The Keeper of Dreams

At the top of the mountain, I arrived at the small circle of stones where the Keeper of Dreams sat in eternal patience and tranquility. At first I couldn't say whether it was a man or woman who sat, or if he or she was young or old. As I looked at the figure seated peacefully in the center of the ring of enormous grey granite pillars, it seemed to shimmer for a moment, and afterward I saw that it was a man. About forty years of age, square-faced, well-groomed, clean-shaven, black hair slicked back in a professional manner. Everything about him was professional: from his seated position he rose and stood straight, square-shouldered, confident; perfectly pressed tan slacks and matching sportcoat, tie in place, polished shoes.

"I don't have dreams anymore."

The man produced a briefcase. To me it seemed he pulled it straight out of the cold, crisp, thin air.

"You've come to the right place."

* * * * *

I had heard about this place from an old coworker, Victor. He went years without dreaming. He couldn't concentrate at work, his marriage was troubled, he began to isolate himself from people. He had been clinically depressed for a long time, and psychiatrists over the years had prescribed several different pills for him that never really worked. He became insomniac. He lost his job, lost his wife. When he was about to give up hope, he found out about the Keeper of Dreams.

After seeing the Keeper, he came to life again. He was revitalized, rejuvenated. He was happy again. Motivated, ambitious, and he had great ideas. His health returned, he looked great, and his greying hair even came back to color. He successfully found investors to start a restaurant franchise that within months became an empire, and he found a new wife who was the perfect woman for him. Having taken up snowboarding as a hobby, he also became an accomplished athlete. And his son, only six years old, has an uncanny artistic talent.

When my dreams started to fade away, I wanted to stop the process before it progressed too far. But I couldn't afford a trip to the mountain. Had to get a plane ticket, a pack and supplies. All kinds of expenses, all while missing time at work. I couldn't afford to go to the mountain, but I also couldn't afford not to go. Seven months went by, my dreams coming fewer, farther between, and ever weaker. I stopped dreaming altogether, and after three weeks of that I decided to take action. I saw what had happened to Victor after he stopped dreaming, and I had to keep that from happening to me -- whatever the price.

So I took a loan on the car to cover travel expenses and the household bills for a month. A month off work, a month to pursue my dreams. My wife didn't object to any of it; she knew it was something I had to do for both of us.

My wife, Lorraine, I doubt she'll ever have a problem with dreams. She dreams nearly every night, even often during the day when nothing much is happening. And all those nights when I would lie on the bed in a dreamless fever, sweating and twitching, she would comfort me and wake me gently so that I could fall asleep again undisturbed by my lack of dreams. I was glad that she still had hers. If not, we probably wouldn't have made it.

Before I left for the mountain, I called Victor and asked him to tell me more about the Keeper of Dreams. He told me that everyone who sees the Keeper sees him differently. You must travel alone to the top of the mountain to see the Keeper, and he appears to you in the form that your mind desires. The Keeper then gives you a task to perform that prepares your mind to receive dreams again, which was also different for everyone: Victor had to walk across a bed of burning coals, and he knew people who had had to meditate for entire days on end, or let go of their worldly possessions, or jump from a great height into a lake, or pledge their lives to the cause of righteousness. Then the Keeper draws dreams from the wellspring, and you pass out. Dreams come flooding back to you in a torrent. And when you wake he is nowhere to be found.

It took five days for me to travel to the remote mountain range, and another week to reach the summit of the Keeper's mount. I was exhausted, for every night was restless without the comfort of dreams. Though exhaustion made me hungrier, I still had plenty of supplies left, here at the midpoint of my journey. In fact, I had so much extra that I had been eating more simply so that I wouldn't have to carry so much up the mountain and back.

I set up camp about three hours from the summit, left my surplus there, and scrambled to the top. I arrived and the Keeper appeared before me, apparently in the form my mind desired. He was dressed well, but not nearly warmly enough for the frigid mountain air. He brought out the briefcase from nothingness, opened it. He pulled out some papers, studying them.

