptable. If I would have done a dance (not saying I can’t dance—I am Latin), the dean would’ve told me to get my head examined, but for her, he applauded and elbowed me to join him.

I figured the awkward moment would last a few seconds, and they’d continue on their way. I was wrong. What happened next happened in quick succession, and I had no control over any of it. The dean extended his arm to the lady, but she casually declined, thanked him for his time, and told him she wanted to talk to me.

The dean was put off, but he hid it well from her. He shot me a glance that screamed, Treat her with respect, or I’ll kill you! I shot back a thumbs-up and a weak smile. The lady hooked my arm, and we started walking. Mind you, the paper-delivery girl got a kick out of the entire little show… I still don’t have her number.

Next thing I knew, I was walking arm in arm with the lady through the school’s quad area. People were staring at me, probably thinking, Aw, look at that. He’s giving his mom a tour or He should be ashamed of himself. She’s easily twice his age. I wouldn’t know; my dad always told me to never ask a woman her age. I’ve been slapped for many things, but never that. Thanks, Dad.

Like I was saying, we stopped walking in the very center of the quad, and she started to talk seriously. So I listened… seriously.

Young man, there are inherent powers in the written word…

I thought to myself, Really, Mom, you brought me out here to give me a lesson on taking my craft seriously? And my mannerisms spoke as much.

You… you are unlike any other writer I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I’ve known plenty over the years, believe me. The human language is made immortal when written down. Billions upon billions of people have written on every topic under the sun, but very few have the power to give the written word… life. I believe you have what it takes.

She never took her eyes off mine as she was talking to me. I tried several times to look away but couldn’t. It was like—how would my Nina put it?—she used the mal de ojo on me, and I was afraid to break contact, or I’d lose my soul or something.

That’s when she dropped the offer on me. Maybe she was happy with what she saw. I don’t know. But as she slowly moved her eyes off mine, she smiled and asked me if I would consider helping her write a story, a story that had plagued her mind for a very long time. Those were her words. She followed the offer with a show of good faith, taking a huge fold of bills and handing me five thousand dollars for my time. As offers go, this was a first. The most I ever held in my hands was a few hundred, and that only lasted for as long as it took to cash a check and pay a bill. As I stood there, with the crisp and pristine green bills in my hand, the look in my eyes must have betrayed my thoughts. She reached over and held my chin in a very auntlike way and positioned my face to look at her.

I’ll make this a very simple decision for you. If the time comes when you feel my eccentric behavior is too much for your sensibilities to handle, you are free to simply walk away. No hard feelings will follow. I’ll insist on keeping what you’ve written though. But if you see this through to the end, I promise you the payoff will be greater than anything your mind could contemplate. The people you’ll be introduced to, the access you’ll be given… I must have made a whatever sound because she paused, tilted her head, and smirked. Hmmph. And you’ll have beautiful young women like that young red-headed darling desiring nothing more than for you to pay even the smallest amount of attention on them.

She wasn’t lying. I was born in the barrio; I’ve seen the very best of the best liars this world has to offer, desperate crackheads that would spin the most compelling stories if only so you’d take pity on them and hand them a helpful five or ten dollars. If this lady was lying, she could make a fortune teaching classes on how to BS. So if she wasn’t lying about women falling over themselves to meet me, I’d be a damn fool to refuse. Casanova or not, no self-respecting guy would refuse that.

So I accepted her offer. This brings us to the present. Here I sit in a very comfortable chair, typing what my employer dictates to me on a very expensive computer. Her stipulations being that I only write the portions I feel are important. I’m not joking. On that point, she was very clear.

So every day I come to her beautiful penthouse apartment. Sometimes she’ll drone on and on, and I won’t write down anything, just listen. But every now and then, I’ll get this freakish tingle in my spine. Like an otherworldly prodding that what she’s saying is important. What follows are the culmination of those moments.

