I have a vague recollection, as one remembers a bad dream, of rushing about through the woods all round the empty camp, calling wildly for my companions.  No answer came back from the silent shadows.  The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

"I'm sure Jadna didn't mean it that way, Marguerite," Challenger offered from the other side of the fire.

"Didn't mean it?  Of course, he meant it!" Marguerite hissed back.  Restlessly she re-settled against Bruiser's warm side.  "He said it clearly enough:  I'm a witch!"

Malone, who had a better view of the cave's outer entrance than the rest of them, shushed them.  "He's coming back!"

Veronica ignored Malone.  "To be precise, Jadna said that you're a powerful witch, Marguerite.  A very powerful witch.  I think you frightened him a little.  That's why he went for reinforcements.  I've heard of his mother – they say she's the wisest woman on the plateau."

A regular tapping mixed with shuffling echoed in the outer chamber.  The painted holy man re-entered holding the hand of a woman who looked ancient enough to have witnessed the plateau's original creation.  She walked with the aid of a cane made from a raptor shinbone.  "This is my mother," Jadna declared proudly.  "She has come to see the great witch."

The bent crone hobbled to Marguerite's side and, putting an arthritic knuckle under Marguerite's chin, tilted back her head.  "Yes, Jadna.  I also see the signs.  Tell me your name, child."

With an effort of will, Marguerite forced herself not to flinch.  "Marguerite, old mother.  My name is Marguerite Krux."

The old woman's hand gently stroked Marguerite's hair and ran a twig-like thumb along a cheek.  This time Marguerite couldn't control herself.  She pulled away a little.

The old one smelled of dust and hearth fires.  The cloak of long golden feathers she wore fluttered when she moved.  "This is not your true name, the name your mother and father gave you."

Marguerite looked up, startled.  Her quick glance took in all of her companions.  "No, mother, it is not.  I'm an orphan.  I do not know my name."  Marguerite's eyes stopped on Veronica.  Veronica had been orphaned too, but at least she knew her true name.

"No matter.  You will know your true name when you hear it.  May I sit in your presence, great one?  This old body cannot stand long."

There was a near collision as all the men around the fire moved to help the old woman to the ground.  She settled on the warm patch next to Marguerite with a grateful sigh.  "May-gee-eet, my son tells me you have lost someone."  The old one offered her hand to the Bruiser to sniff then stroked his dark head.  "Someone very close to you."

"My friend, Lord John Roxton."  Marguerite made herself finish it.  "He died nearly two months ago."  Marguerite looked at the old one's filmy old eyes.  Likely she couldn't see very far.  "Jadna met him when Malone took his dream journey last year.  Would you like me to describe John for you?"

"You seek him."  Marguerite opened her mouth to protest, but the old woman continued on.  "You need not.  Your power has already called him to you."

Marguerite had to admit this woman was definitely in the same league as Freud; she was as enigmatic and self-possessed as the Viennese psychoanalyst.  And as infuriating.  Marguerite lifted her eyebrows to express skepticism, but answered, "He is dead, mother, dead and eaten."

"You dream of him every night, do you not?  Your dreams have called him.  They hold him to you.  Your Rok-on is never far, if you know where to look."

Marguerite was glad for the dimness of the golden firelight.  Her friends couldn't see her blush.  "Yes, I dream," she admitted, but lowered her eyes to her hands.

Challenger spoke up.  "You didn't tell us that, Marguerite."

"They're just dreams, George."

Challenger wasn't to be put off.  "Surely you know that here on the plateau even dreams have significance.  If you …"

This is not what Marguerite wanted to talk about, but Challenger was relentless when pursuing a clue.  "George, stop.  Please.  I haven't mentioned the dreams because, well … "  Her voice trailed off.  How was she ever going to say this?  "At night I dream that John comes to me and we … and we …"  For once, Marguerite's boldness failed her.  Her voice trailed off.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bruiser's ears rotate forward.  His panting abruptly stilled.  Somehow he looked surprised.

Challenger's bushy red eyebrows arched.  "Oh.  I'm sorry, Marguerite.  Didn't mean to embarrass you."  Marguerite's hand gestured her forgiveness with a little wave.

The old woman, who'd been watching all of this, turned and beckoned to her son.  "Jadna, bring the gazing bowl and fresh water."  She turned back to Marguerite.  "We shall …"

Marguerite dared to interrupt her.  "You are not going to look into my dreams, mother!"

Amused, Jadna's mother chuckled dryly. "Don't worry, May-gee-eet.  We shall not view your dreams.  Do you have something with you that belongs to this Yahn Rok-on?"

The gazing bowl turned out to be a cluster of a dozen or more clear crystals naturally joined to form a shallow, water-tight cup.  Jadna filled it with a few ounces of water.  With his knife Malone shaved a sliver of leather off the belt that once had been Roxton's and now served as Bruiser's collar.  Then with great show of distress, Marguerite donated several drops of blood.  Bruiser licked her tiny wound until the bleeding stopped.

Kneeling in a tight huddle above the bowl resting on the ground, Marguerite, all of her friends, Bruiser, Jadna, and Jadna's mother looked into the pink-tinged water.  The crystals in the bowl beneath glimmered from the few rays of firelight that filtered between the supplicants.

