(part 10)

The light was blue, as if the moon were shining in the deeps of the ocean. They stood facing each other, still clasping their right hands. Trees towered above them like a phalanx of masts, and their broad leaves waved like sails in the wind, a wind that did not reach the two of them where they stood below.

Blair looked around, his unbound hair whirling about his head. "Hey, this is wild!" He was dressed in jeans, flannel shirt and patchwork vest -- not what he'd been wearing a moment earlier. He took a step as if to explore, and let go of Jim's hand.

Instant night. Black as the bottom of a mine.

Silence.

"Jim? Jim!"

His voice was swallowed up in nothing.

Blair flailed behind him, to where he thought Jim was, where he used to be. His hand met empty air. He took a small step backwards. Something touched, then grabbed his shoulder. He almost jumped out of his skin with fright.

"Chief, is that you?"

"Jim!" What a relief.

He could hear again, but it was still dark.

"Jim, can you see anything?"

"Not a thing."

He put his right hand up to touch the hand on his shoulder. As soon as their hands met, it was light again. The jungle surrounded them.

"Whoa!" Blair said. "That was so not fun!"

"What the hell just happened?" they both said at the same time.

"Think someone's trying to tell us something?" Blair mused. He put his left hand up to grasp Jim's hand still on his shoulder, but as soon as he lifted his right hand away from Jim's right hand, the blackess pounced. Blair quickly grabbed Jim's right hand.

"I suggest we don't let go." Jim laced his fingers with Blair's, right hand to right hand. "I don't think that would be wise, somehow," he said dryly. He was wearing jungle fatigues, crossbow at his back, face washed pale in the blueness. Blair wasn't sure, but Jim's hair seemed that little bit shorter, closer to army-crop than cop-short.

"Got you loud and clear. Heavy symbolism, bad karma," Blair said. He looked at the ground. "I wonder if stepping on ants counts?"

"I would've thought you'd be more worried about me shooting something," Jim said.

Blair glanced up at Jim. "Water under the bridge, man. Water under the bridge." He gave Jim's hand a light squeeze. "If you saw a wolf now, you wouldn't likely shoot it, would you?"

"No, follow it," Jim answered, looking at something in the distance. His hand pressed into Blair's shoulder as he tried to direct him to move.

"What?"

Jim pointed through the jungle. "Don't you see them? The panther and the wolf."

"You're the one with the eyes, Jim," Blair said. "Lead the way."

They stepped into the jungle, Jim following guides that only he could see. They kept their pace steady, trying not to trip over roots, and the pathless gaps that weren't meant for two. It was awkward going, as each of them had only one hand free for balance, and in Blair's case, it wasn't his outside hand.

After Blair nearly tripped flat on his face, Jim stopped, pulled Blair close, put his right arm over Blair's shoulder, and turned them to face the same direction.

"A bit like barn dancing, eh, Jim?" Blair teased.

Jim rolled his eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Blair noticed something. In the blue light, colours were washed out, things more defined by shape, contrast, texture and sound than by colour. This was something that was not curved like the edge of a leaf, something that did not move, something that did not have the tall straightness of a tree. Maybe it was a tall stump.

They had only taken a few more paces when Blair saw another one. He turned and looked. It had sharp edges, broad and curved; something man-made. Carved. A stele with glyphs of some kind. Blair stopped.

"Blair, come on," Jim said. "They aren't standing still."

"But Jim," Blair said, gesturing at the stone half-hidden by the trees, "the carvings - they could be important."

"Trust me," Jim said, "they aren't."

"You don't know that!" Blair protested.

"I know," Jim said, and pulled Blair reluctantly along with him.

Ten paces later Blair saw another one. He turned his head and dragged his feet.

"Don't look at the pretty carvings, Blair," Jim said. "They aren't important."

"How can we know unless we examine them?" Blair returned.

"Because that's not the way the guides are going," Jim said.

Realization struck Blair like a bolt of lightening. Duh! Stupid much? Blair thought. "Right," he said. "Follow the guides, ignore the rocks." Spirit journeys have trials, don't they? And if that wasn't a bullseye for me, then I'm the President.

They continued on quietly, weaving through the trees, feet crackling on leaves, following the guides that only Jim could see.

Jim stopped suddenly. Naturally, Blair stopped too.

"What's the matter, Jim?"

"I can't see them."

"Oh." Blair looked around. "Maybe that means we're nearly there."

"I don't think so, Chief."

The jungle around them seemed no different to the jungle they'd been in before. The trees loomed, tall and straight, wide and crooked. Vines and flowers looked washed out in the blue light. Nothing stirred but the wind in the leaves.

Blair caught a flash of movement to the right. He turned his head, and saw the gleam of grey eyes, eyes in a sharp, canine face. "I see the wolf," he whispered, fearing that a loud noise would drive it away.

