Sample of the book

Paper Doll was going down. Dense smoke filled the cockpit. I fought a losing battle with the wheel. "Keep 'er nose up, Kilty." Rusty Cable's voice was in my ear. "Keep 'er nose up." I glanced over at my copilot. His head pitched forward at an impossible angle, left arm hanging uselessly at his side. Then he seemed to raise his head, grinning his cocky grin at me, his freckled face cherubic. He was a happy-go-lucky Van Johnson to my somber Greg Peck. We'd flown together since the beginning. "Got to keep 'er nose up a little longer." I returned to my endless chore, fighting against the ever-increasing force pulling us down, down out of the sky. Fighting my increasing exhaustion.

God only knows where we are. Dense, black, steaming jungle below. We were more than halfway into the run when the ack-ack hit. Little puffs of white smoke far below. It was only a milk run anyway. We didn't expect any action. Didn't even have an escort. Hadn't seen a Jap on this side of the mountains for days. Then we took the hit.

I sent the navigator back to check the damage. He hadn't returned to the cockpit when they hit us again.What is down there, for Christ's sake? The radio was out. Must have gone with the first attack. But someone in the squadron must've seen us turn. Thought we could make it back. Then the second antiaircraft attack ripped through our belly. I turned off course.

Got to find a place to put her down. Can't risk those trees. God, I'm too tired. I can't make it, Rusty. This time he doesn't reply, even in my fevered imagination. A dark, sweetish stench fills the cabin, mixing with the ominous smell of burning insulation. Holy cow, Rusty, did you crap your pants?

God, I don't want to die! Not on a milk run, for Christ's sake. This milk wagon is filled with five tons of high-quality explosive and detonating caps that go off if somebody farts loud enough. Too heavy a load. Should only carry four. Too much fuel left in the tanks. Too much high octane fuel to take her down safely.

I risk dropping a hand down to rest for a second on my leg. Something's wrong there, but maybe I don't want to know about it. I'm reassured. My hand feels a leg, and even better, leg feels hand. The nose dips. I drag it back up with both arms, pulling like they're coming out of shoulder sockets. I can't do it alone. Rusty?

I must be hallucinating. Some part of me knows he'll never answer again. Still I see him raise his head and look meaningfully in front of the nose. I follow his gaze. Directly ahead of us looms a massive butte, its crown covered with dense, dark green growth, behind it an even higher mountain reaching towards the clouds. I can't get the nose up. We'll never make it over them. Then I hear Rusty's voice again. "Take her down now. You can do it, Kilty. Just let her float down. Like a leaf. Take her down easy, real, real easy."

I look where he seems to point. At the foot of the butte, on the left side, a clearing. Too small. Maybe a little longer than a couple of football fields. Way too small. I need close to four thousand feet to put this baby safely down. Paper Doll is no slim beauty. She's a deep-bosomed babe loaded with TNT. Maybe I can drop into the slot and coast into the jungle growth at the end. Let the jungle absorb the impact. No choice anyway. Starting to drop now. Slow her down as much as possible. Not enough control. Mustn't stall and drop too soon. Nose up again. Too tired. Arms can't take the punishment. We're going down too fast. Treetops whipping at the undercarriage. Keep the nose up. Fighting against gravity. Fighting the pain.

We drop into the hole and only seconds later impact the green wall at the end of the line.

It's completely dark. I seem to be tied up. Can't move. Can't see. Hot. Burning up. A trickle of cool water in my mouth. There is a fragrance. It is here. Then gone. Pain claims me.

I am awake. Pretending to be asleep. I still can't see. My eyes are covered by something cool. Left arm and shoulder immobile. Right moves a little. Fingers can flex. I feel naked. Still burning. Fingers feel something like a latticework or irregular net wrapped around my torso. Some Jap torture device? It's completely rigid. Yields only slightly when I inflate my lungs to press against it. Hurts to breathe. Ribs broken. I think the thing runs all the way down my left leg. Why can't I raise my right hand? Any movement produces excruciating pain. Dry, sweet smell. Sandalwood. Something tickles a distant memory. I drift off.

