The Mark of a Druid

The Morning Of

Naked, except for a tattered woolen blanket, she shivered. Dying ash encrusted embers were all that remained of the fire. Her heavy lids fought to stay open as the haze of what she assumed was sleep slowly lessened. Realization slapped at a foggy mind as Eve forced herself to look around. This was not her house—not her fireplace. “I must be dreaming,” Eve murmured as she rubbed her eyes and fought to sit up. Her legs tingled with thousands of invisible pins and needles. Her body ached with cold stiffness. Her mind reeled. How had she come to be lying in such a curious position, on a hard packed dirt floor? In a house—a house she didn’t even recognize.

Eve’s vision adjusted and she noticed a small stack of kindling by the hearth. She reached with trembling hands and managed after long moments to stir the dying embers, gingerly coaxing them into tenuous flames. She fed the coals slowly. The smell of wood burning mingled with a twinge of something sweet that nagged at the fringes of Eve’s awareness. The syrupy taste that lingered in her mouth was indistinguishable, but quickly she let it go. There were more important things to consider. The fire flickered. A warning flashed in her mind. Too late to reconsider her hasty action in building a fire. She wondered how long it might be until someone came to investigate. Questions closed in on her. Where was she? How did she get here? Her wrists ached all the way to the bone. She held her hands closer to the pathetic excuse for a fire and stared in disbelief at the reddened torn skin, mingled shades of blue and green that encircled both wrists.

This looks like. … No it can’t be. … Rope burns? Was I restrained? Or worse? What’s going on?

Normally manicured fingernails were split and cracked, and encrusted with filth. The palms of her hands were callused and rough. Her knees were bruised and scraped. She ran her hands down her shins, dried blood flaked away as she rubbed the feeling back into her legs and feet—feet that did not look like her own. Her always smoothly shaven legs were covered with fine blondish hairs that could only have been from months of growth. It didn’t seem to her that she’d been sexually assaulted, but she was naked. Frantically, Eve scanned the room. There wasn’t even a switch on the wall. Where the hell was she?

The room itself was small and dark except for the flicker of the low fire in the hearth, which was doing little to light the room and more to cast huge shadows around it. There was only a single window that looked to be boarded up or heavily shuttered. Eve willed an uncooperative body to move. She pulled the blanket around her tightly, dragging herself to unsteady feet with a groan that did not do justice to the great effort of mind and muscle it took to just stand. She stepped awkwardly toward the window. The dead feeling in her legs subsided as she moved across the room. No light shone through the boards, not even from between the cracks. She wondered if it was dark outside. In the glow of the fire, she searched for something, anything recognizable. There was a small table made of dark, crudely fashioned planks. On it sat a short, thick candle made of a deep, golden wax. On the floor across the small room, almost in the corner, was a shadowed bundle. It seemed familiar. Where had she seen it before? Her head hurt.

The smell from the fire struck her as odd as she moved toward the only thing that sparked her memory. But something stopped her before she could reach the shadowy bundle. Eve found herself staring into the fire. The warmth of it was now beginning to fill the room, and she let it wash over her. The unseen waves of heat warmed her near naked body. I’d be warmer if I had my clothes. Where are they? For that matter, where am I? Everything grew foggy then blurred as all these questions, and more, swirled around her dulled brain. She felt queasy. The throbbing in her head made her dizzy. Weakness swept over her followed by a tremor of terror.

This isn’t right. None of this is right.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Its heavy beat rang in her ears. “Alright, Eve, get a grip,” she muttered. But even her own name felt tainted. “Close your eyes and this will go away.” As her eyes closed, fragmented remembrances flooded her mind; flashing vivid images of a violent sea, the rocking motions of being aboard ship, the smell of salt air, a crack of lightning, a man with golden eyes, a pointing finger attached to a tattooed hand, and then the taste of licorice.
I’ve got to be dreaming! Think, Eve. Yes, your name is Eve—Eve McCormick. You live in Los Angeles. Think! This is not your house, and by the looks of this place it is not like any house you’ve ever seen.
Eve opened her eyes in the vain hope that she would see a pristine white ceiling, but one look at the roof made it clear none of this nightmare had gone away. The ceiling was thatched, the walls were wood planking with something stuffed between each joint.
I must still be dreaming—dreaming of waking up from a dream, so none of this is real. Please, God, tell me none of this is real!
She waited. God didn’t answer.

“Damnit… you’re a scientist, act like one! Maybe it’s a lucid dream. What did that last book I read say again? If you’re aware on a conscious level that you’re dreaming, it is important to remember that you have control. Yea. Right! Control. So, if this is a dream, all I have to do is wake myself up.” The blanket was still draped over her shoulders. She closed her eyes and chanted in a low voice. “Eve, wake up! Eve, wake up, you’re dreaming. The internal shout rang in her ears and at that moment there was a tugging sensation, like a fishing line pulled at her navel. The tugging became stronger and stronger. She could feel herself moving forward toward the fire. Its heat grew hotter on her skin. There was a stabbing, burning pain in her right shoulder, as if a hot poker had drilled through to her back.