The sound of a bird screeching brought Taylor awake with a start. She sat up cautiously, expecting a shaft of hangover pain, but nothing happened. Not that she was trying to borrow trouble, but if she drank enough wine that she passed out on some beach somewhere, why didn't she have a hangover? It was as puzzling as the fact she'd passed out in the first place. They'd only had two bottles of wine between the three of them.
"Somebody must have spiked one of those bottles," she said, getting to her feet. "It's the only possible--where the heck am I?"
With the sand beneath her she'd assumed she'd wandered onto the beach at the resort about half a mile from the cottage, but looking around all she could see was sand. There was no hotel, no water, no ... anything. Just sand.
Taylor sat down again. She must still be drunk. The nearest desert was hundreds of miles away. There was no way she could just magically appear in the middle of one.
Magic! What was it that little old lady they'd helped said? Something about being a fairy godmother and no one believing in such things any more.
There was more ... she remembered sitting by the fire, passing the bottle of wine around, and she'd been just about to get up to get the makings for some s'mores when Eva spotted the evening star.
When they saw the star they heard the old woman's voice again: "... whatever wish you make tonight upon that star will come true. But mind it's a personal wish, something frivolous that will benefit only you. None of that world peace nonsense. You will be touched by magic."
"Touched by magic," she repeated. They decided then and there to wish for their perfect mates. "No way!" she said, a little louder.
If there was one thing Taylor loved, it was old black and white movies, the older the better. And her absolute favourites were the silent movies. Douglas Fairbanks, Lillian Gish, Buster Keaton ... but the one she'd had the biggest crush on was Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik. So without even thinking about it, when it came time to make her wish she wished to be swept away by a desert prince.
"This can't be real," she said, getting to her feet for a better look around. There were no deserts in Canada, nothing even resembling a desert in the woods she had started out in. But there was no denying the fact that she was in the middle of an unknown desert. No sheik in sight, she was utterly alone.
It was colder than she expected, but she knew that wouldn't last for long once the sun rose. She needed to find shelter or she'd fry out here. Pivoting in a circle she was able to make out shadows in the landscape. Rocks maybe, or scrubby trees. As her eyes adjusted fully to the dark she spotted a faint glow in the distance. A town would be too much to hope for, but with any luck it would be a camp or an oasis with someone to help her.
Taylor thought she was in pretty good shape, but after what seemed like hours of slogging through the sand, having to compensate with the way it shifted beneath her feet, she was more exhausted than she'd ever been in her life. She was close enough to see the palm trees, a couple of tents pitched near the crumbled ruin of a wall, and a large fire, but her mouth was too dry from the desert air to call out.
Doggedly she kept moving forward until she reached the outer set of trees. Holding onto the nearest trunk for support, she studied the camp while mustering the energy for the last few steps. There was a group of seven individuals, dressed in white robes with red agals holding their keffiyehs in place, sitting close to the fire. They could have stepped right out of a Valentino movie, or maybe Lawrence of Arabia. She wasn't close enough to see their features clearly, but they seemed to pay special deference to the man in the middle - probably their leader.
Just as she was about step forward several more, similarly dressed men streamed into the firelight. The ones sitting around the fire jumped to their feet. Taylor could hear shouting, but wasn't close enough to understand what was being said. She didn't need to, to figure out what was going on. The six original men surrounded the seventh, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Curved knives, or maybe they were swords, flashed in the firelight and the seventh man was left standing alone.
Fist to her mouth to keep from crying out, Taylor sank into a crouch, making herself as small as possible as she pressed closer to the tree.
"Where is the stone, old man?" the leader of the invaders demanded.
The old man drew himself up proudly. "Where you will never find it. I have made my choice known to one and all. Not even this betrayal can change that."
"Don't be so sure," the man said, and then almost casually ran him through with his sword.
Taylor squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too late. She would never forget the sight of the sword being withdrawn from the old man, bright with his blood. When she could finally bring herself to open her eyes again, she looked around in shock. There was no trace of the invaders.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she got to her feet. No matter what else was going on, it didn't change the fact that she was in desperate need of water. And there was the clear outline of a well just beyond the old man's body.
She could do this. Her survival depended on it. She would go over to that well and have a good, long drink and when she recovered some of her strength she'd figure out a way to bury those poor men. Then she'd rest in one of the two tents and figure out things from there. It was a good plan, she was just having a hard time getting her feet to move.
"You can do this," she told herself, her voice sounding harsh to her ears.
Giving herself a shake, she forced herself to move towards the well, giving the bodies beside the fire a wide berth. Thank god someone had been careless and left a pail with a length of rope attached to it beside the well, otherwise she would have had no way of drawing water up. She dipped both hands into the pail and splashed her face, then cupped her hands to drink. Water had never tasted so good.
Taylor almost choked on a mouthful of water when a moan sounded behind her. She whirled, nearly losing the bucket. The moan sounded again.
"Oh my god!"
It was the old man. She went and knelt down beside him, afraid to touch him for fear of making things worse. His eyes opened; he seemed unsurprised to see her.
"What can I do?"
"You are the one," he whispered. "I have seen this ... too late."
"It's not too late," she said desperately. But there was a distinct odour in the air that told her the knife had sliced into his bowel. Even if she had some way of summoning help, it would not arrive in time.
"Tell him," he whispered.
"Tell who? That man who stabbed you?"
His hand shot up and gripped her wrist. "When you see him ... tell him that I was betrayed. The stone ... the stone is in the hands of the mother, covered by her tears."
Taylor tried to gently pry his hand off her wrist. "We need to get you some help. I--" She broke off what she was about to say as his hand suddenly went slack. A shiver went through her and she gently placed his hand on his chest.
There was a whisper of movement behind her, her only warning. As she started to turn, something struck her on the side of the head. There was a brilliant burst of pain and then everything went dark.
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