by Alex Archer
“Our dreams are often a way for our subconscious mind to try to tell us something—you are certainly correct about that. And given your line of work, I’m not surprised that your subconscious is using metaphors like the ones you describe to try to reach you. After all, if it had manifested in your dreams as an overweight clown with bright red hair, you might have simply brushed it off, no?”
If it were only that easy, Annja thought.
“It’s possible that something about the man’s face, the clothes he is wearing or even the weapon he carries is a symbol for something else in your life, something that is bothering you. No worries, we’ll get to the bottom of it for you.
Dr. Laurent took a sip from her glass of water, then asked, “Have you ever been hypnotized before?”
Annja shook her head. “I almost did so at a comedy club once, but chickened out at the last minute.”
The doctor smiled, trying to put her at ease. “That’s fine. The process is pretty simple, actually. First, I’ll take you through a series of muscle relaxation techniques that are designed to put you in the right frame of mind for phase two, which is the trance itself.
“While in the trance, you’ll relive the dream, but you will have complete control over it this time. You can speed it up or slow it down, even bring it to a complete stop if you like, just like using the pause button on your DVD player.”
“Will I remember what I see in the dream when I wake up?” Annja asked.
Dr. Laurent shook her head, saying, “You’re not actually asleep, but I know what you mean and the answer is no. You won’t remember any of the session consciously. However, I will be recording your responses the entire time and you’ll be able to sketch anything you see during the trance, so between the two we should be able to capture the essence of what your subconscious mind is trying to tell you, all right?”
It sounded as if that was the best she was going to get so Annja agreed. There had to be some detail she could uncover that would help her find the Dragon.
“Shall we begin, then?”
As Annja settled back on the couch, something strange happened.
Once several years earlier, she’d come face-to-face with a king cobra while working a dig in southern India. She hadn’t even known the snake was there until it reared up beside her as she knelt by the supply chest. Hood spread, it had stared at her with alien eyes and she’d felt the cold hand of dread squeeze her spine in its iron grip.
Lying back, as the gentle grip of the couch shifted beneath her frame, Annja felt the very same sense of fear creep over her as she had that day at the dig. Something deep in her soul was telling her to get out of there, to make her apologies and slink out the door with her metaphorical tail between her legs.
Her heart began to hammer in her chest and her breath came in quick, short gasps. She felt her right hand flex in just the same way it always did as she settled her grip around the hilt of her sword. Miraculously she managed to stay in control and didn’t call it to her; it would have been a little difficult explaining to the doctor just where she’d been hiding a massive broadsword, never mind what she intended to do with it.
What’s wrong with you? she asked herself. Get a grip, for heaven’s sake.
Annja willed herself to calm down and take a few deep breaths. As she did so, her anxiety began to recede. Fortunately, Dr. Laurent had stepped over to her desk to start the tape recorder and hadn’t noticed her difficulty. By the time the doctor returned, sketch pad and pencil in hand, Annja had managed to get herself under control.
“Here,” Dr. Laurent said, handing her the pad and pencil. “Hold these loosely in your lap. When we encounter something important, I’ll tell you to draw it on the pad.”
Thanks to her work as an archaeologist, Annja had been sketching things—ancient artifacts, dig sites, even fellow workers—for years and felt confident that she could capture whatever images she needed to in this fashion.
Just as she’d said, Dr. Laurent took Annja through a series of relaxation exercises. She was instructed to take a deep breath, hold it and squeeze the muscles in her toes for the count of five before releasing them, breathing out while she did so. Then her toes and the soles of her feet. Then her toes, the soles of her feet and the muscles in her calves, squeezing, holding and then letting them relax. Muscle by muscle, body part by body part, they worked up her entire body—up her legs, across her torso, down her arms and finally to her jaw and face. All the while Dr. Laurent spoke to her in a soft, soothing voice, helping her to relax mentally as well as physically.
By the time they were finished, Annja rested in a gentle trance, aware of her surroundings, able to listen to and respond to the doctor’s questions.
“Can you hear me, Annja?”
“Yes.” Annja’s voice sounded distant, muted, as if it were coming through a thick blanket or maybe from a room down the hall. It was the sign Dr. Laurent was waiting for and it let her know that Annja was deep in the trance state.
“Very good, Annja, very good. Remember—nothing can harm you here. You are the one in control. Whatever you see or hear or feel during our session are just memories. They do not have the power to hurt you in any way. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Okay, now I want you to think back to last night, before you went to bed. Let’s say about dinnertime. Can you tell me what you were doing?”
Bit by bit, Dr. Laurent led Annja through the early evening and then into the beginning stages of the dream. When she felt Annja was ready, she said, “Now I want you to focus on the swordsman. Do you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Can you tell me what he is wearing?”
“It’s a black jumpsuit. The kind that Air Force aviators wear.”
“Okay, Annja, that’s good. Very good, in fact. Now I want you to look at his face for me, Annja. Can you tell me what he looks like?”
