When I Dream, I Dream of White Horses by bugs
SPOILER WARNING: The Pilot, Fire, Dreamland II, Field Trip, The
Unnatural, Biogenesis, 6th Extinction, Amor Fati
RATING: Mild 'R' for adult situations and language.
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, Scully POV, M/S UST, Post/Concurrent-episode
fiction covering Bio, 6E, AF.
SUMMARY: Scully has her own visions as she struggles to save
Mulder.
DISCLAIMER: I use dialogue from episodes in this fic. No
infringement is intended and no money is being made on my part.
6thE, AF: Written by Chris Carter, Frank Spotnitz, and David
Duchovny.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: This story was yet another departure for me. It
was very difficult to work with three unknowing and unwilling co-
writers. I was also very nervous about trying to crawl this far
into Scully's head. So my betas, Ambress, Branwell, Shawne and
especially, Lynne, were not only practical helpers, but very
supportive of my process. Thanks to Shannon for the baseball
tips. <g>
TIMELINE: I start Biogenesis in early October, and AF ends at the
conclusion of the World Series at the end of the month.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For Lynne. *See end notes.
* * * * * *
Give me that man
That is not passion's slave and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.From 'Hamlet' by William Shakespeare
* * * * * *
Ivory Coast, West Africa; October 4th
The first thought I had as I reached out to touch this object
lurking just under the waves, was--If only Mulder were here.Seven years of my life have seen me a witness to one man's
uncertainty, his quest for answers. I started my search for
answers with a scientific curiosity that grew to righteousness at
the injustice I witnessed every day. But Mulder has always
searched with the blinding, single-minded passion of a young boy,
a Huck Finn, tossed and knocked about down a storm-swollen river.This is the end of the river, here in Africa, where the waves meet
our long twisting path. And I stand here alone, without his hand
on the rudder beside mine to steer this craft.Reality and rationality have been my touchstones all these years,
in the face of so much that can't be easily explained. Now, in
Africa, under this sun that burns away reason, confronted by the
scratches on this object, they have slipped away from me like
slick, moss-covered pebbles through my fingers.I think that's why I've begun to hear him. I needed his
grounding. Probably out of loneliness more than anything else, I
started talking to him in my thoughts. And one day, he answered.* *
At first it was as simple as my name.
Watching him on the video monitor at the hospital before I left,
his lips had soundlessly formed the syllables of my name. But it
was his eyes that spoke to me. He looked right at me. And he's
been with me ever since.I was reminded of the end of our first case, when he was
questioning Billy Miles. I stood on the other side of a two-way
mirror, confident that I was removed from the experiences of the
past week. He had glanced up and without thinking, I met his
eyes. He spoke to me then, too. Now that I connect the two
incidents in my mind, I believe I've stayed with him, in part,
because I yearned to feel the unholy thrill of that serendipitous
moment again.In D.C., I could convince myself I was being fanciful, covering
over the horror and pain of seeing him debilitated in that way,
smoothing a balm on what I could see as a betrayal of our bond by
his mysterious relationship with Agent Fowley.That's all far away now. Things are much simpler here in Africa.
Every day I rise at dawn to oversee the excavation of the object
that appears to be an alien craft. I collect data; carefully
cataloguing the pieces brought to me. This is when I need him. I
lack the ability to conjecture, to make these pieces of the puzzle
fly as the artifact flew. I miss him. Now I'm the one who calls
out. And he answers.
* * *An old man rides his white horse down to the sea every morning to
fish. While the water is still calm and flat, as his horse calmly
nibbles at the scrub bushes along the dunes, he tosses a net out
to catch small silvery fish. He pays no attention to the object
in the water or to my work.After a few days, he'll meet my eyes and nod, but never talks to
me. I doubt he speaks English. But he's a constant, and I
welcome his presence.No one speaks to me. I think they fear my intensity. So Mulder
speaks to me. Perhaps, like some old woman that finds comfort in
chatting with her deceased husband, I need him during these
uncertain days.At first he came to me only in my dreams. Now he's with me in my
waking hours. . .I suppose. I'm no longer sure if I'm dreaming or
conscious. Africa has this effect upon me. This one corner of
the coast has become my center and it's unchanging.The tide comes in and washes out. The wind rises in the
afternoon, whipping up the surf. Rain falls like a light caress
several times a day. And Mulder comes to me.The heat has put me into a state of near delirium. I try to stay
focused but it overwhelms me, and I nap often, only to awake and
discover another fragment off the craft has been deciphered.* * *
One day, the old fisherman offers me a ride on his horse. Without
spoken words, he motions at me and then the horse, a wide white
smile shining out of his dark face. I shake my head in refusal,
angry at my fear. I had one bad childhood experience and haven't
been able to get on a horse since. I'm drawn to their beauty and
power but can't find the courage to ride, certainly not bareback
in a remote corner of Africa.That day, as the heat overcomes me and I nap, I dream of the white
horse.It's a nightmare, just as I was plagued for months after falling
from the horse as a child. A simple dream. I'm on the horse--it
runs away--I fall. In pain, writhing on the ground, a shadow
falls over me. I look up and it's the fisherman. But he's no
longer in his cut-off jeans and hole-laced tee shirt. Instead,
he's in native dress and his face is still and impassive.I fear him. He is the man who put me on the horse.
* * *
I'm cool at last. Mulder's laughing at me. I finally open my
eyes, squinting up at him, silhouetted by the bright sunlight.
"What do you want?" I grumble."You gonna sleep all day?" he asks as he kneels beside me. I can
see him at last, but I have no interest in getting up off the cool
grass and trailing after him, so I merely roll over onto my side
and begin picking at the small daisies scattered through the lawn."Where are we?" I wonder out loud as our surroundings suddenly
strike me as odd. We are no longer in Africa.He's scrambled to his feet and is tugging at my arm. "Come on!"
I throw my arm over my eyes. "Go away, Mulder, I need to think.
I don't want to chase after your monsters.""We're going somewhere we can think," he promises.
I pull my arm away and lift my head. He's searching the stacks of
a dark, warm library. The smell of furniture oil and very old
books fills my nostrils. Calling out to him, I ask, "Mulder!
What are you doing?""I'm looking for that Sanskrit text you needed. For the piece off
the hull." He pauses to query, "Or was it the tail? Hard to tell
on that thing, huh?"I have to ask. "Mulder, how are you?" I rise to follow him down
among the dark shelves, my fingers trailing along the dusty spines
of the books.He looks puzzled as he strains to pull a volume from the highest
shelf. "What do you mean?""You're ill," I force myself to remind him.
He's definite as he replies. "No. I'm just taking some time away
from the office.""Mulder--"
"It was time," he says passionately as he starts to load my arms
with books. "We need to get these answers."I'm filled with purpose. "Yes. Of course."
Flecks of dust dance in the streams of sunlight pouring through
high, foggy windows. His long fingers dance among the leaves of
the books with the excitement of the monkeys that skitter through
the tree branches up by my water well.I can't help but return to the subject that worries me every
moment. "Are you in pain?"He nods, but doesn't raise his head. The light refracts in the
lenses of his glasses, making small rainbows drop on the yellowed
pages. I can't help but touch his sleeve, smoothing the wrinkles
from the dark blue cotton. "You should rest."He finally turns to glance at me. At first he seems irritated and
then his gaze sweeps over me. I must look like hell, because he
says, "No, you rest. I'll work."I want to be strong. I need to be strong. But I'm so tired. I
sleep.* * *
The white horse is eating next to the tent. His grinding teeth
wake me. Using lukewarm water from a bucket by my cot, I splash
my face to revive myself. I wander out and shade my eyes from the
violent sun.The fisherman is approaching, a burlap sack dripping water hanging
from his claw-like hand. For once I don't want his company, even
if it's limited to eye contact and a nod. My dream still haunts
me like a burn. I walk away down the beach, past the workers
splashing in the shallow water around the object.I want to touch the skull. A hundred yards down the beach, an
elephant's skull rests among the dunes. I have no idea how it
came to be here. The first time I found it on one of my walks, I
was amazed. Now it's familiar and comforting.I sit beside it, exploring the smooth bone with my fingertips. A
small rodent lives inside. I hear it rustling around in some
dried leaves. I can fit my fist in the eye socket. I wonder
where the rest of the skeleton lies. Under all this sand?I rest my back on the solid shape and look back down the beach to
the ship. Its skin glistens black in the high noon sun. Its
sharp edges are smoothed by the bright light and turn white as the
skull. It is the true dinosaur, its footprints left down through
time for me to find now.Revitalized, I rise to run down the beach, my underused muscles
straining in the deep sand. I welcome the sharpness of the pain.
