Chapter 4
Jocelyn felt surprisingly well-rested the next day; the only sign of her broken night was the slight darkening beneath her eyes. She was trying not to worry about the dream making another appearance, telling herself firmly that it was nothing more that a combination of jet-lag and the sensory overload of being in Egypt. Unfortunately, she wasn’t convincing herself in the least. Not only had the dream repeated itself almost exactly, but the intense reality of it was unlike anything she’d ever known. Her powerful emotional response concerned her, as well. Joss had always been a balance of reason and emotion: she felt things deeply, but had never allowed her emotions to run away with her, knowing that many different factors can trigger an emotion and that they were transient things. But this . . . this was something new and more than a little frightening.
When she thought about it, she realized that not even the deaths of her husband and children had triggered the total desolation of spirit that she felt when her rider vanished from sight. Losing Stephen and the boys had been agonizing, yes. She’d spent many nights sobbing until dawn, sure that the pain would never lessen, but . . . she hadn’t felt as though she were lost. That’s what was different about this. In the dream, when she knew that he hadn’t heard her pleas to stop, hadn’t seen her, it was as though her very soul were being torn out of her body to follow the black-clad horseman across the desert, leaving her an empty shell. It was a terrifying experience, and one she had no wish to repeat.
The questing, inquiring part of her mind, however, also couldn’t keep from thinking about how last night’s dream hadn’t be exactly like the first night. The setting was the same, and she’d walked down the same aisle of the bazaar with that same sense of excitement and fear. When she reached the end of the aisle she was flanked by the same two booths—the cloth merchant and the bell merchant—and the shouting of the crowd had begun in the same way. She saw the riders at the identical moment, coming down the same dune and in the same formation . . . but this time, they came closer. That’s what was altered. Before, the horsemen had remained distant, moving specks. This time, they’d been nearer . . . near enough that she could make out some details of their dress. She could not help wondering what would happen if she had the dream again. Would they move even closer?
“It doesn’t matter!” Joss said crossly, giving herself a shake. “It’s a dream, about non-existent people, and what happens in it makes no difference. Actually, Jocelyn, I’m a little disappointed in you—mysterious, black-clad riders on black horses thundering across the desert! Gads . . . could you get any more melodramatic? What are you, twelve?” Clinging to this no-nonsense attitude, she gathered up her notebook and other equipment for another day of exploring. Today she’d scheduled some time at a local museum which had recently assembled an exhibit of artifacts from the reigns of the earlier pharaohs, and she was very anxious to see what they had on display. Her plan was to spend the entire day at the museum, and she set off in resolutely good spirits, ignoring the small, nagging voice inside that told her nothing was over, nothing was resolved and that the dream was not yet through with her.
The street was unusually busy this morning, and it took Jocelyn some time to make her way through the shifting river of people. Once she got away from the more central part of the city, it was easier to make progress. After walking about half an hour, she’d found the museum hosting the special exhibit. There was a line to get in, but Dr. Al-Azem had told her that the curator here was an old friend who’d been advised of her visit and that she should bypass the main entrance and go around to the staff entry to the left. Joss felt a little uncomfortable pushing through a door that advised her in several languages not to use it, but she trusted her friend’s influence and went ahead. A dignified man in white stopped her less than ten feet from the door, and asked if he could help her in polite but distinctly chilly tones.
“Um, yes, I hope so. I’m Jocelyn Reese . . . Dr. Nouri Al-Azem contacted you about me, I think?”
The man’s demeanor changed immediately from someone guarding his greatest treasure from barbaric vandals to one welcoming his dearest friend. “Mrs. Reese! What a pleasure it is to have you with us! I am Dr. Asim Mahmoud. Please, please, forgive my attitude before, but with this new exhibit, we have to be concerned about anyone we don’t know coming in through unauthorized doors! Nouri quite entertained me with his stories about how the two of you became friends. Please—come!”
