Catch a Dream

by Cynthia Breeding

  “I did. She seemed to accept the elopement rumor, too. In fact, she said it was about time you found someone to marry, and if you were in France, so much the better. She wouldn’t have to be in a hurry to come home and could continue her project in Navarre.”

  “Miguel’s people were from there,” Elizabeth said, and caught the look of dismay on her friend’s face. “Brooke, you’ve got to believe me. This happened. I am married to a man I love very much. A gorgeous hunk of real Texas cowboy—someone who would rival those knights-in-shining-armor you love so much.”

  “If it did happen,” Brook said, patting Elizabeth’s hand. “Miguel would be nearly two hundred years old now.”

  Tears sprang to Elizabeth’s eyes. Brooke was right. Miguel was long dead. One night of passionate love, now a widow. Her life stretched out ahead of her, decades of emptiness. No one could replace Miguel. No one would believe her, either. Her sorrow and grief must remain secret unless she wanted to be committed to a mental institution, and then she wouldn’t be able to teach again. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  Brooke studied her. “No. You know me; I’m an incurable romantic and I think it would be exciting if I could go back to the days when knights rescued damsels in distress.” She looked wistful. “It might be better if you didn’t tell anyone else, though.”

  “And how am I going to explain that I disappeared for five months?”

  “If I were you, I’d go along with the story that you eloped. Things didn’t work out, and you’re back.”

  Elizabeth drew a shaky breath. She didn’t know how she was going to survive without Miguel, but she didn’t want to be committed for psychiatric evaluation, either. She looked around the bare apartment. Brooke had boxed all her personal items and stacked them in the spare room.

  “Who paid the rent while I was gone?”

  “I did. I had the feeling that you’d be coming back; I just couldn’t believe you might be dead.” She wiped a tear away. “Besides, I didn’t know what to do with your stuff. I’m just sorry your car was repossessed.”

  Elizabeth hugged her. “Thank you. I could be on the streets now if it weren’t for you.” Irish practicality set in. She would grieve when she was alone, later. She had to find a job and repay Brooke. Arlington had no bus line, but she hoped she still had enough in her bank account for a down payment on an older second-hand car. She pushed away the thought of Plata waiting for her in the stable, nickering her welcome and waiting for her apple treat.

  “I have to go,” Brooke said as she stood. “I will come back later.”

  As Elizabeth closed the door on her friend, she looked into the hall mirror. “Oh, Miguel. Why did I have to lose you? The one man I could trust to take care of me for the rest of my life. By all the saints, why?”

  And then she burst into uncontrollable wails of anguish.

  • ♥ •

  Miguel squinted in the bright Louisiana sunlight of Jackson Square and gazed up at the three large, white spirals of Saint Louis Cathedral. The cathedral had recently replaced an older one. It was a fantastic rendering of European architecture, only it had been built with wood instead of stone.

  He wiped traces of sweat from his face and pushed his hair off his forehead. The sweet smell of magnolias almost overpowered him. He had forgotten how humid and sultry New Orleans was in June. He felt like he needed another bath, although he had taken one this morning.

  The entrance to the large rectory was cooler while he waited for his audience with Archbishop Blanc. He felt rather foolish now, bringing the dream catcher here like some superstitious illiterate. But they had not found any trace of Elizabeth, and he had to exhaust every possibility.

  A servant appeared in the doorway. “The Archbishop will see you now.”

  He followed the man down a long corridor, its polished wooden floor glistening. The servant pushed the massive oak door opened silently and gestured for him to enter. The archbishop was seated in one of the two over-stuffed armchairs on either side of an unlit hearth.

  “Excellency,” Miguel said and bowed.

  “Have a seat, my son.” Archbishop Blanc looked at the waiting servant. “Chilled coffee, if you please.” He turned back to Miguel. “We still have some ice preserved in straw in the stone sheds. It makes the heat bearable.”

  Miguel nodded thankfully and wished he could remove his frock coat, or at least, loosen the batswing from around his throat. How the clergyman managed to not sweat with all those robes and vestments was beyond him. Already, he was wishing for the wide-open skies and dry wind of north Texas.

