He was a big guy. Tall, only wearing some sort of loincloth. His face was painted in a tribal fashion, his head bald, and he was really, really tall.
He leaned over and whispered, “I’m a banshee.”
Which, of course, I accepted without criticism.
Then a group of people came in and were threatening me. In my bedroom. Not sure what these people were doing in my bedroom – and, hey, this wasn’t *really* my bedroom, it was my bedroom from 16 years ago in Upstate New York. Curiously, I think the bedroom in my dream was facing the opposite direction of the actual bedroom.
It was dark and they were saying things I couldn’t understand. I was curious and stuck in-place. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything or do anything at first.
Then I started to wonder why this rag-tag group was in my room. Get out! I tried to attack the banshee, but he simply looked at me and put his arm out and I was kept at bay. So I stopped.
He turned around and the motley crew was now taunting HIM. “Do not try your magic with me,” he bellowed, though he didn’t seem to even speak. “It will not work.”
The room was very, very dark but bright in the hallway beyond. The figures were backlit but I remember a lot of green light around the figures in shadow.
I suppose the intruders had gone too far because when they began to come at me again, the banshee swept me behind him with a wave of his left arm and flicked a symbol at them with his right hand. Light flashed and the gaggle melted into the floor a la The Wicked Witch.
The banshee’s wicked glare faded to remorse and he looked down at me, saddened. “I AM a banshee. Do you believe me?”
“I do.” And I really did. I reached up and hugged him and thanked him for what he had done.
The green faded to black.