light.
But any damn psychologist knows that, Raven had once cursed. He didnât like their ilk peering into his psychic space.
The trick was to participate in your dream as if you were the main actor. A person who could create his own dreams was a brujo, a shaman. Unfortunately, the world at the beginning of the twenty-first century no longer believed in the role of the shaman. Such persons were suspect, labeled witches or druids, shunned, set apart from their fellow human beings, ostracized.
Sonny didnât care about the labels, but he did wonder if he wanted to enter the dream world again. Going into Ravenâs dream had cost don Eliseo his life. They had gone looking for Ritaâs unborn child. Sonny believed that Raven had caused Ritaâs miscarriage. And during the past few months he further convinced himself that Raven somehow kept the soul of Ritaâs child a prisoner.
He swore he had seen the soul of his unborn child in Ravenâs nightmare. He was sure the light he saw shining was the soul of Ritaâs baby. Raven had said as much. For three months all Sonny could think about was how to rescue the unborn child from Ravenâs dark circle.
He knew the miscarriage had put dread in Ritaâs heart. They had struggled through the winter, nurturing Rita with the remedies Lorenza prescribed, herbal teas from China, osha from Taos, massages, anything that would ease the loss. And they worked long hours at Ritaâs restaurant, serving meals to the working people of the North Valley.
In work they found some respite, but at the end of each day Sonny would drive her home, kiss her goodnight, then return alone to his apartment. Rita was still grieving.
He knew she needed time to recuperate.
âI appreciate what you do,â she had told him. âReally. Having you at the cafe is more than ⦠well, it means the world to me. Iâm not afraid to be alone at night. Itâs just something I need to do. Give me time.â
So Sonny waited, and three months later they were both stronger. She laughed and teased him more often. âAny day now,â she had whispered yesterday.
âAny day now,â Sonny muttered, jumping out of bed, hoping a shower would wash away the nightâs images. He had seen a man drowning in a large tank that resembled a baptistry.
Wish I could just flush bad memories down the toilet, he thought, or wash them away in a hot shower.
But what was engraved in the soul was eternal. And Memoria was a tough old dame. She bedded in the cells of the body and just lay there forever, awakening at the oddest times and flooding the mind with the damnedest memories.
Memoria also lived in the petroglyphs scratched into the volcanic boulders on the West Mesa escarpment. The ancient symbols were the memory of the Anasazi. A few of the Pueblo elders whispered stories. One glyph, they said, was carved on a boulder called the Zia Stone. That sacred symbol was a unifying sign that would reveal the mystery of the universe, the meaning of life. It had been given to the ancestors long ago.
Searching for the Zia Stone, Sonny and don Eliseo had explored ancient Anasazi haunts in the windswept mesas and canyons of the state. Like penitents searching for a holy sign in gothic cathedrals, they sought the glyph that held the answer to life, a unifying theory of the universe.
Learn to enter the dream, don Eliseo said, and Sonny had followed the old man into the dream world. He became a winter shaman, a brujo who could construct his dreams. And to what end? To meet Raven. He was always there, always waiting.
âRevenge,â Sonny whispered, flushing the toilet. âI want my revenge. I will find a wayââ
The struggle with Raven had gone on too long. Maybe don Eliseo was wrong. Maybe a well-placed bullet between the eyes would kill the bastard. What the hell is a dream good for if I go there only to meet my shadow?
He showered, toweled himself dry, and shaved.