A sensation in this dulling atmosphere. It's time to get back to
work. The tent flaps flip up in the breeze to wave me back to my
papers like an old schoolmarm.* * *
I stride purposefully along the cobblestone sidewalks, intent on
seeking him out, ignoring the blaring horns of the squat, small
cars as I cross the streets without looking in the proper
direction. I have too many questions and the sooner I can answer
them, the sooner I can go home to him.The roar of the city falling away, I find him in a park, among the
plants in an open, sprawling rose garden. He lies under a huge,
climbing rose, draped over a pergola, now bent back down towards
the earth, pulled by gravity and weight. Its fragrant peach-
colored blossoms are gently showering him with petals.I don't have time for this. "Mulder!"
"Hmmph?" He rolls over and cracks an eye to peer up at me.
I sink down beside him and wave the original, life-altering
rubbing under his large nose. Defeat suddenly overwhelms me. I
whisper, "I'm not getting anywhere, Mulder.""Scully--" He grips my hand, crushing the paper as though that
will make it all go away.Taking a deep breath, I remind him, "I came in search of something
I didn't believe existed. I've stayed on now, in spite of myself.
In spite of everything I've ever held to be true."His brow furrows in concern and I rush on to reassure him, "I'll
continue here as long as I can... as long as you are beset by the
haunting illness that I saw consume your beautiful mind."He dips his head shyly at my description but I only have to
breathe in the musk-perfumed scent to know my words are true.I ask for his help. "What's this discovery I've made? How can I
reconcile what I see with what I know?" His features begin to
soften, as though my confusion and frustration has blurred my
vision. I continue, "I feel this was meant not for me to find but
for you ...to make sense of. . .make the connections which can't
be ignored...connections which, for me," I drop my eyes to stare
at the crumbled, frustrating hieroglyphics, "...deny all logic and
reason."He rolls his head to the side, so when I lift my gaze, he's
staring up at the blooms again. "What's this source of power I
hold in my hand--this rubbing?" I reach out and turn his chin so
he can see my sincerity, and his usually hard features are soft
under my touch, malleable as clay. Fear chokes my voice and I
have to stop.The air is suddenly heavy and thick with stifling, hot moisture.
The cool England of his mind is far away and it's another late,
African night with the low roar of the surf nearly drowned out by
the buzz of the evening insects. Desperate, I hunker over my
wobbling table and grasp the rubbing to my chest.Despite my return to my reality, I carry on, hoping he can hear
me. Definite, I state, "In the source of every illness lies its
cure."He's gone. No low tones answer my words. I'm alone in my dim
tent. Insects have managed to get in and I must try to drive them
away. As I adjust the lamp, I see the man from my dream, the man
with the horse.I'm sure this is no dream. I call out, "Who's there?!"
It seems possible that the fisherman has a brother who has decided
to try to intimidate the foolish Western woman.Picking up my machete, I go out to investigate. I find nothing,
but when I return, the tent has filled with swarming, buzzing
insects. Suddenly, a horrific reminder of being trapped in the
huge beehive fills me with panic. Beating at the air, I try to
avoid the sharp rasp of their legs. Knocked over, my lamp casts
sickening illumination as the tent's walls mockingly reflect my
struggle with nothing more than shadows.* * *
I roll over in the night, my muscles aching from my exertions.
Suddenly, my heart pounds wildly and I find myself grasping at my
sheet, fighting it.It's solid and breathes frantically in my ear. Skinner hisses,
"Let go, Mulder. I don't want to hurt you."Realizing Mulder has enacted some hare-brained plan with his usual
panache, one he's failed to share with me, I rise from my bed,
pacing to still my thumping heart.Sudden drowsiness overwhelms me and I have to grip the table to
remain on my feet. As a drugged lethargy sinks into my bones and
brain, I can see that our connection is tempered by Mulder's
medication. I'm almost comforted by the realization that I'm not
losing my mind, or at least not losing it more than anyone who
shares a psychic bond with another, but rather, am suffering along
with Mulder the effects of his drugging.To shake myself free, I strip off my sweat-soaked clothes, dash to
the ocean nude, and the tent glows yellow in the night behind me.
I like to take a swim in the dark, especially now that the moon is
full. Usually I swim to the submerged craft. It glows in the
dark water and I know I should fear it, but I can't.Instead, I float beside it, stroking its surface, tracing the odd
patterns. Mulder's fingers join mine and I can sense his smile of
wonder. He's why I'm not afraid. How can I be afraid when I'm
filled with his joy?Tonight I ignore the object's draw and long strokes with my arms
carry me out past the breakwater. I say, "Mulder, I need to come
home. You can't hide your pain from me."He holds the door open for me and I enter the dark room. He
insists, "Scully, you have to keep working there. I'm fine."In the darkness I can't see his face. "Mulder, you aren't fine.
You're weakening. If I come back to D.C., I can work to find a
cure for whatever has seized you--""You are finding me a cure. There! In Africa!" The space is
slowly filling with light.I'm momentarily diverted. Wonder overcomes me. "Where are we
now?"I can see his face, finally. It's cobalt blue in a beam of light.
I raise my gaze. Above us a stage has been lit in jewel tones,
stiff medieval figures caught in their poses between columns of
gray stone. His voice is close, at my ear. "I came here all the
time. For peace. Let us have peace."Even as I protest, "But we have to get back to work," my fingers
automatically trail through the cool water in the intricately
carved font and touch my forehead before the tips dry.His arms sweep up above him. "But the answers are here. Don't
the saints and angels know all the answers?" he ask with a gently
mocking tone.I shake my head, but have to smile.
He draws me down to a pew. "Tell me their stories. I never knew
their stories.""Mulder--"
His eyes are cast upward. "I used to lie here for hours when I
should have been studying. I'd make up stories to go with them."
He points to St. Sebastian's twisting figure, writhing on a
column. "Like the guy with the arrows. I decided it was all an
unfortunate hunting incident."I repeat myself. "Mulder--"
"I've asked for Skinner's help." He's ignoring my pleas.
Carefully, I say, "Do you think that's wise? I believe he's been
compromised."He nods. He saw the confrontation I had with Skinner and Fowley
before coming to Africa. Dipping his head, he says, "He's my only
hope."Dread tightens my hands into fists. "What are you planning,
Mulder?"He turns to look at me, and the kaleidoscope of stained glass
patterns swirls like his emotions over his features. "It's not
just me. You're in danger too, Scully."I try to reassure him. "No, Mulder--"
He smiles, and murmurs, "Scully..." his lips ruby red where the
stained glass' refraction have settled on them. Their promise of
riches draws me like Aladdin; I have to touch them. But they are
warm and soft under my fingertips, not cold and hard as the glass
that gave them color. His eyes hold mine, entrancing emeralds, a
wealth of treasure. His lips part, and the tip of his tongue
gently touches my quivering fingers."I'll get back to work," I mumble as I rise from the pew. He
doesn't follow as I hurry out into the darkness.* * *
Light washes away the dark. It is morning. I force myself to
stumble out to the shower, hoping to clear my head with the cool,
clean water.The shower helps but only to drive away the sleepiness. It does
nothing for my concentration.As I'm going through my bag to find another shirt, an African
woman is suddenly in the tent, speaking to me. "My God. What
happened here?"Is she a vision or reality?
She says, "They said you speak English."
Who sent her? "What do you want?" I ask.
She introduces herself as Dr. Amina N'gebe, a co-worker of Dr.
Merkmallen and I allow hope to briefly spring up. I hadn't
realized how heavy this burden is until the faint promise of
assistance appeared.Quickly, I explain what has happened. Not reassuring, the doctor
is disturbed by the activities."Why?" I ask.
Glancing around in concern, she says, "They are animists,
believing nature is vengeful. They'll take this as a sign to
leave what you have found alone, a bad omen."Motioning toward the beach, I query, "Caused by the ship out
there?"Her answer is not reassuring. "Caused by God... who will be much
less helpful than those men if we are to continue this work."The next dire sign comes sooner than either of us could imagine.
