BISENTIENT, page 5
“Yeah. Last paper I saw of his he was talking about implanting chips in the brains of high functioning mammals. He claims to have developed memory chips usable in animals.”
“Is he the guy that did the rat/maze thing?” inquired Zach.
“Yeah, teach the rat a maze then cut half his brain out so he can’t find the food then stick one of his preprogrammed chips in and voila…fatty ratty again.”
“Neuro-Enhanced Organisms was the technical term wasn’t it? NEO!?” Zach rolled his eyes, “You couldn’t make this shit up. Aronson was his name wasn’t it? What do you think he’s doing here then?”
“That’s the thing.” said Meek, “I’ve been assembling circuit diagrams and optimizing them for layering onto a chip. If I remember right what these circuits are doing is imitating some of what Aronson’s chip was doing with those rats. But I think they’re different.”
“In what way?” asked Zach, squeezing his oversized pizza into the undersized microwave.
“I can’t tell.”
“Is this related to the stuff that Puthoff and Targ were doing, you know, the Stargate stuff?”
“It could be.” said Meek, “I think the end goal is that we have chips that augment any natural ability for what they discovered with the Remote Viewing work back in the 70s. This is where some of Aronson’s papers might help. He discusses a crossover with Targ and Puthoff’s work. He even suggested they collaborate at one point but that doesn’t seem to have happened.”
“So we check his papers from the database.” suggested Zach.
“Obviously, smart ass, except his papers aren’t on the database anymore.”
The Jolt cola can fizzed as Zach popped the ringpull.
“They must be there, who’d want to remove them?” said Zach.
“Yeah, I don’t know. You don’t think they’re gonna, you know, stick chips in the subjects?”
“Nah, what do think this is, some sort of bad sci-fi movie? Perhaps they want to compare results we’re getting from the subs against his circuits?”
“Yeah. I could go with that except for room 7G.”
“What’s in room 7G?” said Zach.
“A fully equipped 21st century operating theatre, which comfortably exceeds the requirement for onsite First Aid facilities, if you see what I mean.”
There was silence in the communal kitchen until the ping from the microwave made them both jump.
CHAPTER NINE
PLATER’S MOBILE RANG.
“Hello.”
“Mason, it’s me, Molly, how’s the head?”
“It’s a little better actually, I’ve only taken one pill so far today. Listen can you meet me for lunch, only my dream last night was different and I need to talk to someone about it.”
“Sure, where?”
“There’s a pub, Hansford Arms, on Gordon Lane.”
“I know it, they do a pretty good chilli, 12:30 ok?” said Molly.
Molly was early but Plater was already sitting in an old armchair in the corner of the lounge bar.
“Hi, what would you like?” asked Plater.
“Becks please.” said Molly, “What’s this?”
She held up an envelope covered in drawings from the table in front of Plater.
“It’s what I wanted to talk about.” Plater said, as he headed to the bar.
Plater sat down with a second pint, his headache fading.
“Did you do this?” asked Molly.
“Yes, after I woke up last night, I just felt a need to record it, I don’t know why.”
Molly was turning the shapes round and round but finally placed it back on the table.
“What’s it supposed to be? Any idea?” asked Molly.
“None at all, that’s one of the reasons I asked to see you, in case there’s something I’m not seeing.”
“Not for my fascinating company then?”
“What? Oh yeah, well…”
Molly smiled.
“Kidding. You have to lighten up a bit, this stuff’s a bit odd, I know, but there’ll be some simple explanation.” she said.
She looked down again at the envelope, it was lying at a skewed angle on the sticky table.
“Have you got a pencil?” she said.
“No, but…”
“I thought I saw something then, I want to add some lines, hang on they’ll have one behind the bar.”
Molly returned with a stubby pencil and began adding lines and curves to the drawing.
“That looks like a ‘K’ and this one in the corner could be a ‘W’. I think they’re letters.”
She would stop occasionally and turn the envelope round before adding more lines. The shapes seemed to follow a swirling pattern and by turning the paper they almost looked like letters.
“There.” she said finally, holding up the envelope.
Although somewhat stylized, the modified drawing now seemed to be words. Not all the letters were clear but there seemed to be three words:
R A ? M O ? D B A ? T H O ? E ? E W W A ? B ? R S ? I C K
“Yes!” said Plater grabbing the envelope and stabbing it with his finger, “Raymond. That name seems familiar…I don’t know why but it must be…thanks…but what does it mean?”
