Page 9 of Heir to a Curse

Chapter 4

My dreams were filled with battles out of some historical Asian movie. Swords, and robes, those amazing flying dance-like moves, and even things that felt like magic. It would have made more sense if I’d been reading before I’d gone to bed. But I hadn’t unpacked my book reader. I roused a few times, wondering if it had been the short interaction with the shrine. Or even the simple layout of the cabin that inspired the dreams.

Instead I shifted restlessly on the little sleeping pallet I’d made for myself, waking every few hours only to be dropped back into another set of dreams. I dreamed of camaraderie and affection, vague memories of someone holding me, and even a secret kiss.

How odd.

At first it felt a bit detached. Like photographs, water-damaged and faded, snapping through my mind, dripping with running colors of imagery. I remember opening my eyes briefly to the cabin and seeing the little dragon statue beside the pillow. It reminded me of someone, cementing a sort of emotional memory, even if the visuals were faded. I closed my eyes and dropped into another dream. One of grief.

It touched on my loss of Sofia, but the dream itself was more detailed. My dream-self woke alone, in some small cottage somewhere, sitting up in fear and horror to realize someone was missing. For a few seconds my brain scrambled to remember who I was searching for. Faded memories flickered through my mind, as though I couldn’t really recall his face anymore. Though some of the thoughts shared were universal. My heart lurched, slowing to a gurgling pace, while a roll of thoughts flickered through my mind.

Him. Forbidden. Gone. Abandoned.

The little dragon statue sat beside his pillow too. He reached for it, clutched it in his fist, and screamed soundlessly into the whispers of my subconscious. His pain so intense it almost roused me from sleep again. I walked the edge of consciousness for a little while. Slightly aware of still being in the little cabin, and still merged with the dream, before finally falling back into the depths of the dream space. Not having lost the connection with the dreams despite the intensity of them cutting as deep as a knife.

I could almost see the other side. The missing man, heartbroken, terrified, but determined. He walked away, headed toward a battle, expecting to die. Not suicide, exactly. But a sacrifice to protect the one he’d left behind at the cottage. A lifetime of battles they had waged together, back to back, heart to heart. The well of his love ran deep, filled to glowing with dreams and hopes for the one he’d left. One small sacrifice could solve all of these troubles. Honor was important. Acceptance. The place in his family…

The man I walked with had none of those things, instead coming from nothing, raised up to be little more than a sharp sword to be used by leadership. The face of his love echoed in his mind as we walked, the sound of battle drawing closer, the stench of blood and death, the choking smoke of fire, and screams of the dying. War was never pleasant, but this was slaughter. I wondered briefly why they didn’t both just run away. Wouldn’t that be easier? Find a place to be together? The concept of that seemed to confuse the man. He instead reminded me that honor was important. And then more softly, where would they run?

It was a dizzying mess of ideas, being in both their heads at once. The grief mirrored on both sides and determination from the one headed into battle. Not words exactly, as I never really dreamed with people talking, but with a spectrum of feelings to convey thought.

Memories of a siege, of trying to fight back against an onslaught of familiar faced warriors. Some my host had once called friends and my love had recognized as family. Yet that was exactly who had driven a sword into my gut, slicing me and my host open. The fiery heat of blood burning me for a few seconds before the world darkened.

When I actually opened my eyes to the cabin, I stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes trying to orient myself. A slew of very strong emotions churned through me. Grief so strong I felt tears roll from the corners of my eyes. I had to fight for breath for a few minutes, focusing on the drag in to fill my lungs and the slow release, to calm a vibration of sadness I couldn’t really control. Loneliness. Heartbreak. Loss.

Wow, I hadn’t felt anything this strong since I’d broken up with a guy in my twenties after dating him for three years. I admitted to myself that relationship had burned me a little. Given me pause to begin others. Which led me here. Forty-five and alone, nothing to really show for life except a career. The American dream, right? Apparently I was very maudlin these days, and my dreams were reflecting that state.

Perhaps Sofia’s loss was finally beginning to heal. It had been hard enough that I hadn’t been allowed to visit her in the end. The pandemic shut everything down, especially the most vulnerable. Her time of treatment had appeared to have gone well, though she’d become gaunt and frail from the poison they used to treat the cancer. She’d tested free of it and we all thought she was in the clear, then she found another lump. The test results had been devastating. Sofia hadn’t missed a stride though. She never spent a day of her life groaning about her fate. Not even when she ended up in hospice, rewarded only with regular video chat visits while she lay wasting away.

