Restless Soul - Alex Archer [84]
Scattered in the packing mix were brass figurines the size of lemons—small Buddhas, gazelles, apes and pigs, some with other metals inlaid in them and all of them looking old.
Annja took another step, preparing to hunker down behind the countertop. One more step, and then pain consumed her as something heavy crashed down on her head. Darkness reached up and swallowed her.
24
Annja knew she was dreaming, but she couldn’t wake up—didn’t want to, as this was thoroughly pleasant. She was floating, or at least treading so lightly on her feet that she couldn’t feel what she was certain was marshy ground under her. However, she could feel—or imagined that she could—the soft brush of fern leaves across the backs of her hands hanging at her sides and the breeze that played across her face, cooling her.
It was warm in her dream, the sun high overhead and cutting through a gap in the tall jungle canopy. Summer, maybe, she speculated, and near noon. She wanted it to be summer and so guessed that it was—it was her dream and she could make it whatever season she wanted. But it wasn’t too hot. She’d sweated enough the past few days.
Beads of water on the big acacia leaves hinted that it had rained recently. Annja hadn’t been caught in it, though, as she was thoroughly dry; she’d had enough of rain recently in real life that it didn’t need to intrude on her dream. She didn’t hear anything, but thought that she should.
Then sounds intruded, all of them pleasant, the chirp of the small green tree frogs that had sprung up on the trunks, the musical chitter of a little monkey, the cry of a bird circling overhead and the gentle hush of the leaves nudging one another in the breeze.
Paradise.
And she was floating in it.
Primitive and beautiful, as she imagined the land must have been to the ancient Hoabinhiam people.
The hunter-gatherers were near the mountains, and so she added those craggy peaks to the vista, towering up and artfully sculpted by her mind, covered with thick jungle growth and not yet bearing the scars of trails and ruts from Jeeps, and not yet rubbed clean of cave paintings by tourists needing to touch the past.
Annja would have pronounced the scene “amazing,” but she had no voice in the dream. Only the creatures and the wind and the leaves made sound, and she considered that just as well. She’d talked so much lately—to Officer Johnson, to the people at the consulate and, before that, to Luartaro. Should he be here, in her dream? She could make Luartaro give back the jewels he’d taken from the treasure cavern. Couldn’t she do whatever she wanted, as she was making this up as she floated along?
In answer to her thoughts Luartaro appeared a short distance in front of her. He was clean-shaven and in pressed clothes that hung perfectly on his rugged frame. Zakkarat stepped out from behind him, ruining her romantic thoughts.
Zakkarat’s clothes were slick with mud and blood and a knife protruded from the center of his chest. Bullet holes riddled his torso, the design an arrow that pointed to a sign that had materialized: Bird Show.
Annja blinked and tried to dismiss Zakkarat, as she dismissed her sword when it was no longer needed. Zakkarat looked at her with empty eyes and reached out, thick gold rings on each of his fingers.
Go away, she ordered the walking corpse but no sound came out.
Zakkarat melted into the ferns. Luartaro followed, the colors of him smearing like an ice-cream cone dropped on hot pavement. The monkey howled mournfully, and Annja looked up to see it hop from the tree above her and race toward the mountains.
“Free me,” the monkey called to her. “Free me. Free me. Free me.”
Annja glided after it,