In a horrific event, a worker is burned by what seemed to be
boiling hot seas.Although Dr. N'gebe is able to persuade the remaining workers to
continue, I'm now more concerned than ever. How much longer can I
remain in control of the situation here at the excavation site?
And what has Mulder gotten himself into back in D.C.?I show the doctor my findings so far and set her to work. The men
seem happier to have someone around who speaks their language and
things appear to be moving more smoothly already.I should be pleased. But resentfully I feel that the world Mulder
and I have created has been violated. Like a shy puppy, he
remains out of view. I have to wait for nightfall and the
drugging of the sticky, tropical night for him to come to me.
I wake to the dream, hot, with my hair clinging to my face. I
claw at the strands to free them from my cheek but cool fingertips
brush them away first. My eyes fly open and I go bolt upright at
the unfamiliar touch.The boat rocks and I grip the sides to steady it.
"Whoa," says Mulder, straightening back up and grabbing at the
pole leaning off the back of the punt."Where are we?" I ask, craning my stiff neck to see around us.
The river is wide and dark navy blue. The lawn-covered banks
slope away from the edge of the water. Clumps of trees, as thick
as sheep's wool, dip and fall from the waterline. Other craft,
some more punts, canoes, rowboats, drift in time with the rippling
waters."On the Isis, my queen," he answers, his head held high, gaze
level on the horizon."Mulder--" I groan.
"What?" He still won't look at me.
"I have to get back to work. You can't keep dragging me away.
Don't you want to get well?"He drops his eyes and against the plastic blue sky, they reflect
aqua depths. "This makes me well. These times with you are the
only thing keeping me sane.""What do you mean? What are they doing to you? Were you able to
communicate with Skinner?"He nods and instantly, I can tell he's keeping something from me.
"What have you done now?" I quickly ask.
"He's bringing Michael Kritschgau to me."
I'm confused. "How can he help? He doesn't believe in the
existence of extraterrestrials.""He's done work with people in my condition. He'll know how to
treat it."I have to go. I must get back to D.C. before he can allow himself
to be a guinea pig once again.He knows what I'm thinking. "Scully--"
Now I'm furious. "No, Mulder! Dammit! Let the doctors treat
you!""They haven't done anything to help. They don't know what to do."
He pushes the punt downstream with a great heave. "And the
voices--the voices hurt." He smiles down at me. "This helps.
When I show you my places...These places helped me once before--
when I was in pain."I sink back into the pile of cushions he's provided for me and can
only shake my head in frustration. But I have to admit, "It's so
beautiful here. I can see how this place could restore a soul."His smile widens to a grin. "Yes!" He leans his weight on the
pole, letting it stay in the river bottom for a long time until he
has to wrench it free and reach forward again with it. "I was so
jumbled then. Nervy--""You?" I can't help but tease.
He shakes his head to chastise me. "This place has seen it all.
It's like a very old man. Nothing upsets him any more. I could
find peace here. I could concentrate. I learned to love reading
and thinking. I found a place to hide: in those books."He drops his gaze on me again and his look is no longer laughing;
it is piercing.I nod in reply, a lump suddenly developing in my throat. I push
it down and say, "You can always come to me if you need a place to
hide, you know that?"He gives a low, bitter-sounding chuckle. "I've done that before
and I don't ever want to do that again. When I come to you, I
want to find a place with you, not hide like a child."I can't think of anything to say, so I concentrate on the patterns
my fingers make trailing in the water as he pushes the punt
forward.Gracefully as he punts, he changes the subject. "You're going to
burn in this sun." He shifts his weight and the craft heads
towards shore. He steers us under a canopy of hanging willow
branches and when I look up at him again, his eyes are moss green."You should rest," I suggest.
He stabs his pole into the river bottom to hold the punt in place
and sinks to the cushions beside me, rolling onto his back like a
large dog. "Yes. For now."I feel us slipping away, but concern still thumps like an
insistent child on a door. He murmurs in my ear, "Scully, stop
worrying. . ."We nap, but a smell, more putrid than rotting aquatic plants,
drifts close, waking us. I hear the sickening, familiar buzz of
flies. Our eyes search the dark riverbank.The shafts of sunlight catch a glisten of white. It is a large
swan, still and dead. It lies on its back, its great wings spread
as though in flight. Its empty eye sockets boil with maggots.
Its tongue, sharp and protruding, is black."Take me away, Mulder," I whisper.
He struggles to his feet, rocking the punt. "Yes."
The scene fades away and I'm left abandoned on my cot, his
thoughts beating like a dying heart, frantic and uneven, rocking
me to and fro. I'm much less certain as to the validity of his
plan. The fact that he can no longer control the events of the
dreams proves he's weakening and must be made to see reason.I whisper to the heartbeat, "I feel you slipping away from me with
every minute I fail here." If he believes the answer is here, I
have to believe. "If only I could understand how the ship affects
you, perhaps learn how to use its power to save you."A truck rumbles up to the tent. An outsider interrupts me, again.
I feel as though every arrival drives him further away from me. To
keep working, I need to know he's safe.I leave the tent to investigate and discover an unwelcome face
from the past lurking behind the truck as I unsuccessfully
question its driver.A death rattle of a voice behind me, "Perhaps you need an
interpreter."A face more drawn and wild-eyed than my own. Not a welcome sight.
Dr. Barnes.I don't need his threats and shifting motives as he tries to
weasel his way into my work. "...I know what we've got. This
craft that's come ashore? It's extraterrestrial origins?"I spit back, "You don't even believe in that."
His sneering words reveal all my fears. "Nor do you. But here we
are."He's right. How can I hope to succeed if I don't believe? I
reminded myself of my purpose. A valid purpose. "I'm here only
to help my partner." I'd listened in amazement when Mulder had
told me that his quest was not ultimately for truth, but to find
his sister. Now I understand, totally and completely.I can see from his crafty expression that Barnes believes he's won
a battle. "Then let me help you... to read it. I've spent my
life looking for what's out there ... the answer to what
theologians have pondered for millennia... the key to
everything... to life itself. I've already been threatened by men
in Washington about what I know. How long would your secret keep
if you were to send me away?"I don't have time to weigh his words. His driver calls us to the
sea's edge, frantic with concern.When we arrive, Dr. N'gebe whispers, "It is a sea of blood."
The blood seems to be pooling around the craft and I have nearly
uncontrollable fear for Mulder. If the ship is his salvation, it
cannot be threatened.For a blink of an eye, I see the man who made me ride the white
horse hovering offshore. Then he's gone. The dread overwhelms me
when I call for Mulder and my voice echoes, empty.* *
Frantic, I search for him everywhere to find out what has happened
with Kritschgau. Was the blood a sign, warning of his doom?With a sense of anti-climax, I find him in the rose garden,
nestled on a swing, a hand raised to draw me down next to him. I
shake my head, but sit beside him. The day is warming and I can
hear the low buzz of bees going about their business.He often seems content to explore our fantastical landscapes, but
today I need answers."What happened?"
He shrugs, trying for nonchalant and failing miserably. For the
first time, he looks drawn and tired."He was able to bring me out of it--"
What I'd dreaded. "How?"
His eyes are steeped in shadows. "He has his ways."
"For what purpose!?" I challenge him.
He challenges me back. "I had to try!"
Frustrated, I fire right back, "I'm trying here too! And it's
getting damned hard!"He gets up to pace. "Why do you think I'm taking these risks?"
Confused, I shake my head.
He stops before me. "I'm afraid these answers may break you--"
"What?!" I jump off the swing and hop up on my toes in a vain
attempt to look him in the eye. "Well I'm not afraid of anything!
Not if it will bring the cure for you!"He gives me only a small smile. "You say that now. But I don't
want you to pay another penny for me. How do we know your
reserves aren't running out?"I can only shake my head in frustration.
He leans over and murmurs in my ear, "It has power, yes. But not
one we should fear.""I'm not afraid," I repeat.
His warm palm cradles my stiffly held head. "We have to make
sense of all that lies beneath that sea. It has the power of an
abstract--beauty without literal meaning. Do you think you can be
open to those concepts?"I nod stiffly, but keep my eyes averted, controlling my fury at
his doubts in me. For a moment I've forgotten that I can't hide
these feelings from him anymore and glance up to meet his
concerned gaze. Purposely, I close my eyes and visualize a field
of sheep, lazily jumping over a low fence, and finally sleep, deep
and dreamless.***
I continue my work, now aided by two opposite poles of
temperament, N'gebe and Barnes. The parts to the puzzle grow
across the tent floor, and I feel as though some of the necessary
connections are being made. I gain little satisfaction, however.