  The archbishop accepted the drinks when they were brought and handed him one. “The season comes early this year,” he said by way of conversation. “The blood-biters are already out. I hope we won’t be plagued with the yellow fever again.” He looked at Miguel. “But you haven’t come to discuss our weather.”

  Miguel took a sip of the strong, black coffee, appreciating the pungency of the chicory the Creoles loved and then set it aside. He pulled the dream catcher out of his satchel and handed it to him. The archbishop listened as Miguel told him what had transpired. He turned the dream catcher over in his hands thoughtfully.

  “The Church, of course, does exorcisms on people,” he said finally. “There is nothing written in canon that addresses curses on objects.” He handed it back. “I am so sorry. I wish I could help.”

  Miguel tried to hide his disappointment. Having ridden all this way! He started to put the dream catcher back in his satchel.

  “Wait! Maybe there is someone who might help you.”

  Miguel’s hand froze in mid-air. Was there hope? “Whom?”

  “A woman called Marie Laveau.”

  “The voodoo queen?” Miguel asked, startled. “As a holy man you condone that?”

  The archbishop smiled at his expression. “It might surprise you to know that Marie is a devout Catholic. She attends Mass nearly every day.”

  He was stunned. “Forgive me, but the rumors I always heard were that she dabbles in the black arts and is feared by many.”

  The older man’s eyes twinkled. “She may be feared, for she has friends and informants all over this city. An advantageous thing to have. Sometimes ‘overheard’ knowledge can be made to seem supernatural.” He shook his head. “But black arts, no. Marie is a healer well-versed in herbals and potions. She has uncanny senses.”

  Miguel hesitated, and the archbishop smiled. “Tomorrow is St. John’s Eve. Marie holds religious rituals on the banks of Bayou St. John every year. Why don’t you attend and judge for yourself whether you want to talk to her?” He picked up a small bell and rang it. Instantly, a servant appeared, and Miguel stood, realizing he was being dismissed.

  “Thank you for your time, Excellency,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”

  • ♥ •

  He was still thinking about it the next evening when he found himself in the crowd that had gathered on the bank of the bayou near dusk waiting for Marie to appear. The fetid stench of decaying matter in a nearby swamp assailed his nostrils and he felt he was breathing liquid air, so heavy was the humidity. Cypress trees hung over the still water and Miguel half-expected to see an alligator crawl out at any time.

  He looked around. People of all cultures were here: black slaves, mulattos, quadroons, Spaniards and Frenchmen, dandy-dressed businessmen and farmers.

  A tall, dark-haired man accompanied by an attractive, auburn-haired woman stood near him. Even in this crowd, the man stood out. He was dressed simply, in soft leather breeches and riding boots, a white linen shirt open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up. He carried no gun, but many men in New Orleans didn’t. Instead, he wore a magnificent long-sword at his side, the huge ruby in its pommel sending streaks of fire in the twilight. Even in the fading light, the sword looked to be very old and valuable. Miguel’s gaze traveled to the man’s angular face and he didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes so penetrating, as though the stranger was anticipating each individual’s action
around him. He stood very still, and Miguel had the distinct impression he missed nothing. Perhaps he was a lawman. Certainly, he exuded authority.

  The woman at his side laid her hand on his arm and whispered something. Miguel blinked at the sudden transformation in him. The man bent down to her, his dark eyes smoldering, and nuzzled her throat, his left hand caressing her back. She arched her neck for him, clearly giving him liberty. Miguel felt a jealous pang and turned away. The woman, although older, reminded him of Elizabeth and he would have done just what the stranger did, had he the chance.

  Marie Laveau appeared on the far bank, a large snake wrapped around her torso. From behind her came soft chanting, different from the Gregorian chants, its volume and tempo increasing as she began to dance. Some of her followers on Miguel’s side began to do the same. The smell of sandalwood incense came wafting across the water.

  She stopped suddenly and to Miguel it seemed she looked right at him. Then she turned away and raised her hands to begin the ritual. Miguel watched in silence, surprised to feel the emotion that was pouring out of her devotees. He could find nothing “devilish” throughout the service, either. When it was over, Marie circulated through the crowd, hugging small children who certainly showed no fear.

