that our nightmares are the result of deeply held fears. That must be the explanation for this dream , she reasoned.
But what if it were a premonition of some sort? No, Herculea knew better. Educated and reasonable, she could not entertain the idea that her nightmare had contained a vision of the future. Still, her mind would not be peaceful. As Herculea poured the last of the water into her cup, all she could think of was how pitch black the island had appeared in her dream. Darkness everywhere , she thought with a shudder.
*****
It was night when the plane landed in Rio de Janeiro. The pilot cheerfully announced in English and Portuguese that they had safely reached their final destination. His wishes for a “pleasant stay in Brazil” rang in Herculea’s ears as she wrestled her duffel bag out of the tightly packed overhead compartment. She was exhausted. And still dehydrated. Even though she had slept on the plane, the enormity of the journey and the murky task ahead made her yearn for a comforting bed. As soon as she got off the plane, she would look for Kent and take a taxi with him to the hotel. From there, once she had recovered her natural vitality---and bravery---she would set out on her own to locate the Silver Goddess. With any luck, she would conduct a cogent interview that would produce material suitable for a cultural anthropology memoir.
Herculea had published numerous articles and contributed to several textbooks in her field. That was standard procedure for a tenured professor. But she had never published a full length book on her own. Shoving aside the disturbing dream and walking straight ahead off the plane, she focused all her mental energy on that singular goal: to publish a book of her own.
In the hotel room, Herculea fell asleep almost immediately. After dumping her bag, unpacked, onto the armoire, she retreated immediately to the king sized bed. Setting her cell phone onto the nightstand beside her, she checked one more time for messages. She tried not to be too disappointed to see that Pedro still had not contacted her, not even a quick text message. She obviously had misread him on their one and only date. He was a Lothario, no doubt, and probably charmed women every night of the week. Maybe he had even been expecting sex that night. She was glad she hadn’t succumbed to his fiery charms. Not hearing from him after a kiss was upsetting enough.
Herculea buried herself under the covers and curled up into a ball. Fitted with a cheerful patchwork quilt and mountains of plush pillows, the bed beckoned the weary traveler to surrender into unconsciousness. And she did just that.
The next sound Herculea heard came twelve hours later as late morning sunlight poured through the drapes. She awoke, startled, to the distinctive sound of a phone ringing. Confused, she looked at her cell phone on the nightstand and saw that the noise was not coming from there. It was the hotel phone. It must be Kent , she thought. His room was situated directly across the hall from hers, and polite as ever, he probably wanted to call rather than knock on her door, she surmised.
In a groggy voice, Herculea answered, “Hello?”
A baritone voice answered her in lightly accented English. “Good morning, Miss Sanchez. You have a package here at the front desk. Would you like to come get it, or do I send a bellman up to deliver it?”
Taken aback, Herculea scanned her mind wondering who the package could be from. The only people who knew what hotel she was in were her colleagues. Could the dean have sent a package related to her research? It seemed far-fetched. Always on a tight budget, the dean would have given her any necessary materials in person before she left.
“Are you certain the package is for Herculea Sanchez?” She emphasized her unusual first name.
The Spanish surname Sanchez was common, and it would not be surprising if
But what if it were a premonition of some sort? No, Herculea knew better. Educated and reasonable, she could not entertain the idea that her nightmare had contained a vision of the future. Still, her mind would not be peaceful. As Herculea poured the last of the water into her cup, all she could think of was how pitch black the island had appeared in her dream. Darkness everywhere , she thought with a shudder.
*****
It was night when the plane landed in Rio de Janeiro. The pilot cheerfully announced in English and Portuguese that they had safely reached their final destination. His wishes for a “pleasant stay in Brazil” rang in Herculea’s ears as she wrestled her duffel bag out of the tightly packed overhead compartment. She was exhausted. And still dehydrated. Even though she had slept on the plane, the enormity of the journey and the murky task ahead made her yearn for a comforting bed. As soon as she got off the plane, she would look for Kent and take a taxi with him to the hotel. From there, once she had recovered her natural vitality---and bravery---she would set out on her own to locate the Silver Goddess. With any luck, she would conduct a cogent interview that would produce material suitable for a cultural anthropology memoir.
Herculea had published numerous articles and contributed to several textbooks in her field. That was standard procedure for a tenured professor. But she had never published a full length book on her own. Shoving aside the disturbing dream and walking straight ahead off the plane, she focused all her mental energy on that singular goal: to publish a book of her own.
In the hotel room, Herculea fell asleep almost immediately. After dumping her bag, unpacked, onto the armoire, she retreated immediately to the king sized bed. Setting her cell phone onto the nightstand beside her, she checked one more time for messages. She tried not to be too disappointed to see that Pedro still had not contacted her, not even a quick text message. She obviously had misread him on their one and only date. He was a Lothario, no doubt, and probably charmed women every night of the week. Maybe he had even been expecting sex that night. She was glad she hadn’t succumbed to his fiery charms. Not hearing from him after a kiss was upsetting enough.
Herculea buried herself under the covers and curled up into a ball. Fitted with a cheerful patchwork quilt and mountains of plush pillows, the bed beckoned the weary traveler to surrender into unconsciousness. And she did just that.
The next sound Herculea heard came twelve hours later as late morning sunlight poured through the drapes. She awoke, startled, to the distinctive sound of a phone ringing. Confused, she looked at her cell phone on the nightstand and saw that the noise was not coming from there. It was the hotel phone. It must be Kent , she thought. His room was situated directly across the hall from hers, and polite as ever, he probably wanted to call rather than knock on her door, she surmised.
In a groggy voice, Herculea answered, “Hello?”
A baritone voice answered her in lightly accented English. “Good morning, Miss Sanchez. You have a package here at the front desk. Would you like to come get it, or do I send a bellman up to deliver it?”
Taken aback, Herculea scanned her mind wondering who the package could be from. The only people who knew what hotel she was in were her colleagues. Could the dean have sent a package related to her research? It seemed far-fetched. Always on a tight budget, the dean would have given her any necessary materials in person before she left.
“Are you certain the package is for Herculea Sanchez?” She emphasized her unusual first name.
The Spanish surname Sanchez was common, and it would not be surprising if
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