Chapter Two

Chapter Two


Shivering as if drops of ice water had fallen on the warm flesh between his shoulder blades, Paul struggled to get the last of the large books from the back seat of his '96 Camero.
Hurry. Hurry! Something urged him.
He looked over his shoulder to the deserted palm-lined street.
Nothing.
Still, he felt danger all around; palpable in his tight throat and pounding heart.
The melody he'd been trying to capture for the last two weeks echoed, then like the mysterious woman in his dream, disappeared.
"Damn!" he growled.
Paul staggered up the five brick steps to Dr. Wilbeth’s elaborately carved front door balancing all ten of the thick reference books. His breath congealed in the unseasonably cold night air. Anxiety squeezed his throat and twisted his belly. The woman gone, now, the melody.
"This s-h-i-t has got to st-ah-ah-ah-pp," he caroled through clenched teeth.
Re-balancing the books to work a hand free, he pressed the weathered bell. Fear raced through him. Nearly midnight, the witching hour. Can't keep on this way. Wanted to get that music down.
Not bad enough, Boyo, part of him observed.
Paul shivered and looked over his shoulder. Still nothing. But something was coming. Music, work at Eckerd’s, dreams, masters thesis, Magda. Something had to give. Gotta focus. Gotta. . . .
Dr. Wilbeth, eyes filmy with stale sleep, pulled open the heavy wooden door. He stretched out gnarly hands to help with the books and motioned his head for Paul to step inside.
"The new stuff on Mexico?" Dr. Wilbeth's voice was hoarse, slightly out of focus.
Paul nodded and stepped inside. Fear tugged at his throat. The sought-after melody pirouetted just out of reach. He shut his eyes and reached. It slipped away.
Josh took half the stack and shut the door.
Paul's taught shoulder muscles uncoiled.
"Thanks, Josh."
The professor grunted and turned into the dark hallway. The house moaned. Fear floated up from Paul’s stomach. He hugged the books closer. Worn floor boards creaked as they passed musty smelling rooms and emerged in the spacious, dimly lit study.
Paul exhaled as he put his stack next to Josh's on the printer table.
"Whew."
He slid his lanky body into the visitor's chair next to his advisor’s desk.
"I jog every morning, but this little bit of carrying wore me out," he said.
It's this house. Something’s here. Felt it the very first time.
Dr. Wilbeth settled himself into the executive chair behind his big desk.
"You haven't been getting enough sleep." He fixed Paul with an icy stare. "Have you?"
Paul gulped. His long youthful face flushed slightly beneath curly blond hair. He shook his head. Boy, what's with him tonight?
Dr. Wilbeth persisted. "It's that dream, isn't it?"
Paul flushed still more. Here it comes. His throat tightened.
The normally perceptive professor leaned his large 6' 2" frame closer, greenish-brown eyes gleaming eerily. "What can you remember?"
Paul shook his head, throat nearly spasming.
"Nada?” Dr. Wilbeth said. “Not even feelings? There are always feelings."
Paul squirmed.
"Ah!" Dr. Wilbeth pounced. "What kind of feelings? The sexy ones?"
Paul nodded, cheeks burning. Swarms of ice butterflies fluttered in his stomach.
"Was it . . . " Dr. Wilbeth hesitated as if he didn't want to ask, or hear the answer. " . . . Her . . . ? What about the smell, the incense. Was it there?"
"I think so . . . "
Paul’s cheeks cooled, his throat opened and the butterflies landed. Why?
"Damn!" Josh slumped back. "The same dream."
Paul nodded.
"We’re getting nowhere. You're repressing. Quit fighting and let it flow."
Embarrassed, Paul looked down. Why couldn’t he remember?
"You're right, Josh.”
Paul’s cheeks were burning again. He swallowed hard and lifted his eyes to his advisor's.
"You know I want to. I know how important. It's just . . . " He choked on his shame, unable to finish.
"It's okay." Josh’s voice was softer. His eyes still searched Paul's, but now they were less clinical, more compassionate.
Paul sighed. Thank goodness. Had the globe-trotting Dr. Wilbeth, international authority on dreams, ever been an over-sensitive confused graduate student? The idea energized him.
"Alright," Josh was saying, his tone resonant and soothing. "It'll come."
"But I'm frustrated, too, Josh. And afraid, sometimes. We've been saying 'it'll come, 'it'll come,' for over a year . . . . You think the dream frequency is involved?"
"Very likely."
Paul unwound, stretched his legs and slid back in the chair. He put his hands behind his head. "That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?"
The professor’s face seemed ominous in the glow from the computer screen. Paul swallowed hard. "Will you get the proof this trip?" He gestured to the stacks of books. "To connect the Goddess with the dream frequency?"
Josh looked away, hesitated. "Yes."
Paul sensed Josh needed to say more.
"I want you to take over the Group while I'm in Mexico City."