  The worshippers finally drifted away into the warm, sticky night and Miguel decided to go back to his hotel when he heard his name. He turned around.

  “Did you not come to see me, Monsieur de Basque?”

  Up close, Marie Laveau had a certain beauty that was ageless. Her skin was bronze-colored and smooth, her dark hair curly and her eyes a rich hazel-green. High cheekbones, a straight nose and a full mouth gave her a youthful appearance, yet Miguel knew she must be at least in her fifties.

  “How did you know my name?”

  She smiled. “A woman does not give away her secrets, oui?” She held out her hand. “Do you have the item with you?”

  Miguel nodded, wondering how she knew. He had not wanted to leave the dream catcher in the hotel room. He took it from the satchel and handed it to her.

  She closed her eyes, her hands caressing the dream catcher as lightly as though she were stroking a butterfly. She hesitated at the feathers and opened her eyes. “The man who put these here wanted you separated from someone you love.”

  Miguel tried not to show his surprise. How could she have known that? Was there a spy in the archbishop’s quarters? But no, they had been alone when he had poured out the story. Hadn’t they?

  Her smile widened. “You don’t trust me.”

  “No! That isn’t it,” Miguel said quickly. “It’s just—“

  She held up her hand for silence. “No matter. There is powerful magic in this.” She pulled the three raven feathers from the totem and nodded to a boy standing nearby holding a torch. He came forward immediately. “We will take the three feathers and burn them, one at a time.” Marie said and held up the first one. “Think of the person who wishes you ill and know he is gone.” They watched it burn and she picked up the second feather. “Feel yourself free of the curse.” As she lit the third, she told Miguel to close his eyes. “In your mind’s eye, you must see the one you love.” She held the dream catcher high and mumbled words in a language Miguel had never heard, and as he opened his eyes to watch the last of the ashes turn to gray dust, her face contorted with pain. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked at him. “The spell is reversed.” She started to hand the dream catcher back to him and then stopped, frowning.

  “Your love. She is not here in this lifetime.”

  Miguel felt as though a mule had kicked him in the stomach. “You’re saying she’s…dead?”

  “Non. I am saying she has not been born. Her soul is only spirit, not flesh.”

  The mule’s other hoof found his chest. “She said she was from the future. The twenty-first century. But that can’t be. Such things aren’t possible.”

  Marie’s eyes widened, and she glanced around to where some of her followers still lingered. “Ah, Monsieur. Je suis désolé. I am sorry. I do not know how to help.” She handed him the dream catcher. “Return this to the one who gave it to you. Peut-être—maybe?—you may yet find her.”

  He watched as she left. Disheartened, he turned to go back to the hotel and found himself face-to-face with the dark-haired stranger with the magnificent sword. The man’s smoke-colored eyes held a contemplative look, but the woman beside him smiled at Miguel.

  “We could not help overhearing your conversation,” she said with an accent that Miguel could have sworn was British. “Perhaps we may be of help.”

  “The name’s Lance,” the man said, and extended his hand.

  A Frenchman from his accent, Miguel thought, as he shook hands. “Don’t tell me you believe someone can time-travel from the future to the past?”

  “Time-travel?” He seemed to weigh the words. “I am not familiar with the term. But once, long ago, a…friend…of ours was killed in battle and a Mage foretold he would return one day to lead the people.”

  “You mean reincarnate?” Miguel asked.

  The stranger shook his head. “No. He would return as himself.” He touched the hilt of the sword. “This was his. I hope to be able to return it to him one day.” He seemed to sense Miguel’s confusion. “What I am trying to say is that you may find the person you seek. I have learned over many years that the impossible can happen.” Momentarily a look of pain flashed across his face, but then the woman squeezed his arm. He smiled and covered her fingers with his hand. “If you believe in the future, then maybe the future will open its doors for you.”

  The lady nodded. “No one believed me—“ She hesitated and then changed the subject. “We really must go, but do think about it.”

  Miguel watched them walk away, the man’s arm protectively around the woman’s shoulders. What a strange conversation and yet, he had felt almost a kinship with them.