“I think it says ‘Raymond Bartholomew Walberswick’.”
“Hell of a name.” said Plater still staring at the design.
“Walberswick is a place in Suffolk.” said Molly. “I have an aunt and uncle that lived in Suffolk and I remember seeing it on maps and signposts.”
“But what does it mean?” Plater was sounding tense again. He felt he was close to remembering what all this was about, but the answer was slipping through his grasp like sand between the fingers.
“Have you ever been to Walberswick?” said Molly.
“No.”
“The name Raymond Bartholomew means nothing?”
“No….although something tells me I should know a Raymond, but I can’t think, I’m useless with names.”
Plater sighed and sipped his beer, gazing into the distance but desperately wracking his memory for something, anything, that related to ‘Raymond Bartholomew Walberswick’.
“Well let’s look at it logically.” said Molly. “You woke up in the middle of the night and drew this, well, almost this.”
“Yes.”
“Did you dream while you were asleep this time?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember it very well now.”
“What do you remember?”
Plater thought for a moment.
“There was a room. A white room. A woman was there.”
“Was it Gail Hartston?” said Molly.
“I’m not sure, it might have been. There was someone else. A man.”
“Did he have a name?”
“I don’t know. He pushed me, and I was falling. Yes, falling…it was noisy…I was just panicking and shouting and spinning…”
Plater paused.
“What?” said Molly.
“On the ground…on the ground…letters, writing, on the ground…that’s it….this was on the ground….I had to remember…this is what I had to remember!”
Plater looked triumphant for a moment.
“That’s great.” said Molly.
“That feels better.” said Plater, his shoulders relaxing as he sat back in the chair.
“Now we just have to find Raymond.” said Molly.
“What do you mean?” said Plater, “You think he’s a real person?”
“Could be, worth a look don’t you think? There can’t be two ‘Raymond Bartholomews’ in Walberswick anyway, the place isn’t that big if I remember right.”
Plater took another gulp of beer.
“Well don’t just sit there.” said Molly grabbing her jacket, “I’m taking the afternoon off and we’re going to Walberswick.”
“How far is it?” asked Plater trying to finish his pint but failing, “How long will it take?”
“No idea, you have anything better to do?”
At Plater’s house, they Googled Raymond Bartholomew. They even managed to find what looked like a business address, a book shop, in Walberswick. Within an hour they were in Plater’s battered blue Golf negotiating the M25.
It was nearly two hours later that they breached the outskirts of Walberswick on the B1387. It wasn’t hard to find the address, The Azeroth Bookshop, The Street, Walberswick. Finding somewhere to ditch the car was a bit trickier. Villages that have such small roads and plenty of summer traffic had cornered the market in yellow paint. Ten minutes later they were at the low door of the Azeroth Bookshop. Plater hesitated.
“Well go on then.” said Molly.
As the door opened it sprung a hammer onto an old bell above the doorway. They went down the two small steps into the tiny shop. As if feeling they were intruding, they just looked at each other for a moment. Then a door behind the counter opened and a small blonde-haired man came in.
“Mr Plater, I’ve been expecting you.” he said. “Won’t you come through.”
The man indicated for them to follow and disappeared again. Plater hesitated and Molly shoved him, mouthing the words ‘Go on’.
Plater had to duck slightly to pass through the door behind the counter and found himself in a sort of cross between stock room and sitting room. There was a small, cottage style settee and two small armchairs surrounding a fireplace, most of the limited space was taken by stacks of books.
“Please, won’t you sit down.” said the man. “Can I get you some tea?”
Plater was still gazing around.
Molly said:
“Yes, please that would be lovely, thank you.” She motioned for Plater to sit down.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” called the man from the kitchen. “Once you get to the village it’s a piece of cake, really, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” said Plater. “It was no trouble. I’m sorry but do I know you?”
The small man appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Well in a manner of speaking, but perhaps not in the accepted sense.” And with a smile he returned to quiet the whistling kettle.
The piles of books that hemmed them in were mostly very old with what would once have been luxurious bindings before the rigors of time, sunlight and centuries of use had taken their toll.
