Some two weeks before, the dreams had taken a frightening turn. They had become longer, more graphic, and now violent. I realized I wasn’t a prisoner, yet felt we were following orders. I couldn’t see far enough ahead to observe the person I thought to be the leader. The path finally widened and led into a large clearing where several women worked around a small array of cooking pots. Off to one side stood a small, wizened warrior wearing a plain loincloth and a colorful headdress with the plumes of many feathered animals. Despite his age and size he had rank in the tribe, for he carried a long wooden staff. He must have been a warrior now too old to fight. He was constantly issuing commands that scarcely anyone obeyed. The women, ignoring him, just kept to their tasks. Obviously they had been told in advance to prepare for our coming and they didn’t need any further orders.

After we had eaten, everyone stretched out to take a rest with no milling around or small talk. The whole party waited with expectation. We didn’t have to wait long. The person in charge of this trek made his appearance with a commanding, regal presence. He had to be the chief or their king. He wore a striking headdress of perfectly matched white feathers and two of the most unusual blue-green iridescent feathers I’ve ever seen. As he appeared, the women and warriors immediately knelt down and kissed the ground. All except for me, and this I found to be a most unfortunate decision. The small Indian with the long, thick staff rudely knocked me to the ground. As quickly as the beating had started, it stopped. With some trepidation, I raised my eyes to see the chief standing before me and he motioned for me to follow. One of the warriors handed me a large, sturdily-sewn animal skin, evidently the tribal medicine man’s badge of office. The skin or pouch held an assortment of sharp stones shaped into cutting tools, various unguents, pastes of many colors and a number of bones.

The only kinds of communication were hand signals and short guttural sounds. Until then I hadn’t been afraid, but when that little warrior with the staff whacked me the fear began to work its way into my consciousness. After being popped by the little Indian, I immediately became aware that I wasn’t supposed to make eye contact with the chief. Although the chief and I had shared many previous talks and meetings over the years, it wasn’t to be that way today. He was the king displaying his power. I couldn’t see where we were going because we were right at the base of a cliff draped with long, thick vines. One of the bodyguards moved over to a large clump of these vines and spread them apart. A cleverly concealed entrance appeared and I was shoved into what turned out to be a cave, one I later learned had been hollowed out years ago by previous generations.

Evidently the king had given orders that no one, besides his personal protector and us, was to enter. The other warriors guarded the entrance. The king’s bodyguard indicated that I should take a seat on a log that had been dragged into the cave years ago. It lay next to a long, narrow stone slab that had perhaps been used for sacrifices. The warrior motioned me as to where I should sit and wait. The king disappeared into a narrow passage extending farther back into the cliff and with an incline that looked rather steep. I decided to stretch my legs and glanced around. I had no sooner done that when my guard let out a bloodcurdling yell and darted after me. I knew my time on earth would be considerably shortened if he caught me. I sprinted for the nearest opening and barely squeezed through. The robust warrior, his large bulk proving a blessing for me, couldn’t fit through the passage. His warning yell had been heard by others but I couldn’t do anything about that.

I saw a beam of light near what looked to be the head of a passage which opened into a large room, and I headed into it as quickly as I could. I couldn’t believe what I witnessed. There on the floor was a man doubled up with pain, a sallow, grayish, sheen covering his body. He was breathing in rapid gasps. I could do little more than comfort him since he was in the final stages of life and no doubt would soon join his ancestors. I now understood the reason for my trip. Obviously he had been a favorite of the king, who wanted him looked after and indicated as much. After all, I was a tribal medicine man and healer. I didn’t think there was much I could do, but, curious, I bent over to examine him more closely. Several disturbing physical features became apparent: the pupils of his eyes did not dilate in a normal fashion, his tongue had been removed many years before, his hands were very soft and deeply dyed as though he had been working in paints or pigments of one sort or another. Suspecting that these mixtures had poisoned his system over the years, I did what I could to ease his fears and to help make his journey to the other world a peaceful one.

No one uttered a sound. The silence was now deafening. The others knew they were witnessing the passing of their friend’s spirit. Along with the king, four workmen, all wearing heavy skin or leather aprons stood there in silent prayer. A young man, visibly upset over the death of the man on the floor, peered in. I suspected this was the man’s son. Some form of luminescent rocks or materials lit the room and, while not particularly bright, I soon grew used to it. The walls were covered with colored drawings of animals and inscriptions. Then I noticed another room with several large stones and these stones showed a different type of inscription. I turned to ask the king about those strange stones and the paintings on the walls when, suddenly, a strange new fear gripped me. I had intruded into something sacred. The king and his high priests were the only ones to know the contents of those rooms. Previously I’d heard rumors about the existence of some such stones and drawings, but only on rare occasions. The subject was taboo, and many knew that death awaited anyone who showed too keen an interest in the location and its contents. That’s all I remember. A form of darkness, which must have been the result of a sudden blow to my head, quickly obliterated my sight and consciousness. In my mind’s eye I saw myself falling into an endless, dark pit of nothing. I thought now is the time – I’m going to learn what death is all about. Nevertheless, I began to awaken and struggled to bring myself back to what I hoped was reality. My heart was racing. I was covered in sweat and my bed looked like a buffalo had been wallowing in it. I wondered. Did I just suffer a serious anxiety attack? Slowly, it dawned on me. I had been dreaming. The dreams had not been of this world, but seemed lifelike. I took a series of slow, deep breaths and things began to come into focus. I told myself I had a business to run, people to see, and money to make; none of which involved my visiting another planet or jungle that sure as hell didn’t exist.

At 8:00 a.m. the phone went off. Jarring me. After a few rings, my service picked up. Julie called to remind me of our appointment. My book editor, an astrological forecast expert, lives in McLean, Virginia. She was completing an important edit of my new consulting book. Julie’s interest in forecasting originated with her grandfather, who descended from a long line of Middle Europeans well known for their psychic skills; so Julie had come by her skills naturally. After showering, shaving and breakfast it was almost 9:30 a.m. and I had to get cracking; my appointment was a three-and-a-half hour drive in front of me. I knew the time I spent driving would give me an opportunity to sort things out and get those crazy dreams out of my head. As I neared the Hampton Bridge Tunnel, my mood began to soften. The Bay looked beautiful. The slowly rolling waves and sparkling water provided a perfect backdrop for the sail-boats and fishermen out in full force. Depending on the time of the year and the number of tourists, the drive up I-64 could be pleasant or it could be an agonizing crawl. Today it was a breeze. The traffic on I-95, however, was congested the whole way. Eventually, the McLean exit on I-495 popped into view. I turned onto Merrie Hill Road and pulled into Julie’s driveway.

As I hopped out of the car Julie said, “You’re early, it must have been an easy drive.”

“It was, up to a point.” I generally have a problem with editing sessions. I take great pride in my authorship, and I can be testy, but that day everything went well.

When we were finishing, she asked, “Ryan, have you forgotten our discussion of last month?” I drew a blank. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember asking her to do anything but edit my book.

She gave me a big smile and said, “I worked hard to get your forecast completed in time for your visit today.”

“Forecast. What forecast?” Then I remembered. “Let’s hear it!”