Chapter 0006 Abigail

1

Chapter 6

Abigail

Under intense lights, Abigail squirmed, straining to turn her head away from the bright probing. Sweat tickled through her hair and down her forehead. She blinked against the smarting salt, struggling to move a hand to wipe her streaming brow. Moving her hand had become the most important act in the world. Every ounce of strength and will focused into the completion of the act. Time froze. Hours, maybe years, passed. More than once she thought she could feel her arm rising to her face, but she could not lower her eyes to be sure. She could not feel the bonds that held her immobile. She could not remember why she was here, paralyzed, confined and bound by some unknown restraint, though she was sure that once there had been an important reason. She could only think of the sweat in her eyes.

With no warning, the blinding light went out and she felt her hand brush away the stinging sweat. Tentatively, she tested her freedom. Her body responded, and she turned to see what had been holding her. Bare walls were all she found. She turned away from the mystery, exhausted. She was in a small room, hardly eight steps across and ten sideways. There were no windows, but from across the room came a slight movement of the air--a puff of air. Opposite her was a door. It was closed, but light, the only light in the room, pulsated around the frame. She stumbled the few feet across the room, jerked the door open, and stared out into a nightmare landscape.

2 The sky swirled purple and red and orange above mountains twisted and broken like a careless child's building blocks. The moon, full and gleaming, rose and raced across the sky vault. In only moments it had disappeared below the horizon only to appear again, a gibbous wedge this time, to repeat its journey across the garishly painted sky. Wind swooped in frigid squalls around her, reminding her that she was dressed only in a light shift. A strong gust wrapped around her and dragged her forward. Suddenly she was falling, spiralling down from a great height until she plunged into water far below.

The water closed over her head, and she realized with a shock that it was not cold but warm, suffocating, thick. She battled against the weight of the current, slow and heavy, forcing her into its depths. She tried to swim up, back towards what seemed like the surface, but suddenly brushed against sand. She was drowning herself in her struggles. Feebly she tried once more to swim, but her limbs responded only sluggishly. The urge to draw air into her lungs drained away. Her body floated in the heavy liquid. She was dying and she didn't care anymore. At that moment, the current seized her, sweeping her at its will. There was no up or down, all direction merged into movement. There was no breath--breathing was a fading memory. The current tossed her and she went, and then it tossed her out to the surface where she remembered how to breathe as the chill wind forced its way into her. Resting on the surface, tasting air again, she shuddered in the cold as the river rushed her along in buoyant abandon.

The water warmed her back and she relaxed a little. Turning her head, she could see for the first time that the water was strange, like everything else here, black and thick like tar,

3 red and thick like blood. The two colors swirled together, never mixing into one muddy hue, separated by some force. For long minutes she rested on the strange water that bore her along. She began to feel thirsty, longing intensely for a drink. The water was so close. But the thickness and unnatural color stopped her. The thirst grew. She must have a drink. She dipped her hand into the rushing liquid and brought it over her parched lips. Before she could let the drops fall, she became aware of a sound, the first she remembered, soft, crooning. It seemed to be calling to her, exhorting her gently to some action. The air beside her moved, and she turned her head to see a creature sitting on the moving river. She felt mildly startled, but not afraid. The creature had fur, thick and dripping. The drips fell, black droplets on red, red on black. All its fur was marked like the river, red and black swirling patterns covering its whole body. It was tall and slim, a little taller than a man, with a round head and pointed ears. The face reminded her of something, someone she knew. It was looking at her with opal colored eyes, milky, translucent, with no pupil she could see, more like the eyes of a Greek statue than the eyes of a living being. The soft, encouraging crooning came from the creature. Without thinking, she reached out to touch the strange fur and noticed that her hand and arm were also marked black and red like the river. She stared at her hand, still in mid-air. She felt the pulsing of what should have been her blood, but realized with a shock that it was the patterns that pulsed, as if her veins had moved from their courses in her body and were following the colors. She felt herself lifted and tossed towards the bank. The rocky ground loomed larger and larger as her body approached it in slow motion. Horrified, she saw the sharp edges of stone, water droplets gleaming on them, black or red as blood.

4 Abigail liked to sleep in complete darkness, but waking from the dream in a cold sweat, the dark terrified her and she lunged in a panic for the light switch. Incredibly, everything looked normal. The walls were still pale green with a pattern of leaves and pink buds stenciled just below the ceiling. The quilt on the bed reminded her of the strange mountains of the dream--but these were tame mountains--the delectable mountains of the psalms--marching in neatly stepped rows--more like sacrificial pyramids than mountains at all. Abigail shuddered. Sacrifice had been written all over that crazy dream. The water like blood--the strange little room--the rocks racing through space to meet her.

