The Lamb and the Gray Battle

September 17, 1990

Mary drummed the surface of the motel table in rhythm. With her mind still in 1446, it was as if her skin was still cracked. If only it could be a husk and shed away. The snow was thick on the ground. She had wool stockings, but they were well-worn and little protection from the cold. The soles of her shoes had crumbled away. Likewise, Mary's calico dress was old and many of the seams had burst. Gran dragged her along, but Mary wanted to die.

"Throw me in a dungeon, just so long as it's warm. I won't even beg for food."

"King Ao Guang is going to rape you, then throw you into a pit in Hell." Gran added, "If you're lucky."

Mary put hands over her face, cried into the skin. A tear like a liquid pearl ran down her face. Again, she thumped the fake wood of the motel room table.

The army carried torches and they surrounded them. It was dark, but an orange light glowed in the countryside. It reminded Mary of when Mam was killed. Spears were pointed at them, but this time, Mary knew that the tips were made of iron. She recognized the scent too. The army was filled with Europeans and Chinese. And black men and women with skin like ebony. All of them were around the pair of women. Gran held Mary fast.

Thump, thump, thump.

Knox twitched, checked the walls of the room. Dust shook. He fought the fog, but he lost the battle.

A great black horse galloped up and burst through the line of men. He was an Asian man and he wore a gold crown, the type they wore in Asia long ago. And he had a cloak lined with fur. He jumped off the horse and snarled at the men.

Mary's vision was still blurred, but a few hours of rest had improved her greatly. The Asian man's eyes were familiar. Up until that moment, as much as she swore to Heaven and Hell that Ren had abandoned her, she guarded a deeper fear. That he was dead.

Mary's throat was dry. No tears could be cried, because no liquid remained in her body, but she heaved and her eyes stung. A grown man marched toward her and his odor was the one she'd known her whole life. He was slim. The fur-lined cloak swallowed him up, whipped his troops back. His hair was tied up as a warrior. The earlobes were pale as jade.

Mary used her twig arm to bat Gran away. One step. The rustling was like dried leaves. The snow rose up and lashed the army to their knees and the Asian man charged forward.

"Lower your weapons," he growled. "This woman is my wife."

It was, it was him.

Mary's legs buckled under her.

My Ren, Dear Ren.

Mary had grown so that she was taller than him, but she was a bundle of kindling. She leaped into his arms and buried herself in his warm cloak. How was it even possible? After all these years? Why now? But it didn't matter. She nestled into the fur, opened her mouth when he kissed her lips.

Her voice was hollow and raspy.

"What took you so long?"

"I have dreamed of this day for decades," he said between kisses.