Dream Weaver (Dream Weaver #1) (23 page)

             
He smiled tightly, aware automatically that I meant his wife, Felicia, and shook his head. “No. Not in the least. She was quiet, breakable, fragile in heart and body.”

             
“Whereas I’m a complete basket case, just as breakable and easily shattered by my circumstances.”

             
He traced a finger down my wrist and my mind flashed momentarily to the sharp, shiny blade. “Her mild constitution would not have allowed her to endure one tenth of what you have.” His eyes returned from somewhere far away and long ago—her graveside probably. “You are far tougher than you give yourself credit for.”

             
I laughed. “It’s nice that you can see it. Maybe I’m too close. Or maybe, you’re completely blind and I’m really a hapless puddle on the floor.” He joined my laughter. “Most of the time, I just feel like a victim of some colossal bully trying to exact some sort of cosmic revenge.”

             
“What? Like God? The Devil?” his brow corrugated.

             
“No. Nothing like that. I don’t believe that’s God’s style, that He sends bad things to test and punish us. And the Devil? Well, I guess I think people like to give the Devil way more credit for stuff than he deserves. A lot of people say ‘the devil made me do it’. I think they simply made stupid choices and are now having to live with the human consequences of those choices. Their choices are human nature not demonic influence. It’s not that I want to point my finger at someone or something specific to lay the blame on. It’s really more that I feel like a victim these days without any choice of what happens to me.”

             
“Well,” he said sagely, “then choose not to be a victim anymore.”

             
Could it really be that simple? Just another choice?

             
He placed a tender kiss on my forehead and nodded to the cooling cup of tea. “How are you feeling?”

             
I purred at him like a content feline. “Very relaxed, thank you very much.” My limbs were heavy, my brain uncluttered.

             
“Perfect. We don’t want you asleep, just relaxed.” He shifted our bodies on the couch so he was half-reclining and I was nestled up against him. He stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head. Our heartbeats slowed, we breathed as one. “Who would you like to visit first? Mom or Dad?”

             
“Dad,” I whispered, vaguely uncertain.

             
Nick smiled and withdrew Dad’s pocketknife from his breast pocket. “I think you’ll be very pleased with this one,” he said with a knowing smile. “Close your eyes. Relax,” he crooned. I made a dramatic show of shifting and cuddling into him. He laughed. “Comfy?”

             
“Mmm hmm,” I hummed, and rubbed my cheek against his chest.

             
“Ready?”

             
“I think so.”

             
“Okay. Here we go,” he said, and placed his hand on my cheek.

             
My mind plunged into blackness…

              It was a scorching Mississippi Delta day. The air was alive with the sound of crickets and katydids, and I was seeing the memories of a ten year old, towheaded boy. Zecharias Sweet, my father. He was wiry and handsome, dressed in rolled up jeans, probably handed down from one of four older brothers, and tied at the waist with a chunk of rope. His back was bare, as always as soon as the weather was warm enough in the spring. His skin, bronzed by the Mississippi sun, mottled with patches of pink on his shoulders, in various stages of blistering and peeling. His feet were bare but callused. He had an easy smile and mischief flickered in his eyes. I had seen that look many times myself, usually preceding some adventure we were about to embark upon.

             
“My Dad.”

             
“Yes.” Nick beamed at my enthusiasm.

             
Little Zecharias crouched on the ground in the shade of a cotton shed. The walls and roof bled rust orange like the buildings at the lumber mill on the way to Dead Man’s Creek. My dad hunched down in the shadow that was barely cooler than out under the direct sun. His browned fingers labored zealously, cutting a strip of rubber from an old auto tire tube with his pocketknife. He had a scrap of leather from the tongue of a discarded work shoe and a forked stick laying on the ground beside him. He was just a kid, too young to use a gun, so he was making a slingshot for his hunting excursions. He crouched for several more moments, using the knife to shape the leather and trim the wood and rubber. He folded the knife shut against his leg and slid it into his pants pocket, then smiled triumphantly at his creation. He tested the hold of the rubber strap and centered the leather, then scooped up a handful of rocks that he shoved into his pockets. He ran into the woods that surrounded the cotton field, his small, flattened feet thudded softly in the powdery fine dirt and puffs of dust erupted from under each footfall.

             
Little Zecharias searched for the perfect target and found a large leaf dangling from a branch several feet over his head. Loading a stone, he raised the slingshot and closed one eye to take aim. He drew in a breath and held it—then let fly the stone—and missed. Dad would not be discouraged; it was only his first shot, after all. He loaded another stone, and again took one-eyed aim. A miss, but closer. He smirked, confident in his next shot. The third rock soared home as first it tore a hole through the leaf, and then ripped the leaf from the tree. He whooped for joy. He’d done it; created his weapon and sighted it in.

             
The image blurred and darkened, then crisply refocused on Dad as he practiced his shot. He’d gotten quite good and I was sure some time had passed, that this was not the same sultry Delta day. Something moved in the rocks nearby. He eased himself closer, his body vibrated with tension and excitement as he edged closer to the coil of glistening black stripes that basked in the Mississippi sun. Gravel crunched beneath his feet and he froze.

             
The pit-viper head arched slowly back, the forked tongue flicked out assessing the danger. The bright white maw gaped open at the center of the coil and needle sharp fangs oozed with lethally poisonous venom. Cottonmouth! I had heard lots of stories about these things. They were dangerous, and noxious; quickly deadly to the body of a gangly barefoot boy.

