I've started having dreams again, crazed terrific dreams of strange lucidity. If there is any barometer for the quality of my life it has always been my dreams. They are the mirror to my soul. When things are going well, I tend to night terrors so vicious and evil, sleep itself becomes a thing to fear. When I am unhappy, my night meanderings are wonderful and fantastic.
Lately, I've been a little depressed. Right now my purpose is to be studying another language, but I'm stymied by the dry mouth, which is causing canker sores. They make mouth moisturizer, it doesn't work very well and is pretty much sweetened KY-jelly. Pretty gross.
Last night I dreamed I was an Aztec princess, only not a princess in the traditional sense, in the dream Aztecs were nothing more than a Native tribe. So I was something closer to a chieftain's daughter, allowed to run wild with the boys because I was young. Every year they had a fest, and the boys were given a set series of nineteen tasks, which they attempted to complete in any order while 'killing' (with red paint) the other boys. If a boy completed a single task before he was tagged, he at least was not shamed. A boy who completed two or three could now call himself a man, as could a boy who completed only one but also tagged another boy. Four and he was a hero. I was determined to participate even though I could never be called a warrior, being female. The boys were determined to tag me out quickly if they saw me, and thus not be outdone by a girl in a man's game. Somehow, I completed all nineteen tasks, something no one in the history of the festival had ever done. I had tagged no one; I had been given no paint and no feathered weapon to use.
I had a dog in the dream, a great evil brute of a hunting dog. They brought me forth to the temple ahead of the boys and the murmur of the crowd, to see what the goddess would do. They brought forth my vicious dog by my side. She blessed us as warriors, something she would also do for the boys who had done well, and the murmur of the crowd swelled but no one would contradict the say of the goddess of many feathers.
All was well.
Time passed. The girl died, no better or worse than any other girl. Her life fared no different after that than any chieftains' daughter. The tribe of the Aztecs died, no better or worse than any other tribe which pinnacled in its glory and was gone. The girl had been reincarnated many times, and now she was an archeologist's assistant, without the dog. The end of days seemed nigh and the earth was torn by many earthquakes. People lived in fear of that date, which was not really the end of the days, but a festival day, to mark the rebirth of the goddess of many feathers. We had found a new pyramid, a very tiny thing, really a hump of brick steps in the jungle. The proscribed day came and the goddess arrived. Many people were present on this day, fearing the end of the world or celebrating because any day is a good excuse to get drunk. The goddess was very angry. No one worshipped her anymore; they worshipped a great gray god, without feathers, and his might was greater than hers but she was still a goddess, however tiny, and deserved some respect.
She recognized me as the blessed girl, reincarnated. She demanded justice for humanities crimes. Even a tiny goddess can wreck havoc upon the earth; she had been the source of all the earthquakes and mudslides in the Americas. I grabbed another assistant and slit his throat upon the temple, he was scared but he did not fight. He had been looking for her, for purpose, for some kind of god, his whole life. She took his soul and brought it up to her feathered heaven while I ripped out his heart and ground it into the stones.
"One sacrifice will be enough," I announced to the terrified assembled. And the feathered goddess was satisfied, for all those years of non-worship, to have a single soul and feathers, and she returned to the earth. The quakes stopped, the people went about their lives and could worship the great god unmolested as before.
All is well.
The dream changed. Now I was a different kind of daughter, the child of a holy man, an imam maybe, some great cleric of a faith similar to Islam. Somehow, I had fallen in love with a boy who was not of the faith. I had not been immodest, I was simply in love, and would marry no other though they locked in my room and threatened me. So it was declared then I would never marry. A wily friend of ours, perhaps a nursemaid of my youth, and believing in the powers of love and destiny, hid our love tokens in a chest, along with my bridal dowry that was supposed to have been destroyed. For two years I did not speak a word, only hung my head, and ate little, just enough to stay alive. My body frailed and I lay bedridden and gathering my death. Likewise did the boy lose his luster, but came and called to me every dusk until the guard would shoo him away and he would leave. Finally, in two years, as I lay upon the threshold of death, did my father relent and consent for me to marry this seeming infidel boy. The chest was brought forth, lo, a miracle it had not been destroyed, and we were wed, and there was peace between two great houses, though they were of two faiths, and there was peace in that land between the peoples of the two faiths.
All will be well.
And then I woke up.