“Here we are.” announced the man, placing a tray on the tiny table by the fireplace. “I’ll pour but please help yourself to sugar and milk.”
He carefully poured three cups of tea in flowery cups and saucers before settling back in one of the armchairs.
“My name is Raymond.” said the man. “But then you know that. In fact we have met before Mr Plater. Last night in fact. Although you may not recall very well.”
Molly looked from Bartholomew to Plater, wondering what he would say.
“Forgive me.” Raymond went on. “I’m being unreasonable. What you are experiencing is both profound and as far as we know, unique. I imagine you’ve been having some rather unusual dreams lately. Am I right?”
“You could say that.” said Plater.
“And these have caused you some concern. That is only to be expected. But you have found me and that means we have taken our first step on what may be a long and difficult road.”
“So what does this mean? Why am I here?” said Plater, replacing his cup on the table and leaning forwards. The tightness across his brows returning.
“I know you want to know everything, Mr. Plater, but we think it is better if we take things slowly and at a pace we’re all comfortable with. You have had a difficult few days so let me describe what we would recommend from here.”
Bartholomew turned and opened a wooden box next to his chair. He removed a soft leather-bound book and placed it on the table.
“The first stage in your training is to have improved recollection of your dreams. This book is to become your constant companion. In it you are to record, immediately upon waking, whatever you can remember of your dreams. This is very important as there will come a time when we can move to the next stage in your development, and we must be sure that you are ready.”
“Development? Training? What are you on about? I’ve been having weird dreams and somehow your name was in one and here you are talking as if you knew this all along. Who are you, Mr. Bartholomew? What is happening to me?”
“It is quite possible, Mr. Plater, that you are what one might call a new breed, a true New Age man, if you like. You have an innate ability to project. By that I mean that when you dream you travel to a different world and can interact with it. Take your dream from last night. The one that brought you here. I don’t imagine you can remember it very well, but you remembered enough to find me. I’m sorry about the falling, we felt that something dramatic was needed to bring you to wakefulness quickly in the hope that what remained of your dream could be better recalled. It seems to have worked.”
“But how do you know what I dreamed last night?”
“Because I was with you, Mr. Plater, I was in your dream. I was the one that caused you to fall, don’t you remember?”
For a moment, Plater was unable to speak.
“You. You’re the little man with the rucksack….” said Plater.
“I think the proper name is parachute, but yes.”
“But how is that possible?” asked Molly, “How can you be in the same dream? I’ve known people to have similar dreams but not the same dream and have conversations in them.”
“Actually, Miss er…” began Bartholomew.
“Molly, just Molly.” said Molly.
“Molly, certain people have had shared dream experiences for millennia. From man’s earliest recollections of dreams, he has wondered if, when one sleeps, one travels to mysterious places to live out these dreams. Modern man has experimented with various forms of what are called ‘altered states of consciousness’. Mankind has always had a hunch that there is more going on than he can sense or feel in his waking moments. It turns out that while these artificial attempts may one day find the key, the easiest path to altered consciousness is through a medium we all as humans are forced to share - sleep.”
Bartholomew paused to sip some tea and the only sound was the significant tick of the lacquered clock on the mantelpiece.
“Sleep is a time when the incessant interruptions of wakefulness are removed.” he continued. “The brain may turn its attention to matters other than those of daily life. Of course, perceptive men from the past have sensed this need to remove external temptations and in extreme cases have left society for solitude.”
“Do you mean yogis, monks, nuns and that sort of thing?” said Plater.
“You are right.” said Bartholomew. “In most cases from history those who felt there may be something else were looking for religious enlightenment. That is because this was how such things were described in society and over time this search for enlightenment became synonymous with religion. In fact, there need be no such connection.”
“Are you telling me I’ve had some sort of religious experience?” said Plater.
“No, quite the reverse. I’m saying that it is quite likely that those in history that have claimed to have had religious experiences were probably having an experience similar to yours.”
“I’m confused.” said Molly, “What do Mason’s dreams indicate?”
“It’s quite simple, on one level. Your dreams show you have not only an innate ability to enter this alternative reality, if you like, but also to communicate and remember your interactions when you return to our reality. This is rare in, shall we say, normal people. Very rare indeed without intensive training.”
