* * * *
The next morning I awoke in another cold sweat sitting in my bed, but this time with the taste of ash in my mouth. Most people don’t think about dying very much or the many ways in which you can die. I think about it frequently—dream about it, in fact, virtually every night. As a child, my parents didn’t understand why I had such nightmares. Or how I could even know about the different ways in which people could die or be killed. After all, I started having the dreams when I was ten, not exactly the age at which to know about being burned at the stake.
I had what many would describe as an idyllic childhood up until then. My dad worked as a geologist for Shell, and my mom had opened her own dental office. They’d started dating in high school. Running to get to the covered walkway because rain poured down, my dad had knocked my mom into a massive puddle.
You wouldn’t have thought that would lead to romance, but who can explain the older generation? She said he’d bent down to help her up, and when they'd looked into each other’s eyes, they knew they were meant to be together. They’d gotten married while still in college and moved to our current neighborhood when they’d graduated. We lived in a good-sized two-story brick affair, in a quiet well-manicured neighborhood where the Home Owners Association had a hissy fit if you forgot to mow your lawn or trim your hedges.
I attended Tindall High in Springfield, which always met its Average Yearly Progress requirements, and made decent grades most of the time, chemistry being the only subject I seriously struggled with. Pretty normal, right? But every night dreams of being hung, stabbed, choked, poisoned, tortured…it seemed never ending…reeled through my head.
Becoming a serious insomniac and developing a terrifying fear of the dark, my folks finally took me to see a doctor when I turned 12. But here it was five years later, and still no one seemed to understand why I dreamed such terrible images, least of all me. Vivid imagination they said. Imagination, ha! I actually felt like those horrific deeds happened to me.
The doc put me on drugs, of course, and that did help some—for a while. Some nights no dreams came at all. But with the drugs came a feeling of being trapped, trapped in an abyss of darkness that nearly overwhelmed me, and I would wake choking, struggling for breath.
Why is it that our species fears the dark? It is an innate fear that even when logic tells us that nothing is there, we listen, hushed of breath, trying to quiet our heartbeat and we know…we know that something is there! In those dreams, I crawled through mazes of darkness with unspeakable things chasing me, and the creeping fear became worse than any death I had suffered in my earlier dreams.
I didn’t want to see people get killed, and more importantly—to me anyway—I didn’t want to be killed. I felt that I knew them all…those dream people, feeling sorrow at their passing, sometimes finding tears on my cheeks upon waking. But edging through darkness, feeling rough, cold walls under my hands and along my back, never knowing what was lurking in the shadows or when something would attack, was the worst. I refused medication after that.
The dream this night had begun in darkness when I first heard the woman crying.
* * * *
1595 CE
Slowly a green field took shape around me. The sky looked a perfect crystal blue of spring with just a few puffy white clouds above. Seemingly a lovely innocent day breathed a cool, light wind across my skin. In the distance was an exceptionally large castle, and I thought it remarkably picturesque in the rolling green countryside.
Then I heard the woman weeping, “Alexander, please. Please not this. I did not send for him! I would never betray you!” I realized suddenly that I was the one begging.
Looking up, I saw that iron manacles surrounded my wrists and a chain led from them up through a ring at the top of a tall pole. My arms stretched over my head with my back pressed to the pole, pulling me up enough so that my bare toes just brushed a rough wooden platform. As I looked around in a panic, I saw straw and sticks piled on the platform, and under it, I knew another mound of wood and straw must sit ready to burn.
Before the platform on the ground, a tall, dark haired man stood watching grimly as workmen placed the bodies of two slaughtered pigs among the wood. That was something of a mercy since the pig fat would make the fire burn hotter and, therefore, I hoped faster.
His black brows were pulled into a ferocious scowl across his straight nose. He didn’t look particularly old, mid-twenties maybe, his skin appeared tanned from being outdoors constantly, and he had just a shadow of a beard on his square jaw. He wore a slashed leather jerkin and a black sword belt over a red doublet with black hose. It looked like he had come straight out of Elizabeth I’s court, and I wondered for a second if my love of Shakespeare had finally made me demented.