             
The gaping white target was what Dad had been waiting for, to know for absolute certain that he was aiming for the head. The rubber thong creaked softly as he pulled it taut, though it groaned like a bear to his hyper-alert hearing. He slowly drew in a breath and held it, then, with a whispered prayer, he let fly the rock. It audibly whizzed through the air and landed with a dull thud smack down the throat of the fierce snake. The head rocked back, jaws and skull crushed. Dad jumped back as the coil twisted and writhed in the dirt until it finally lay limp and still. He loaded another stone and eased up gingerly to the snake, still out of striking distance. Drawing another bead, he shot the snake in the head again for good measure. With the use of a long stick, he poked and turned the snake to verify it was truly dead.

             
Memories of hunted birds and snakes with his trusty slingshot flashed through my mind; days of adventure filled with launching stone after stone at anything that moved and some that did not. I’d swear he must have shot five or ten tons of rock through that sling shot one small stone at a time, and thrilled at every single one.

             
The vision shifted to the day when he was about twelve and his daddy finally felt he was old enough to handle a gun; and not just handle one, but actually go out on his own and hunt. Grandad unfolded a ratty old cloth and revealed the .22 rifle. Stuffed nervously in his pockets, Dad’s hands squeezed his trusty pocketknife reflexively, as his daddy lectured him on safety and operation and “a gun ain’t no toy. You don’t aim at no one, lest you plan on killin em. And your finger don’t go on the trigger, lest you’re gonna pull it.” Dad barely contained his excitement, barely listened to the words his father spoke. His fingers twitched against the pocketknife, itching to get onto that gun.

             
Once he got the gun, he spent countless hours hunting small game like squirrels and rabbits. He was often up before dawn, out hunting by himself. In the cool morning air, he could see clouds of white rising in puffs with each breath. He cherished the golden glow of the mornings, the dew glistening on the trees and cotton bolls, the smell of the dew-drenched Delta soil, and the scents of nature the sun’s heat culled from everything it touched.

             
Some nights, with only the stars and moon for companions, he would don a carbide headlight and creep out to the pitch-black woods that surrounded the farm. Rabbit’s eyes shone like big round coals of fire skittering through the inky dark night, a glowing target.

             
My vision blurred and refocused again on a Fourth of July community celebration. There were games for the kids, and tables of fresh, home-cooked food, pies and preserves. Men from around the county brought their best “coon” dogs to see which was best at pulling down a big boar raccoon that was chained to a log about thirty feet out in the water of the local swimming hole.

             
Zecharias’ hands were, once again, stuffed in his jean pockets, his fingers fumbled anxiously with the pocketknife as he watched the big coon. Snarling, biting and clawing, the grizzled, old raccoon whipped all the dogs brought to challenge him. Panic quickened dad’s heart as a neighbor’s dog, a hound he was fond of, got pinned by the big boar, and it took all of his strength not to dive in the pond to rescue him. His fingers worried the jigged bone handle of the knife into his palm, and I shared the icy surge of adrenalin that shot through him when the owner finally jumped in to rescue his dog before the coon could kill him. A second surge coursed through him when the shiny blade in his pocket flipped open under his agitated fingers just enough to slice him and draw blood. Finally, his anxious hands stilled, stuffed in his pockets, his bleeding appendage wrapped in the cotton lining to absorb the flow of blood. Finally, his hands were stilled, but his heart thundered in his chest.

              Back to the future, I leaned into Nick’s shoulder; tears of amazement saturated his shirt. “I’m sorry. I got you all wet.”

             
“It’s okay,” he reassured me, and brushed a tear from my face with his thumb. “Are you?”

             
“Yes. Of course. They’re happy tears. Daddy always told me such amazing stories about when he was a kid. But, that was like I was there with him, like I could actually see his memories. That was, amazing.” I giggled at my own clumsiness. Nick smiled and squeezed my hand. “Thank you so much for doing that for me.”

             
“Sure, sweetie, no problem.” His thumb drew circles on the back of my hand. “It’s nice to see a smile and
happy
tears on your face.”

             
Nick’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and eyed the caller ID with a snarl. His shoulders drooped and he heaved a frustrated growl as he answered the call. I picked up my teacup and retreated to the kitchen to give him privacy. A moment later, he stood behind me at the kitchen sink, his hands on my waist.

             
“Sabre needs me at the house,” he said.

             
“Okay.” I tried to sound brave, for him. He shouldn’t have to baby-sit me
all
the time.

             
He took my hand and walked me to the door. He dug the cameo, pocketknife and medals out of his pocket and dropped them in the crystal key dish by the door. “We can visit these memories later, if you want.”

             
“I’d like that,” I smiled.

             
“Would you mind if I share that one with Sabre? He loves stuff like that.”

             
“Yeah. Sure. Although, I’m kind of afraid to imagine what he could do with those snake memories.” I grimaced in remembrance of my vampiric adventure at Sabre’s hands. Nick smirked in understanding, but his smile faltered.

             
“Emari?” he said carefully.

             
“Hmm?”

             
“You know, I can show you the past, memories of your parents. I can chase away the terrors of things that have hurt you in the past. It’s just…” he hesitated.

             
“Yes?”

             
“Emi,” his fingers traced my collarbone, “You don’t belong
in
the past. You don’t belong
to
the past. There is now and there is tomorrow. And it’s just another choice where you choose to live.”

             
I blinked up at him, wordless.

             
We stood at the front door with our arms wrapped around each other, foreheads pressed together, and shared each other’s warmth and breath. Slowly, carefully, Nick bent down and kissed me, and the tepid breeze of the memory of my parent’s goodbyes surged over me. He kissed me like my father kissed my mother and my heart nearly burst for the heat of it.