"How long have you been up here? In this, ah, business?" I asked. I wondered at why such a clean-cut businessman would be up here, then remembered that it was simply the form he presented to me.

"I've been assisting clients in the recovery of their lost dreams for over four thousand three hundred years," he said, still avidly perusing his papers. His voice was even, businesslike as everything else about him. He struck me as being perhaps a lawyer, or maybe a stockbroker. A dream-broker.

"Well," I began as the Keeper riffled through more papers in his briefcase, "I haven't had a dream for well over a month now. And I --"

"Mm, yes. What did you say your name was?" he broke in, finding the piece of paperwork he was looking for and preparing to write.

"Morrison. Brian Morrison."

"Date of birth?"

"March twenty, seventy-six."

"Mm, that would be nineteen seventy-six?" he asked. I thought it should be obvious, but this guy's been alive for thousands of years. His sense of time was probably far and away from mine.

"Yes, nineteen seventy-six"

"Education?" he continued.

"Associate's degree, business."

"Married?"

"Yes, and no children."

"Mother's maiden name?"

"Scott."

The questioning went on; it was quite extensive. Birthplace, current address, favorite musical genre, childhood goals, vital statistics, hobbies, and dozens of other things about my personality and myself in general.

"And where did you hear about this service?"

"A guy I used to work with, Victor Lombard. He owns a chain --"

"Mm, interesting, yes, I remember Mr. Lombard. In fact... mm, yes.... Interesting."

Though it sounded at times like he wasn't listening, I could tell from his demeanor that he was taking everything in. He filled in over half a dozen forms, having me sign each as it was completed. In spite of the professionalism of his manner, the forms he had were sporadically organized. Categorization was absent: on one page there were two questions about my favorite things, something about a childhood pet, my SAT scores, and how long since my last dental exam, and other questions irrelevant to each other, in no particular order. And I could have sworn that some of the sheets were used more than once, each time with a different set of questions and unsigned, even though I had viewed and signed them once before and seen nothing missed.

When the paperwork was finished, the Keeper placed the forms in a file folder, snapped his briefcase shut, and set it aside. He looked up at me for the first time since he opened the briefcase, folded his hands, made eye contact, and started talking about things other than my entire life story.

"You may be wondering why it is that people stop dreaming."

Actually, I hadn't wondered, ever. I knew it was a condition that had been on the rise for as long as I could remember, but it was a simple fact of life. I paid no more attention to it than to people having strokes or heart attacks or diabetes or cancers. Now that he mentioned it, though, I was beginning to wonder then.

I nodded.

"For millenia people relied on their dreams to build human civilization. Dreams inspired mankind to invent, to write, to fight for their ideals, to explore, to learn, and to discover the truth in the universe. For a long time humans didn't need dreams, but the ones who had them were the ones who laid the foundation for civilization as you know it.

"Then for a time dreams became not a luxury but a necessity. Those who had dreams were the leaders in the world, and those without them were servants at their feet. During this period more people began to have dreams, and their dreams led mankind to do great things. Humans tapped the wellspring of dreams to its fullest, and over the centuries civilization blossomed and flourished."

I listened, wondering what the Keeper's point was. I didn't rush him, though, for in his thousands of years of wisdom he must be driving at something. Besides, I hadn't given much thought to the subject anyway, just as I had never contemplated the brain chemistry of a schizophrenic.

"Now mankind is entering a new time. Over the past centuries people have derived inspiration from the wellspring. But a time comes when everything to be learned is known, everything to be discovered is found, every idea applied. New things are in short supply, and so dreams, the stuff of innovation, become a luxury again. The world is returning to a time when the dreams belong to few.

"If you look at civilization as it is now, you can see the signs of this trend. Dreams have led much of the population into a golden age in which you can live a comfortable life with minimal effort. For these people, who needs dreams anymore? Entertainers are running out of original ideas and so are reusing old ones in "new" ways. In the face of increasing environmental crises, there is a lack of new ideas for effective ways of handling them. And the ideas that are out there are hindered by a lack of drive, a lack of motivation, or the steadfast adherence to old ways displayed by those who are lacking dreams. I could go on; the examples are everywhere."