“So, I’m in some other world when I sleep, is that what you’re saying? What is in that other world? I’m still asleep in my bed. I don’t travel anywhere.”
“It is best to think of it that way.” continued Bartholomew, “I’m afraid that none of us really understand the science behind this phenomenon. As you learn more about us you will understand, I hope, why that is.”
“You keep mentioning ‘us’ Mr. Bartholomew.” said Molly. “Who’s ‘us’?”
“When I said that Mr. Plater was probably unique, I meant that he is the first person we know of that seems to have an innate ability to enter this altered consciousness without training. There are others that have this ability but they pay a heavy price for it. More tea?”
Bartholomew leaned forwards and picked up the heavy teapot.
“Er, yes, thank you.” said Plater, easing himself back into his seat. “Please, go on.”
“Yes please.” said Molly, as Bartholomew glanced at her.
Bartholomew carefully poured their teas and sipped his own.
“It was a very happy coincidence, Mr. Plater, that you took the job at Lievesham Hall. Your chance encounter with Miss Hartston was most helpful. I can’t explain why, we just don’t understand these things, but since she had some effect on you that day she was in your mind when you went to sleep that night. Somehow, and again, I apologise for not having a cleaner explanation, this helped you to ‘find’ her in this alternative reality.”
“You were attracted to her.” said Molly.
“Exactly.” said Bartholomew “My point is that people in Miss Hartston’s unfortunate condition seem to find access to this other reality very easy. It is a blessing really as it affords them the opportunity to live in something like the manner in which we do here in the physical world.”
“So, let me see if I’m getting this.” said Plater. “You’re saying that I’m some sort of freak that slips into this ‘other world’ when I sleep now, just because I saw that woman in the hospital? That’s insane.”
“I’m saying that we, as humans, seem to have vast areas of our brains that we know little of. Most of our actions in our daily lives, up to 80% I believe, are actually handled by our ‘unconscious’ or ‘subconscious’ minds rather than our conscious. You have a genetic ability that was unknown to you before you ran across Miss Hartston. The fact you were apparently thinking about her as you slept has enabled your mind to bridge the gap to this alternative reality. As much as any other learning skill works in the brain the more it is used the easier it becomes. Now that you have found the way it will be hard to lose it so you must learn to control it.”
“Is he the guy that did the rat/maze thing?” inquired Zach.
“Yeah, teach the rat a maze then cut half his brain out so he can’t find the food then stick one of his preprogrammed chips in and voila…fatty ratty again.”
“Neuro-Enhanced Organisms was the technical term wasn’t it? NEO!?” Zach rolled his eyes, “You couldn’t make this shit up. Aronson was his name wasn’t it? What do you think he’s doing here then?”
“That’s the thing.” said Meek, “I’ve been assembling circuit diagrams and optimizing them for layering onto a chip. If I remember right what these circuits are doing is imitating some of what Aronson’s chip was doing with those rats. But I think they’re different.”
“In what way?” asked Zach, squeezing his oversized pizza into the undersized microwave.
“I can’t tell.”
“Is this related to the stuff that Puthoff and Targ were doing, you know, the Stargate stuff?”
“It could be.” said Meek, “I think the end goal is that we have chips that augment any natural ability for what they discovered with the Remote Viewing work back in the 70s. This is where some of Aronson’s papers might help. He discusses a crossover with Targ and Puthoff’s work. He even suggested they collaborate at one point but that doesn’t seem to have happened.”
“So we check his papers from the database.” suggested Zach.
“Obviously, smart ass, except his papers aren’t on the database anymore.”
The Jolt cola can fizzed as Zach popped the ringpull.
“They must be there, who’d want to remove them?” said Zach.
“Yeah, I don’t know. You don’t think they’re gonna, you know, stick chips in the subjects?”
“Nah, what do think this is, some sort of bad sci-fi movie? Perhaps they want to compare results we’re getting from the subs against his circuits?”
“Yeah. I could go with that except for room 7G.”
“What’s in room 7G?” said Zach.
“A fully equipped 21st century operating theatre, which comfortably exceeds the requirement for onsite First Aid facilities, if you see what I mean.”
There was silence in the communal kitchen until the ping from the microwave made them both jump.
CHAPTER NINE
PLATER’S MOBILE RANG.
“Hello.”