Jocelyn allowed herself to be swept down the hallway and into the gentleman’s office, noting that the door was marked “Museum Director.” “Wow,” she thought. “What on earth did Dr. Al-Azem tell this guy about me?” Dr. Mahmoud proved to be a warm, genial man with a rather impish sense of humor. Not exactly what one would expect for a museum director, but delightful, nonetheless. He and Joss laughed over Dr. Al-Azem’s description of the oh-so-serious letter he’d received from a budding, nine year-old Egyptologist and how their friendship had developed over the years. Jocelyn’s jaw nearly hit the floor when the director began detailing what her day would involve: priority admission to the special exhibit with her own guide, entry to the areas of the museum where newly-obtained artifacts were being studied and classified; free access to the entire collection, including sections that were currently off-limits to the general public; lunch with Dr. Mahmoud and other senior members of the staff; and other goodies that had her nearly drooling with anticipation.
“Dr. Mahmoud, I don’t know what to say! This is overwhelming . . . it’s wonderful! Thank you so very much for all this special treatment!” Joss feared she was sounding less serious and intelligent than she had at nine, but his description of their plans for her left her breathless.
“I assure you, Mrs. Reese, it is my pleasure. Nouri and I go back many, many years, and he has helped me in more ways than I can say. Some of our finest items came from Nouri’s excavations. For me to be able to do this for someone of whom he is so fond is an honor. Not to mention that it’s very heartwarming to me to meet someone with such regard and love for my country and its history. Now, shall we begin?” Beaming, Jocelyn stepped through the door of his office. She had the odd feeling that she was walking into a tailor-made version of Fairyland, and she couldn’t wait to get started.
By lunch time, her head was whirling with all the things she’d seen, done, learned and . . . best of all . . .touched. Carefully gloved and holding her breath, Joss had been allowed to handle some of the new acquisitions, turning them carefully this way and that while the staff member assigned to guide her had explained what they were, where they’d been found and whatever else was known about them. The young man had looked willing but slightly dubious over his assignment for the day, but Jocelyn’s intelligent, well-informed questions and comments had shifted his expression from “why do I have to babysit?” to that of a man quite happy with his special duty.
Seated at a large table in a meeting room of the museum with Dr. Mahmoud, her guide and four additional staff members, Jocelyn was having a delicious meal and chatting with the others. She enjoyed hearing them talk about museum business and they seemed genuinely interested in hearing about her impressions of the museum and its collections. The meal was cleared away and they were all having some of the region’s strong, rich coffee to close the luncheon. It was then that things got very, very strange.
Nassor, Jocelyn’s guide, turned to the man on his right and asked, “So, Madu, how are things with the Med-jai?”
Choking on her coffee, Joss gripped her cup to keep from dropping it into her lap. Med-jai! That was what the people in the bazaar had been shouting in her dream. Not Med-eye . . . Med-jai!
“Mrs. Reese, are you all right?” Dr. Mahmoud was looking at her anxiously. “You’re very pale!”
“No, no, I’m fine, thank you,” replied Joss, lying through her teeth. “I’m sorry, I think it’s just all the excitement of the day. That last sip went down the wrong way. Truly, I’m fine.” Digging her nails into her palm to steady herself, Jocelyn forced her voice to sound simply interested as she continued: “Please, go on. Nassor had asked you about the . . . what was it? The Med-jai?”
Madu, a middle-aged curator, laughed pleasantly. “Yes, the Med-jai are my area of special interest. Nassor likes to tease me about my obsession with phantom warriors, even though he knows they aren’t phantoms at all. Are you familiar with the Med-jai, Mrs. Reese?”
“No, I’ve never heard of them. Are they a tribe or an ancient people?” Jocelyn hoped she didn’t look as wound up as she felt. How could this be possible? The name of a people she’d never heard of in her life had been shouted by the crowd in her dream. This was not just odd . . . this was getting truly, truly frightening.
“They are an ancient brotherhood which dates back to the time of the pharaohs, when they served as bodyguards to the rulers of
“Hamunaptra? The City of the Dead? I thought . . . isn’t that a . . .well, only a tale?”
Laughter ran around the table, causing Jocelyn to blush. Dr. Al-Azem noticed her embarrassment and rushed to put her at ease. “You must not take our laughter as being directed at you, Mrs. Reese, please. We are laughing at ourselves and at all students of Ancient Egypt who dismissed the stories of Hamunaptra as being mere fables. Sometimes, we who think ourselves modern scientists can be blinded by our own egos. It is true that for many, many years archaeology has given no credence to the accounts of Hamunaptra. However, over the last decade, this thinking has changed dramatically. It had to . . . artifacts and structures have come to light that, well . . . attest to its existence.”