Chapter 1

The Story of Eve

S he was born into the very lap of luxury. Her father was a phenomenally rich and influential politician, and her mother a beauty queen. From the day she was born, she was waited on hand and foot—not by her mother or father, but by her personal attendant, the very kind and somewhat peculiar Mr. Merryweather. Of course, Eve just called him Poppy. It wasn’t necessarily that her parents didn’t care for her; they were just incredibly busy with their philanthropic duties. Their way of saying I love you was to shower their only child with whatever trinkets her precious little heart desired. A million and one toys, but zero hugs.

Eve was every bit her mother’s child. Now that’s not to say that her mother took much of an interest into the actual day-to-day goings-on in her daughter’s life. No, what I meant was that baby Eve bore a striking resemblance to her mother, just in miniature form. I suppose it wouldn’t be a huge stretch of imagination to state that Eve’s mother viewed her child as more of a plaything than anything else. A precious china doll that she could easily pawn off on Mr. Merryweather when she grew bored or the child became difficult. In those rare moments when her mother found a moment or two, she would parade her beautiful child around the crème de la crème of society. She would relish in the oohs and ahhs from matronly socialites.

Oh, but she is the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen.

Eve’s mother went so far as to have photographers take Eve’s picture and place them in the most-read magazines across the globe. Her angelic face was recognized worldwide by the time Eve reached her third birthday.

Given the circumstances, Eve could have easily become a spoiled brat. If it weren’t for Poppy, she very well might have. But no, Eve was raised by Poppy to be, first and foremost, a lady and a thinker. He instilled in this beautiful young child an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Books were her refuge from the mundane existence that a child princess must endure. Far more intelligent than any of her contemporaries, she sought out the company of adults. She would engage her father’s friends and business associates with wit and acumen that was remarkable to witness from a child so young.

Her mother didn’t appreciate her daughter’s lack of interest in activities normal for her age. So she eventually demanded that Mr. Merryweather forcibly take Eve to ballet and music lessons and whatnot. Eve at first protested. These pointless, time-consuming activities would no doubt severely cut in on her reading time in her father’s immense library. Poppy understood Eve’s frustration, but he also appreciated the wisdom found in her mother’s demand. In a most compassionate and soothing voice, as was his nature, Poppy posed her mother’s request in a very attractive way.

My child, I’ve raised you to be a young lady of remarkable strength and charm. If I may say so, you have gone far above my grandest expectations. However, I must say I do agree with your mother’s request of you. My abilities do have their limitations. Try as I might, I could never teach you how to carry yourself with confidence and poise as well as a ballet instructor could, and as for music, well, they say it soothes the savage beast. That is to say, I have found it to be my saving grace in my most turbulent and troublesome times. Eve was quiet for a moment. She was staring at the old yet gentle face of Poppy. She had done so enough times to distinguish when he was most adamant on an argument. After a moment, she smiled and said, Will I ever be able to say no to you?

Remarkable as this may be to believe, there wasn’t a selfish bone in Eve’s body. It wasn’t uncommon for the young child to join Poppy on his afternoon walk to Vito’s Deli for his favorite vice—a salami-and-provolone sandwich. This being New York City, the two of them would pass homeless people and vagrants on the way there. More times than Poppy could recall, Eve would stop and ask them how they were doing. Now it isn’t unusual for a curious child to have conversations with strangers. Not at all, but these conversations were seldom ever mundane, everyday chitchat.

Eve possessed a strange and yet wonderfully unusual gift, a gift that Mr. Merryweather had witnessed on many occasions. The child would brazenly walk up to perfect strangers, ask very personal questions, and the most unbelievable thing would happen. These strangers would pointedly answer each and every inquiry in a most calm and sincere manner. They would honestly be… What’s the right term? Transfixed? No, that’s not quite it. Enchanted? Yes, I suppose that word works quite nicely in describing her gift. Eve had the ability to see beyond the mere superficial appearance of a person. What Eve saw, what Eve had full access to was the very heart and soul of an individual. Strangers would seriously be… well, spellbound by the small child. They would absolutely and wholeheartedly open up to her. No subject or problem would be too taboo to discuss. Then as abruptly as it had started, it just as quickly would end. Eve would look them in the eye and extend her hand in a reassuring way, and as they extended theirs, she would put varying denominations of money in their hands and simply walk away. No one ever refused the child. Why would they? A little child with an angelic face shows concern and offers help. Who could refuse? No, there was more to it than that.