Her orange and white cat was curled by her feet, and she scooped the creature up and hugged her for comfort.

"Marmalade, I had such a dream," A purr vibrated reassuringly against her breast.

"And there was something, someone . . ." the cat squirmed to get down.

"All right, go," Abigail told her as Marmalade sauntered, tail in the air, back to the foot of the bed, "But at least stay close. I don't want to be alone."

Tentatively, Abigail settled down under the blankets. She considered turning out the light.

5 Abigail drove her car along the ocean road. It was narrow and winding and ran along a steep bank that plunged down into the rushing rock strewn water that made up the churning sea below. The twisting road curved around a rock outthrust and there in front of her was a torrent flowing across the road, flowing over the side and swiftly plummeting down into the sea. Suddenly she realizes the road behind her is washed out and she has no choice but to go forward. There is a strange confidence and power flowing through her as she drives into the flood, but as the tires touch the water, the water parts like the Red Sea at Moses' command. What a wonderful sight. And she is out of the car and walking between the pulsing walls of water, suspended on both sides above her. In the water she can see creatures swimming. The river water is marbled, dark murky water shot through with translucent blue. In the murk swim nightmare creatures with fangs and poisonous fins. They slash at each other and dark blood stains the water further. But in the blue, bright graceful swimmers dart playfully back and forth. Suddenly, as she watches, a spiny finned thing lunges across the dark current and penetrates the blue, impaling a silky yellow swimmer. Through the breach in the current, dark water begins to seep, discoloring the blue. She reaches towards the water and the hideous thing lurches towards her, mouth gaping and she gasps awake, drenched in icy sweat.

It was light, but the sun had not yet made it over the rim of the canyon when Abigail left the house. Marmalade slipped out with her and stationed herself on the top porch step. Abigail drew her jacket closer to ward off the early morning chill. The sidewalks were deserted, but traffic hummed already along the main street. There'd be tourists every where later, but now the town belonged to its yearlong inhabitants going about their daily

6 lives. She walked without purpose, towards the downtown shops. The world around her was so different from the world of the dreams. The mountains here seemed to have a purpose, they were the bones of the world that held up the sky, blue and cloudless today. (Indian story) She began to feel thirsty again. She had drunk nearly two quarts of water in the kitchen before leaving the house. It was too much like the dream, but she had to have a drink. Even coffee would do. There was a coffee shop, the cleverly decorated touristy kind, just across the street. She liked the atmosphere in this place, it was fun to sit and watch the rather self-conscious people who filled the bleached pine tables for most of the day, but she walked on. In the next block was a slightly seedy cafe where the oldtimers met. A leggy philodendron, its pot set in a woven basket, climbed up the plate glass window and straggled across the top on a piece of dirty twine. This was the place she chose to settle her nerves and begin the day. She had hoped to put the dreams far behind her, if that were possible. It was not.

"Good Morning Abigail, how's your writing coming along?"

Frank, the shopkeeper always had a pleasant way about him, which probably explains his 25 year existence in this town.

"Not too well Frank. Let me have some of your wonderful coffee, maybe it'll chase my awful dreams away."

"Maybe your dreams are trying to tell you something."

7

Abigail was startled. She hadn't noticed anyone else in the shop, but there in the corner was Erica. Erica was an odd character. No one remembered when she had arrived in town, but all the locals knew her, and many of the tourists also. She lived in her van, which she had made quite comfortable, and although she had been offered places to stay by almost everyone, including Abigail, she always graciously declined. What she never graciously declined was giving advice, and truth be told, those who heeded her quirky remedies were better for it. To look at her though, you could never consciously believe she was in her right mind. She looked somewhat like a cross between a gypsy and a baglady, or perhaps like a witch. That of course was the superstition that grew up around her. But since she never seemed to be bothered by what others thought, she never did much to dispel rumors about herself.

"Erica! My God, where'd you come from?" She paused to catch her breath.

"I’m sorry, did I frighten you dear?

"It's OK. I just didn't notice you here."

"I try not to be too apparent, wherever I am dear. I find it helps to allow me my privacy. But come over here and tell me your dreams. As I was saying, I believe your dreams allow your mind and body to communicate with you. You see, there's a part of you that

8 also tries not to be too apparent, so you'd never notice it, unless you are looking for it, or it somehow gets your attention. That's where dreams play their role."

"Here you go Abigail, Erica, do you want any more hot water?"

"Yes, please."

As Abigail brings her cup to Erica's table, Frank pours her some hot water and Erica adds her own concoction to the water.

"Thank you Frank, now my dear, where were we? Oh yes. You were going to tell me your dream."