“Mason, it’s me, Molly, how’s the head?”
“It’s a little better actually, I’ve only taken one pill so far today. Listen can you meet me for lunch, only my dream last night was different and I need to talk to someone about it.”
“Sure, where?”
“There’s a pub, Hansford Arms, on Gordon Lane.”
“I know it, they do a pretty good chilli, 12:30 ok?” said Molly.
Molly was early but Plater was already sitting in an old armchair in the corner of the lounge bar.
“Hi, what would you like?” asked Plater.
“Becks please.” said Molly, “What’s this?”
She held up an envelope covered in drawings from the table in front of Plater.
“It’s what I wanted to talk about.” Plater said, as he headed to the bar.
Plater sat down with a second pint, his headache fading.
“Did you do this?” asked Molly.
“Yes, after I woke up last night, I just felt a need to record it, I don’t know why.”
Molly was turning the shapes round and round but finally placed it back on the table.
“What’s it supposed to be? Any idea?” asked Molly.
“None at all, that’s one of the reasons I asked to see you, in case there’s something I’m not seeing.”
“Not for my fascinating company then?”
“What? Oh yeah, well…”
Molly smiled.
“Kidding. You have to lighten up a bit, this stuff’s a bit odd, I know, but there’ll be some simple explanation.” she said.
She looked down again at the envelope, it was lying at a skewed angle on the sticky table.
“Have you got a pencil?” she said.
“No, but…”
“I thought I saw something then, I want to add some lines, hang on they’ll have one behind the bar.”
Molly returned with a stubby pencil and began adding lines and curves to the drawing.
“That looks like a ‘K’ and this one in the corner could be a ‘W’. I think they’re letters.”
She would stop occasionally and turn the envelope round before adding more lines. The shapes seemed to follow a swirling pattern and by turning the paper they almost looked like letters.
“There.” she said finally, holding up the envelope.
Although somewhat stylized, the modified drawing now seemed to be words. Not all the letters were clear but there seemed to be three words:
R A ? M O ? D B A ? T H O ? E ? E W W A ? B ? R S ? I C K
“Yes!” said Plater grabbing the envelope and stabbing it with his finger, “Raymond. That name seems familiar…I don’t know why but it must be…thanks…but what does it mean?”
“I think it says ‘Raymond Bartholomew Walberswick’.”
“Hell of a name.” said Plater still staring at the design.
“Walberswick is a place in Suffolk.” said Molly. “I have an aunt and uncle that lived in Suffolk and I remember seeing it on maps and signposts.”
“But what does it mean?” Plater was sounding tense again. He felt he was close to remembering what all this was about, but the answer was slipping through his grasp like sand between the fingers.
“Have you ever been to Walberswick?” said Molly.
“No.”
“The name Raymond Bartholomew means nothing?”
“No….although something tells me I should know a Raymond, but I can’t think, I’m useless with names.”
Plater sighed and sipped his beer, gazing into the distance but desperately wracking his memory for something, anything, that related to ‘Raymond Bartholomew Walberswick’.
“Well let’s look at it logically.” said Molly. “You woke up in the middle of the night and drew this, well, almost this.”
“Yes.”
“Did you dream while you were asleep this time?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember it very well now.”
“What do you remember?”
Plater thought for a moment.
“There was a room. A white room. A woman was there.”
“Was it Gail Hartston?” said Molly.
“I’m not sure, it might have been. There was someone else. A man.”
“Did he have a name?”
“I don’t know. He pushed me, and I was falling. Yes, falling…it was noisy…I was just panicking and shouting and spinning…”
Plater paused.
“What?” said Molly.
“On the ground…on the ground…letters, writing, on the ground…that’s it….this was on the ground….I had to remember…this is what I had to remember!”
Plater looked triumphant for a moment.
“That’s great.” said Molly.
“That feels better.” said Plater, his shoulders relaxing as he sat back in the chair.
“Now we just have to find Raymond.” said Molly.
“What do you mean?” said Plater, “You think he’s a real person?”
“Could be, worth a look don’t you think? There can’t be two ‘Raymond Bartholomews’ in Walberswick anyway, the place isn’t that big if I remember right.”
Plater took another gulp of beer.
“Well don’t just sit there.” said Molly grabbing her jacket, “I’m taking the afternoon off and we’re going to Walberswick.”
