Chapter 2
Jocelyn pushed her pillows against the headboard and settled back, drawing the covers up over her chest. She thought about her dream. It had been incredibly real, more than even her most vivid dreams normally were. She’d been in a bazaar, a large one, where closely-packed booths flanked both sides of walkways, branching out from one another like aisles in a department store. Joss closed her eyes, remembering the sights, sounds . . . yes, even the smells from her dream. The chatter and laughter from the booths as sellers tried to tempt people to buy or the sometimes strident voices when bartering over an item reached its peak. She could recall the high-pitched voices of the children who ran among the booths and carts, dodging shoppers and browsers and carefully not hearing their mothers calling them back. Rich, wonderful aromas were everywhere, from the sweet and pungent odors of the spice booths to the heady smells from the bakers’ stands. Color surrounded her–gleaming brass and silver, the warm golds and browns of the leather goods, explosions of brilliant hues at the fruit vendors and her very favorite . . . the cloth merchants. Bolt upon bolt of silk, gauze and brocade, each lovelier than the last.
Joss could see herself in the dream’s setting once more, moving along one of the walkways, her attention pulled from one side to the other by the displays. She wasn’t buying, she remembered, just wandering through and admiring it all. As she reached back into her mind, trying to recapture what had happened, a feeling of anticipation washed over her, making her stomach tighten. What had she been waiting for? Did she even know, or was it only a certainty that something was about to happen? There had been fear mixed with the excitement—she recognized that, now. It was the fear that comes when you know your life is going to change utterly . . . that nothing will be the same again. But why? What about the events of the dream had triggered those feelings?
In her mind, she followed her path through the bazaar. At one point she hesitated, where the aisle she was in ended at another walkway. Left or right? Back towards the center of the bazaar, or out towards its edge? Right—she’d gone to the right. Jocelyn found it distinctly creepy that she could remember this dream so perfectly; normally, a dream would stay in her mind for a few moments after waking and then disappear. But she was recalling her dream, not making it up new, she was sure of it. She’d walked down that arm of the bazaar, and she could see past where it ended to the desert beyond. Joss’s heart began to race again, as the emotions of the dreams took hold of her. She hadn’t walked down that aisle, she’d been pulled down it. Pulled by a strong feeling of destiny, of inevitability. When she reached the end of the pathway, she’d paused, looking out at the desert. Color and music—why did she remember color and music? That’s right . . . the last booth on her left had been a cloth merchant, and there was a gorgeous bolt of peacock silk spread across the counter. She’d touched it, just for a moment, savoring its softness and sheen. To the right was a booth selling bells and chimes . . . the wind was making them dance, adding soft music to the air.
Shouting, now . . . confusion. All around her, the merchants and shoppers were talking excitedly, calling out something over and over, but she couldn’t understand it. The children surged around her, pouring out of the bazaar to the open area just beyond. Jocelyn closed her eyes, her hands clutching the bedclothes. She remembered now, remembered how she’d stood there in the sun, feeling cold with excitement. Everyone was pointing as they shouted and jumped and chattered, and her eyes had followed their outstretched hands. What was everyone saying? She couldn’t catch it, couldn’t hear it clearly through the blood pounding in her ears. Med-eye? Was that it? Why was everyone so thrilled? What was happening?
Then she saw them: four dark specks—horsemen— coming down the face of a dune off to the right of where she stood. Jocelyn began to shake, her eyes fixing themselves of their own accord on the lead rider. One hand reached out wildly, trying to find support. She felt the edge of the cloth merchant’s stand and grabbed it gratefully, willing her legs not to fold up. The riders came closer, but were still hundreds of yards away. Joss released her grip on the booth and forced herself to move a few shaky steps ahead, her eyes never leaving the black-clad man at the front of the foursome. The horses flew over the sand, legs reaching out and drawing together in long, powerful strides, the men moving as if part of the animals they rode, graceful and strong. She staggered forward, reaching out with both arms, not even realizing she did so. That man . . . the leader. Somehow, she had to get to him, she had to. She knew her heart would shatter if she didn’t . . . she began running . . . .
“No!” Jocelyn stopped, shocked at herself, hearing the echo of her cry hanging in the room. What was wrong with her? This was more than silly, it was alarming, abnormal. She put her hands to her face and discovered she’d been crying again. Crying! Because a man in a dream, a man who never got close enough to be more than an unknown figure on a horse, had ridden by without stopping? No . . . enough. Joss was determined not to think about the dream anymore. Deep inside she was frightened, fearing that perhaps this was some unresolved aspect of grief manifesting itself now that she was away from familiar surroundings and the support of friends and family. Better just to write it off as a deeply weird semi-nightmare and get on with her trip.