Jocelyn was dumbfounded. No book she’d ever read had presented the possibility of Hamunaptra being real. If it were, a new and incredibly important chapter in Egyptology was waiting to be written. But her attention in that direction had to wait. She must find out more about these Med-jai!
“So, the Med-jai . . . is it kind of like a priesthood? Didn’t you say something about ‘phantom warriors?’”
“No, they were not priests, but no one in holy service ever had a greater commitment to his calling than a Med-jai.” Madu’s face took on a reverent look, and Jocelyn had the feeling he was speaking of ancient mysteries which must be treated with respect, lest you pay for your blasphemy. “They are warriors, indeed, formidable ones—utterly fearless, fanatically dedicated, impervious to hunger, thirst, exhaustion and pain. All of them are highly-trained fighters, skilled with many weapons, but especially the scimitar. Med-jai are strong and quick, whether on foot or on horseback . . . they are consummate horsemen.”
For a moment, Joss thought she was going to faint, so powerful were the emotions churning inside of her. She stared down into her coffee as though she were processing what had been said. In reality, she was trying to calm herself enough to ask her next question without sounding like an eager child.
“You have been using the present tense when you speak of these men . . . certainly, this brotherhood no longer exists?”
“Again, Mrs. Reese, the thinking on this is changing. It had been acknowledged in some obscure sources that the Med-jai might have existed in ancient times, but that the order, if you will, had died out long ago. Yet, people living in outlying areas of
Madu leaned towards her, caught up in his enthusiasm. “Most people say these are stories to frighten naughty children, but some of those villagers and nomads claim to have seen Med-jai warriors. They tell of dramatic rescues when people were attacked by bandits, children saved from wild animals, slave traders cut to pieces and their captives freed: all the work of the Med-jai. I have never seen one of these men, but I believe there is an element of truth in the words of those who claim they are still among us.”
Jocelyn wondered how long she could keep up her facade of friendly intellectual inquiry when everything this man said was driving her to a state of inner hysteria. She knew—simply knew—that the horsemen in her dream were Med-jai. But HOW? She’d never heard of them before, yet there they were, coming into her dreams and shattering her. Well, no, not all of them. The lead rider. Whoever he was, he had burned himself into her heart, mind and soul, and she feared no good would come of it.
Doing her best to sound normal, she posed one final question. “What do they look like, do you know? Does anyone?”
Madu smiled. “One can only go by what the desert people say. They call them ‘the dark riders’”
“I’m going to scream,” thought Joss. “I’m going to start screaming and then I’m going to run around this room like a madwoman and these nice men will have to have me locked up. Which would perhaps be best, anyway, because I’ve clearly lost my mind or I’m possessed or something equally awful.” Aloud, she just said, “The dark riders?”
At this point Nassor broke in. “Oh, let me, Madu, I’ve heard this description so many times I know it as well as you do!” The rest of the men laughed, and then Nassor continued, speaking as though he were quoting from a research text: “The Med-jai dress entirely in black. They wear turbans adorned with long scarves that can be wrapped around the face for protection from sand and wind. The thigh-length tunic crosses over the chest and may be worn over a similar under-tunic. Loose pants are tucked into high boots. Every Med-jai is armed with a scimitar that hangs from a scabbard at his waist. One notable characteristic is the tattoos which mark all Med-jai. These appear on the forehead, on each cheek below the eye, on the backs of the hands, across the chest and about each ankle. The meaning of these tattoos is known only to the Med-jai themselves.” Nassor gave a short, bobbing sort of bow—as best he could while seated—like a child who’s just given a successful school recitation.
While the other people at the table laughed and clapped, Jocelyn was lost in thought. Nassor’s words confirmed what her heart had already known. Somehow, she had begun dreaming of this ancient brotherhood, had even heard their name spoken, despite the fact that until today, she’d never known they existed. Whatever was happening to her was really happening . . . it wasn’t just a dream, anymore. What it meant, she had no idea. How it would end, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The dream was not over, of that she was certain. All she could do was wait until tonight to see how it changed. Would he come closer yet? Would he retreat into the distance once more? She could not say. Jocelyn feared the pain of the dream, the wrenching agony when that mysterious leader did not heed her pleas and rode away from her, taking her spirit with him. But there was nothing she could do. You cannot fight a dream.
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A Dream Realized – Chapter 5