“How far is it?” asked Plater trying to finish his pint but failing, “How long will it take?”
“No idea, you have anything better to do?”
At Plater’s house, they Googled Raymond Bartholomew. They even managed to find what looked like a business address, a book shop, in Walberswick. Within an hour they were in Plater’s battered blue Golf negotiating the M25.
It was nearly two hours later that they breached the outskirts of Walberswick on the B1387. It wasn’t hard to find the address, The Azeroth Bookshop, The Street, Walberswick. Finding somewhere to ditch the car was a bit trickier. Villages that have such small roads and plenty of summer traffic had cornered the market in yellow paint. Ten minutes later they were at the low door of the Azeroth Bookshop. Plater hesitated.
“Well go on then.” said Molly.
As the door opened it sprung a hammer onto an old bell above the doorway. They went down the two small steps into the tiny shop. As if feeling they were intruding, they just looked at each other for a moment. Then a door behind the counter opened and a small blonde-haired man came in.
“Mr Plater, I’ve been expecting you.” he said. “Won’t you come through.”
The man indicated for them to follow and disappeared again. Plater hesitated and Molly shoved him, mouthing the words ‘Go on’.
Plater had to duck slightly to pass through the door behind the counter and found himself in a sort of cross between stock room and sitting room. There was a small, cottage style settee and two small armchairs surrounding a fireplace, most of the limited space was taken by stacks of books.
“Please, won’t you sit down.” said the man. “Can I get you some tea?”
Plater was still gazing around.
Molly said:
“Yes, please that would be lovely, thank you.” She motioned for Plater to sit down.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” called the man from the kitchen. “Once you get to the village it’s a piece of cake, really, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” said Plater. “It was no trouble. I’m sorry but do I know you?”
The small man appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Well in a manner of speaking, but perhaps not in the accepted sense.” And with a smile he returned to quiet the whistling kettle.
The piles of books that hemmed them in were mostly very old with what would once have been luxurious bindings before the rigors of time, sunlight and centuries of use had taken their toll.
“Here we are.” announced the man, placing a tray on the tiny table by the fireplace. “I’ll pour but please help yourself to sugar and milk.”
He carefully poured three cups of tea in flowery cups and saucers before settling back in one of the armchairs.
“My name is Raymond.” said the man. “But then you know that. In fact we have met before Mr Plater. Last night in fact. Although you may not recall very well.”
Molly looked from Bartholomew to Plater, wondering what he would say.
“Forgive me.” Raymond went on. “I’m being unreasonable. What you are experiencing is both profound and as far as we know, unique. I imagine you’ve been having some rather unusual dreams lately. Am I right?”
“You could say that.” said Plater.
“And these have caused you some concern. That is only to be expected. But you have found me and that means we have taken our first step on what may be a long and difficult road.”
“So what does this mean? Why am I here?” said Plater, replacing his cup on the table and leaning forwards. The tightness across his brows returning.
“I know you want to know everything, Mr. Plater, but we think it is better if we take things slowly and at a pace we’re all comfortable with. You have had a difficult few days so let me describe what we would recommend from here.”
Bartholomew turned and opened a wooden box next to his chair. He removed a soft leather-bound book and placed it on the table.
“The first stage in your training is to have improved recollection of your dreams. This book is to become your constant companion. In it you are to record, immediately upon waking, whatever you can remember of your dreams. This is very important as there will come a time when we can move to the next stage in your development, and we must be sure that you are ready.”
“Development? Training? What are you on about? I’ve been having weird dreams and somehow your name was in one and here you are talking as if you knew this all along. Who are you, Mr. Bartholomew? What is happening to me?”
“It is quite possible, Mr. Plater, that you are what one might call a new breed, a true New Age man, if you like. You have an innate ability to project. By that I mean that when you dream you travel to a different world and can interact with it. Take your dream from last night. The one that brought you here. I don’t imagine you can remember it very well, but you remembered enough to find me. I’m sorry about the falling, we felt that something dramatic was needed to bring you to wakefulness quickly in the hope that what remained of your dream could be better recalled. It seems to have worked.”
“But how do you know what I dreamed last night?”
“Because I was with you, Mr. Plater, I was in your dream. I was the one that caused you to fall, don’t you remember?”
