Helga jerked upright, clamping her mouth shut just in time. They would never reach her—she was too proud to scream!
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness around her, she remembered where she was. She was not plummeting to her doom from the face of a massive cliff. She wasn't even in Egypt. She was in Scotland, which was about as far removed from the desert as she could imagine.
Her heart rate slowing, Helga wiped clammy sweat from her brow, trying to quell the pounding in her head. A nightmare within a nightmare…just the concept was terrifying. If this went on, how would she ever know whether she was awake or asleep?
But the dreams were not habitual, she reminded herself. Only in her dream did nightmares haunt her every night. Usually she slept soundly, safe from whatever horrifying thoughts lurked in her scarred—but healing—subconscious.
She tried to make sense of her dreams. She had been dreaming, and Arnold had woken her…and she had lied to him. She had kept something from him, which she was trying not to do, though old habits died hard. And then they had been climbing, and falling…the images were fading away, though she knew they had been crystal clear in her dream. Both dreams.
Crimeny! Thinking like that would drive her insane. Sighing, she flopped back down on the sheets, which were pleasantly cool to her feverish body. Oh, well. Dreams meant very little in the real world, and less if she couldn't even remember them. She knew her logic was faulty, but she was notoriously stubborn.
It was interesting, though, that she had shared a bed with Arnold in her dream. Though they'd declared their love for one another months ago, they hadn't moved past chaste kisses, albeit frequent ones. Neither one was inclined to push it. It wasn't that either of them were virgins—Helga especially was hardly the blushing flower—and they certainly desired one another…but the right time simply hadn't come yet. After waiting for two decades for Arnold's love, Helga could wait as long as necessary for the physical expression of that love. Still, in her dream…
Enough thinking of the dream already! To distract herself, Helga gazed around her room. It was tiny, but nice, with the small, rickety bed dominating most of the room. A small vanity was positioned beneath the low window that looked out onto the rolling green hills of the country, and a comfortable rocking chair was placed in a corner. That was all.
It was little enough, but Helga liked it. She liked this country, or as much of it as she had seen since they'd arrived that afternoon. The grimy press of civilization hadn't quite covered all of it, and the lush green countryside gave her the brisk and pleasant feeling of using a brand-new bar of soap. The people at the inn had been extremely helpful and kind, going out of their way to make sure Helga and Arnold had everything they needed.
At first Helga had been slightly annoyed that they had to go so far out of their way. They were visiting an old friend of Arnold's parents, his mother's mentor…what was his name again? Finn. Logan Finn. A widely-known archaeologist in his time, according to Arnold and his mother, Katie—Helga didn't pretend to know much of anything about archaeology.
Anyway, Finn seemed to be the man to talk to if you were looking for a priceless legendary Egyptian artifact, which Arnold was. And so Helga and Arnold had boarded a plane and flown to Scotland to see him. But Finn lived in some rural hamlet, far removed from any airport, so they had driven part of the way to his town the first day, stayed at an inn that night, and would drive the rest of the way in the morning.
As far as Helga was concerned, she was merely along for the ride—and to keep a watchful eye on Arnold. She thought of her dream, and shuddered. She wasn't really sure where she stood on the Lotus, however. Most who were "in the know" in the archaeological community didn't really believe in the Lotus, or if they did, it was vaguely, as something meant to remain shrouded in legend and myth and so not even worth looking for. But Arnold had found a map telling him where to go, and he was dead set on finding the Lotus, even if he didn't have the map anymore. And Helga would follow him.
It wasn't like following him did her any harm, at any rate. She was a poet—she could write on the road. She always had before. And there was nowhere she'd rather be than with Arnold.
In fact, for the first time in her life, she was happy in more than brief flashes. She'd had a tormented childhood, a turbulent adolescence, and a lonely adulthood…until Arnold had come back into her life. (Or been thrown bodily back into it, as the case may be.) And the days after their reunion had been mostly filled with trying very hard not to die. But after that…it was her and Arnold, together, and it was bliss.
And so she tried to shake off the tiny bit of worry that ate away at her mind. Nothing was going to happen to Arnold. She would make sure of that. And nothing was going to happen to her, because if she was with Arnold, and nothing was happening to him, what could happen to her?
True, it made no sense. But after her nightmares, Helga wasn't sure which way was up anymore. So she tried to shake off the worry.
Tried being the operative word.
Sleep and Helga Pataki didn't find each other easily that night.
* * * * * * *
Logan Finn was a grizzly, broad-shouldered man who resembled a larger and less severe Sean Connery. Though he was in at least his late seventies and his hair and beard were as white as snow, a soft of defiant strength twinkled from his steel gray eyes. His jaw was still powerful; his nose had been broken at least twice; his thick brogue was peppered with profanity. Helga liked him immediately.
"Well, lad, I'm sure ye get tired of hearin' this so often, but ye're the feckin' spittin' image of yer father," Logan said as they sat in the small, cozy living room. "But ye've got yer mother's eyes."