  Lance. Miguel pondered the name as he strolled toward his rented carriage. It seemed as though there were pieces of a puzzle that needed to be put together. The woman was probably English, and well-bred from the sound of her voice. The man equally so, although French. He’d mentioned a friend killed in battle who would return, and also a Mage. What an old-fashioned word to use; it belonged more to the Middle Ages. There was something else—what had the Mage said? That his friend would lead the people. Lead the people. Like a king, or something.

  He stopped dead in his tracks and his heart began to race. The Arthurian legends. He had practically memorized Mallory as a child when he was running around with his wooden sword. Merlin had predicted King Arthur would return. Jesu! Could he just have met—no, it was impossible—but could it be? Could he have just met the great knight, Lancelot du Lac? The man had been from Brittany—little France. If so, then the woman had to be no other than Gwenevere, Queen of medieval Britain. And the sword—the real Excalibur!

  Miguel shook his head. He really was going loco leaping to totally illogical conclusions, so desperate he was to find Elizabeth. Another thought hit him with the clarity of a lightning bolt against a night sky—his conversation with Lily about the woman who said she was Gwenevere. The stranger fit the description Lily had given, and so did the woman. And there had been the stranger at Plum Creek with a fantastic sword—

  Por Dios! If this were true, then time-travel was possible. Elizabeth was alive somewhere. What had Lancelot said? Believe in the future—

  And suddenly, Miguel did. With all his heart, he knew Elizabeth had told the truth, that she had never lied to him. In his arrogance, he had not believed her.

  He sank to his knees in prayer beneath one of the cypress trees. “What I wouldn’t give to go to her,” he whispered. “By all the saints and gods and goddesses—” He looked down at the dream catcher he still clutched, and for a moment, he thought he saw the Indian maid in white leather looking back at him. “What I wouldn’t give to go to Elizabeth,” he whispered. “What I wouldn’t give to go to her.”

  CHAPTER SE
VENTEEN—HOME

  Elizabeth parked the car on 26th street, glad to find an opening so close to the historic Fort Worth Stockyards. She walked down Main Street and joined the hordes of people that were headed for the Booger Red’s Saloon with its saddle-chairs and famous Anita-Ritas or the White Elephant, equally well-known. A little early in the afternoon for beer, she thought, but tourists take little stock of time.

  She had just finished teaching the remedial summer school class in history and had decided to drive in from Arlington to do some research for her students on the cattle industry comparing the Chisholm Trail in its heyday to how ranchers bid on cattle now.

  As she made her way to the Livestock Exchange Building, she reflected on the past two months. Since her conversation with Brooke the first day back, her life had fallen into a plodding, dull routine. She’d managed to convince the school district that she was indeed repentant for her foolishness of eloping with a man who did not have her best interests at heart. Brooke suggested trying tears, but she couldn’t do that. It was bad enough to lie about where she’d been. Luckily, the district had an opening in summer school.

  She’d talked with her mother, too, only to hear that Jacqueline was put out with her for not coming to the south of France to visit. Her mother had dismissed her so-called divorce as minimal. “At least you don’t have kids,” she said.

  Jacqueline couldn’t have any way of knowing what hope had sprung in Elizabeth’s heart at that thought. She hadn’t even considered she might be pregnant after only one night, even though they had made love numerous times. She’d confided in Brooke when her period was late and together they had waited for the results of the home pregnancy test. As tough as it would be to raise a child alone, it would have been Miguel’s—a sort of replacement for him and Raul. She cried when the test came back negative and her flow began. There was nothing of Miguel left for her. Only memories.

  But the memories were good, especially the more erotic ones. Only two days ago, on Midsummer’s night, she’d had the best dream. She’d felt his spirit calling to her and then she had felt him. She recalled his kisses, those warm sensual lips on hers, playing with her, teasing her: his hands roaming her body, making every inch of skin tingle in anticipation, suckling on her breasts until she was wet with desire and then slowly prolonging the exquisite throbbing between her legs with his mouth and tongue until she shuddered, and spasmed, and shattered. Only then would he enter her and bring her to even greater heights of frenzied passion. She awoke, sure they were together again, but the other side of her bed was empty.