The Awakening (11 page)

In his dream, he knew first that he was walking. He felt the pads of his feet fall upon the earth, and the feel was good. Dirt, rich, ever so slightly damp, no grass, no stones, no sticks, just the feel of his bare feet and earth, and it was strangely erotic.

More so when he felt the cool breeze that touched him, that seemed to wrap around him. And he realized that the sensation was so powerful because he was walking naked, and every moment in that strange breeze, on the barren earth, was sensual.

There was sound. At first, he thought it was the air, the sound of it whirling around him, touching him. But then he knew. The soft, melodic chants were real. They came from the group who awaited him, and he knew it was he that they awaited, that they adored him, and were ready to fall on their knees before him. It was exhilarating. He felt the play of his every muscle as he walked, and he felt stronger, more powerful than ever before. He could feel his blood rushing through his veins, the even sound of his breath, rising and falling with his movement.

They were ahead. Chanting still, and the words they chanted were lauds to him. He came closer, and still, they were elusive, for they were shrouded in the soft blue mesh of the fog that stirred so thickly around the ground. It was beautiful. Deep, rich, soft . . . and yet simmering. Enticing, yet promising something volatile and exciting beyond belief.

He kept walking. There were two at his feet. He couldn't see them clearly. Women. Flesh blue-tinged, hair long and wild. They kissed his feet, stroked his calves as he moved. They were not the ones that he wanted, and he shook off the hold they had upon him. He kept moving, for there was something far ahead, an altar in the woods, and it offered . . .

The answer. The release for the tension winding within him. Something he had wanted for eternity.

His rational mind fought such an image, for there was nothing he wanted. He knew he had all he wanted . . .

No. A voice whispered at the back of his head that there was more. So much more. He kept moving, and even through the fog, he saw that the world had gone bizarre. There were still people. Chanting. Some half clad in strange robes, and half naked. There was a goat ahead. No . . . not a goat, a man, a creature, half goat, half man. The head of a man, but horned, with a long, strange chin that added to the look of a satyr. The creature had cloven hooves for hands at the end of long, furry arms. He wondered if the creature was the one whispering to him, bringing the thoughts to hover beyond his conscious thought. He came closer to the goat, then started to turn away, for the goat was busy fornicating. A hideous creature, but the woman before him was laid out in extreme ecstacy, her moans rising above the sound of the chants.

The invitation beckoned him. And he kept walking, past the goat, and all the people, men and women now, all of them in different stages of copulation. Yet, as he passed, they followed, whispering words of adoration, begging for his word, his command. They ran at his side, they touched him, stroked him with oil as he moved.

Again, he was embarrassed, for they ran their fingers down his back, his arms, his chest, his buttocks, then cradled his penis, anointing it with the oil.

And he kept hearing words, silent, shrieking, part of the breeze, the chants . . .

She
will be there.

And there
. . .
what had awaited him.

He saw himself, where he stretched to touch her so callously. His arms were richly furred. His fingers had convulsed into something cloven.

His head . . .

If he reached up to touch, he would feel that horns had grown from his temples, and that he had done all that was wrong that had been bidden, and that he had become . . .

He awoke with a violent start, unable to catch his breath, terror holding his heart at a dead standstill.

He breathed.

His heart thumped.

And still, for a moment, the dream had been so real that he was afraid to look around the room. He forced himself to do so.

Night still, but maybe, just barely. He could clearly see outside, for they had left the balcony doors open. Stupidly. It was freezing in the room, he realized.

And still, he was covered in a sheen of sweat.

Megan!

Terror for his wife seized him.

But she was there, turned away from him, curled into her pillow, long blond hair spilled upon it. He reached out to touch her, then nearly recoiled. Her hair was damp. Damp, as it often was after making love . . .

He kicked off the covers and stood, reaching for his robe. He walked around to the side of the bed, almost afraid to touch Megan. But she was sleeping. Soundly. Her breath came in an even, slow rhythm. He studied her face. Her beautiful face. And he was afraid.

Ridiculous. He'd had a bizarre dream.

It was this place. All this talk about witches.

Witches. Wiccans. But they were good, so Megan swore. They did no evil to others, because it would come back upon them threefold.

He was losing his mind. He was so afraid of losing Megan that he was losing his mind.

He gave himself a mental shake and walked out to the balcony. Sunrise was coming. The air was very cool. Yet he was glad to stand there shivering.

Trees rustled softly.

The moon shone down, benignly.

The coming day would be beautiful, he thought. Almost a touch of Indian summer.

He stepped back into the bedroom, hesitating just a second to look around. But there was no movement anywhere. The world might have stalled.

Suddenly, a noise. He jumped, then laughed at himself. It was just a car backfiring.

He walked into the bedroom, and carefully closed and locked the balcony doors. As he did so, he hesitated, having the strangest feeling that it was too late.

And so, he walked around the room. Looked in the closet, in the bathroom, in the shower. When he came out, he even looked beneath the bed.

They were alone, as they had been.

And still . . .

He had the strangest feeling he had let something enter. Something had come into their bedroom as they had slept. He was furious with himself for having left the doors open.

And yet . . .

He didn't think the doors would have stopped whatever it was from entering.

He groaned aloud, and spoke clearly to himself in the darkness as well.

“Dickhead! Ass!”

He gave his head a shake. More light seemed to be drifting in. He glanced at the bedside clock. There was a small coffeemaker on the dresser. He filled the pot with water from the sink and threw in a filter. The four-cup machine took only seconds.

While the coffee brewed, he dug into his belongings. He didn't smoke often; this morning, he wanted a cigarette.

He found a half-crushed pack of Marlboro Lights. He got his cup of coffee and his cigarette and headed for the balcony.

He hesitated, then forced himself to open the doors, walk out, and take a seat on one of the little patio chairs there.

The sun was rising. It was beautiful.

He lit his cigarette, sipped his coffee. The sun kept rising. It wasn't like a Southern sunrise. The brilliant crimsons and golds didn't streak across the sky. But still, day came magnificently. Soft grays became violets, and that color became softer still, an incredible powder blue.

He closed his eyes. There were noises now, too. Car doors, shouts here and there, conversations . . .

The world was awakening. Day-to-day. Usual. He heard a mother remind a child to grab a lunch bag.

He crushed out his cigarette, drained his coffee, and went back inside, ready to go back to sleep, despite the coffee. The dream had, at long last, left him. Only vague, scattered remnants remained.

Still . . .

He paused as he closed and locked the balcony doors again.

He had forgotten so much.

And still, that vague feeling remained.

There was no way to lock out . . .

Evil.

He swore, set the cup down, and crawled back in next to Megan. Oddly, he hesitated again, as if he had wronged her somehow.

Tentatively, he pulled her into his arms.

She came, not really awakening, just readjusting into his embrace.

I love you. I will protect you against any evil!
he swore silently.

But then another thought plagued his mind.

He slept at last with one very logical, disdainful, and determined notion.