Dream Thief by Stephen Lawhead Page B

one with it. Now and forever.
    THERE WAS NO WAKING this time. Spence was fully conscious of his surroundings, and was aware, too, that he had been conscious for some time. There simply was no dividing line he could point to and say, “Here I was asleep, and here awake.” The shadowy line between waking and dreaming had been erased. It no longer existed. In Spence's mind dream and reality had merged.
    Before him hung the shimmering iridescent halo of blue light with its tendrils glowing faintly as they waved in the darkness of his quarters. The luminous tendrils seemed to be reaching out for him, pulling him up into the green shining halo. He felt the rising, pulling, falling sensation and knew that he had felt it before in just this way.
    He knew that he had experienced all this before—the shining wreath, the glistening tendrils, the shapeless mass moving darkly in the center—he knew it, but there was no memory of it. There was simply a knowing.
    He watched in grim fascination as the swirling inner eye of the halo condensed into a glimmering mass of light. He felt a pressure in his chest; his lungs burned and he realized he had been holding his breath. His heart flung itself against his ribs and he could smell the fear rising from him as the reek from the fur of a wet animal. But the thing held him firmly in his place.
    The terror seemed merely a physical response. He noted it with scientific curiosity, as one might note the progress of water boiling in a beaker and turning into steam, or chart the stages of a well-known chemical reaction. The horror he felt belonged to another part of him, and that part no longer connected with his mind.
    A sound like needles clinking or glass slivers breaking against one another rose in volume. He noted the sound and marked how it seemed to tingle on the surface of his skin. He gazed more deeply into the green halo and saw the forms within weaving themselves into vaguely human shapes. These ghostly features then hardened into the recognizable form of a face—the thin, wasted face of Hocking.
    Spence blinked back dully at the leering apparition. His mouth was dry; he could not speak or cry out. The will to do so had left him.
    Hocking began speaking to him, saying, “You are becoming accustomed to the stimulus. Spencer. That is good. You are making remarkable progress. Soon we will begin a few simple commands. But one thing is needed yet before you are ready. We must establish a permanent mental link through which my thought impulses can travel to you. Heretofore, I have, been sending suggestions to you through your dreams. When our minds are linked, however, I shall be able to do so in your waking state as well.”
    Hocking smiled his skeletal smile and Spence, held in his place, stared impassively ahead.
    “This will not harm you,” soothed Hocking. “Relax. Close your eyes. Empty your mind of all thought. Think only of the color blue. Concentrate on the color blue, Spencer. Think of nothing else.”
    Spence obeyed the image's commands. He closed his eyes and filled his mindscreen with an intense, vibrant shade of blue. He relaxed his clenched fists and slumped; his head hung forward and his chin rested on his chest.
    “In a moment I will tell you to open your eyes and look at me. But not before I tell you—do you understand? Concentrate. Do exactly as I say … concentrate …”
    Spence felt his consciousness slipping away. It was as if his soul—all that which he called Spence and recognized as himself—began flowing from him, poured out like liquid from a bottle. The sensation sent a quiver up his spine and through his limbs. Once more the high-pitched tinkling sound increased, boring through the top of his head and into his skull.
    Dizziness overcame him, and with it a tough little kernel of resistance formed somewhere deep within. But the powerful forces working on him threatened to steal even that away.
    No!
thought Spence.
I cannot let this happen!
Those words echoing