By now the soft light of dawn was spreading over the eastern sky, and Joss decided it would be best not to try to sleep again. She felt sweaty and uncomfortable from her fright, and headed for the bathroom to shower. It was a beautiful hotel room; she didn’t regret one dime of what she was spending on it. After waiting almost forty years to come to
Everything was soothing and sensuous, which appealed to a woman who lived where it snowed eight months a year. Jocelyn loved the way the yards of white gauze at the windows moved like ocean plants swayed by the tides, and the contrast of the cool tile floor with the richly-colored rugs was a delight to her feet. The bed was huge, piled with pillows, and spread with a silk coverlet in deep red, tucked and stitched into an interesting pattern. There was a small, comfortable sofa, big enough for her to curl up on when she wanted to read; and set near the large window that looked out towards the desert were two carved wooden chairs with deep cushions flanking a small table. Throughout the room were items from local craftsmen: boxes, carvings, table covers and such that made the room a kaleidoscope of color and texture.
The bathroom was especially delightful, being almost as large as Joss’s bedroom at home, and of a level of luxury that could almost be called decadent. She rarely took baths at home, finding showers to be quicker and more efficient, but she’d discovered the pleasures of soaking in a huge tub of scented water since her arrival. This morning, however, she thought a brisk shower would do more for clearing her head as well as cleansing her body. Pulling the tank top of her pajamas over her head and stepping out of the pants, Joss draped them over the towel stand near the tub. They were made of soft cotton batiste, which had seemed a good choice for sleeping in such a hot climate, and she’d been able to find some that weren’t covered in beads and buttons and lace. Joss preferred simple, clean design in her clothing. For one thing, being short and small-boned, she’d learned early on that fussy clothes were a huge mistake for her. And Joss simply wasn’t a “fussy” person: her style had always been classic for business or dressy occasions and unstructured casual for other times.
She turned on the shower and then braved herself to look in the huge mirror over the vanity area. She sighed. “OK, gravity . . . you win. But I like to think I gave you a run for your money!” At forty-five, Jocelyn would have been described as attractive by most, but like nearly all women, she tended to see only what was wrong with herself. Two pregnancies and nursing the resulting babies had taken their toll on her body, certainly—stretch marks, some spider veins (which she absolutely detested), rather soft around the middle and breasts no one would ever call “perky”—but she kept her weight down and worked out regularly to maintain a decent level of fitness. That was as much for health reasons as appearance; being a nurse, she knew too well the triple-threat of weak bones, diabetes and heart disease that often struck middle-aged women.
She felt she looked all right when dressed, but tried to avoid glancing in the mirror as she stepped out of the shower at home. On the plus side, good genes and years of care had kept her skin looking ten years younger than it was. Her smile was one of her best features, though she didn’t realize it, and she’d spent far too much time bemoaning her nose. One thing even she could accept was compliments about her eyes. They were large, with long lashes and well-arched brows. As for the color, she’d always been tempted to put “YGM” on any form that asked for eye color: You Got Me. Because they weren’t brown, people often assumed they were blue, but they were nothing of the sort. Blue-green, sometimes, blue-gray others, even deep green or slate gray. A friend of hers who painted had stared into Joss’s eyes for quite some time, determined to come up with a final decision. “Soft teal” had been the best she could do, but Jocelyn had laughingly pointed out that while it was nice to have a deciding opinion on the matter, “soft teal” was never an option on forms requiring you to specify your eye color. She kept her hair in a shorter cut, finding it more practical for nursing work. To her it was “just medium-brown,” but then she didn’t spend that much time looking at it, and never noticed the soft red and honey highlights.
After showering, Joss dressed in a loose chambray dress and sandals. She gathered up her purse and a battered satchel, a remnant from college days. In it were a number of notebooks, a pen (with refills), a mechanical pencil (with spare leads), a small camera and a magnifying glass. Jocelyn had been given permission to spend some time in a private library not far from her hotel which held several old, extremely rare books on Egyptology. She’d seen the books referenced hundreds of times in her reading about the country as she was growing up, and had hoped against hope to have the chance to see the books themselves. Normally, such a thing would have been impossible for a tourist, but at age nine, Joss had written a letter to one of the foremost archaeologists of the day, asking a procedural question about a ritual because none of the books she’d read could agree on it. Instead of tossing the letter away, the man had been so amused by her seriousness and her desire to get a deciding opinion on this small point that he’d answered her in some detail. He explained that the evidence was conflicting and that experts did not agree on that point, as well as giving her his judgment on the matter.
That exchange had turned into a long, if somewhat sporadic, correspondence over the years. When she told him that she was finally going to travel to
Once adequately fed and caffeinated, Joss consulted the small notepad where she’d recorded names (and titles—nothing like starting out by calling someone “Mr.” or “Ms.” when it was “Dr.” or “Professor”), addresses and phone numbers for her various stops. She made a few false starts before she found the street she needed, and then walked quickly along to the building which housed the library. Simply walking down the street was a vacation in itself, everything being so different from home. The buildings, the people, the cars . . . everything. Jocelyn could feel something deep inside that had been tight and tense since the crash begin to unclench. It felt as though she were finally taking deep breaths again, finally relaxing for the first time in over three years. “Maybe I’m going to be OK, after all,” she thought to herself. “Maybe I am.”
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A Dream Realized – Chapter 3