As Annja settled back on the couch, something strange happened.

Once several years earlier, she’d come face-to-face with a king cobra while working a dig in southern India. She hadn’t even known the snake was there until it reared up beside her as she knelt by the supply chest. Hood spread, it had stared at her with alien eyes and she’d felt the cold hand of dread squeeze her spine in its iron grip.

Lying back, as the gentle grip of the couch shifted beneath her frame, Annja felt the very same sense of fear creep over her as she had that day at the dig. Something deep in her soul was telling her to get out of there, to make her apologies and slink out the door with her metaphorical tail between her legs.

Her heart began to hammer in her chest and her breath came in quick, short gasps. She felt her right hand flex in just the same way it always did as she settled her grip around the hilt of her sword. Miraculously she managed to stay in control and didn’t call it to her; it would have been a little difficult explaining to the doctor just where she’d been hiding a massive broadsword, never mind what she intended to do with it.

What’s wrong with you? she asked herself. Get a grip, for heaven’s sake.

Annja willed herself to calm down and take a few deep breaths. As she did so, her anxiety began to recede. Fortunately, Dr. Laurent had stepped over to her desk to start the tape recorder and hadn’t noticed her difficulty. By the time the doctor returned, sketch pad and pencil in hand, Annja had managed to get herself under control.

“Here,” Dr. Laurent said, handing her the pad and pencil. “Hold these loosely in your lap. When we encounter something important, I’ll tell you to draw it on the pad.”

Thanks to her work as an archaeologist, Annja had been sketching things—ancient artifacts, dig sites, even fellow workers—for years and felt confident that she could capture whatever images she needed to in this fashion.

Just as she’d said, Dr. Laurent took Annja through a series of relaxation exercises. She was instructed to take a deep breath, hold it and squeeze the muscles in her toes for the count of five before releasing them, breathing out while she did so. Then her toes and the soles of her feet. Then her toes, the soles of her feet and the muscles in her calves, squeezing, holding and then letting them relax. Muscle by muscle, body part by body part, they worked up her entire body—up her legs, across her torso, down her arms and finally to her jaw and face. All the while Dr. Laurent spoke to her in a soft, soothing voice, helping her to relax mentally as well as physically.

By the time they were finished, Annja rested in a gentle trance, aware of her surroundings, able to listen to and respond to the doctor’s questions.

“Can you hear me, Annja?”

“Yes.” Annja’s voice sounded distant, muted, as if it were coming through a thick blanket or maybe from a room down the hall. It was the sign Dr. Laurent was waiting for and it let her know that Annja was deep in the trance state.

“Very good, Annja, very good. Remember—nothing can harm you here. You are the one in control. Whatever you see or hear or feel during our session are just memories. They do not have the power to hurt you in any way. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Okay, now I want you to think back to last night, before you went to bed. Let’s say about dinnertime. Can you tell me what you were doing?”

Bit by bit, Dr. Laurent led Annja through the early evening and then into the beginning stages of the dream. When she felt Annja was ready, she said, “Now I want you to focus on the swordsman. Do you see him?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Can you tell me what he is wearing?”

“It’s a black jumpsuit. The kind that Air Force aviators wear.”

“Okay, Annja, that’s good. Very good, in fact. Now I want you to look at his face for me, Annja. Can you tell me what he looks like?”

“No.”

Dr. Laurent frowned. “Why not, Annja?”

“I can’t see it.”

“What do you mean you can’t see it?”

“His face is covered up. I can’t see it.”

“Covered up? As in bandaged?”

Annja shook her head. “No. Just covered. He’s wearing a black face mask and a dark hood. All I can see is a thin stretch of skin around his eyes.”

“What color are his eyes, Annja?”

“Black. A deep brown that looks like black.”

Dr. Laurent made a note on her pad. “Okay, you are doing very well, Annja. Let’s forget his face for now—we’ll come back to it later. Can you see any insignia on the jumpsuit? A patch or a name tag, maybe?”

Annja was quiet for a moment, as if she were examining the individual standing before her in the landscape of her memories.

“No.”

“Okay, that’s not a problem. Not a problem at all. What’s happening now? What is the swordsman doing?”

Even as the doctor watched, Annja physically shrank back from what she was seeing in her memory.

“Rushing toward me with his sword already drawn. I have to be ready with my own!”

Recognizing the rising concern in her patient’s voice, the doctor stepped in quickly. “It’s all right, Annja. Remember, you are in control. Nothing can happen that you don’t want to happen. I want you to pretend you have a great big pause button right there beside your hand and I want you to press it. Right now, press the pause button, Annja.”

Annja stabbed at a spot on the couch with her left hand.

Seeing this, Dr, Laurent said, “Now the swordsman is standing completely still, isn’t that right, Annja?”

Annja nodded, then answered aloud. “Yes.”

“And he will only move when you are ready to let him do so, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay.” The doctor thought about the situation for a moment, wanting to be certain to avoid accidentally tripping over Annja’s obvious anxiety again. “Here’s what I want you to do, Annja. I want you to make the swordsman come toward you, just as he does in your dreams, but I want you to have him do it one step at a time. Imagine you are watching a movie and the swordsman is the star. He doesn’t have the remote control, you do. The movie can only play when you want it to—you are in control. And right now you are advancing the movie frame by frame, so the swordsman appears to be moving toward you in slow motion.”

After a moment, the doctor asked, “Where is he now, Annja?”

“Just a few feet away.”

Step by step the doctor walked her through the scene—the swordsman’s approach, the battle between them.

Then came the final, crucial moments.

“I see the sword, sweeping toward me,” Annja said. “I’m trying to get out of the way but I’m not fast enough. The blade is getting closer and closer—”

“Stop,” the doctor said.

Annja’s hand stabbed at the couch again. “It’s stopped.”

“Can you see the sword clearly?”

“Yes.”

“Describe it to me, please.”

“It is a katana.Fifteenth, maybe sixteenth-century. The blade must have been recently polished for it reflects the light in the room, except where the etching is located.”

Dr. Laurent sat up straighter in her chair. “What does the etching say, Annja?”

“I’m not sure. They’re kanji characters, I think.”

“Is that all?”

“No. A dragon is there, as well, above the kanji.”

“Can you draw them for me?”

Annja’s hands found the pad and pencil she’d been given and she began to sketch, the tip of her pencil moving swiftly over the blank page without hesitation. The first sketch only took her a few minutes and when she was finished she flipped the page and went right to work on the next.

And the next.

And the next.

By the time Annja started in on the fifth drawing, Dr. Laurent couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. Getting up out of her seat, she stepped behind the couch and looked over Annja’s shoulder at the sketch pad.

“Oh, my!” she said when she saw what Annja was drawing.