The Four Warriors

The tense rainfall fell hard upon the shingles of the roof of ShaRhonda Bodine’s attic bedroom. The sudden flash of lightning and the intense roar of coinciding thunder yanked her out of a deep sleep. The only thing (other than hunger) that could wake ShaRhonda in the middle of the night was a thunderstorm. Even as a young child, she had never been able to handle them. Now at the age of 14, she felt her hands shake as that all too familiar fear begin to rise up in her mind. Every nightmare she had ever had in her entire life coincided with a thunderstorm. Why had she suggested moving out of the room with her little sister and moving into the attic? She enjoyed having a little sister who was a virtual “mini-me” but she needed her own space. She chose the attic. Why the attic? She was a smart girl! She should have known that being closer to the sky meant being closer to the weather. BOOM! The vibration shook her entire body. Or was it the fear? Calm down ShaRhonda; the thought repeated itself in a constant loop inside her head. She sat up and turned her body so that she sat on the edge of the old feather-filled mattress. At least her interrupted slumber had ended that weird dream. What had it been about anyway? She remembered seeing herself walking through a deserted, desolate town. No sign of life anywhere, not even the occasional sight of a stray dog or cat. Definitely not Flint, Michigan. Even the night air tasted empty. No, not empty. Dead. It tasted like death; smelled like it too. Not the smell of decaying flesh, but the smell a body has after it leaves the mortician. ShaRhonda remembered these particular sensations from the viewing of her grandmother’s body at Young’s Funeral Home last year. Her grandmother had looked so peaceful, lying there lifeless with her eyes closed and her hands folded across her chest. The mortician had even put a smile on her face. She had died peacefully in her sleep; old age was the cause, a good end for a person who had lived a good life. ShaRhonda brought her thoughts back to the place in her dream. Definitely death. There was no breeze; nonetheless, the acrid smell and the dead flavor spread across the land. She did a three-sixty, surveying the town with concentrated eyes, looking for anything, anyone. The buildings and structures were a live action history book or the set of some Hollywood production; old huts with shabby roves and brick walls. Thick oak doors marked the entrance to each one. Piles of old straw, empty wooden wheel barrels, and dirt, lots of dirt, painted the rest of the picture. This had to be a village in the Middle Ages. She had just studied the Middle Ages in her literature class at Northside High School. The stories she read in that class were still floating through her mind. Stories of kings and knights, dragons and ogres, fairies and nymphs. No doubt, this was a mental trip to the past. Suddenly, she heard a sound. No, not a sound, a conversation, or rather several conversations held all at once. ShaRhonda walked down the earthen road toward the voices, her footfalls marked by soft thuds and miniscule clouds of dust. She walked past a few of the huts and turned down a couple of the narrow alleys until she came to an outdoor market. She saw women selling hand woven tapestries and rugs, farmers selling fresh produce and small livestock, and a blacksmith hard at work hammering out a piece of hot metal. As she watched, the rest of the village began to come to life. People appeared out of thin air as if they had just walked out from behind an invisible curtain. A mother scolding a tiny child, soldiers sitting proudly on the backs of their steeds keeping watchful eyes on the villagers, young women sending flirtatious looks to the young men. At least five dozen people appeared instantly. ShaRhonda had never experienced anything like this before. Everything was so real that it was hard to remember this was just a dream. Suddenly, her eye caught the silhouette of a figure in the shadow of one of the old buildings. Clandestinely, the dark shadow whispered something unheard by any ears but his and hers. It was her name followed by instructions for her to come nearer. The words sounded soft, as if overlaid with the supple hypnotic tones of a baby’s lullaby. She didn’t want to move from her spot, but her feet seemed to have a mind of their own. After a brief moment of reluctance, she found herself heading into the shadows. Taking a few steps filled with apprehension and anticipation, she found herself face to face with a very old man. His wrinkled face and deep eyes had the expression of wisdom about them. The long white hair on his head draped lazily over his shoulders. He stood facing ShaRhonda with outstretched arms. This time he spoke louder but his words were just as mesmerizing: “Welcome Chosen One.”