I'm concerned I may find the answers too late.I was right. The sea of blood signified a change. At night, as
the others slip into an exhausted slumber, I wander the halls
alone. It's becoming harder and harder to find Mulder.Finally, a beam of sickening yellow-green light cutting through a
crack in a doorway catches my eye.When I push the door open, I discover him. He's draped over a
chair, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His mouth is slack
and his eyes are half-closed. He's gulping for air.Then I see her. A woman is kneeling between his spread legs. I
fight nausea but can't look away. The woman's head bobs up and
down with a bored, static rhythm. Mulder notices me and shakes
his head in dismay. "Scully," he moans.This stops the woman and she raises her head. "Hmmm?" One sound
from her and I recognize her voice. Phoebe Green. She sweeps her
hair back behind her ear and glances over at me. Her brow furrows
in irritation.I turn and hurry away. Out through the tent flap, shedding my
clothes as I run. Time for my swim. The moon is full and heavy,
hanging low in the sky like a ripe fruit.I dive under the surface, the cool water cleansing my sticky skin.
Flipping over, I arch my back up to meet the dark blue night sky.
Until I came to Africa, I'd never seen such a darkness.
Oppressive; strong as a father. The stars are sharp as knives
through the dark pelt. I shiver under all that power.When I roll my head to the side, a shape is moving slowly in the
water, circling the object. The craft's submerged in the high
tide but glows dull green nonetheless.I wonder if it's a shark. I don't care anymore. I'm Ophelia,
with her Hamlet too far away to notice while she drowns.It approaches and then rises to stand at my feet, the gentle waves
swirling around his legs. "Mulder. What are you doing here?""I'm sorry you had to see that. Sometimes, I need--"
I should turn in the water and cover myself with the jade liquid.
"I understand."He shakes his head. "I can't seem to control what you see
anymore--""I understand," I repeat.
The moonlight catches the planes of his naked body, coloring him
blue and black. I can tell his gaze is roaming my exposed body.
"Do you?"I'm suddenly cold in the warm water. My voice shakes when I
speak. "I want to help you."He shakes his head. "I can't ask--"
I can't think of a thing to say. I see his hand reach out to
stroke my foot. His touch is a whisper. Just fingertips, so
light it seems as though only the swirls of his pads are touching
me.I roll my head back to stare at the moon, trace its cragged
surface. The fingers dance up my legs, across my belly, to touch
my arm. "Scully?"I turn my head and he's lying beside me. "You hate it," he says.
I look up at our image in the mirror over the bed. My eyes can't
tear themselves from the strip of his hair-flecked stomach exposed
from where his sweater has risen up. "I don't hate it."I roll over to reach out and touch that strip of skin. His flesh
is burning hot. His hands reach out to lightly pull me over him
and we roll in the water, over and over like playing seals. Under
my hands, his skin is suddenly loose. It's cold and slick as
seaweed, epidermis floating away from his body.Shocked, I blink to clear my eyes in the dark water. He lies in
his hospital bed, his long fingers tapping at my waist as I crouch
beside him. "Scully?"I look down into his huge, lidless, pupil-less black eyes. His
slit of a mouth, too tiny for his immense gray-skinned head, opens
and I expect to hear that unearthly shrill sound. It's still his
voice. "I love you."I'm freezing. I wrap my arms around myself to try to keep in some
of the warmth. "I know, Mulder. Rest." I can't keep from
pleading. "Please."He stares at me, unblinking, and nods. "All right, I will."
***
When I wake in the gray morning, even though the day is already
warm, I'm still shaking with cold.Where is he? I move around my tasks like a machine, calling like
an old woman who's lost her cat, with a forlorn, high voice, too
high for N'gebe and Barnes to hear.I find an escape in my work, that familiar salve for my wounds.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I review the pieces of the puzzle,
both for my own process and with the slim hope that he can hear me
and make some sense of the overwhelming data.Dr. N'gebe interrupts my mental cataloguing. She brings more
papers. "I have something to show you...more pieces of the
puzzle. I couldn't believe it. I thought I was making it up in
my head, that it could not be true."I manage to raise my head and show some interest. "What?"
Her nervous excitement is palatable. "What this is. What the
symbols spell out is a passage from the Koran. Qeyaamah. The day
of final judgment. On a spacecraft? Teachings of the ancient
prophet Mohammed?"Concurring, I say, "I found more, too," as I show her a new
section of rubbings.My fingertips trace the patterns, and as I report to her, I call
to him. "24 panels... One for each human chromosome. A map of
their makeup-- maybe a map of our entire genetic makeup..." I'm
overwhelmed. "A complete human genome. I mean, it's like... it's
the most beautiful... intricate work of art." Can Mulder possibly
hear all this? See that I'm beginning to let myself understand?The doctor jolts me back into the tent with her reverent
statement. "It is the Word of God."Where lies the origin of the words I've held as truth for so long?
I have to wonder now.Barnes wanders into the tent with the wavering intensity of a
drunk. As he shoves a wet burlap bag under the table, he says,
"You're wrong. There is no God. What's out there on the water...
is only what we call 'God'...What we call 'creation'-- the spark
that ignited the fire that cooked the old primordial soup... made
animate from inanimate... made us."N'gebe is cool. Raising a brow as she looks over Barnes, she
says, "I believe he is mad from the sun." I stifle a wild cackle.
What would she think of me if she knew my ramblings to Mulder?Barnes sneers at us. "Mad? I'm perfectly sane... because today I
understand everything, beginning and end, alpha and omega,
everything in between. It's all been written. But the word is
'extraterrestrial.'"I could be speaking to myself as I suggest, "You're sick, Dr.
Barnes. You need to get off your feet, lie down."He snaps, sharp and quick, like a dry twig. Grabbing up the
machete, he threatens, "You think you're going to take the credit?
This is my discovery."I hear the desperation in my voice. "I'm only here to help my
friend.""You can't help him. You're wasting your time reading it." His
face is a death mask on a living form."It has power." My words almost seem like a prayer I say out
loud.He replies, "It *is* power... the ultimate power." He shrugs off
all my work and purpose. "Your friend just got too close."Positioning himself by the flap opening, he slides to the ground,
still gripping the machete. "No one leaves here before me."N'gebe and I can only hover, impotent in the face of his threats.
* * *
We wait. Dr. N'gebe and I lie on our cots, still but wary. And
that madman, Barnes waits too, crouched in a corner of the tent.I haven't been able to find Mulder and the urgency holds me in a
tight grip. I must get away. Away from Africa and back to him.Suddenly, the earth begins to shake and tremble, the walls of the
tent rippling as though a strong wind has blown through.Barnes is examining his burlap sack's contents with excitement as
Doctor N'gebe and I draw closer. So overcome with excitement, he
seems not to notice. "They've come back! They were dead!
They've come back to life! The ship--it brought them back to
life!"Every cell of my body is strong--twice its normal strength. With
ease and the confident stroke of a baseball slugger, I swing a
chair up and then down on his head.I motion to the doctor, but she's already halfway out the flap of
the tent. I surge forward to follow.She's in the truck. As she pulls onto the main road, I say, "We
have to get to the police."The truck bucks and grumbles as she finds the road in the inky
darkness. Tersely she says, "That is where I'm going. This is
the road to Abidjan."Suddenly, the old African man is caught on the road by our
headlights. I cry out, "Stop!"But as soon as she manages to stop the vehicle, the man is gone.
Bewildered, I state, "That was him. That was the man I saw in the
tent--in the road."When I turn back to get the doctor's confirmation, the man is
sitting in her place behind the wheel.Assuredly, he says, "Some truths are not for you," as he reaches
out to touch my forehead. I cannot move, struggle or escape. My
limbs scream in frustration, writhing in their confinement.Suddenly, I'm blind but free to move. As my vision returns, I run
wildly. The sand that once slowed my movements pushes me onward.
My neck arches, its muscles powerful and long. The sun, hot,
insistent, beats down on my long back. I toss my head, loosening
my hair from its band, and it streams out behind me.The ship is near. I can feel its draw and lengthen my stride.
