5-Marias - Pt. 7 - The Telling of Dreams
David accepted the beer the waitress slid across the table. He took a fast sip and kept the bottle close, rolling it between his palms as if the motion might stop the restless energy jumping under his skin.
“I’ve been having some really crazy dreams lately,” he said quietly.
He hunched forward, shoulders wound tight. “Probably the stress these past few months. Normally I'd blow them off.”
His thumb picked at the damp label until it split. “But they’re too consistent. Way too consistent.”
Rowan leaned in, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Like—too consistent, how?”
David swallowed and gathered the words. “They’ve all been centered on this woman…”
Chris jumped in, grinning. “How long’s it been since you rolled in the hay with a se?orita, eh? Maybe you just need a little diversión.”
Francis smacked him hard on the arm, curls bouncing. “Boy, where’s your manners? We’ve worked too hard to be taken seriously for you to run your mouth like that.”
David chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not wrong. Really—no offense taken.”
Francis crossed her arms, lips pinching tight. “Well, that makes one of us. Please behave. You’re gonna love where this goes, baby.”
Rowan shot Chris a narrow look, then flashed Francis a small respectful smile before turning back to David. “Like—sorry. He’ll chill now.”
Chris’s grin faded, though he stayed silent.
David exhaled and continued. “Anyway… this woman keeps showing up in my dreams—like she’s waiting for me.”
Rowan leaned closer, eyes sharpening again. “If it’s the same woman every time… does she have a name?”
David’s fingers locked around the bottle. “Yeah. Morgana.” He hesitated. “She never told me. I just… knew.”
Rowan froze, wineglass suspended halfway to her lips. Her eyes went wide. “Like—whoa, Raven… you serious?”
The table stilled. Heat crawled up David’s neck as they all stared at him. “Umm… yeah. Francis said you’d want to hear it.”
Rowan eased back into the orange cushion, still staring. “Like, totally! Because I think I’ve seen the woman you’re dreaming about.”
David leaned forward, pulse picking up. “How? Are you having the same dreams?”
Rowan shook her head and glanced at Francis.
Francis clasped her hands, eyes bright. “Sugar, she ain’t dreamin’. And what I’m about to say… it’s the Goddess’ honest truth.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
David frowned between them. “Okay… what’ve you got?”
Rowan’s hands animated the air as she spoke. “I’m super into history. Old books—like diaries, autobiographies, handwritten stuff from way back.”
David pulled his beer closer so her swinging gestures wouldn’t knock it over.
Her energy spiked. “The closer a book is to its origin, the more it hits. It’s gotta be handwritten too. The authenticity just… lights me up.”
She took a breath and a sip of wine.
“I’ve seen her library,” Chris said. “Never seen so many books outside a public library. Total ratón de biblioteca—serious bookworm.”
Some of Rowan’s brightness dimmed. Her fingers curled around her glass stem. “The gnarly part is that when I read something authentic? I don’t just read it.” Her eyes locked onto David. “I get pulled in.”
David leaned back, stunned. “Like you’re living the scenes?”
Rowan nodded, shoulders tightening. “When the book’s old enough… I don’t stay here. I go there. It feels real. Like the air, the smoke, the room—everything.”
Francis touched Rowan’s shoulder gently. “This is a gift, sugar. Straight from the Goddess.”
Rowan reached for her purse and drew it into her lap. “With the ancient ones, it grabs me. Hard. Like the world inside the pages won’t let go.”
Francis nodded. “And I believe her. She’ll describe chimney smoke like she breathed it.”
Rowan pulled out a small wooden box. The aged grain was stained and split from time. She set it on the table, flipped the latch, and opened it before sliding it toward David.
Inside lay a leather-bound diary, sealed in a plastic sleeve. The cover was cracked and curling, the carved triskelion nearly worn flat. Yellowed pages bowed inward like they’d weathered centuries.
A strange pull swept over David—familiar, cold, intimate. His jaw tightened as memories darted toward him, slippery and sharp.
“It only works with diaries or history,” Rowan said softly. “Handwritten. Super old.”
David ran his fingertips just above the surface of the cracked leather, not touching. The triskelion swirls caught the overhead light. His breath snagged. “Books like this one?”
Rowan nodded. “Yeppers.”
Her voice dropped. “This one is a diary. Written by a woman in the Middle Ages. She had… a brutal ending.” Rowan looked him dead in the eye. “She was burned alive. Her name was Morgana.”
David jerked back so fast the book slipped from his hands and hit the table with a heavy thud.
The booth shook. “You saw Morgana? Like—really saw her?”
His voice broke. “Did you see her burn like I did?”
Rowan’s throat bobbed as she nodded. “Yeah. I saw everything.” Her fingers trembled around her glass. “Worst experience ever. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop it.”
David stared at the leather cover, the triskelion shifting under the light. “You saw her burn… like in my dream?” His voice dropped to a raw whisper.
Rowan went pale. She held her glass to her lips before answering. “Not just Morgana.” Her voice shook. “I saw you burn too.”
David’s eyes flew open. He pressed agains the booth, breath tearing out of him. “You saw that? Like it really happened?”
His hands shook. “I was on fire—God, it felt real. Too real. But I woke up in my bed. How could that be real?”
He grabbed his beer and finished what was left, the alcohol burning its way down. “None of this makes sense.”
Francis reached out and squeezed his hand. “Sugar… it wasn’t a dream. It happened.”
She withdrew her hand gently. “How’s it possible? No one knows. But you survived it. You came back. And we’re grateful for that.”
David let out a thin laugh and lowered the empty bottle. “Holy shit… it really happened?”
Silence wrapped the table.
The world tilted. He pressed his palms to the table to steady himself. “I’m gonna need another beer.”
Chris finally spoke. “I know it’s a lot, chica.” Worry pulled at his mouth. “Yeah—nada makes sense right now. But whatever happened back then didn’t stop you from being here tonight. Take comfort in that.”
David rubbed his eyes until the blur eased. “You’ve got a point. Don’t see how any of it fits, but… yeah.”
Rowan set her glass down carefully. “If it happens again? I won’t be seeing it.” Her voice went small.
She slid the diary back into the box, shutting the lid like sealing away a ghost. “I’m sticking to dry stuff. Less emotional ambush.”
She tucked the box into her purse and shivered. “Still useful. Just… not the kind that scars your soul.”
Chris waved the waitress over and ordered another round.