Restless Soul - Alex Archer [86]
Annja went toward the sound, feeling the trees pass through her and sensing her heart beating in time with the thunderous drum. She stepped in time with it, walking over the water and following the bird-show sign. The breeze had stopped, taking the coolness with it.
She started to sweat.
My dream, she thought, make the heat go away.
But the opposite happened. The heat became more intense, the sun beating down in time with the drum, the leaves withering in what had become Sahara-like temperatures. The drum thrummed louder and Annja threw her diaphanous hands over her ears and tried to hum to blot it out, a tune she’d remembered Luartaro humming.
Leaves drifted to the ground around and through her, and branches curled and darkened in the oppressive heat. She felt the rings of sweat grow on her chest and under her arms and she smelled the smoke in the air—all the perfume from the bougainvillea gone. The wisps of smoke writhed like snakes and trailed away, beckoning.
She followed, still stepping in time with the drum.
The forest died and the trunks became blackened slashes that crumbled and then reformed into squat stone buildings. The smoke-snakes thickened and formed streets that radiated out from the center of a village like the spokes of a wheel. In the middle of the ring a fire burned; it was the source of the oppressive heat.
The drum quieted, to be replaced by the crackling and pops of the wood.
There was a figure in the middle of the blaze, burning and crying, and forever finding a place in history as a martyr.
Annja had dreamed of Joan and the fire before.
This had turned into a nightmare.
Bring back the bougainvillea and the gold coins and the little monkey that threw the remnants of the skull bowl, she thought.
The fire raged higher, the embers spitting away and sparkling like shards of silver, all flying through the crowd that had instantly appeared and streaked toward Annja.
The heat hurt her, it was that severe, and the shards that pelted her stung horribly.
Her face hurt the most, her right cheek swollen and aching. Why did it hurt so much? Her wrists, too, something squeezing them. Her shoulders…something digging into them.
The shards?
Embers from the fire?
Pieces of Joan?
Fingernails?
The village vanished and in place of burning Joan was a man with an expression twisted in anger.
“Wake up, Annja Creed,” he said.
25
Annja was happy to be free of the nightmare, but aghast at the reality that had replaced it. She was in the back room of the antiques shop, trussed up in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, her wrists and ankles tied with an electrical cord that dug painfully into her skin.
The air was heavy with the residue of cigarette smoke and the papery scents of packing material. A blackened window was open a few inches and the odors of the garbage in the alley came in with the rain.
The older man with stooped shoulders was at the desk, the younger man hovering over him this time. They had her fanny pack and were studying her passport, which was how they knew her name. The business cards she’d had in her fanny pack were crumpled on the floor at their feet. Her backpack sat nearby.
“She is the one,” the younger man insisted, stabbing a finger at the passport and then pointing at Annja. “I tell you, Kim. This Annja Creed from New York City is the one who killed Dak and Soon in the mountains.”
The man leaning over her, Kim, struck her hard on the cheek with his fist. “Annja Creed of New York City. She is a long way from the United States of America, and a long way from our mountains. Why is she here in our shop?” The question was asked with so much force that his spittle peppered her face. “Why is she here, so far from the cave she had no business being in? And she has no business