~ CATHERINE ~
That night my dreams took on a strange mosaic of different stories from other people’s lives. I watched over the scenes, not part of them, more like a voyeur or a movie-goer viewing a film.
The first of my dreams was about a captive man struggling against thick silk chords as a woman hovered over him. He was sprawled out on a large, satin-covered bed, with his wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts. The woman was running her long wine-coloured fingernails down his muscular chest, murmuring something to him in a Slavic language. He stopped struggling, his violet eyes glazing over. All of a sudden, his face contorted in agony and a scream burst from his mouth as the woman pressed her hand against his chest. His screams ceased a moment later, his beautiful violet eyes changing to a murky brown. Laughing, the woman dug her nails deep into his chest, plucking out a shrivelled-up heart. After throwing the dead organ on the floor, she removed the purple and green rosary from around his neck and pulled it over her head.
A male laugh sounded from behind the woman as the scene flashed to the face of a terror-struck priest, a man I instantly recognised. It was Christopher’s grandfather—or more likely his cousin Cristoforo, since he was much younger, mid-twenties at the oldest. He flung out his hands, sending a barrage of flames at a tall man, who was too beautiful to be real. He was wearing a long flowing cloak as black as his hair, which contrasted with his porcelain skin. He had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and sensual lips that topped off a picture of ethereal perfection. And if it wasn’t for his eyes and evil sneer, I would’ve assumed he was an avenging angel bringing damnation down on Cristoforo. I’d read about demons looking just as beautiful as angels, if not more so. But it was a false beauty, a veneer that their eyes couldn’t hide—like this demon’s. His red eyes had narrow slits, giving them a dragon-like quality. And it was apt, because he looked like he was going to spew fire at his victim. But instead, he pushed his hands out, conjuring up a barrage of black smoke, extinguishing Cristoforo’s flames. Cristoforo yelled out in response, looking like he was doubling his efforts to bring the demon down, but his opponent just propelled more smoke, along with flames, the two obviously both Seraphim.
Without warning, an explosion ignited between them, flinging both Merges backwards several feet. Cristoforo pushed up first. He turned and ran, ignoring the sounds of a woman, who was screaming for his adversary to get up, the name Caleb the only thing I could decipher. The terrified priest didn’t take advantage of his fallen adversary, didn’t send more flames his way, finishing him off. Instead, he shot through the trees, which reached out for him, their branches scratching his face, arms, and body. He threw fire at them, making them retreat.
The scene cut short, changing to one set in a roiling sea. A young woman dived off a cliff and into towering waves. Clad only in a thin silk gown and a blue rosary, she swam frantically away from an encroaching blackness. Swallowing everything in its path, the blackness turned into a human-shaped shadow as it neared the girl. It reached out for her, touching her heel. She let out an ear-splitting scream, crying out for help. A chorus of dolphins answered her plea, heading straight for her. She propelled herself into the air as the long line of dolphins zeroed in on the shadow. The dolphins rammed into the girl’s pursuer, knocking him backwards. A male voice roared in deafening anger. He hurled a long stream of black water at them, ripping a hole in their attack. He threw another attack at the retreating girl, causing her to cry out again, the black liquid appearing to burn her legs. But instead of slowing her down, it propelled her forward faster.
Thunderous bolts shot down from the blackening sky, submerging the dream into a battle scene. Dead and dying soldiers were scattered across the trampled, muddied ground, blood soaking their uniforms and the battlefield that had stolen their futures. Not far behind a thin red line of infantrymen, a woman dressed in an old-fashioned nurse’s uniform was cradling the dead body of a handsome young soldier. She murmured the shielding spell, instantly making all the other men disappear, only the one in her arms remaining. She unfastened his red coat and lowered a Halo rosary over his head, laying it on his bare and bloodied chest. A brilliant white halo lit up his face, encircling his shoulders and head, extending out over his body. Little streams of white light penetrated in and out of his torn apart chest, like a needle sewing up his wound. The man’s eyes flickered open a moment later. The woman cried out with joy and grabbed him in a hug, kissing him with such passion it could only be love.
The couple vanished into smoke, replaced by a huge burning bush. At the centre of the inferno was an old priest, screaming in agony, trying to escape a fiery death. My gaze moved to the source of the fire, instantly recognising Michael Laboure. He was standing several feet back from the burning priest, with his arms outstretched. Flames shot forth from the boy’s hands, bombarding the poor man. Red beads glowed against his bare chest, while little sparks flew off the main ruby. He continued to pummel his victim with fire, sending him to his knees. The priest started to convulse, then went still, his form now a burnt shell.
As he lay smouldering on the ground, his corpse morphed into the nun I’d dreamt about: Sister Cecile’s mother. She was frantically tearing at her burning clothes as a tall male retreated with two tiny babies in his arms, looking like Cristoforo Rosario—the man Michael had later merged with.
The nun’s dying screams morphed into my own agonised cry. No longer watching the scene, I was a part of it. I was standing in the middle of Buckland’s Reserve, completely encased in a swirling mass of water. Across the field, the figures of Michael and his cousin were standing side by side. Tears were rolling down Cristoforo’s cheeks. He looked distressed and much younger than the man who walked in his form. In comparison, Michael was much older than the teenager he’d died as. He was about the age Reprebus was now, his true self no longer hidden behind his cousin’s likeness. Latin words formed on his lips, fuelling the swirling mass of fire that was rapidly building around him and his cousin. As soon as his fiery shield was at its peak, both men ran towards me.
I pushed my barrier of water at them. Bursts of fire and water hit at the same time, igniting into a massive explosion, flinging all of us backwards. My body slammed against a tree, the totara one Christopher had previously taken me to. I crumpled to the ground, blanking out for a moment. When I came to, Christopher’s terrified face appeared above me. Wanting to stay with him, but knowing I couldn’t, my eyes fluttered shut again.
I awoke in the safety of my bedroom, realising what I’d just seen.
My own death.