Mulder must be there!I dive into the ocean, and the waves wash up over my shoulders and
back. My nostrils flare to pull in all the oxygen I can: the
excitement has made me light-headed.The heat of the sun is in the water and my skin begins to pucker
with pain as I push through it. The sea is blood red and heats to
boil. I struggle to free myself but the shore is suddenly far
away. The ship is still beneath the water, glowing the harsh
white of an exploding sun. I leap and charge forward, trying to
escape the agonizing pain, my screams drowned out by the growling
hum coming from the craft.Voices come in a sudden babble, tearing at my body as the burning
waves rip my flesh away."I don't know if you can hear me but we're going to try
to get you out of here. . . I was destroyed to protect what Mulder
knew all along. Now he's the proof-- he's the X-File. . . Face
the wall!. . .He's going into seizure. . .Watch his head. . . .Mr.
Mulder?. . .Hold him. . . Hold him. . . I know what's happened to
you. . .I know what you're suffering from. . .I've been sitting
back and watching. . .I know you know about me...That my loyalties
aren't just to you... but to a man you've grown to despise. You
have your reasons but, as you look inside me now you know that I
have mine. . .Fox... Fox, I love you. I've loved you for so long.
. .Now we can be together."I'm boiled down to my cold bones, cold as the hand touching my
forehead. With a start, I realize I'm back in the truck cab, and
Dr. N'gebe is the one with her hand to my forehead.Concerned, she asks, "Are you all right?"
Fear still ripples through me like an ill wind and I can barely
keep myself from sobbing. Is she trying to stop my work as well?
"Oh, God. What are you doing?"She answers, "You were cold. I was just feeling to see if you
were still alive."Who is the mad one here, she or I? Certainly she couldn't have
been sitting in the truck this entire time? "What happened to
you?" I ask.She seems genuinely confused. "To me?"
Frantically, I try to remember the string of events. "You slammed
on the brakes. There was a man."Slowly, she replies, "That's right--in the road."
She has to have seen something. Motioning to her, I assert, "No.
He was right there. Sitting right where you are in your seat."
Her mouth sets in a hard line and she shakes her head as she
reaches for the key to start the truck's engine again. "The men
were right. This is a bad sign." With another definite nod, she
states, "A sign to give up."She cranks the engine. I know what I have to do. I can't go on
like this. I have to return to Mulder, even if that means leaving
the puzzle behind. He can no longer handle the threat alone. I
say to her, "Turn us around."She's frightened. "Not back to the beach."
He's become silent. Silent as the dead. The fear for myself has
been replaced by rising panic at his absence. "No ... I'm going
home."
* * * * *
Washington D.C.; FBI Headquarters; 10:15 AM
On the interminably long flight, every push of the engines drew me
closer to Mulder, but each moment he didn't answer filled me with
dread. Taking his lead, I try one last time to seek Skinner's
help.Our superior has become a painfully solid wall, and my questions
are nothing more than ineffective slaps against his resistance.
His only reply is a hollow echo of emptiness under that hard
surface.Faint at first, then stronger and stronger, a counter rhythm
rises. He's still here. Even as I continue to pepper Skinner, I
can hear Mulder. Not his voice. He must be too weak. But now
back home, closer, he can reach me. I hear the steady beating of
his heart in time with mine. As my heart pushes deprived blood
out, his heart presses oxygenated blood in. Strength floods me.
"Do you know where he is or don't you?!"Skinner makes some ridiculous assertion. "He's in the neuro-psych
ward but it's no good, Agent Scully." I'm already halfway out the
door but he tries to call me back. "Agent Scully!"He confesses, "It's a long story, but it ended badly. They've got
Mulder under security now around the clock. I take full
responsibility."Dread blossoms to deep red. "Responsibility for what?"
He rushes on, "He can't even communicate, Agent Scully. They
won't treat him because they don't know what's wrong with him!
They said he was dying. I had to do something."The heart is listening too and I hear it laugh out loud. Thank
God. Thank God for Mulder. "He's not dying," I assure Skinner.He tries to dissuade me. "I'm afraid it's true."
These words are ridiculous. If only he'd been the places I've
been with Mulder, he'd know it wasn't true. I'm as strong as my
visions. "He's not dying. He is more alive than he has ever
been. He's more alive than his body can withstand and what's
causing it may be extraterrestrial in origin."Skinner doesn't even blink, and admits, "I know. But there's
nothing to be done about it."I don't have time for him. I need to get to Mulder. Leaving his
worries behind, I head to the hospital, closer to the sound of his
beating heart.
* * *
Georgetown Memorial Hospital; 11:00 AM
The doctors protest, trying to keep me away from Mulder, but the
heartbeats drown them out. I just keep saying, "Please. I need
to see him. I'm begging you. Please."As I enter his room, I'm suddenly back in a familiar place. This
is reality. The four beige walls. The tubes and lines. The
equipment. His blank face and wasted body. His hair is crushed
as flat as his spirit.Slowly approaching his bed, I realize there's no voice: no
beautiful landscapes and gentle touches. I'm Dana Scully again,
scientist, doubter of visions.All my foolish delusions, possibly spun out of my imaginings of
his past, are swept away. Perhaps in my flurry to save him I
created a madwoman's scenario to push myself onward. My partner,
like a great athlete felled by a cruel opponent, lies paralyzed
before me. I can barely speak for shock, but speak out loud I
must as I stroke his arm. "Mulder, it's me. I know that you can
hear me. If you can just give me some sign." His empty eyes mock
me and my hope fades.I can only whisper, trying to give him some idea of the work I've
done. "I want you to know where I've been... what I found. I
think that, if you know, that you could find a way to hold on. I
need you to hold on. I found a key... the key... to every
question that has ever been asked."I'm sure he can't hear me within him. There's no response, even as
I clutch at his hand. It was all for nothing. I bring no cure,
no answers. And the only person on earth who could help me make
sense of my gatherings lies limp under my touch. "It's a
puzzle...but the pieces are there for us to put together and I
know that they can save you if you can just hold on."Instead of giving him strength, I feel his empty shell draining my
energy. I can barely summon the words to beg, "Mulder... please.
Hold on."* * *
I didn't mean to fall asleep. I have so much work to do. I
refuse to believe anymore that the answers lie within me. I'm
trying to work harder than ever before on the data from Africa.I'd left Mulder in the hospital and set up work quarters in his
office, as though his presence would creep out of his belongings
to assist me where his spirit had not.But as I sleep, the office is gone and I'm back in the musty
university library. As much as I should be seeking answers within
the evidence on my laptop hard drive, the joy at finding Mulder
again keeps me slipping through the stacks."Mulder!"
I can't find him and worry begins to prickle at my skin again. I
see a light shining under a door and hurry through it into a
deeply shadowed rose garden, now surrounded by a high brick wall.He sits at a small table set for two. Tea has been poured out but
the cups are still full and small cakes remain uneaten on plates.
He's staring off at a swinging gate that creaks with a lonely
groan."Mulder?" I try to catch his attention.
He turns back and his expression is almost as blank as the one on
the body in the hospital."Is something wrong?"
He shrugs and I wonder if he can even speak.
"Was someone else here?" I ask as I gesture to the setting.
His voice is low and weak. "My mother."
"Oh." I can't think of anything else to say.
"She had to go."
"Yes," I say as I sink down into the empty chair. I try to
reassure him. "Perhaps she can't hear you like I can.""No. I don't think so," he agrees.
"I'm so glad I found you, Mulder." I reach across the table to
take his hand and it's deathly cold. I rub it between my hands to
give it circulation. "I need your help--"He cuts me off, rising suddenly from the table. "I have to go."
"Where?" I'm concerned. He won't look at me and he's beginning
to walk away, back towards the open library door.He tosses over his shoulder, "I have to go somewhere without you."
There is no fear like the fear felt in a dream. Before I can stop
him, he's through the door and slams it shut.I wake with a lurch at the sound, still weak and defenseless from
the depressing visitation. Michael Kritschgau sneers down at me.
"Sleep is a luxury, Agent Scully. A self-indulgence we have no
time for. Nor does Agent Mulder."The fear is everywhere now. In the dream. In the room, pinned
under the beady, cold eyes of Kritschgau. I know that expression.
Barnes had it as he went mad. And now I know I'm alone.The man tries to break me, to make me feel as though he has the
answers I can't find. I know he must be lying.He plays his card. "You are the only one with access to Mulder."