For a moment, Plater was unable to speak.
“You. You’re the little man with the rucksack….” said Plater.
“I think the proper name is parachute, but yes.”
“But how is that possible?” asked Molly, “How can you be in the same dream? I’ve known people to have similar dreams but not the same dream and have conversations in them.”
“Actually, Miss er…” began Bartholomew.
“Molly, just Molly.” said Molly.
“Molly, certain people have had shared dream experiences for millennia. From man’s earliest recollections of dreams, he has wondered if, when one sleeps, one travels to mysterious places to live out these dreams. Modern man has experimented with various forms of what are called ‘altered states of consciousness’. Mankind has always had a hunch that there is more going on than he can sense or feel in his waking moments. It turns out that while these artificial attempts may one day find the key, the easiest path to altered consciousness is through a medium we all as humans are forced to share - sleep.”
Bartholomew paused to sip some tea and the only sound was the significant tick of the lacquered clock on the mantelpiece.
“Sleep is a time when the incessant interruptions of wakefulness are removed.” he continued. “The brain may turn its attention to matters other than those of daily life. Of course, perceptive men from the past have sensed this need to remove external temptations and in extreme cases have left society for solitude.”
“Do you mean yogis, monks, nuns and that sort of thing?” said Plater.
“You are right.” said Bartholomew. “In most cases from history those who felt there may be something else were looking for religious enlightenment. That is because this was how such things were described in society and over time this search for enlightenment became synonymous with religion. In fact, there need be no such connection.”
“Are you telling me I’ve had some sort of religious experience?” said Plater.
“No, quite the reverse. I’m saying that it is quite likely that those in history that have claimed to have had religious experiences were probably having an experience similar to yours.”
“I’m confused.” said Molly, “What do Mason’s dreams indicate?”
“It’s quite simple, on one level. Your dreams show you have not only an innate ability to enter this alternative reality, if you like, but also to communicate and remember your interactions when you return to our reality. This is rare in, shall we say, normal people. Very rare indeed without intensive training.”
“So, I’m in some other world when I sleep, is that what you’re saying? What is in that other world? I’m still asleep in my bed. I don’t travel anywhere.”
“It is best to think of it that way.” continued Bartholomew, “I’m afraid that none of us really understand the science behind this phenomenon. As you learn more about us you will understand, I hope, why that is.”
“You keep mentioning ‘us’ Mr. Bartholomew.” said Molly. “Who’s ‘us’?”
“When I said that Mr. Plater was probably unique, I meant that he is the first person we know of that seems to have an innate ability to enter this altered consciousness without training. There are others that have this ability but they pay a heavy price for it. More tea?”
Bartholomew leaned forwards and picked up the heavy teapot.
“Er, yes, thank you.” said Plater, easing himself back into his seat. “Please, go on.”
“Yes please.” said Molly, as Bartholomew glanced at her.
Bartholomew carefully poured their teas and sipped his own.
“It was a very happy coincidence, Mr. Plater, that you took the job at Lievesham Hall. Your chance encounter with Miss Hartston was most helpful. I can’t explain why, we just don’t understand these things, but since she had some effect on you that day she was in your mind when you went to sleep that night. Somehow, and again, I apologise for not having a cleaner explanation, this helped you to ‘find’ her in this alternative reality.”
“You were attracted to her.” said Molly.
“Exactly.” said Bartholomew “My point is that people in Miss Hartston’s unfortunate condition seem to find access to this other reality very easy. It is a blessing really as it affords them the opportunity to live in something like the manner in which we do here in the physical world.”
“So, let me see if I’m getting this.” said Plater. “You’re saying that I’m some sort of freak that slips into this ‘other world’ when I sleep now, just because I saw that woman in the hospital? That’s insane.”
“I’m saying that we, as humans, seem to have vast areas of our brains that we know little of. Most of our actions in our daily lives, up to 80% I believe, are actually handled by our ‘unconscious’ or ‘subconscious’ minds rather than our conscious. You have a genetic ability that was unknown to you before you ran across Miss Hartston. The fact you were apparently thinking about her as you slept has enabled your mind to bridge the gap to this alternative reality. As much as any other learning skill works in the brain the more it is used the easier it becomes. Now that you have found the way it will be hard to lose it so you must learn to control it.”