The thought of burning—probably one of the most painful ways in which to die—caused me to feel a terrible, aching fear. “Please…just kill me! Use your sword—please not this!”
“You should have thought of what would happen before you betrayed me, Diana.” His voice was harsh as if he too were in pain.
“But I didn’t bring him here. I didn’t tell anyone. I swear to you.” The truth rang behind the words. I truly had not committed the crime for which he was sentencing me to death. Oddly, I did not even blame him for what he was about to do—simply wished he wouldn’t.
A monk had traveled into the province asking the peasants about haunted areas. He had told old Martha that he would get rid of any evil spirits that had been killing innocent people. She had told him about a cave in the hills where people had been found dead through the years, drained of blood with deep slashes across their torsos. No one would go near the place alone though sometimes children would challenge each other to enter it.
She told him that it had been several years since anyone had been killed, but if he looked for evil, he could find it there. I imagined that I could hear her toothless cackle in my head as she would have relished telling the stories of the cave. What she did not know was that I had taken care of the “spirit” years ago and that the people did not need to fear the cave any longer. I couldn’t exactly tell her though. She would have thought I was a witch if I told her that I’d gone and killed the spirit living in the cave.
It was just after I had been to the cave, years ago now, that I had met Alexander. I was in the village with my mother visiting her childhood friend Jane. Alexander was riding his big, black monster of a horse, Nightmare, when he saw us and stopped to speak with Jane, smiling down at me. He made such a magnificent picture on that horse, sitting so tall and straight with his dark hair ruffling in the wind that I stared at him in wonder. When we were introduced, I remember that he found my name intriguing.
It was not long after our meeting that he and my father had arranged our marriage. I considered myself lucky and went willingly into the marriage. He was healthy, young, and wealthy. Not to mention handsome—much better than old man Tellus who liked to pinch me while drooling down his chin. But…I didn’t know. I didn’t know that he was part of the Dark. I didn’t know that he recognized that I was of the Light.
The cave incident and our meeting were several years in the past as I dangled with my back against the pole. We had been happy together, I thought. He had given me freedoms that women were not usually allowed…education, for instance, I could read and write. That was part of the problem. He thought I had written to the monk—sent for him. Sent for the monk to come kill him.
It had been terrible luck that Alexander had been close to the cave when the monk approached it. Again, it was unfortunate that the monk recognized Alexander as being a demon. Alexander said that the monk had shouted ‘I have come for you, foul beast’ and charged him. He took that to mean the monk had come specifically for him, and the only way that would have been possible, in Alexander’s mind, was if I had written to the monk.
“They call you Alexander the Black because they think you have a black heart. But I know you. I know how you struggle against evi
l. You don’t have to do this. You will find out too late!” I gave the sobbing shout as a man approached carrying a burning torch. He looked to Alexander and Alexander nodded.
He tossed the brand into the wood stacked beneath me and the crackle of fire began. The wood caught immediately and flames burst upward, smoke curling up from my feet like that of a silver stuck demon. And then I could think of nothing but the pain as the flames licked their way up and around me.
Hearing screaming, some part of me was surprised when I realized it was me, my voice roughened with smoke and strain. I do not know how long I burned before he finally took pity, but the last thing I saw was Alexander the Black Hearted taking aim at me with a cross bow to grant me mercy at last.
2 School’s Out
Though it was rare for me to dream about the same people again, I’d dreamed of Alexander the Black before. He was virtually the only one, though occasionally a few others cropped up, but his pervasive presence often seemed to haunt me. The first dream of him that I had, I never heard his name—just saw him and felt that he saw me as well. Filled with a yearning sadness, the dream itself had a dreamlike quality.