For a horrible moment, I'm afraid he knows about my journeys to
within Mulder. "I need you to use it wisely."He wants me to go look at that body again. A body he tried to
destroy. As we argue, the phone rings.He leaves as I answer it. He might already know what Skinner is
going to say. Mulder is gone. I put the phone down in shock. I
should have known. I should have sensed it. Or was that what
Mulder was trying to tell me? Did he choose to leave? And where
has he gone?* * *
At the hospital I find nothing but more frustration and isolation.
It seems Skinner has built more walls around himself and now I
have to realize Mulder's own mother may have helped to take him
from me.Exhausted, drained, I drag myself into my apartment. As I'm
staring, unseeing, into my refrigerator, a sound catches my
attention. Immediately on alert, I whip out my pistol and call,
"Don't move! Who's there?"Albert Hosteen has come from New Mexico, from his sickbed, seeking
Mulder as well. For a catatonic man, he has many people anxious
to speak to him.Dryly, I respond, "He's missing."
Mr. Hosteen's suddenly intense. We have arrived at his real
reason for coming to my apartment. "You must save him."Exasperated, I say, "He's very ill."
He only confuses me more with his strong words. "You must find
him before something happens. Not only for his sake. For the
sake of us all."* *
Nothing is the same since I returned from Africa. I hoped to find
clarity and answers far from the bewitching trance of the craft.
Instead, I've been dragged into a dark place, yet another world.I have to wonder if this world is Mulder's making too. A world
where I could see his mother hand him over to a curl of smoke. A
world where I wonder if I've been wrong all along and that man
will lead him from hell like Virgil, instead of drawing him deeper
down the rings as the devil I always had him playing.I work hard. I'm a trooper. I try to concentrate on hard, cold
facts in the letters of the ancient languages off the ship,
working with one of my few, slim leads. A code is a simple system
to be deciphered; there are no ambiguous questions.But my science is only leading me further away. I'm no longer the
scientist; I'm the lab rat in the maze. Here in Washington, I
scurry from place to place, looking at everything with the
limited, monochromatic vision of an animal, finding nothing but
blank walls, false turns, and dead ends, meeting only other rats
solely concerned with getting out of the maze themselves.
* * *
This day's journey has led me right back to my own door. As I
pass through, a figure steps out of the shadows. It's Albert
Hosteen again. "You're running out of time."All my frustration wells up and I strike out at the old man. "Why
do you come to me? Why? When I can't find him?""You don't look in the right place," is his impassive response.
"I don't think you're hearing me," I seethe.
"You don't know where he is?"
"Even if I did, I wouldn't know how to save him." I feel panic
overcoming my anger. "This science makes no sense to me."His bent brown root of a finger points to my heart. "Have you
looked for him here?""Are you asking me to pray?" I can barely keep the contempt from
my voice.He seems to ignore my impertinence, and sinks to his knees. His
strong hands grip my arm and a gentle but insistent tug pulls me
down beside him. His fingers, oddly soft despite his years,
stroke my palm. "There are more worlds than the one you can hold
in your hand."My resistance dies as my eyes meet his warm gaze. He drops his
head and I do as well. Questions and confusion sift away like
sand through my fingers as my lips move soundlessly in familiar
patterns of prayers. His voice joins mine, speaking in his native
tongue. The rhythm of his words has a singsong quality that lulls
me into a sleep. I'm so tired. So very tired.His hand slips into mine and the warmth from his palm, smooth as a
river-washed stone, radiates up my arm. My tense muscles loosen
and my entire body becomes limp. My living room fills with light
until I have to close my eyes against the glare."Miss Scully?" It's Albert again.
I force my eyes open. I'm standing on a desert plain. The sand
shifts uneasily beneath my feet like the deck of a ship. I hear a
great 'hmph!' of breath being exhaled behind me, lifting the hair
from my neck. When I turn, Albert stands by a low, mud-covered
hogan, his palm resting on the neck of the white horse."We have to go," he says.
I can only shake my head. I can't show this brave man I'm afraid.
"Yes," he says as he hoists himself onto the animal's back with
ease. His large brown hand stretches down to me. I cannot
refuse.When he pulls my hand, I seem to float up and onto the back of the
horse in front of him, snug against the withers. His arms wrap
around me, secure, grasping the mane. My rapidly beating heart
manages to control its runaway flight.I feel his legs squeeze the horse's sides behind my calves and it
leaps forward, the sagebrush whipping by at a dizzying rate. I
clutch at the mane beneath Albert's sure grip. I concentrate on
his hands, dark against the white hair. I know if I look down
I'll fall and if I look up, the terror will overcome me. I trust
him with my life."Miss Scully." My name, sure and slow, filters through my racing
thoughts.I force my gaze up and gasp with shock. Ship Rock looms before
us, growing ever closer with each stride the animal takes. Green-
gray storm clouds coil around the huge stone formation, boiling
within the slate sky. Lightning cuts through the clouds, causing
me to blink with fear. A rumbling rolls towards us, vibrating my
heart in my chest.His quiet words. "They are coming."
I can make out shapes within the clouds, familiar black triangles
swooping like bats gathering their prey."Where's Mulder?" My trepidation is replaced with a greater fear
for his safety."Yes. You must find him," Albert replies.
We are at the base of the rock now and I slip from the sweating
animal's back. Albert remains on it, watching me impassively. I
run to the solid wall of stone, frantic. He's here. I know he's
here.My questing fingertips, clawing at the wall, find a straight
crack. Tracing it with my nails, I realize it's a door. I must
find the way to open it.Beating against it, I cry out, "Mulder!"
Pressing my ear to the door, I can hear the faint rumbling of
voices. I recognize his low, even beat and I'm overwhelmed with
joy. I've found him at last.Then a green smoke begins to filter through the crack, reaching my
nostrils, clinging to my skin. It smells of stale cigarettes and
a woman's cloying perfume. I have to take a step back to keep
myself from being nauseated.I slap at the door. "Mulder!" I try again. "You have to open
the door from your side! I can't find a way to open it!"Nothing. His voice is gone.
"Miss Scully?" Albert asks.
I turn to look up at him, tears of frustration blurring my vision.
The storm clouds have filled the sky and I can see the lightning
strike the ground all around us, shaking the earth.I'm suddenly exhausted. More tired than I was in Africa. More
tired than I was in Antarctica. More tired than I was while I had
cancer. Death wouldn't be enough sleep."He's gone." I realize I won't be able to save him if he won't
help me. And he doesn't seem to want my help.Albert protested, "But--"
"No. It's over." I say.
"It's never over, Miss Scully. Not for the two of you," he
responds.I laugh, a wild sound in the pounding thunder. A shadow falls
over us and I look up to see one of the great spaceships hovering
above.I must save myself. I start running. The thick sand slows my
stride and I foolishly look back over my shoulder. Albert is
still on the white horse, standing by the huge black rock. The
clouds have taken on a new shape, funneling up to the heavens in
the shape of a mushroom cloud.I cover my head with my arms. I can't watch. A powerful wave of
cold wind hits me anyway, knocking me down to the ground. I feel
my body instantly freeze and come apart, becoming grains of sand
that join the millions of grains beneath me. I'm glad. I can
sleep at last.* * *
I wake. I'm cold and stiff. The room is dark. Disoriented, I
clutch at the keys still in my hand, my eyes searching the
dimness. Albert. . .He's gone. My attention is caught when an envelope is shoved
under the door. I shake my head at the emotional impact of
staring at a door. I hurry to pick up the envelope and rip it
open. A white key card. The seal of the Defense Department
emblazoned on it. The envelope has the same cloying odor that
came from under the door in my dream.Perhaps I've given up too easily. It was all just a dream anyway.
This is real and tangible--a key. A locked door needs a key.
There's still hope.* * *
As I hurry down the corridor at the Defense Department, I'm
confronted by nothing but doors. All as tightly sealed as the
door in Ship Rock.I'm lightheaded from the emotions of the past few days. I feel
darkness overcoming me and I reach out to grip a door handle to
keep my balance. The door gives and opens.Before my eyes can adjust to the dimness, I can smell old age: the
odors of stale air, arthritis ointments and sour urine-ridden
sheets. When I can make out a figure in a bed at the end of the
room, I finally see Mulder.My anger returns sudden and sharp. He was here all along, well-
rested.He reaches for me and grasps my limp arm eagerly. "Oh, Scully! I
knew you'd come."Of course. I always come when he needs me. But while I suffered,
he's been sleeping with the enemy. "And you believed them.