Paul tensed, feeling suddenly trapped; like the time he'd forgotten to lock the bathroom door and his mother had caught him masturbating. He pulled in his feet and folded his arms.
"I appreciate your confidence in me, Dr. Wilbeth. But I don't think . . ."
Josh cut him off. "Do you realize you only call me, 'Dr. Wilbeth' when your self esteem is low?"
Paul smiled. A warm glow of appreciation spread through his chest as he recognized the truth and loving care behind that observation.
"We've worked together for more than two years, Paul."
Josh leaned forward, a serious smile on his weathered face.
"I'm hard on you because I care and know what you're capable of. Your work's good, in spite of what you think. And, it's made a vital contribution to my own."
“Thank you, sir.”
Josh swiveled to face the cool darkness outside the window.
"There are things out there.” He hunched foward in his chair. “At the edge of our knowledge. Utterly frightening things.” He shuddered. “But, if we, I, can embrace them . . ." The professor’s voice tailed off. He swiveled back to face Paul. "Quit wasting time running yourself down. You're talented and the closest thing to a son I'll ever have . . ."
Paul hunched forward, too. Voice enthusiastic, grateful for the praise and happy to have the subject changed he said, "You could still have kids, Josh! Fifty-six's not so old." He wanted to do his mentor one better.
"You're right. I don't feel fifty-six or look it either. Notice we're back to 'Josh' ?"
Paul grinned and nodded.
"But we're not talking about me. We're talking about you."
Paul felt his face tense again.
"Don't give me that look," Josh said. "You can do it. Everyone in the Group knows you're my Graduate Assistant. Nobody but Phil and Rita Herring are likely to give you trouble, and maybe they won't either."
"I have to?" Paul’s head was cocked, voice tentative, offering his professor one last chance to change his mind. But, jaw set, forehead smooth, Josh looked steadily into his eyes, nodding. No choice.
"There's no sense talking about it, then." Paul’s voice was firm, gaze steady.
"That's the Paul Holcomb I've come to rely on. Thanks. It'll really help. I'm not leaving for a few weeks, the weekend before Thanksgiving, so we've got time. . . ."
The glow from the computer screen intensified. Josh’s eyes rolled back into his head. The lights flickered. A gurgling bubbling came from his throat. He sat rigid in his chair, hands clasping and unclassing.
Paul stared, jumped to his feet. Oh, my God. “Josh? What is it?” The professor’s body spasamed, his head thrust against the back of his chair. He choked, sighed, his eyelids slammed down.
“Josh?” The lights dimmed. Paul took the professor’s hand. It was cold. “Hey! You alright?” The flickering computer screen was the only source of light. Josh seemed to be thrashing, but wasn’t. He sighed. The lights came back. His eyelids fluttered up. The eyes starring into Paul’s were haunted,.
“Josh?”
The professor motioned Paul back to his seat. His mouth was slack, forehead wrinkled.
"I haven't been sleeping too well, either," he confessed. "My dreams have been . . . disturbed."
"Coatlicue?" Paul’s voice was a whisper. A tiny piece of the elusive melody murmured in the sound -- Coat li cue.
Josh rubbed his eyes.
“But even so, Josh. . . . How’s that explain what just happened?”
“Power surge. Nothing to worry about. The house has aluminum wiring.”
Paul wasn’t buying it.
"OK,” Josh said. “She scares me. . . a little. I'm nearly certain she is the dream frequency, and the Life Force, too. The Aztecs knew it. That's why they worshipped her, called her 'Great Goddess, Mistress of Dreams'."
Paul's eyes widened with sudden realization.
"You don't want to go!" he blurted out. "You're afraid of finding her, aren't you?"
The professor nodded.
Neat-o! Paul felt torn between a victory yelp and a sigh of concern.
"Wouldn't you be?" Josh asked.
"Hell. I'm afraid now, and I'm not even going."
Josh grinned. "'Mr. Chicken. But a self-aware, chicken."
"Aw, come on, Josh. That's not fair! I've come a long way since I got here from Dundeen. You said so yourself."
"You have. Miami's had a powerful effect. On me, too. Like a foreign country down here, isn't it? A far cry from your village in northwestern Pennsylvania. You're twenty-two. I was twenty-five on my first trip. It was here the Goddess' power -- or what I think of as her power -- became real for me."
He looked away. The lights flickered and dimmed. When he looked back at Paul, his eyes blazed.
"There's an urgency. Can’t you feel it?"
Paul nodded, but only to be polite. He had felt it, but not now.
Josh starred off into the middle distance.
"This Mexican trip is absolutely vital. Something is coming. . . ."
Paul was uneasy. He’d seen and heard too much tonight. Breaking the uncomfortable silence, he told the older man about the new citations he'd collected for his Master's Thesis. Half an hour later, fear gone and not a whisper from the elusive melody, he said goodnight and let himself out.