True acts of kindness are a rare thing indeed; rarer still are little girls who instinctively sense and provide for a need. Children are taught from a very young age to keep their distance from the neglected and squalid of society. Eve had been taught and knowingly did the polar opposite. More times than I can count, Poppy had been dragged to a homeless shelter or asked to stop the car while they were driving through skid row. It should be noted here that Eve could read people with phenomenal acuity. She instinctively knew who honestly needed a helping hand and who would’ve wasted her act of charity on booze. That isn’t to say that this ability of hers was 100 percent infallible. There had been moments, though very rare, where she had been fooled by the occasional con man. She once gave a fifty to a man whom she believed was down on his luck and the following day saw him stumbling down the sidewalk, drunk out of his mind. She took this man’s depraved behavior as a personal betrayal of her trust in society. Poppy saw the hurt on Eve’s face and said these words and nothing else for the rest of that day.

Eve, one day, you will have the knowledge, power, and authority to help those who truly need assistance to a remarkable degree. But on your journey to becoming that woman, you must first understand that mankind is a most flawed creation. You cannot help everyone. To even attempt to do so would destroy your spirit. You can only do your best and trust in yourself that that is enough. For what it’s worth, I believe that one day, you will change the world. And when that day comes, God help the man who crosses you.

On the eve of Eve’s thirteenth birthday, she and Poppy made their way to the Chess and Checkers area in Central Park. Poppy loved the atmosphere. Eve loved the game. It was win-win for both of them. The day had had an almost-picturesque quality to it.

It was late fall, and the season had left the surrounding tress naked and bereft of their splendor. The grass was moist from the morning dew that hadn’t quite evaporated in the morning sun. It was nippy. Poppy’s and Eve’s noses had taken on a rosy hue. Both of them were nice and cozy though, bundled up in thermal underwear, thick woolen clothing, and coats, which from a distance looked like they weighed a ton but in reality were quite light and comfortable. Days such as this were truly one in a million, and Eve was in the mood to revel in every second if it. But before the day ended, blood would be spilled. Poppy would, for the first time ever, lose face in the sight of his beloved Eve, and Eve would do the unthinkable. She would allow someone truly in need of her help to meet a tragic end. A word. A single word from her mouth could have spared the life-stealing bullet from being fired. But she froze. Fear not unlike the visage of the grim reaper himself would rob her of sound and thought connection. And she hated herself for it.

It wasn’t quite ten thirty or so in the morning. The plan was to meet up with Poppy’s friends from back in the day. They were a motley crew of geriatric hooligans. Each and every one of them had served with Poppy in the United Kingdom’s Eighth Army during WWII. All of them had participated in the Second Battle of El Alamein. All of them had regaled Eve with so many stories of otherworld bravery that she found it hard to tell truth from fiction. Poppy loved these guys like they were his brothers, and Eve got a kick out of how silly he’d get when they all got together.

Poppy grabbed an open seat and took out a roll of bills. It was always the same show of false bravado. I mean there was something like thirty bills all rolled up nice and neat, but only the outside bill was a hundred; all the inner bills were tens with maybe a twenty here and there. His friends would whistle and call him Money Bags and say, Look at Mr. Rockefeller over here, always said in jest and always received with a hearty laugh by everyone present. It wasn’t unheard of for them to play for high stakes, ten dollars a game. Not the smartest thing, mind you, to have stacks of twenties lying in a neat stack under a cup of coffee or anything heavy enough to keep the bills from flying away. No, not smart. But not entirely brazen either. I mean this was Central Park in the morning hours. The sun was trying its best to peek through the thick gray clouds of the season. People, many of them tourists, walking by on the walkways. Police strolling by every so often. My point, if you haven’t gotten it by now, is that no one felt unsafe or in danger.