"I don't see anything," Jim said.

"There, to the right," Blair said softly. "Right there."

"There's nothing there, Chief."

The wolf turned to meet a sleek feline form, black as coals.

"The panther's there, too."

"But there's nothing there, Sandburg!"

Blair looked up at Jim. "There's something there, Jim, you just can't see it."

"Why can't I see it?"

The wolf looked back and turned away again.

"It wants us to follow."

"Why can't I see it, Blair?"

Blair looked at the tense face of his partner, friend, brother. Trial number two, perhaps? "Maybe you aren't meant to. Maybe you're just supposed to trust me."

"Trust you?" Blair could see Jim forcing himself to relax. "Let's go, then. If I can't trust my Guide I might as well be blind."

Blair smiled. "Let's go, then."

The second part of the journey was much the same as the first, except that Blair was leading them. The bushes still dragged at them, and the roots still made their footing awkward. Every now and then a stele appeared, sometimes quite close to the way they were going, but Blair resolutely ignored them.

Finally they made their way into a clearing. The panther and wolf vanished, but Jim and Blair hardly noticed. In the clearing was a raised dais with a stele covered with carvings similar to those on the Temple of the Sentinels. Standing in front of it was a man, a Chopec, with painted face and body and feathers in his hair.

"Incacha!"

"Sentinel." He nodded at Jim. "Guide." He nodded at Blair. "What was begun at the fountain is now complete. You have passed through death and are bound in life. When one does not see, the other must guide. When one cannot find the path, he must trust his brother."

Incacha gestured at them to come closer. The stepped up to the edge of the dais. He gestured again. "Give me your hands."

He took their clasped right hands in both his own, and said, "Sentinel and Guide, you are bound. This bond will grow stronger with time, and life, and love. Tend it well, and you will prosper."

He unclasped their hands, and turned them over. They were no longer bleeding; instead, each bore a thin, white scar. "Be aware of the cost," Incacha said. "When one is cut, the other bleeds. That is the price of love. That is its nature."

He clasped their hands together again. "Go in peace," he said.

The jungle vanished.

"Wha?" Blair said blearily. They were sitting at the kitchen table, clasping hands. "Did that happen, what I think just happened? Jim?"

"Look," Jim said. He turned over his hand, and pointed at Blair's. There was no blood on either of them -- just a thin white scar on each of their right hands. "Yeah, it happened all right."

"Wow!" Blair bounced in place. "That is so cool." He beamed at Jim. "That is so cool, bro!"

Jim smiled. "I guess it is, bro."

"Hey! How come I understood Incacha? He doesn't speak English. Though maybe that doesn't matter as far as visions are concerned. Maybe I understood him because you did? Maybe --"

Jim let Blair's words wash over him, and smiled. Some things never change.

And he wouldn't want it any other way.

fin

Notes and Thanks

Thanks to Aubrey Robin for encouragement to keep going with this when I was uncertain about it, and Susn for nagging and encouragement, (and the "we never talked about Sierra Verde" bit) and both for beta-reading. Thanks to Kimberley Workman for beta-reading also!

I really wish I'd never made that "Dallas" remark in Dreamshatter. This is really my "Sentinel does Jabberwocky" series, except I didn't want to have to explain what I meant by that. Suffice to say, Blake's 7 fans who've read Sheila Paulson's stories will know what I mean.

Yes, I said "series". There's probably going to be a third story, but I can't be sure of any more than that. Why "True Dreams"? Because I love double meanings, that's why!

I suppose you could say Resolutions is my "aftermath of SenToo" story, satisfying my frustrated desire that they actually talk about it, instead of ignore it. At least, that's what it started out as... I love it when these things take a left turn on me...

The talking-stick of the Mamut Indians was stolen from Jean Auel's novel "The Mammoth Hunters". The toad-on-the-bed was borrowed from my brother. Thanks to Dr. F. I. Andersen for the information about the Hurians of Nuzi (yes, they really did exist). Thanks to Mandy Patterson for the information about the Bororo of the Amazon basin (who also really existed). Thanks to Dr. L. C. Andersen for medical advice about recovering patients. All errors are mine.

The site is great; a must-see to get an insight into what Anthropology is really like.

The toy store stuff is thanks to my multiple purchases of soft toys for my nieces and nephews, and the fact that when I visited the British Museum of Natural History, I found a soft-toy baby panther in their gift shop. Yes, it was put out by WWF too. He now sits on my bed, and his name is Blackie. The wolf, alas, only exists in my imagination.

Thanks to Billy Joel for writing "And So It Goes" (on the "Storm Front" album), which I kept playing over and over while writing this. This was the song that Jim heard at night.

The "And all shall be well" quote was originally written by Julian of Norwich.