I remember sitting in a red booth at a Chinese restaurant on a narrow side street in Seattle, down by the docks. I'm a little kid. Dragons swirl on columns holding up the ceiling. Incense, sandalwood incense. The waiter has a queue. He brings me a few ugly dried up things arranged on a small red lacquer plate. Gestures that I should put one in my mouth. I'm a bit suspicious, but I pop one in. It is dry, dense, but then I bite into it, releasing a piercing, perfumy juice.

I am given more of them to take home in a rough brown cardboard box. We're driving back to Eugene tonight. My folks are in the front seat of Blackie, our Ford coupe. I fit perfectly on the shelf under the back window.. I have a blanket and a pillow. The stars fill the window above me, crisp against the winter sky. The reassuring murmur of voices, my mom and dad speaking softly together. I pop another lichee in my mouth.

The next time I wake up I feel light through my eyelids. I still can't open my eyes. Still pain. Something cool is laid across the lids again. Smells green. The fragrance is present. I am touched very gently here and there by something. A sense of great delicacy. A Chinese nurse? Japs don't have nurses for prisoners of war. Maybe they have other plans for me. Not torture. God, I hope not torture. Maybe they plan to save me for some triumphant public beheading. That's been popular lately. The heads of our men left on stakes for us to find when we take the villages. Medals and dog tags arranged underneath so we can identify the victims. I begin to shudder uncontrollably.

When I wake up again I smell, then feel, the presence of someone. Without thinking I turn my head towards the presence. A very small hand touches me gently on the palm of my right hand. It feels delicate, thin and papery. Then the voice. Dry, whispery. An accent. Asian, but with a slightly British inflection? A trick? Nips are tricky characters. Be careful. Don't give too much away.

"Welcome, Captain. I am not reading well, and your papers were singed. You are Captain Ste-ew-art, Keeltee, yes?" The "Stewart" was drawn out into several syllables. "You recover very nice, I think. Not to open eyes yet, please. Eyes okay, I am thinking, but not good yet. There is much pain yet, burns, yes, ribs, right leg, arm bones maybe broken. But good. Good, yes."

I'm not answering. Not yet. I've got to have a plan. I'll pretend ignorance. I'll be grateful for the rescue. Find out as much as I can first. My men? Could any have survived? Where are they? Other huts near here? Need to recover enough to make it through the jungle to our lines. Where the hell are we? How did that character know my nickname? That's not on any of my papers. Find out as much as possible first. Get well. Time to plan an escape.. The presence is waiting.

"Drink now, Captain Keeltee. Good drink. You will sleep and dream most important dreams now. Have dreams now. I come back and you tell me your good dreams, yes? We have waited long, longtime for you."

Something cool and slightly acrid is dripped into my mouth.

Endorsements

I read your book as soon as I got it and greatly enjoyed it. . . . The way I test a new book is to read the first paragraph. So I read yours. The next thing I knew I'd read the whole book. Thanks again. I'll see you in my dreams.

Bill Martin, artist, CA

Totally original, wonderfully mysterious: two essential ingredients for a thoroughly good read.

Christopher Pickup, Retired Army Officer, London

Just finished Dream People, which I did enjoy. It was like going to the cinema. I had vivid dreams while reading the book ‹ it was great!

Nic Barlow, photographer, London

In this wonderful book, Alice Anne Parker establishes herself as a magnificent storyteller and spiritual teacher. I wa unable to put it down.

Michael Peter Langevin, Co-publlisher, .Magical Blend Magazine

A hauntingly beautiful tale . . . . Parker has taken her ability for dream analysis to a new level.

Carol Adrienne, Co-author, The Celestine Prophecy: An Experiential Guide

Alice Anne reveals a rich terrain; one we visit yet are rarely aware of . . . . revelatory.

Terence Stamp, actor, London

Vivid and captivating, this is a novel that immerses us in another world, while opening up provacative possiblilities for our own.

Rosie Parker, therapist, London