That had been the most devastating of the entire journey. Not allowed to be there to hold her hand in the end. I had to work not to think of that every day because I couldn’t hold back the tears each time I did. She deserved better, more, everything. Anything more than meeting her end in a lonely room with only a handful of medical professionals and her own thoughts.

I let the tears flow for a while, sniffling and lying there to cleanse the heaviness of the morning. It wasn’t a new experience, the morning grief, although the range of it was greater. Probably being back here, now having control of Sofia’s dreams, and wondering if I was the right one to execute them.

I rolled over and found the little dragon again. Reaching out, I traced the shape with my fingertips. Wondering about the dream. Inspired by the dragon? Or simply my overactive imagination? Perhaps a bit of both.

I got up and began to clean up and ready myself for the day, my eyes a bit grainy after my cry. It was just after five, my normal rise time. It had been years since I’d had to set an alarm. Birds chirped outside and the sun was already rising to reflect light through the windows. I nibbled on the breakfast Montana had given me while I went through my list. Distraction helped clear my head and ease some of the sinus pressure from having a good cry. Lots of supplies to get for the cabin, and orders to place for the kitchen, as soon as I had an idea of what the layout would be.

I picked up the little dragon statue, returned it to my pocket and decided to make my way to the main house and see if anyone was awake yet. And it would be a few hours before Jerry arrived with the girls. Maybe I could get them to clean the cabin for me. The windows were cleared of ivy, but streaked with water stains and green, making the movement of nearby trees look almost eerie through their glow.

When I stepped outside the cabin and locked the door, I glanced up at the shrine and froze. The door was open. I knew I hadn’t opened it the night before. Could Jerry be here already with his girls? No. He’d have to have roused them at three in the morning to make that drive. Maybe it was Mr. Yamamoto paying his respects to Sofia? Even that seemed implausible. Far too early for anyone to be out here.

I stalked across the distance, over the bridge toward the shrine, expecting some kind of intruder. Maybe a homeless person, or a hiker who wasn’t aware this was private land. All that mattered right that moment was respect for the shrine, for Sofia and her family. Someone messing around in there was like desecrating a graveyard. And it made me furious.

Reaching the door in record time, I raced inside expecting to find someone. Only it was empty. Still. Mostly silent. I sucked in a deep breath and looked around the room.

The trickle of water began to soothe my anger. Maybe the wind had blown the door open? I’d have to look at fixing that. The door didn’t have a lock on it, but perhaps that needed to change. I didn’t want animals or random people walking in and messing around with it.

Sofia’s urn still sat in the place Mr. Yamamoto had placed it, looking untouched. I dug out another stick of incense and lit it, adding it to the offering plate near her urn. Once the place was cleaned, she’d be more at home, and maybe I could relax a little.

I’d never been a religious man. Having bounced from foster home to foster home as a kid, I’d seen the worst of people, and only a handful of really good ones. I’d been dragged to church enough times to hate the vitriol, and marvel at the contradiction of the nature of the church goer. Not all, as I’d met a handful who truly practiced what they studied. But I’d often thought it unfair, the idea that the only ones reaching heaven were those accepting of a god they might never have heard of.

As I grew older I’d read up on other religions, discovered some of the same overarching ideas. I’d migrated to the Asian religions even before I’d met Sofia, liking the idea of focusing on being a better person rather than serving some invisible man in the sky. Which was why this place felt so at home to me. The wall of inscribed names, some more recent ones with memories written next to them. Good deeds.

Even the offering plates. Those weren’t to divine beings who would judge us worthy, but instead to those lost, that they may find peace in the beyond, even if it was something as silly as watching over the living.

I closed my eyes, breathing in a renewed calm. The sound of water soothing and welcoming.

When I turned to head back to the door, I realized that we’d turned the fountain off yesterday. Jerry had taken apart the motor so he could fix it. The water shouldn’t be running. Yet there it was, full of water, though somewhat discolored from the pool being neglected, and running as though it had never stopped.