A stunningly beautiful Indian woman in many fine embroidered gowns beckons you to a throne of majestically jeweled gold. She laughs at your short hair and with a slice of a scimitar it becomes longer than you are tall. Your hands become wrinkled as you watch, seated beside her. Then thousands of Europeans stream into the chamber with a clamorous din.
The noise of voices is overwhelming. A large, ragged, leather-bound book is brought before you as your hostess fingers a tassel attached to the crimson velvet placeholder before exposing the desired page. It reveals a description written in Sanskrit of the lands you are in and the opposite page details a glit atlas fabulously illuminated with a route to pilot the bayous of Bengal. As you examine it you touch it. The texture becomes rough as woven wool and you feel dizzy, spinning, shrinking. You are...
Aware. Aware of the daylight streaming in through the open window. Aware of marvelous smells rising from the kitchen below. Aware of the raspy blanket beneath your clenched fingers. Aware as the sounds of commerce dawn in the citizenry. But most of all, aware of the astonishing detail you remember from your phantasm.
While you dress, Indiana Jones is pressing the pieces of the map together over improvised cloth tape and mucilage. You would have thought he would be exhausted after having been up all night with Elams story. But there he is holster at the ready, fully dressed needing only his hat.
Suddenly a cry of help rings out from the direction of Marion's room.
Turn the page.You have reached the end of the gratuitous sample.
This gold pen is much too fine a gift.
Here out of Africa, we pay our storytellers.