Arnold beamed, the way he always did when someone mentioned his parents. He still hadn't quite gotten over the fact that the mother and father he had accepted as dead were really alive, were really there. Helga squeezed his hand, delighting in his joy. God, what a sap she was turning out to be.
"Yer mother tells me that ye've found the Map of the Pharaohs," Logan continued.
Arnold nodded. "Yes, sir."
Logan growled good-naturedly. "I told ye once, lad, don't be callin' be sir. Makes me feel old." He paused. "Which I am, but that's not the point." His eyes lit up as he leaned forward. "What did the map say?"
Arnold's eyes lit up, recognizing a kindred spirit, as he began to talk. Helga tried hard to listen to the conversation, but much of it was esoteric and obscure, and some of it was in another language. Helga didn't kid herself—she was no dummy, but this was not something a poet would understand without having studied archaeology once.
She was dozing off on Arnold's shoulder when Logan's laugh startled her back into the present. "Oh, lass, we must be borin' ye to tears. I'm a right ass, I am."
"No, no, I'm really interested," Helga said, putting on her "interested" face. Arnold laughed, too.
"For such a good liar, that was just pathetic," he teased. Helga stuck out her tongue at him, not letting him see how much the words stung. How could he know about her dream?
"Well, at least I don't have a stupid football head," she retorted, reverting to the little girl she had once been.
"Well, at least I don't have a unibrow," he replied with a smirk. She let out a mock gasp of indignation.
"I do not have a unibrow!…anymore. I don't have to sit here and take this kind of abuse!"
Arnold shrugged. "Okay, then, stand up and take it."
Helga got to her feet. "You're just jealous because you don't have any eyebrows." She struggled to hide a smile, enjoying this twist on their childhood squabbles. "I'm going to get some sun. Bye, Mr. Finn." She ruffled Arnold's hair affectionately as she passed him, going out the door.
"Call me Logan!" the older man yelled after her, but it was drowned out by Arnold's louder cry.
"I do TOO have eyebrows!"
Helga laughed as she exited the house. The sun on her face was pleasantly warming, and birds were singing somewhere in the distance. Swiping a daisy from the grass, she sat down on a bench at the bottom of Logan's walk and gazed out at the tiny hamlet before her. It was technically too small to be called a town, and she could see almost all of it from where she sat. Collendale Hamlet boasted a bakery, a butcher, a post office and stationary store, a doctor's office that doubled as Collendale Hospital, a tiny school, a bookstore, and an inn. A side street led off the main one she was looking at, where she supposed there were more shops and the rest of the houses.
She liked it here, with all its quiet tranquility. It was startling to realize that she couldn't find a McDonalds, a Blockbuster, or a Starbucks for miles around. She was suddenly seeing a place that was completely different than the city she'd grown up in, the cities around the world that she frequented on book tours. She'd always gone to cities, perhaps hoping that the hustle and bustle surrounding her would drown out the sound of her own loneliness, but it never had.
Now that she had Arnold, though… She thought idly that this would be a wonderful place to raise children. A flock of children racing by her punctuated that thought nicely. They looked about eight or nine, and were chasing a soccer ball joyfully up and down the street. There were only one or two cars, nothing to interrupt their games the way the stickball games in Brooklyn had always been interrupted. Helga suddenly felt a little jealous.
She twirled the daisy between her fingertips, watching the town. A woman with a baby on each arm exited the bakery, a small child holding an armful of bread behind her. Two teenage boys raced up the street; a group of girls, all about twelve years old, giggled in front of the post office. A man in a dark suit settled onto a chair outside of the inn with a newspaper.
Helga smiled to herself and glanced down at the daisy in her hand. Remembering how she used to destroy entire beds of flowers this way, she began to pluck the petals off, one by one. He loves me, he loves me not…
She beamed as the white petals fluttered to the ground. She needed no prophetic flower to tell her what she already knew. Arnold loved her, completely and utterly, and she loved him. Still, she continued, soon running out of petals.
"He loves me," she sang quietly. "He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me…not?"
She was out of petals.
Quickly, she threw the flower to the ground. It was just a stupid childish game. It didn't mean anything. She knew that, but at the same time she couldn't help wondering if this might be some sort of omen.
What is wrong with you, Pataki? she demanded of herself angrily. Why can't you just let yourself be happy without worrying that someone's going to take it away?
Because someone always has, she answered herself, her heart sinking. Even now, when she was with Arnold, and happy, she couldn't help feeling that doom was right around the corner, might even now be standing over her and—
"You must be Helga."
Helga jerked her head up. Someone was standing there—a very pretty, delicate, redheaded somebody.
"Lila?"
The girl before her took a step back, wrinkling her flawless brow in confusion. "I'm sorry, you must have me confused with someone. My name is Anna." Her British and ever-so-slightly Scottish accent was charming.
Helga stood up. "Sorry, you looked just like…like somebody I knew growing up." Somebody Arnold was head over heels for almost as long as I was in love with him. Then she realized something. "How…how did you know my name?"
Anna laughed. Her laugh was like a bubbling brook, tripping over stones. "My grandfather told me you would be here. You and…Arnold, is that his name? Kate's son?"
