On the night of the eleventh day since I began walking, a different dream comes to me. I dream of a place so wonderful and so real that it almost shocks me awake. There is a huge lake stretching out in front of me, calm and deep blue and so clear you can see the fish swimming within its depths. I am not standing on its shores yet, but walking toward them eagerly, anticipating how wonderful it will feel to bathe in their waters. But even though I walk as fast as I can, I do not get any closer. I just walk in place; something holds me back from my destination.
I realize then what it is. I do not deserve to reach those welcoming waters. My friends are all dead while I am alive. I should be with them in the netherworld. I should be as dead as they are. All my attention has been focused on myself, and that is selfish and unforgivable. What am I thinking? I am not supposed to be alive. I am supposed to be with my friends.
The sound of engines cuts through the silence then, coming from behind me. I try to turn to look, but I cannot seem to do so. I am frozen in place, a statue. It doesn’t matter, though. I know what is back there and why. I know that my fate has already been decided. I scream in spite of my decision to accept my lot because I cannot help myself. I am terrified of what will become of me. I have no courage now, no self-confidence or determination. I am filled with terror.
I scream once more as the vehicles roar to a stop behind me and…
And I wake, alone and shaking.
This dream, unlike all the others save the one about my parents, I remember clearly upon waking.
I am now twelve days into my journey and pretty much played out. I cannot imagine how I will go on another day after this—or perhaps even to the end of this one. I plod along in a defeated, dejected slouch, all my concentration focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The sun blazes down with increasing weight, the heat intense and my resistance thin. Now and then I glance up hopefully, but there is no help to be found. I keep thinking I must reach something, sooner or later. I must at least see a change in the endless desolation of the terrain.
And then I do. I look up, and there on the horizon is a shimmer of blue. I blink in disbelief, knowing it is a mirage, a false promise. But no; I have found a lake—a lake so huge it seems to stretch from horizon to horizon. Right away, I think of my dream. This is the lake from my dream! I cannot believe it. Did I really dream something before it happened? Am I fated to become a seer of the future? But this makes no sense. I have no abilities of that sort; I never have.
I stop where I am and close my eyes, letting my other senses experience what my sight has already revealed. I can smell the water. I can smell weeds and grasses and damp all mixed together. I can hear the sound of waves lapping gently against the shores. I can hear seabirds. I am crying again, broken by joy and gratitude. I will not die alone in the desert; I will live after all. I lick out with my parched tongue, but I am not yet close enough to taste what lies ahead.
So I open my eyes and begin to walk once more. I go slowly because I cannot go any faster. I am drained of strength and riddled with pain. But still I go on, forcing myself, determined anew to reach the goal I have struggled to reach for almost two weeks. My footsteps drag and I stumble constantly, but I keep on my feet and do not allow myself to fall. This is a miracle; there is no other word for it. A miracle. And I will not let go of it no matter what.
I am smiling now, infused with the promise of salvation. I can see the line of the lake (ocean?) more clearly now—the blue of the water abutting the tans and browns of the shoreline. I can see birds flying overhead, tracing graceful white lines against the pale-blue sky. Then I see something more—something outlined in vague strokes against the backdrop of the water. Is it moving? I cannot tell, even when I squint. It is taking shape, but slowly, emerging gradually from the shimmer of the heat.
And then, from behind me, the sound of an engine becomes audible. I feel my blood turn cold and my hopes sink. The dream showed me something else, too, didn’t it? It showed me pursued by my captors. In the dream I could not manage to look around. Here I must. I turn and see the vehicle speeding across the flats, clouds of dust and dirt rising from behind it. There is no question of its intent. It is coming directly for me.
I cannot believe this is happening and I am devastated anew. I try to run, but my legs cannot manage it. I have no strength left for sudden bursts of speed, no matter the urgency. I am shackled by my debilitated condition, and I can do no more than continue to lurch ahead. Head down, body straining, I stumble on without looking back again—even when I hear the roar of the engine rising with its approach. I will not go back. I will not be taken. I will die first. My knife is out and in my hand. A quick cut across my throat and my suffering is over. I do not know if I have the nerve, but I am certain of my desperation.
The Goblins are almost on top of me when I hear a change in the sound of the engine. It lessens abruptly—an indication that it is slowing. Do they think to run me down on foot rather than with their carrier? Do they want me alive that badly? I stumble on, unable to think what else to do. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that the vehicle has stopped and the Goblins are looking out at me.
But no. Not at me. Past me! At something else, something that is up ahead. Something that has given them pause.
I slow my shuffle and follow their gaze.
At first I cannot decide what I am looking at. My vision is already poor—my eyes dust-clouded and my concentration erratic. So I stop altogether and squint. A figure stands there, not a hundred yards away, still as stone, looking out at me and at the vehicle and the Goblins. I squint some more.
Behind me, I hear the engine fire up anew, and I look back quickly. The Goblins are turning around and leaving. They have given up the chase. I am free once more.
I look back at the figure ahead. It is a tall, slender young man. He holds what appears to be a spear in one hand, upright and steady, butt resting against the ground.
A young man, out here alone.
He begins to walk toward me, his approach slow and steady, his spear carried out to one side.
I revise my thinking.
Not a young man.
Not even Human.
I stand my ground as my rescuer continues to approach. Since he has just saved me from the Goblins, it seems irrational to turn and flee just because he doesn’t look like I do. My determination to stand fast is further bolstered by the fact that I am barely able to stand upright, let alone attempt any sort of flight. Sometimes you have to settle for doing what you can as opposed to what you think you should.
Besides, I am admittedly curious to find out something about this strange…Words fail me as I try to put a name to him. Him? How can I know even that much?
I can’t, but it is my impression, and I decide to go with it.
Proportionately, he appears to be cast in the Human mold, but his skin is decidedly and unmistakably green—the coloration shading from sage to pine, like sunlight passing through a leafy glade. His hair is black, held back from his face by a leather band tied about his forehead, so that it streams loose and long down past his shoulders. Nothing odd about that—until I notice that his hair sprouts tiny leaves and shoots of deep forest green, as if he is in the process of budding out like a plant or tree. His eyebrows are dark like his hair, but have the look of moss. Hair similar to that on his head runs all up and down the undersides of his bare arms in narrow rows. His eyes are very large—luminous, bright amber—and his nose is narrow and slightly hooked. His mouth is a straight line, his lips almost invisible. And when he offers a quick smile, I see sharp pointed teeth.