THE MAIDEN AND THE DRAGON

3. Meeting Cristopher

I know I dream, but I am not sure. Study defends that people dream, everybody. Only a few remember. When I wake, I remember and then forget. Tonight my unclear visions grow vivid.

I see him. I know him, but I can't look at him.

I'm walking through a garden path. It is serenity. I like to come here, I think. This is a different me. It is when I angle my head and I see him watching me that I feel our affection and I am expectant. It is wrong, what we are doing.

'Bewa' His voice rings through my mind.

I stir in slumber.

A slice of ray watches through the parted drapes. The room is ventilated. My lids are heavy with sleep, my limbs ache and my tongue is parched.

A glass of water is just under the lamp. Someone switched it off. It is a struggle to try to sit up, so I take the tumbler anyhow and sip the glass empty. I see blurry figures move about until I close my eyes.

Now, I can't even look at him. I am ashamed. I am angry. His hand caressing my cheek is repulsive.

'Bewa please don't listen to them. I love you.' He puts too much emphasis on how he loves me.

I want to believe him, but I had known this - us is wrong. I knew this, so why did it matter now? There are those around, just like us, but I want to be different even when it's too late for that.

I glare at him. We hate as much as we loved. 'I don't care. I hate you.' I mutter in my sleep.

I toss and turn exhausted from everything: travelling and settling into a new environment.

'Malistan' I gasp, shooting up, sleepy and tired.

A leg is on the duvet and my nightdress is ridden to my hip. I wipe off the dried spit from the corner of my lips.

My head is pounding, soft, but unbearable. Despite this, I prepare myself for the day, not even the cold bath is enough to douse me fully awake.

'Malistan' I mutter.

I never heard such a word before. I ponder on it all the while till I am down the stairs and staying clear of the covered piano that I was instructed not to touch.

The aroma of food wafts is strong and everywhere, filling my senses.

In truth, it might be lunchtime or dinner. Not thinking too much about things I follow the sound of voices that are not distinct. I am so hungry right now.

When I reach the double door of a dining room, Uncle Thomas is chuckling and he is not alone. I venture further in.

He pauses long enough to acknowledge my presence. 'Bewa, we thought you weren't going to make it.' His eyes gleam. I feel strange, a nice strange.

This is something I have always wanted but differently. The dining should be occupied by parents, grandparents, cousins, uncles, aunties, and annoying siblings.

'Hi.' The other occupant stands to introduce himself. 'I am Cristopher.'

'I am... my name is... um.'

'Bewa, it is nice meeting you.' He says.

'Yes, of course.' 'I need water.' I grab the closest cup and gulp every drop of water down my throat. I need more. I am famished; a tank could be a fitting choice.

'Your uncle won't stop talking about you.' The boy persists. He keeps filling my glass with water from a jug. I glance over at Uncle Thomas. He is a miracle, Uncle Thomas.

'You are right; your uncle is a miracle.' Cristopher says.

I sip my last fill, half full. I said that out loud. He is beautiful, this boy, not handsome; perfect. I touch his hand on purpose and watch him tremble. It is a moment. Cristopher's eyes are electrifying blue and unnerving.