In my dream I am a clone of the Slayer, summoned by old magic in the midst of an occult shop. We look the same, sound the same, move the same. We have the same cells, the same blood, the same bones. The same memories, the same dreams, the same hopes and fears. But I’m not her. I’m me. They don’t understand. They don’t see an autonomous person when they look at me; they just see a copy, a backup, a spare. I’m pleading for Faith to understand (“I’m Buffy, but I’m not Buffy”) when we’re attacked by a demon in the body of a young woman. It’s strong, too strong even for all of us together, but somehow I know its weakness while the true other Buffy does not. I rush to the section of the store which holds statues, shrines, and other tools dedicated to ancient Kemet’s gods. Something has been calling to me here, and this must be why. I grab first a staff of black polished wood, its tip carved into an image of Aset with wings outstretched. Frantically, I search among the statues for another item, but can’t decide what would work best; a cat, a jackal, a hippo? I finally choose a serpent figurine carved as if poised to strike. Staff and carving in hand, I run back into the fray and point both at the demon. The voice that comes from my mouth isn’t mine. It’s like thunder, deep and rumbling, so loud it fills the building and makes the shelves shake. At first the demon resists, mocking my little human body, but when the voice reveals its identity and threatens to strike the demon down for its disrespect, the demon cowers and finally vanishes. Whatever entity possessed me disappears as well, leaving me exhausted and empty – but at least the others are looking at me now with new wonder.
In my dream I stood in a square room, close by an open doorway beyond which a hallway ran perpendicular to the room. Behind me I could feel someone standing, watching me to see what I would do. Though I did not see Her, I knew the figure behind me to be Aset, mother of gods, and I felt humbled by Her presence. On the wall before me a mural stretched from one end of the wall to the other; though I couldn’t make out the image, I could see the mural was covered in metal charms of different shapes and sizes. I raised my hand up and pressed my ring finger to the charm in the shape of a moon; my pointer finger to a charm in the shape of a sun; and my index knuckle to a charm in the shape of an ankh.
And then I began to pray. I don’t remember the words of the prayer, only that it was a prayer of protection and strength to all the Netjeru. As I prayed a procession walked past me down the hallway, more gods than for whom I had names. I recognized a few, like Anup with His jackal head, but there were too many, dozens, a never-ending stream. I was praying to them, for them, for their safe passage somewhere. When the prayer came to a close, I felt an immense exhaustion wash over me and collapsed to the floor. I was too weary to move or even speak. Someone knelt down to check on me. I thought it was Aset, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a hand resting on me with skin a pale green. Osiris. I tried to say His name but couldn’t move my lips. There the dream ended.