"I don't know, it seems so silly. I’ve been having similar dreams for the last two weeks. I'm almost afraid to go to sleep. I mean, I have always had what most people would consider a strong, active dream life, but these seem different--the dreams have one continuous motif--they all include a river the water of which I must drink from. But every time I raise the water to my lips, a creature appears in the cup and stops me from drinking. I am frustrated but fascinated, both anticipating and dreading sleep which always brings the dreams. The backgrounds are different and the situations vary. Sometimes I am saving someone's life, and sometimes, I am just trying to stay alive myself. Last night seemed to be the most vivid so far."

9 Abigail tells the two dreams from last night, and when she finishes, Erica sits quietly thoughtful for a while. It's as if she is weighing her words very carefully. Then she nodded knowingly, and said:

"Of course. The 'fusion. It's calling you. Have you ever heard of Dr. Alvion Romdel? No. Well, I have a book of his somewhere here."

She rummaged in an untidy-looking carpet bag, pulling out papers, jars of questionable contents.

"Black radish and ginseng." The woman held out the jar hopefully, "Have you ever tried them? They're very good for the bowel. It's horrid when you're not regular. I can tell you. Why, my sister had a bowel obstruction for weeks. I tried to get her to try black radish. She never would listen to me. I don’t know why. Ah, here it is."

As she drew out a tattered volume, she said, "Dr. Avion Romdel was the foremost authority on the 'fusion."

Abigail stared at the book.

"You mean there is someone who actually has written a book about this river from my dreams?"

10 "Dr. Avion Romdel. Yes, of course. He studied it for years."

"Could I talk to him, do you think?"

"It’s possible, but he's dead, dear. Died mysteriously over a hundred years ago."

Abigail froze for a moment. Then shook her head with a laugh.

"Well, this has certainly been an interesting talk, but I must go. I have some errands to run."

She got up, gathering her jacket and purse.

The old woman smiled mildly.

"Take the book, dear. I'll get it back from you another day. Read it. I always say, it can never hurt to have an open mind."

Abigail laid the book on the nightstand. She settled against the pillows. Marmalade jumped up on the quilt and walked up Abigail's chest and licked her nose. Abigail pushed the cat away.

11 "Marmalade, I don't know if I want to find out what's in this book. The dreams have been so upsetting--getting worse, in fact. But will I discover more things I can't deal with?"

There wasn’t much Abigail couldn’t deal with. Although she came from old New York money, she had moved to Glenwood Springs when she was 19 to prove to herself that she could make it on her own. She started out as a journalist and won several awards writing consumer stories for the Glenwood Post exposing corruption in both business and politics around the area. Within five years she had been promoted to an editor position, but she knew she could do better. While reporting, she performed in various community plays and there met a man who she briefly had an affair with, but he cared only for himself and took far more than he gave. What she took from that relationship would change her life. He was a lawyer. To be honest, he was a lousy lawyer, but he showed Abigail the possibilities if she were to excel at this work. She loved helping people.

She decided to go to Denver University, a prestigious law school in Colorado, but the tuition was high. She could have asked her family and they would have gladly paid her way, but she was not going to make it easy on herself. Instead she self taught herself to write grants and managed to raise over $100,000.00 in grant money to pay for her entire education. Between that and the incredible letters of reference written for her by the newspaper and people, including politicians, she had managed to support as well as criticize, acceptance was fast and exuberant. The University went out of their way to make her feel welcome. In the four years she attended, she made honor roll and ended as valedictorian of her class graduating in 1985. She could have gone anywhere, but her

12 heart belonged to Glenwood Springs and that’s where she returned. By the time she turned 30, she was a partner in her firm and well known in the community for her humanitarian work. She practiced business and corporate law and within the next ten years had amassed a pretty sizable portfolio.

But as powerful as her professional life was, her personal life sucked. She had been married four times, not counting several live-in affairs. She was an extremely attractive woman. She was slender at 5’4” with striking dark-Mediterranean features including large almond eyes you could get lost in. Her face was accented by shoulder length dark hair. Weak men were afraid of her. Powerful men wanted her as a trophy. She tended to avoid the powerful because she detested their shallowness, but she kept ending up with weak men who just couldn’t please her. She loved being around intellectuals, but generally they tended to be too narrow minded in their particular focus and she had yet to meet one that was attractive to her. Still she enjoyed traveling in these circles and attending meetings and conferences, especially involving unusual phenomenon. She loved considering the what-ifs, but still she needed to ground these ideas with what she knew to be rational.

She had recently started studying Kabbalah after a discussion with her best friend who was taking classes in Boulder.

As she began reading the book that Erica gave her, she thought of her friend Sarah. Perhaps she should make a trip to Boulder and see her. She was also intrigued to meet

13 this professor she kept talking about. Maybe within the next couple of weeks she would do that.