Traitor.""What?" He seems befuddled.
"Deserter. Coward." I spit at him all my frustration, carefully
stored away, now swelling and overflowing.He whines at me, "Scully, don't. . .I'm dying."
No. This vision is his creation too. And he's failing me, giving
up. I was right. I can't save him by myself. I need his
cooperation, something he obviously doesn't want to give. "You're
not supposed to die, Mulder. Not here."He's confused. "What do you mean?"
I can sense the danger in this still room, drifting as lightly as
the stale cigarette smoke that lingers in the air. "Not in a
comfortable bed with the devil outside."He insists, "No, you don't understand. He's taking care of me."
Am I alone now? Fear fuels my anger. "No, Mulder. He's lulled
you to sleep. He's made you trade your true mission for creature
comforts.""There was no mission. There were no aliens." He seems confident
in his delusions.I insist, "No aliens? Have you looked outside, Mulder?" My
nightmare swarms among red clouds in the scene outside his window."I can't," he whispers, "I'm. . .too tired."
I rain my contempt down on him. If my love couldn't get him to
try, perhaps my anger can. "No, Mulder, you must get up. You
must get up and fight. . .especially you. This isn't your place.
Get up, Mulder. Get up and fight the fight."I can't stand this vision anymore. All my work and sacrifice has
come to this moment and it's very dark in here. I whirl and
stride away, ignoring his weak cries, "Scully. . .Where's Scully?
Scully. . ."* *
I slam the door behind me and waver on my feet, the
lightheadedness returning.When I clear my vision I realize I'm back in the original
corridor. The visions are seeping into real life, taking over my
actions. I'm no longer certain if I'm even here in the Defense
Department and I'm beginning to feel frantic.Another door. I know he's behind it. The key card slips into the
slot easily and the door opens.It had seemed a nightmare come alive when I walked into the
hospital room to find Mulder immobilized, but the sight before me
is a descent to hell.It's the dead, stiff swan stretched out on the bank of Thames.
His skin glows white, translucent and white. Was he foreseeing
his own death?I reach out to touch his perfect, porcelain surface. "Mulder.
Mulder, you've got to wake up. I've got to get you out of here.
Mulder, can you understand me?"His heavy eyelids flutter but no sound comes from his lips or
movement from his limbs.All of my pain is draining out of me. I'm dissolving, here, now,
when Mulder needs me the most. My tears hold onto my eyelashes
with the last of my control. I plead, "Mulder, you've got to get
up. I don't know how much time we have. You've got to get up,
Mulder."My voice is gone. I can only whisper as I stroke his face. "No
one can do it but you, Mulder. Mulder, help me. Please, Mulder."One of my tears escapes, dropping on his marble-still features,
sliding down his frozen cheek. His eyes open and as I drown, he
rises to the surface, coming into my arms. His voice is raw and
torn. "You. . .help. . .me."I can feel the warmth returning to his body as I clutch him to me.
I can only gasp and nod. That's all the energy I have at this
moment, but I can feel power returning to me as well. I'll be
able to assist him out of here, to take him to a hospital. He
came back to me. That's all I needed.* * * * *
As the next week passes, I find solace in regular patterns of
actions. Visit Mulder during his brief hospital stay. Don't ever
leave his side, brushing aside all objections. Concerned about
possible brain damage, I have every possible test performed on
him.Skinner is down the hall, recovering in ICU. I won't leave Mulder
to go check on our supervisor, but he insists on visiting with
him. I stay back by the door. I had to fight this battle alone.
Skinner can fight his battle alone.
This pattern gives me a handle to grasp, but as much as I try to
ignore it, my body seems to be recovering from some trauma as
well. I feel as shaky as Mulder looks, wobbling around on stork
legs. I have myself checked for malaria or some other tropical
condition, a probable cause of my malady since I rushed off to
Africa without taking the usual prescribed course of inoculations.Nothing. And nothing is what I feel. Empty.
Since I returned from my abduction, my dreams have had the quality
of an old black and white television situation comedy: routine,
pedestrian, sometimes mildly entertaining. Somehow comforting,
especially on the days when I've spent every waking hour living a
nightmare.And now, since I went to Africa, I can't remember a single dream.
I sleep like I'm drugged, but wake with no images in my memory:
just an overwhelming sense of loss. I discover my pillow soaked
with tears and my eyes burn as though I've spent the night
sobbing. My emotional state seems similar to when my father died,
like I'm a crystal shell waiting to topple off a shelf and
shatter.I've never been a person who found deep meaning in her dreams.
But now that they're gone, I feel incomplete.Of course he notices.
"Scully, is something wrong?"
I've been folding the sheet beside his arm in intricate patterns,
then smoothing it back flat."No, Mulder. You need to concentrate on getting well," I remind
him, trying to give him a convincing smile.I haven't fooled him. His hand shifts to still mine. "I'll be
glad to get home."As I nod, he gives me a much more sincere smile than I gave him.
"You'll come stay with me?""Yes. If that's what you want." I'd hoped he would ask. I want
to get him out of this place. It doesn't feel safe here and can't
possibly have any good memories for him. And I keep waiting for a
long, tall, dark shadow to appear in the doorway.* *
I find a new concern for myself as I settle Mulder in his
apartment. He's still as weak as a baby and I have to help him
bathe, dress: any action that takes energy. I can't seem to stop
touching him. It's as though I need to convince myself that he's
alive through his blood-warmed skin: that our mere connected skin
tissue will mean he can't leave me or die.He keeps asking though. This afternoon, he tries again. "Scully?
Are you all right?"For the first time, I'm closely examining the faded photograph
that hangs on his living room wall, back in a shadow. It's in
Oxford, he and some college friends on a boating trip.A graze from fingertips. The lapping of water against a boat's
hull. A shifting of his eyes. They all seem familiar and
incredibly intimate, to the point I gasp in pain. The pain of
recognition. Of deja vu. But there's nothing to recognize."Yes, Mulder. Why do you ask?" I reply, forcing myself to turn
and meet his gaze.He reaches out to me and I have to drift to join him on the couch,
my thigh settling down next to his. His smile is sweet. "I think
you're working too hard."I shake my head to deny his words and clear my mind. Firmly, I
remind myself that the only important thing is that he is well and
whole. I must stop his questions, my questions, of how this
happened. His firm grip on my own shaking hand is all that
matters.My denial can't stop the sudden flashes of odd memories. Odd
because they couldn't have possibly happened. I've never been to
Oxford or the New Mexico high plains. And yet, during our
drifting afternoons, as Mulder haltingly recalls the events during
his hospital stay, I can prompt him as quickly and clearly as
though I'd been standing beside him.He suggests we shared a psychic bond during his incapacitation.
At first I laugh it off, assuming he's joking, but then he says
he's serious. I've just helped him into bed, but he pesters me
like a child who doesn't want to go to sleep.He insists, "Scully, perhaps it was a residual effect after our
experiences at Brown Mountain."I'm digging through his bureau, searching for the perfect
thickness of sock to put on his cold feet. "Mulder, we never
proved that any sort of connection was responsible--""Scully!" He's getting agitated and I hurry to his side.
I soothe him. "Just calm down--"
He's shaking his head, his spiky hair waving indignantly out of
the top of his bandage. "I can't believe after everything that's
happened this past month, the similar memories we share, you're
able to deny the possibility."I settle down and take his hand. "Mulder, we were both
traumatized by the events of the past few weeks. We can't be
responsible for the validity of our memories."He leans close and whispers, "Not any of them?"
Springing up, I pull his covers higher on his chest. "You need to
get some more rest," I command.Thankfully, exhaustion overcomes him and he falls asleep with a
minimum of protests, but this experience is only increasing my
anxiety. Desperate, I cling to the one grace on my side. His
focus turns completely to the World Series, giving us a set
routine that is my salvation.Our pattern is a long wait until game time, with Mulder as
impatient as a boy waiting for Christmas morning. Up at a
reasonable hour in the morning. Take a short walk in the crisp
fall air, me, one hand on my gun, one hand on his arm. Back for
breakfast: hearty oatmeal and such--replenishing his depleted
vitamins. Bathe him. Change dressings. Nap for him. I shower
and settle down with a book.Lunch--comfort foods such as grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato
soup. Discover Mulder has a secret soap opera viewing habit.Another nap. Sometimes I doze in the chair.