He’d sat within a substantial chair with its arms and legs ornately carved, facing a massive stone fireplace, his elbow upon a polished black walnut table and his head in his hand. I realized now that he wore the same clothes from when he had me burned. He’d looked up as if there had been a sound that I couldn't hear. His face was full of anguish, such sorrow as few witness. It made me ache to see it, desperately wanting to wash away his pain.
I approached stretching out my hand to touch his face, but my voice was silent and my hand was nothing but a mist. He tried to speak and reached out to me, but I was being pulled away from him, drawn upward and everything faded.
I guess that was his grief after having me burned at the stake. I didn’t want to feel sympathy for him anymore, but I could still see his face and the sadness in his eyes.
I went to take a shower and brush the ash taste out of my mouth. The clock glowed at five a.m. Still a little early to start the last day of the school year, so I took my time, letting the water beat warmth into me, then went to make pancakes.
My mom and dad currently cruised up and down the Alaskan coast, taking a month long trip for their Silver Wedding Anniversary. They’d wanted it to be special, considering they’d been married for twenty-five years. My mom actually cried when she found out that my dad had gotten tickets for the cruise. She had always wanted to go, so he surprised her, taking her to dinner and sliding a silver envelope with the tickets under her plate. At the removal of her plate, she saw the envelope and looked questioningly at my dad. With a shaking hand she had opened it, sitting speechless for a whole minute!
While they cruised, they wanted me to go stay with my dad’s sister, my Aunt Murial, but because of some weather days, school had not yet let out. Thank God. I loved my Aunt Murial, but being a chain smoker, she and her entire house stank of nicotine. My lungs felt like they’d explode whenever I spent too much time with her. Thankfully, I was “forced” to stay home alone. So no one fussed and told me that if I just tried not to dream everything would be okay. My parents were baffled by me. To be honest, I was too.
Besides, my friends Maggie and Sam would be staying over a good portion of the time. I mean, there would be no folks, so we could watch movies, eat popcorn and listen to music all night long. Not that I could stay up all night. When it got late, if I just so much as sat down, I seemed to fall asleep! But either way, with Sam and Maggie around being totally alone the entire time wouldn’t be an issue.
As my two closest friends, I usually shared my dreams with Maggie and Sam. It was always hard to tell them about Alexander not only because he seemed private somehow—like I wanted to keep him to myself—but also because of the embarrassment, not to mention frustration, of never seeming to get the upper hand with him. You would think since they were my dreams that I’d eventually win one.
So it would be difficult to tell them that he’d killed me, yet again. Most of my dreams were of shadowy, dark creatures—demons—killing people, sucking the blood and souls from their victims. Trying to kill them, I mostly seemed to be the one to die. Horribly.
Even though they were just dreams, they spurred me to take self-defense classes, martial arts, gymnastics…you name it, I took it. I’m not great at any one thing, but kind of well rounded, knowing some respectable moves to protect myself. As Tommy had found out at prom! To get him to release the lip lock he’d placed on me, I’d hooked my foot around the backside of his knee and shoved at his shoulders. He’d gone down pretty quick, pin wheeling his arms wildly and landing on his butt. Of course, my go to move was running. I’m fairly decent at it, so hopefully I could escape any trouble that presented itself.
Since Sam and Maggie were due to arrive on my doorstep to pick me up for school, I made extra pancakes for them, or at least Sam. Promptly at six-thirty, the doorbell rang and I scooted down the hall in my socks to answer it.
“Hey guys, breakfast is ready!” I flourished my arm inward with a grin.
“Hey, did you finish the paper?” As Maggie and I had English together, we had helped each other with our final term papers. Not cheating, just discussing.
“Yep, finished it last night. How ‘bout you?”
“I just need a little polish on the whole comma thing.”
I smiled, “Sure, no prob.”
“While you two yak can you move so I can reach the pancakes?” Sam had curly brown hair, freckles and a dimple. Really cute for a bottomless pit. Maggie had dark red hair and matching freckles. I tell them all the time that the freckles brought them together. He moved inside to plop down on one of the chrome and black plastic stools under the breakfast bar.