Helga nodded. "My boyfriend," she said emphatically, although she really wasn't sure why she was stressing it. Surely this Anna person didn't have designs on Arnold! Still, she felt resentful, and on edge.
It didn't help that Anna was exactly like every girl Arnold had ever had a crush on. She was petite and as delicate as a bird, making Helga feel like a great, hulking ogre. Her skin was pale, flawless, set off by the curtains of copper hair tumbling around her angelic face. Her eyes were wide-spaced and a level, sensible gray; her nose had just the tiniest bit of a tilt. When she smiled, which was often, Helga could see perfect, gleaming white teeth, and her voice was musical.
The girl was a goddamn Madonna. Helga suddenly felt very plain and awkward. She struggled to find something to say. "Logan's your grandfather?"
Anna smiled. Helga hated it when she did that. "Yes. Incorrigible, isn't he? But I love him. He's done so much for me…sent me to school to study archaeology, taught me every thing he knows…"
Hold up. "You're an archaeologist?" Helga asked.
Anna nodded. "It's my greatest passion."
Well, she was sunk. Helga might as well go home right now. Five minutes after Arnold met this one they'd be picking out china patterns together. With flowers on them. And bluebirds.
Anna held up a bag. "I'd better get this inside before it melts. Grandfather loves ice cream, and I thought I'd get some for all of us. We can have it with the cake I baked this morning."
Helga was hating her more and more every second.
And she hated her the most when Arnold's eyes lit appreciatively on Anna's slender form as the two women entered the living room. Logan beamed.
"Anna! Ye're back," he said obviously. "I'd like ye to meet Arnold, my Katie's son. I take it ye've already met Helga?"
Anna nodded, shaking hands with Arnold as he stood up to greet her, ever the gentleman. "Wow, you look just like someone I used to know," he said, clearly appraising her perfect auburn hair and her perfect pearly teeth.
"Don't tell me—Lila?" Anna guessed.
"Well, yes…but how did you know?"
"Helga mentioned it," Anna replied, with a friendly smile in Helga's direction. Helga knew the smile she returned was horribly fake, but she really didn't care.
"Well, let's eat that feckin' ice cream before it feckin' melts," Logan suggested, standing and leading the way into the kitchen. Anna followed cheerily, spreading sunshine where she walked. Next was Arnold, and finally a very glum Helga.
As they passed through the door, Arnold pulled Helga aside briefly. "I have to tell you something," he whispered. "A secret."
"What?" she replied, her voice hushed. What could he possibly have to tell her that was so important?
He brought his ears so close to her ear that she shivered pleasantly. His voice was barely audible.
"I love you."
He stepped back, grinning amiably at her, and headed into the kitchen. Helga followed, her step lighter.
She suddenly felt much better.
You all hate and despise me now, don't you? You loathe me. I dropped them off a cliff, made you wait for…forever…(if you look around, you'll see a lot of flying pigs and chickens with lips) and it was a dream! You can flame me if you want, I deserve it.
In my defense, however…inspiration on this just ran away to some tiny hole and bubbled, and I had no idea what to do. I would open the file on my computer and STARE at it, hoping that something would leak out onto the keyboard. (That sounded amazingly gross.) But nothing did…until my break through.
Yes, there is a reason for the climb, and the dream, and just about everything else that's happened so far. And I know this is kind of a boring chapter, but it sets up a LOT. So please don't kill me…please?
Charisma: I won't pretend to be an expert in the whole rock-climbing biz, but I've done a little, and yes, I know there wouldn't be ropes and grappling hooks and just general unprofessional-ness there, but I do have a reason for it, okay? Trust me. I know it's OOC for Arnold, but…well, first of all, now you know it was a dream (and how much does Helga's subconscious know about rock climbing) but…well, there's another reason. I promise.
DropsofJupiter: Ooh, Straining!Arnold. Damn. Yes, that is a hot picture. It's okay, you and me can start our We-Think-Fictional-Accounts-of-the-Description-of-a-Nine-Year-Old-Cartoon-Character-With-A-Football-Shaped-Head-Are-Hot Club. I wasn't seeing too many veins popping out there, though. (Lol, like a big, throbbing one on his forehead…like Howie from Backstreet Boys…yes, recovering BSB addict, right here…but the vein was funny!)
fuu-chan: Step away from the wall…okay. Careful. I think I'm liable in the event of injury. And I have no dinero.
Houkanno Yuuhou: Awesome names for your Sims, lol. Yes! You're a procrastinator! You have joined my race! Maybe you can also join me and DropsofJupiter's oh-so-exclusive club…
Stace: I think if they had cut Curly off, he might have bounced. Knowing him. Lol.
miss amyami: I gave you your book back! (Hopefully for a while…)
Snow Lane: Yeah, I probably should change their names…but I won't. Cuz it's hard. And I'm lazy. And I really don't like the name Stella. But thanks for the heads-up!
Thanks to everyone else for reviewing! I hope you all don't hate me now…
-PI