Everything was pretty routine for the pair. The only thing even remotely out of place was a young man standing in the distance. He had been staring in Poppy’s direction for a few minutes now. There was nothing noteworthy about him. He was wearing a dark gray peacoat, a thick wool beanie, and a ratty old scarf. The ensemble looked a bit too big for him. He had a thin, gaunt look about him, like someone who hadn’t eaten in quite some time. But there was something intriguing about him. Eve couldn’t help herself from staring at his face. He wasn’t an ugly man. On the contrary, he was actually handsome in a weary and worn sort of way. But that wasn’t why she was staring. She could tell that he was frayed and worn, like a desert palm whose skin was sanded smooth by the harsh environment. And his offhand smile never seemed to reach his eyes.

Excuse me, guys… I don’t mean to intrude, but… I was wondering if I could get in on the next game. It’s been a while since I played. You mind?

Poppy looked over.

Not at all, my friend. Your wait won’t be very long. I’ve got Stan here on the run. It was all over for him the moment he sacrificed his queen.

Stan chuckled.

That’s when they heard the gunshots in the distance. It was a distinct sound. Three staccato bursts, followed shortly by the sound of screaming and panicking park goers. All of Poppy’s friends had quickly (or as quickly as old men can move) ducked under the chess table. Poppy followed suit but paused halfway and started shouting for Eve.

Eve! Eve, where are you, girl? Get down here!

People were crying out in panic. Chaos ensued. The police that were nearby were trying to determine where the shots had come from. It didn’t take them very long to spot the man with the gun. He wasn’t even trying to conceal it, waving it back and forth like he was taunting the police to come get him. They shouted at him, and he bolted, sprinting to the south portion of the park, near Victorian Gardens. He lifted the gun straight up over his head and let out two more shots. Poppy, Stan, and most of the people near the Chess and Checkers House area hit the ground.

Despite the shouting for her to find cover, Eve was still standing by the table. Her eyes locked not on the man with the gun but rather on the man in the dark gray peacoat. He hadn’t bothered to take cover either. The look on his face was one of stress, strain, and impatience.

Eve, what’s the matter with you, girl? Get down here now!

She ignored Poppy.

The man in the dark gray peacoat made a grab for the large stack of bills and ran in the same direction as the man with the gun. Tripping over a rock, he fumbled down but caught himself before completely losing his footing. There was a look on his face, one of revulsion, of hatred. Eve felt it, like a caustic sting to her senses. You might offer at this point that you can’t literally feel an emotion as if it were a tangible object. Well, you’d be right. You and I can’t. But Eve could and did. She felt it as sharply and as absolute as if someone had elbowed her in the gut. She felt this… self-loathing, his loathing, and she was compelled beyond herself to reach out, to help him with whatever burden was causing him such anguish.

He had grabbed for as much of the money on the table as he could in the fraction of a second that his pause had allowed, and then he was off, sprinting with all the energy he could muster, heading toward the southeastern area of the park, heading straight for… the pond? Eve hadn’t been aware of when she had started moving, but there she was, sprinting in a dead heat right on the man’s heels.

Stop! Please stop! Come back!

Stop following me!

The man’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard. Eve fought hard to keep her hands from covering her ears; she had seldom ever heard anything so pitiful in her thirteen years. He spared a few seconds to look over his shoulder to see the lithe child following him. In those scant seconds, he lost his footing and took a tumble. A few tens and twenties went flying every which way.

Noooooooo!

Scrambling back to his feet, the man in the gray peacoat was breathing heavily. He looked sick to his stomach. Right there and then, he vomited, retching and convulsing. Eve knelt beside him. She didn’t know what to do exactly. She just knew she had to try and offer him some measure of comfort. She reached out to put her hand on his bent shoulder. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him, spitting out the words, Please… please, I don’t wanna hurt you… I… we really need the money.

Around her neck, she was wearing a beautiful diamond pendant. It