“No.”
Dr. Laurent frowned. “Why not, Annja?”
“I can’t see it.”
“What do you mean you can’t see it?”
“His face is covered up. I can’t see it.”
“Covered up? As in bandaged?”
Annja shook her head. “No. Just covered. He’s wearing a black face mask and a dark hood. All I can see is a thin stretch of skin around his eyes.”
“What color are his eyes, Annja?”
“Black. A deep brown that looks like black.”
Dr. Laurent made a note on her pad. “Okay, you are doing very well, Annja. Let’s forget his face for now—we’ll come back to it later. Can you see any insignia on the jumpsuit? A patch or a name tag, maybe?”
Annja was quiet for a moment, as if she were examining the individual standing before her in the landscape of her memories.
“No.”
“Okay, that’s not a problem. Not a problem at all. What’s happening now? What is the swordsman doing?”
Even as the doctor watched, Annja physically shrank back from what she was seeing in her memory.
“Rushing toward me with his sword already drawn. I have to be ready with my own!”
Recognizing the rising concern in her patient’s voice, the doctor stepped in quickly. “It’s all right, Annja. Remember, you are in control. Nothing can happen that you don’t want to happen. I want you to pretend you have a great big pause button right there beside your hand and I want you to press it. Right now, press the pause button, Annja.”
Annja stabbed at a spot on the couch with her left hand.
Seeing this, Dr, Laurent said, “Now the swordsman is standing completely still, isn’t that right, Annja?”
Annja nodded, then answered aloud. “Yes.”
“And he will only move when you are ready to let him do so, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay.” The doctor thought about the situation for a moment, wanting to be certain to avoid accidentally tripping over Annja’s obvious anxiety again. “Here’s what I want you t
o do, Annja. I want you to make the swordsman come toward you, just as he does in your dreams, but I want you to have him do it one step at a time. Imagine you are watching a movie and the swordsman is the star. He doesn’t have the remote control, you do. The movie can only play when you want it to—you are in control. And right now you are advancing the movie frame by frame, so the swordsman appears to be moving toward you in slow motion.”
After a moment, the doctor asked, “Where is he now, Annja?”
“Just a few feet away.”
Step by step the doctor walked her through the scene—the swordsman’s approach, the battle between them.
Then came the final, crucial moments.
“I see the sword, sweeping toward me,” Annja said. “I’m trying to get out of the way but I’m not fast enough. The blade is getting closer and closer—”
“Stop,” the doctor said.
Annja’s hand stabbed at the couch again. “It’s stopped.”
“Can you see the sword clearly?”
“Yes.”
“Describe it to me, please.”
“It is a katana. Fifteenth, maybe sixteenth-century. The blade must have been recently polished for it reflects the light in the room, except where the etching is located.”
Dr. Laurent sat up straighter in her chair. “What does the etching say, Annja?”
“I’m not sure. They’re kanji characters, I think.”
“Is that all?”
“No. A dragon is there, as well, above the kanji.”
“Can you draw them for me?”
Annja’s hands found the pad and pencil she’d been given and she began to sketch, the tip of her pencil moving swiftly over the blank page without hesitation. The first sketch only took her a few minutes and when she was finished she flipped the page and went right to work on the next.
And the next.
And the next.
By the time Annja started in on the fifth drawing, Dr. Laurent couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. Getting up out of her seat, she stepped behind the couch and looked over Annja’s shoulder at the sketch pad.
“Oh, my!” she said when she saw what Annja was drawing.
ANNJA CAME BACK TO HERSELF to find Dr. Laurent sitting in her chair nearby, watching her closely, a tight expression on her face.
“How are you doing, Annja?” she asked when she saw that her patient had emerged from the trance.
I feel good, was Annja’s first thought, and she truly did. She felt rested in a way she hadn’t for a long time, as if she’d laid down for a quick nap and had awoken a dozen hours later instead. Her physical and emotional batteries felt recharged and ready for whatever was to come next.
“Is it over?” she asked, glancing around for a clock. Just how long was I out, anyway? she wondered.
“Yes, it’s over,” Dr. Laurent said. Realizing what Annja was looking for, she answered her unspoken question. “You’ve been in a trance for just about an hour, give or take a few minutes.”
“And did it work?”
“I believe so.” The doctor picked up the sketch pad off her lap and handed it Annja. “Does this look familiar?”
While the drawing wouldn’t win any awards for its artistic merits, it was immediately clear what it was she had drawn—the face of the swordsman she’d encountered at Roux’s. The figure in the picture stared out at her from behind the concealment of a hood and face mask, but she would recognize the look of superiority in those eyes anywhere. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she stared at the image and had the eerie sense that the image was looking back at her at the same time.
“Yes, that’s the man from my dreams,” she said in reply to Dr. Laurent’s question, and gave herself a quick shake to dispel the lingering sense of disquiet the image was giving her.