Marguerite still wasn't too sure about the farseeing.  The whole thing felt too much like undressing in public, and generally she tried to believe only in what could be worn on fingers, wrist and neck.  The plateau tested that creed frequently, but she still wasn't quite convinced.  If the old one didn't begin soon, Marguerite would lose her nerve.

To Marguerite's left Veronica and Malone's blond heads tilted together.  Marguerite heard snatches of what Veronica whispered in Malone's ear, "… don't want … do this ... you …"

Malone tucked Veronica's arm under his, squeezed it to his chest and kissed her cheek.  "You won't."

"What are we looking for?" Challenger asked.

The old one gestured for silence.  "Join your hands, gaze into the bowl and think of Yahn Rok-on and May-gee-eet.  Think of who they have been -- all the memories you have of them, all the feelings you have felt."  Bruiser, between Marguerite and the old woman, whined, something Marguerite seldom heard from the self-possessed wolf.  His black head leaned into Marguerite's side.  She dropped the old one's fragile hand to stroke it.  The old one nodded agreement with the change and her arthritic hand took a handful of Bruiser's neck fur.

"Remember," Jadna and the old one hummed together.  "Remember …"

Her eyes focused on the bowl, Marguerite's world narrowed to her memories of Roxton.  She re-played her entire mantra of Roxton memories:  his handsome albeit frequently unshaven face, the laughing eyes.  The gentle little things he'd done for her every day, and the huge sacrifices he'd never hesitated to offer up.  The hugs, the kisses, the warmth of his body against hers, the smile ...

Marguerite's left hand held Veronica's.  She squeezed it tightly.  Under her right hand Bruiser rumbled.  If he'd been a cat, Marguerite would've thought he purred.

"Look!"  That was Malone's voice.  The water in the bowl had begun to stir like the proverbial tempest in a teapot.  Pictures formed.  A man and a woman, both dressed in leather robes.  He holding a flint-tipped spear, she a child.  A wall of ice loomed behind them.  The scene dissolved and re-formed.  Another man and woman.  He on the back of a rugged little horse and fighting with a bronze sword what looked to be desert nomads, she defending his back with a short spear.  Then there were more scenes, many more.  Scenes through the ages and around the world, in castles, huts, tents and ocean-going ships.  In each a man fought and a woman loved.  It went on and on.

Marguerite gasped.  Roxton's familiar form had materialized in the bowl, cowering under a T-Rex's heavy snout.  Tiny puffs of smoke arose from the pistol he held in his hand.  Straining, Marguerite tried to make out the details of the scene.  Was she there?  Which T-Rex had this been?  But the water in the bowl had been whipped completely to foam.  The scene disappeared, then with a loud crack the bowl shattered, and the foam spread out on the cave's sandy floor.

"What happened?" Veronica asked.  "That felt like an attack!"

Marguerite looked up from helping the old one to a comfortable sitting position.  "Not an attack, a warn off."  Marguerite didn't know how she knew, but she recognized it for the truth.  "My future's hidden, that's all.  Someone or something wants to keep it that way."

Challenger had moved to prop the old one from behind.  He laughed a little.  "Some things never change, Marguerite.  Your life's always been full of secrets."

Jadna knelt beside his mother.  The old woman began to speak.  "May-gee-eet, great one, thank you for blessing this old woman's last years."  She paused for breath.  Apparently the seeing had taken a great deal out of her, but she gestured for Jadna and Challenger to help her to her feet.

The old one seemed to stand much straighter now.  Her feather cloak had slipped off.  Picking it up off the cave floor, Malone settled it back on the thin old shoulders.  The old one reached out for one of Marguerite's hand.  Reluctantly, Marguerite yielded it to her.  The old skin felt slack and dry, the bones brittle and bent.

Marguerite wanted to be anywhere but here.  To have seen Roxton again, even in such a strange way … Marguerite realized that she had no picture of Roxton.  Not even a pencil sketch.  Nothing.

"Both you and Yahn Rok-on have very old souls.  He has protected you through many, many lifetimes.  The men and women we saw – they were all you and your Rok-on.  In each lifetime you call him to you.  And each time he comes: he cannot stay away.  You love each other to the brink of madness and beyond.  I no longer wonder at your longing for Yahn Rok-on.  He is part of you, and you, of him.  Without him, you feel as if you've lost your arm or leg."

Marguerite freed her hand.  Bending over, she picked up a piece of the shattered crystal bowl from under Bruiser's sniffing nose.  She knew the answer to what the old one had said, had known it for a long time.  "No, mother," she said turning the crystal over in her hands.  "I have lost something more vital.  I've lost my heart."

                   (*,*)

The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God,
and there shall no torment touch them.
In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die: and
their departure is taken for misery,
And their going from us to be utter destruction:
but they are in peace.
For though they be punished in the sight of men,
yet is their hope full of immortality.
And having been a little chastised, they shall be
greatly rewarded: for God proved them, and found
them worthy for himself.
Ecclesiasticus, 1:2

The cycle of life comes back to us in many ways.  I'm particulary glad you've come back to read more of my story!  Please drop me a line and tell me what you think.  I enjoy hearing from you.