Starry Wonders: Dreams of the Past

Prologue

A paper with faded ink was all the group had to go on.

On it was a doodle of a man with his back to the viewer, standing before a house that had a flourishing garden in the front, music notes trailing from the open windows. His arm was outstretched, expressing longing for the abode.

Holding the composition was a lady, whose chest warmed with an intensity she couldn't place being happiness or sorrow. Perhaps it was both.

"Is she still near?" another woman - many years younger- quizzed, palming her shoulder.

"I believe so," she responded. A soft vibration settled in the center of her breasts, gaining strength the further they trekked on. "The power inside of her is unimaginable. We hadn't the faintest clue what she was capable of back then."

Bypassing trees, that stalked so high leaves blocked their view of the sky, she shut her eyes, heightening in on the sounds of the scurrying animals, the chittering bugs joining their colonies, the leaves and twigs crunching beneath her sandals. In the distance was rumbling thunder. They needed to find refuge soon.

"Rebbie," a soft voice tore through her meditation, "you certainly were not jesting earlier! Our brother is quite the prolific artist."

Rebbie looked over her shoulder. There her younger sister Latoya was studying the contents of a faded, black book with a spine frayed from constant use. Michael's prized journal. He'd guarded it with his life, shedding it fond stares he shared for no one else. Not a soul was allowed to touch its leather-bound cover but him.

He wasn't going to be happy they meddled in his things, but hopefully he would provide them a bit of leniency. It was the only possession of his that brought a clue to his missing whereabouts.

When Rebbie had found it on his desk, a foreboding sense washed over her. Never did he stray from his journal, even when he ran out of room and had to get another to write in. He always kept it in his bag to thumb through, reliving the life that only existed in those pages. It was his sanctuary. So, why would he leave it home when venturing on a mission? Especially one which possibly involved Ehmowa? It made no sense.

When a messenger arrived at the kingdom, petrified and with message that Michael was taken, the family was devastated. Not again, they cried. They had just gotten him back, to lose him once more to the slippery devil would destroy them. So, they vowed to do whatever necessary to get him home.

Hence why Rebbie broke into his room to search for clues.

A temptation drew her to the journal; she swore Oshahe had been the one encouraging her to open it. Do it, Rebbie, he whispered in her ear. You must not let him be taken again. So, with a hesitant stretch of her hand, she touched the worn-out, black cover.

Obsidian bled through her vision, muting the laughs and jolly chatters of children and adults and replacing them with painful moans. They begged for escape, for a lending hand to liberate them of their suffering. All of it melded into one big ball of madness that physically made Rebbie sick.

Saliva lapped her tongue. "Oshahe, I beg of you to send me a message."

Hope appeared lost, but then, as she lifted the book, from the pages slipped a folded paper. It swayed in the air, landing at her feet. Whence kneeling down to take it, a lady flashed before Rebbie's eyes. A young woman, whose face was framed with coiled hair.

Put at ease, Rebbie observed the lady point her attention downwards, on the head laying on her lap. Michael was there, drifting to sleep, as she massaged his scalp.

"You're beautiful, darling," she spoke, her words sincere. When Michael opened his eyes to peer at her, her face ignited with a radiant brown. He buried his face in her stomach, breathing in her scent.