“That’s what I thought. How about what’s on the next page?”
Annja flipped the page and found the image of a katana. But it was the two images she’d sketched onto the blade itself, just above the tsabo, or hilt guard, that really caught her attention. The first was a set of Japanese characters that she couldn’t read so she had no idea what they said. The second was easily recognizable, however; it was an elegantly drawn image of a dragon straight out of Japanese mythology. The beast had been rendered standing on its hind legs, its wings outstretched to their full extent and its long whiskers drooping past an open mouth full of teeth.
Annja was surprised, as the drawing was not only well done but extremely detailed. It was considerably better than the first one, as if she had tapped into some long-forgotten well of artistic talent deep in her soul. “I did this?” she asked.
“You did that,” the doctor replied. “Perhaps you have a second career as an artist.”
“Yeah, maybe so.” As she stared at it, Annja realized the etching had been on the sword that the Dragon had wielded, the one that had almost taken her head off. Her unconscious mind had seen and made note of the details even in the midst of the fight that her conscious mind and body was trying frantically not to lose.
Annja also knew that just as artisans today signed their creations, so, too, did the ancient swordsmiths, etching small sets of kanji characters into their blades to show evidence of their craftsmanship. You could tell the provenance of a blade from those tiny images, and once you knew what type of blade it was, you had a shot at tracking it down as the ownership and heritage was often carefully cataloged.
For the first time since her search started, she’d found a solid lead.
Dr. Laurent asked her something, but Annja missed it.
“I’m sorry. What was that?” she said, looking up from the drawing.
The doctor’s eyes were filled with sorrow.
“I asked if you were ever injured in a fire.”
No sooner had the words left the doctor’s mouth than the sense of fear and danger that had reared its head at the start of the session came sweeping back in like a tsunami. Cold fingers scurried up her spine and her breath caught in her throat. It was as if her entire system had been shocked into immobility; she couldn’t have responded to Dr. Laurent even if her life had depended on it.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the feeling passed and she could breathe again.
“No,” she managed to whisper back in answer to the question.
“Lose a loved one to a fire, then? Maybe when you were younger?”
“No,” she said, more firmly this time. “I was raised at an orphanage in New Orleans. I never knew any of my family.” The doctor hadn’t asked if she’d ever had nightmares about dying in a fire, so Annja had no intention of mentioning them. Besides, she’d outgrown that long ago.
Dr. Laurent leaned forward in her chair and said, very gently, “Turn the page, Annja.”
As she did as she was asked, Annja said, “I don’t know what this—”
The rest of the sentence died. She stared at the page in complete shock.
She’d drawn an executioner’s fire straight from the history books—a central pole surrounded by a heaping pile of bound hay and wood that burned out of control, the flames reaching for the edges of the page as if hungry for more. A great cloud of smoke and ash filled the space around the image and Annja had the sense of figures standing there, watching the spectacle as if enjoying an afternoon at the movies.
But what made her heart pound and her thoughts freeze like ice was the suggestion of a figure at the center of the image, the thin slender shape of a woman, just the whisper of a ghost at the heart of the inferno.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed.
Frantic, she flipped the page, only to find the exact same image on the next sheet in the pad.
Dr. Laurent was speaking to her, but Annja’s head was filled with a great roaring noise, a curtain of sound that blotted out everything else, and she didn’t hear anything that was said. All she could do was stare at the pages in front of her, astounded at what had come bubbling up from her subconscious like some ancient beast
waiting to devour the unwary.
Page after page, the sketches were the same, until she came to the very last page of the drawing pad. Maybe her subconscious mind had recognized that this was it, there were no more pages to draw upon, for a small detail had been added to this image that was not present in any of the others.
In the right-hand corner of the page, almost lost in the swirling cloud of ash and smoke that covered the area, the image of a dove had been added to the scene, wings spread as it soared toward the heavens.
It was too much for Annja. With the pad clutched to her chest, she mumbled her apologies and got out of there as fast as she could.
15
Thailand 1996
“No!” old man Toshiro barked. “Feel the pattern, do not think it.”
Shizu nodded at her instructor and returned to the starting position, ready to run through the kata again from the beginning, all two hundred specific moves, despite her exhaustion and pain. She’d been at it for two straight days and the lack of food and drink was starting to take its toll on her concentration and on her fifteen-year-old body. And Toshiro would brook no error; if she made a mistake, she would start again from the beginning, just as she was now. A single complaint or groan of pain would only prolong the session; Toshiro had once kept her going for five straight days, when she’d voiced an argument over why she shouldn’t have to practice the basics with such fervor and repetition, until she’d finally passed out from exhaustion.
It had been three years since she had first arrived here at Toshiro’s. She remembered that morning as though it was yesterday. The old man had been waiting outside when she and Sensei had arrived. She had clung to Sensei in the limousine, scared of the wizened little man waiting outside the car.