Though his message seemed grim, the Keeper's voice and manner conveyed no fear, no outrage, not even disappointment. He was astoundingly neutral about the world's dream deficiency. Of course, he had seen such times come and go, and it seemed he thought that this phase would also pass, though admittedly it sounded like this was a bigger problem than most. He went on to confirm that assumption.

"It may be a long time before the wellspring can flow with dreams as it once did. The wellspring will probably sooner run dry. For a time, anyway. And during that time people will do well enough with what they have. Then, when the need for new dreams compels mankind to be receptive again, the wellspring will be ready to fill human minds with dreams again. Not so much as before, but well enough, well enough...."

I sat stunned, my legs beginning to ache from sitting so long on one of the stones within the circle. I hadn't even realized that I had sat down, nor that the Keeper had as well and had been using another stone as a table all this time. I remembered, though, that I came here for a reason. I wanted to dream again. I needed to dream again. If only a fraction of the population was going to have dreams, to be the leaders and heroes and inspiring figures among men -- then I was damned well going to be one of them.

"What do I need to do to get my dreams back? Victor said there was some kind of task that I'd have to do to make my mind receptive."

Without hesitation the Keeper flipped the briefcase lid open and pulled out a page with carbon-copy attachments. He gave it to me. It was an agreement.

"For the low price of twenty-nine ninety-five, you will receive dreams for a lifetime. There is a four ninety-nine handling fee. If you sign today, I'll give you bonus innovations for effective money-making strategies at no extra charge."

I signed, dated, and handed back the agreement, along with a check for thirty-four ninety-four payable to Keeper of Dreams.

The Keeper raised a hand and a glimmering watery light emanated from the center of the circle of stones. In the light I could see fleeting glimpses of people, a few of whom I recognized. One was Lorraine, my wife. I didn't see Victor.

"To restore your dreams I must transfer the dreams of others into your mind. The wellspring would be crippled if I tapped it directly for you, so I must take from the stock that is available."

I gaped in shock. "Wait a minute -- you mean if I want to dream again, I have to steal the dreams from others?" An terrible thought occurred to me. "From Lorraine?" Words began to fly from my lips unconstrained by thought. "How can you do this? Is this how Victor and the others got their dreams? Is that how I lost mine? You can't just buy and sell people's dreams! Don't you see that you're making the dream situation worse by taking dreams from many to put them into a few? When no one dreams anymore, civilization won't just use what it has. Civilization will collapse! And aren't you afraid that mixing up everyone's dreams will corrupt them? Their dreams are theirs, and giving them to someone else can twist them in horrible ways!"

The Keeper stood silent when I ended my tirade. Moments later my satellite phone rang. I thought I had turned it off, but I had already seen stranger things on this mountaintop, this place of dreams.

It was Victor, calling to tell me about a dream he had, and a new idea for his nationwide fast food franchise. The fast food market had been gearing toward healthier selections for some time, and his new, innovative idea was to create the most meat-filled, cheese-stuffed, sauce-dripping, fat, oozing burger America has ever seen. It was a burger for people who wanted "something different, more filling, better tasting" than the rest. He was going to call it the Cardiac Burger.

I wanted nothing that the Keeper had to offer here. I would rather have no dreams at all than to buy -- to steal someone else's, to steal dreams and ruin them as they bend to my visions. I grabbed the agreement from the Keeper and tore it to shreds, making sure that the carbon copies were destroyed as well. I stuffed the bits into my jacket to use later to kindle my campfire. I turned and left the Keeper of Dreams behind me, calm and businesslike as he ever was.

I returned to my camp and rolled up in my sleeping bag. I was exhausted from the day's affairs, and I stumbled into a deep, peaceful sleep.

I dreamed that night. It was a beautiful dream. And it was my dream. I earned it.