Evening brings enlivening of patient. The game starts. During
the game, he points out endless perceived errors by coaches,
umpires and players, alarmingly over-stimulating himself in the
process. I'm forced to stop from correcting his miscalls.My simple omission of the truth now has condemned me to hours of
crushing self-control. I must not cry out for the annihilation of
those damn Yankees while he gleefully cheers them on.* *
Our comforting rhythm had to end. My first day back at work, I
was called into the looming hulk of the Watergate to look down at
the shattered remnants of Diana Fowley's body.Exhaustion almost drops me as I wipe my hand across my face.
"Agent Scully?" A police officer is at my shoulder.
She lies in a pool of congealed blood, a crow with broken wings.
Swathed in a black negligee from high neckline to wrists to
ankles, her white skin is lost under the dark bruises and dried
rust blood.In a brief flash, I can see the other ravens, leaping on her
writhing body, cawing sharply as they rip her heart out."Deliver her to Quantico," I mumble as I force myself around the
room, glancing this way and that to note the lack of any tangible
evidence. I'm overcome by the emptiness of this act. They did
this unspeakable thing, an arrogant slap to show us we could be
torn asunder just as easily, whenever and however they chose.Before he has it delivered as a mocking threat breathed down the
phone line, I hurry to Mulder's apartment, bringing the latest bad
news.* *
When he finally opens his door, I notice that he's in the process
of putting on a dress shirt and tie. Gone a few hours and he's
already planning an escape. At least he hasn't removed the
bandage I put on his head this morning.He tries to divert me. "Scully, what are you doing here?
Actually, I was just getting ready to come see you but I..." He
pulls his tie back and forth through the collar. "I couldn't find
a tie to go with my victory cap."I have to swallow the Yankees win one more time. As I pull his
cap off, I scold him. "Mulder, no work. You have to go back to
bed."Exasperated, I reach to yank his tie loose as well. Playfully, he
dodges away. "Oh, wait! Tie goes to the runner."I can only smile weakly at his reiteration of baseball lesson
number 213.His smile fades, replaced by a saddening of his features.
"Scully. . .I. . .um, I was coming down to work, to tell you that
Albert Hosteen is dead. He died last night, in New Mexico. He'd
been in a coma for two weeks. There was no way he could have been
in your apartment."Overcome with confusion, I insist, "He was there! We...we prayed
together!" I can only shake my head. "Mulder, I don't believe
that!" I find my words stuttering like my jumbled thoughts.
"I...don't believe it. It's impossible."Quietly, but insistently, he says, "Is it any more impossible than
what you saw in Africa or what you saw in me?"Furiously, I try to piece the days together. Could he be right?
I thought I wasn't dreaming at night, but in reality, have my
dreams drifted outside their confines to swirl through what I
assumed was my reality?
I can only whisper, fighting back tears, "I don't know what to
believe anymore. Mulder, I was so determined to find a cure to
save you that I could deny what it was that I saw and now I don't
know." The flashes come again, strong and true. Mulder's face
bathed in a kaleidoscope of color. The huge African moon lying
over me like a blanket. The tingling in my fingertips as I stroke
the craft's hull. So vivid. How can they be dreams? "I don't
know...I don't know what the truth is...I don't know who to listen
to. I don't know who to trust."I'm ashamed to be so weak when he needs me to be strong. I have
to summon some strength for him now. I gulp down my tears and
hurry on. "Diana Fowley was found murdered this morning. I never
trusted her...but she helped save your life as much as I did. She
gave me that book. It was her key that led me to you. I'm
sorry...so sorry. I know she was your friend." It suddenly
occurs to me that I may have played a part, leading this woman to
her death when I forced her to help me.Traitorously, I have to pull him into my arms, and with even more
weakness, I welcome his arms coming around me.His words vibrate through my body, low and reassuring. "Scully, I
was like you once. I didn't know who to trust. Then I...I chose
another path...another life, another fate, where I found my
sister. The end of my world was unrecognizable and upside down."
As he pulls away, he adds, "There was one thing that remained the
same."He holds my face in his hands so I can't hide from his penetrating
gaze. But it is full of love, not the recrimination I fear.A trembling, soft smile appears that I cannot help but echo. "You
were my friend and you told me the truth. Even when the world was
falling apart, you were my constant...my touchstone."There is only one response, easy and automatic. "And you were
mine."
His face lights up and the expression is my end. I give in to an
urge to kiss his forehead like a little boy who's pleased me, but
as my lips settle on his skin, I find myself lingering. Where my
hand grips his neck, pulling him down to me, I can feel his pulse,
thumping stronger and stronger, like a runner nearing the finish
line.Am I foolish enough to believe that through my mouth on his skin,
I can seep back into those dreamscapes he told me about?This is no dream. He survived and he's here with me, more vibrant
than my false dreams, even if he's innocuous in his unbuttoned
collar and limp tie.His hat: his silly little boy's cap. I pull it down to his ears
so it won't fall off and they warm under my fingertips. His sweet
smile spreads to a grin and I can't resist the draw. As my hands
stroke down his cheeks, I give in to temptation.Yes, his lips are as tender as a berry under my touch.
I can't stop this urge to touch him. I know I need to reassure
myself that he's real and solid, that he won't disappear on me
again. When did his warm body under my hands become a necessary
reality? The confusion draws me back and I hurry away before he
can say anything else.
* * * *
Tonight I'll try again. Try to find out what my mind doesn't want
to remember. Now I believe I have been dreaming, but my
consciousness won't let me remember them. I'm not afraid anymore,
not afraid of what these dreams will tell me.I fall asleep on my couch; the exhaustion brought on by an
emotional day finally overcoming me. And I dream. At last, the
vivid images rise before my eyes.
I'm free. Free to run. I feel power, then a sense of speed, but
I'm not afraid. I'm not going to fall.The white horse's legs churn under me, kicking up sand and the
edge of the ocean. His hooves flash in the bright light. My
hands are buried in his long white mane and my legs grip his warm
body tightly.We're galloping down the familiar beach, along the coastline
leading towards the submerged craft. The horse's rhythm is steady
and I dare to sit upright on his back, letting the wind whip tears
from my eyes. I concentrate only on that rhythm, the concurrent
beat of two hearts. I find my hands slipping free from their grip
on his mane, coming to rest atop my thighs.I can stay on. I just need to balance and let my body find his
rhythm. Rather than losing control, I feel stronger than ever
before. Overcome by exhilaration, I toss my arms above my head,
spreading them wide as though I'm flying.I am flying. My dress billows out, and his mane, now free from my
hands, wraps around my waist like long feathers. I feel
weightless. Someone else is carrying me far away from all my pain
and fears.As we approach the site, I notice the ship lies on the shore
today, a pale gray shape under the bright sun. I squint when I
recognize Mulder atop it, smoothing its edges. But we thunder
past, giving him a wave, my cry lost in the speed. His head
raises and I can feel his smile. I smile too, but still won't
stop my flight, letting my arms stretch out again, grabbing great
handfuls of wind.Long golden arms snake around my waist, the fingers twining
through the strands of mane. Behind my thighs, I feel strong legs
slip up to join my grip on the horse's sides. I lean back
slightly and meet a solid chest, rising and falling with steady
breaths.Reaching down, I tug his hands loose from the white hair. "I can
keep us on. Don't worry." I only get a chuckle in response, but
his hands come to rest on the tops of my bare thighs.I can see the long, white, empty beach stretching ahead of us to
disappear in the pale mist. A single finger comes up to lightly
stroke my bottom lip.I find myself laughing for no reason. An impulse makes me turn
the horse towards the pounding surf. Without faltering, the
animal plunges forward, bounding into the water. The arms tighten
around my waist but I keep us on the animal.He dives beneath the warm sea. As the waters close over our heads,
for the first time in a very long while, I feel absolutely no
fear. I am released from those bonds. Laughing again, taking in
deep gulps of water, I finally let go of the horse, and we float
up towards the surface of the ocean, our bodies twirling in the
currents like twines of pliant seaweed.Now, when I dream, I dream of white horses, of a bright blue sky,
and of a green, swirling surf that echoes with the rhythm of
Mulder's laughter.
~~*~~*~~The End~~*~~*~~
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The title comes from a French surrealist film by
the same name. It always sounded so evocative to me and I wanted
to use it for something.