The Dream Thief
Moving about the tiny, cramped room, careful not to upset anything and sweating from the close confines of the heated tent, he realizes that precious minutes are passing.
“Hurry,” he orders, and his assistant sets the incense burner by the stones that are arranged in a circle. Backing away, head down and with eyes shut, she scuttles out of the room. The stars’ twinkling, blocked by the tent flap returning to its relaxed position, are ignored and the only light in the tent is from the burner. His long white hair and beard glow orange in its presence; the smoke curling up and up, dancing like a Marturean slave, seductive and graceful.
The herbs and spices and rare ingredients He tosses some rare archaic ingredients into the burner. They are consumed in a flash, and a sweetly-burnt aroma rises into the air, co-mingling with the dancing finger of smoke and they begin a spiraling, fast-moving, pattern; looking like a serpent winding around its prey before devouring it. He smiles, because this is the familiar moment he has waited for: the last two days and nights the incantations have been meticulously uttered and the many calves’ worth of herbs and spices were sacrificed to the flame. But now, the time is at hand.
While the serpentine smoke looks for the object of its hunger, he withdraws from his robe a small leather pouch; the contents taken during a friendly wager only the day before. The red string, still wet and warm from his victim’s own blood, gives way with a single tug and he lets the pouch fall away from a curl of jet black hair. The serpent freezes in mid-gyration and it appears to ’stare’ at the curled whiskers. He holds it up for just a moment, and then speaks:
“From across the divide that separates the wakeful from the dreaming, I called you. Now I send you back across that expanse and beyond, to steal the sleep of my enemy. May he never know rest until he has died.” And the serpent’s long, ethereal form shoots forward, loosing itself into the hair in his hand. Now his palm holds only black and smoldering powder, where once the contents had covered his enemy’s chin with curly glory. He laughs loudly as the final wisps of smoke writhes to the ceiling, moving through it and onward to its goal, helpless to do otherwise.
“My Lord,” and the voice from outside the tent startles him.
“What have I told you about disturbing me?” he shouts back, irritated. But he has not become overly angry, since his work has just then been successfully completed.
“Come quickly, my Lord, Something’s wrong,” his servant’s voice adds.
Outside the tent, everyone is looking up, pointing skyward and talking amongst themselves. He turns his gaze heavenward and falls to his knees. There are lights of every color splayed across the night sky, illuminating everything and everyone. A single finger of black smoke is seen, curling upwards towards the display, and he hears the protest of the serpent in his mind as it is pulled against its directed destiny towards the lights.
“No!” His shout echoes around the camp. Throwing dust on his head and tearing his robe from his body, he falls face first into dirt as the smoke enters the phenomenon and the sky suddenly becomes as before: dark, star-lit and moonless. Long, silent moments pass. Those around him, afraid to go near him, for his wrath can be a thing to certainly be fearful of, hesitate. Then, one by one, they circle in closer around his lifeless body, wondering who has the bad luck to have to bear the news to his son.
