The problem with the ancient Cherokee prophecy isn’t that it foretold that my friends and I were chosen to save the world. No; the problem is that it didn’t predict whether or not we’d succeed.
What if we fail? What if two planets die and it’s our fault?
My eyes follow a shaft of moonlight creeping across the ceiling, casting soft rainbows; each one an endless blend of subtle hues. Even the return of my enhanced vision doesn’t soothe the jumble of nerves tying knots in my gut. I can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. It’s been with me, a constant gnawing presence, since we returned from the Bahamas.
There is a strange vibration in the bed that quickly crescendos into a ground-shaking earthquake. The pictures rattle on the wall and I reach out to save the lamp on my nightstand from crashing to the floor. It isn’t as strong as the earthquakes last fall, caused by the Dracans digging tunnels, but someone will undoubtedly report it.
The Dracans have kept their promise. They’ve returned the artifact and sealed the passageway. It should give me some measure of peace. It doesn’t. I watch the light for a while longer, and then get up and dress to greet the dawn, grabbing my favorite blanket on the way out.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish