 CHAPTER 3 (section 1) copyright © 2001, S. Y. Affolee Mongolian body odor was a different thing altogether, pungent, tangy, and garlicy all at the same time. He took a deep breath, feeling his mind reeling in disgust at the smell. The barbarians liked to wear their hair long and scraggly; dark beards grew out bush-like and untrimmed. Their armor was crude yet effective, the metal glinting off from the dying sun’s rays like tarnished bronze. He heaved his sword and sliced through his opponents arm. Dark red blood spurted out in a geyser as the enemy body toppled over like a colossus. The man had screamed loudly, but that had only amplified the already ensuing malee that had enveloped the battlefield. One of his comrades came over to crush the man’s skull with the flat of his blade as he swung his sword again to block another incoming thrust. That particular voice was silenced forever. The commander was up ahead, still on his pale horse, hacking away at the enemy underbrush. His armor gleamed silver under his red cape. His sword was a sleek sharp thing that darted in and out, splatters of red mixing with the spit in the dirt churned air. The standard bearer was also nearby, his yellow flag with the emperor’s green dragon emblem still flapping valiantly through the breeze. The incoming Mongolian onslaught was a tidal wave, never ending, never ceasing. Over and over he swung his sword until the brown dried blood on his blade mingled with fresh blood. He saw a few of his comrades go down under the trampling feet and hooves. But he did not stop to ponder or to mourn. He had his own life to fight for. Suddenly a flicker of gray caught the corner of his eye, but it was too late. A blade had pierced his left arm. Quickly he whirled onto his attacker, intending to do even more damage. The wound on his arm bled, rivulets of darkness stained his uniform sleeve. But even as he raised his sword arm, something hacked away at his side and in an anguished cry he fell, the bloodied grass rising up quickly to meet his face. She awoke, breathing hard and clutching her side. The kittens that had been sleeping on top of her rolled off as she sat up. Sleepily, they meowed in protest. She pulled up her sweater and looked at her pale abdomen. No mark. No blood. She rolled up her left sleeve. No wound there either. That had been the first time that she had been injured or killed in a dream. She flopped back down onto the bed and breathed a sigh of relief. It had seemed so real, yet it was still a dream. The cat on her pillow flicked his tail to tickle her cheek. “I’m not a very nice person to sleep with,” she told the animal. The black kitten meowed otherwise while his siblings attempted to crawl back to their original places. “Don’t you have some warm basket in the kitchen to sleep in?” she asked the kittens rhetorically. “I don’t think I’m a very comfortable bed.” A small creaking noise at the nearest wall to the bed suddenly startled her. She sat up again, but the kittens resolutely clung to her. It was a door in the wall, not the entrance to the room or the door to the bathroom, but a different door altogether. A figure appeared, tall, dark, menacing. It was in the shape of a person at least. Was it a ghost? The ghost? The dead Mr. Robert Greenville? “Simone?” She silently breathed deeply, feeling her pounding pulse beginning to slow back into its steady rhythm. If she had a weaker heart, she would have died from the double scare of the dream and her apparently insomniac partner. If only she had noticed that connecting door earlier. Adrian prowled toward her. From the moonlight that managed to filter through the drapes, she could see that he was only wearing a pair of loose slacks. The dim gray light played over the muscles on his broad shoulders and chest. His silver eyes faintly glinted as he watched her. He was also barefoot. That fact caused Simone to faintly giggle hysterically. He gingerly sat down at the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping felines. “Simone?” he repeated. “I thought I heard you scream.” She waved a hand. “A dream. It’s nothing.” “Really.” She could imagine his eyebrows raising in disbelief. He wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “You’re making me feel like a child.” She leaned her forehead against his warm skin. “Tell me anyway.” “I’ve always been the same character, but this was the first time I died,” she said. “I was a soldier in an army. An army for an ancient Chinese emporer. We were fighting some invading Mongolians and well, you know.” “So you dream about being a blood-thirsty warrior.” In the dim light she looked up and could see him grinning. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” “I am not blood-thirsty,” she retorted instead. “He’s violent, but not blood-thirsty.” “Do you know what I dream of being?” “What?” “Promise you won’t laugh.” Curious, she said. “I can’t make any promises.” “Well, at least you’re truthful. I once told my brother and he laughed his head off.” “What were you, a clown?” “I wish. I usually dream that I am a nun.” “A nun?” she replied wide-eyed. She clasped a hand over her mouth to prevent another chuckle from escaping her lips. “A nun?” she said again fainter. “It’s always the same thing though. I’m walking through the abbey in the middle of the night. I’m checking all the doors to make sure that they’re properly shut. And then I start heading towards the chapel. I remember that I’m looking for something, but I always wake up before I actually find this thing.” “I’m always dreaming of fighting. I wonder what our subconscious is trying to tell us.” He shrugged. “I’m thinking that mine is trying to tell me that I had a previous life.” “You’re kidding.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised. I always had this feeling that I knew this nun, that I knew her whole life. It’s just that I don’t remember most of it.” “And I must have been some ancient Chinese warrior during the Qin dynasty,” she replied dryly. “No. I think it’s the result of either studying too much history or watching too many graphic kung fu films when I was in college.” “To each their own theory,” he said unconcerned. “Are you all right?” “Yeah.” She laid back down when he got up to go back to his own room. “I’m glad.” His back was turned. He had once again turned into just another shadow in her room. |