“Have you seen the priest video yet? It has gone absolutely viral like Allie said.” I shook my head at Maggie as we moved to sit at the iron, glass-topped kitchen table behind Sam. She never eats hence her model thin bod, so she brought out her laptop from her backpack and opened it. Not sure exactly what to expect, certainly nothing extraordinary, but when she logged in and started the video, I felt stunned.
An older man who appeared well into his 70’s with snowy white hair and a sizable gut wrapped in priest’s robes, stood in front of an altar in a large, ornate church. Behind him hung an enormous, sad Jesus on a cross. I had never met him before in my life…except in my dreams.
Definitely the same man, though no longer young as in my dream, his round face didn’t appear wrinkled. It looked like he’d had a few collagen injections, which had left it with a shiny, stretched glow. In the video, he said, “Warriors for the Light, the demons must be destroyed! The spreading of the Dark has to be stopped. The Light is with you and you shall prevail! Come to me.”
“Pretty freaky, huh?” She leaned back and added, “Clubs have sprung up all over the place calling themselves the Light Warriors. I think they’re equating it with Star Wars and the force. There was an article talking about it called ‘May the Light be with You.’”
But Maggie knew from the dreams I had shared with her that sometimes I would tell someone that I was a Warrior for the Light.
“What’s even freakier is that I think his name is Paul Soratino.” Dead silence met my words as they looked at me with wide eyes. Sam even quit eating.
* * * *
1968 CE
I was walking down a city street. It could almost be any downtown city in the United States. It was a warm summer night with Pink Floyd music floating through the air from an open door to a bar. Traffic sounds of slamming taxi doors and squealing engines intermingled with the music creating a sonic haze along the street. The women who passed by were wearing big, thick, false eyelashes, mini skirts and go-go boots. I was wearing bright pink hot pants with a psychedelic top. A designer named Mary Quant had created hot pants several years earlier. She’d risen to fame during London’s swinging scene of the mid-1960s, and they’d become very pop
ular in the U.S.
My purse had a long strap so that it hung from one shoulder, across my body and rested on the opposite hip, the fringe along the bottom swinging as I moved. My right hand rested on it as I strolled down the street. I had the feeling I must be on the west coast…San Francisco, I would say. Laughter and voices surrounded me on all sides of the walkway.
And then I smelled it. Demon stink! I had been killing demons since I’d turned twenty-one, basically for a solid decade. Fortunately I had dreamed of demons for most of my life. Otherwise, that first time at twenty-one would also have been my last time. I had come to this city because I couldn’t NOT come to this city. A compulsion like I’d never felt before would not let me rest.
Raised in Portland, Oregon, I had never really wanted to go anywhere else—had rarely left, in fact. I loved the Northwest with its abundant forests, crisp mountain air, and easy access to the Pacific. The early European settlers to the area could not decide if they should be under the wings of Great Britain or those of the United States, eventually choosing their own way for a time.
So the Oregon state motto suited me: She flies with her own wings. Judge Jessie Quinn Thornton had written the phrase, and in 1854, it had been translated into Latin for the territorial seal. Oh, to be able to soar above the earth, leaving behind your cares and troubles, however briefly, just for that one moment to be totally and utterly free from all obligation.
As I passed the mouth of an alleyway, I realized the demon was close. Then heard a man’s voice ask sharply, “What are you doing?” followed by a gurgling sound.
Without thinking I rushed into the alley while pulling from my little beaded purse a tiny .22 caliber Beretta Model 21 Bobcat chambered with silver bullets. It was nothing that San Francisco Police Detective “Dirty” Harry Callahan would carry that’s for sure. In fact, I could imagine him in my mind in that very instant. There would be a pause in the action of the film when Clint Eastwood would pull out his .44 magnum and look over at me. He’d glance at my palm-sized pocket gun and look back at my face in disbelief. Then he’d make that trademark, exasperated sneer and turn back to blowing away the bad guys.