sadness covered his face, seeming to age him as I watched.
The fog in my mind shifted, an almost-memory stirring, but before I could bring it to light, he leaned forward. For a moment I thought he might touch my cheek, but instead he lifted my empty bowl from my hands and set it to the side.
“You should try to rest a little. Morning will be here soon.”
I nodded, yawning. I was warm and fed and feeling at peace in a quiet and still place. Rest sounded wonderful. I lay down on the pew, curling up to cradle as much of my body heat next to my chest as possible.
Through half-closed lids, I saw Orlando quietly slip from the pew and wrap the blanket around his shoulders. He walked the few steps to the main doors of the church and stood in front of the window, watching, guarding, protecting.
Between one breath and the next, I closed my eyes and let myself drift away.
• • •
The dream was as dark as midnight and as vast as the sky. Woven into the darkness was a thin mist of light, a curtain of song that swayed and chimed. The song wasn’t anything fancy or grand, just a few simple notes strung together in a gentle harmony.
And then out of the blackness, out of the mist of notes, a man with a bandage across his eyes emerged.
I had seen him before, hadn’t I? I couldn’t quite remember.
He strode forward, a lion on the prowl. In his hands, he carried a polished golden guitar like a fresh kill. He wrapped the embroidered strap around his fist and his mouth twisted into a snarl.
“You should know better than to leave your prize possessions unattended,” the blind man said. “Why, anyone could just come by and take them and break them into pieces.”
For a moment, I thought he was talking to me, but then I saw, standing along the edge of shadow, someone else. A second man. But he was just a blurry outline. Just a shape in the margin of my dream.
Without warning, the blind man lifted the guitar high above his head and brought it down hard, smashing the instrument with a sound of split wood and torn strings. The neck snapped in half. The sudden violence rippled through the dream like a shock wave, silencing the music that had been playing.
The shadow man dropped to his knees, and in the quiet that descended, a roar of rage and pain tore through the dream, blowing the curtain of music to tatters.
The blind man stood tall and still, listening to the wild sound as it built to a piercing crescendo.
After an endless time, the scream finally faded away.
In the silence that followed, the blind man dropped the broken remains of the guitar at his feet, turned, and walked away. The outline of his body blurred along the edges as he vanished.
The shadow man vanished as well, leaving behind the lumps of wood and strings that had once been a guitar.
I was alone again in my dream.
The darkness reached out for me like shadows.
Slowly, the music returned, but hesitantly, the chimes only occasionally ringing.
I thought they sounded a little like a voice, like they were speaking a language I could almost understand. They sounded a little like my name. A little like . . .
“My lady?” The voice came to me on a hurried breath, a tone mostly filled with deference, but underscored with a thin thread of demand.
The shape of my dream shattered as I jerked awake and sat up quickly. I hadn’t been asleep for long; the windows were still dark with night. I could feel my heart beating faster, anxious and unsettled. The fragile images from my dream were already fading. There had been two men and a guitar. And there had been music. A song I almost recognized, almost remembered.
I blinked, forcing my eyes to focus, and saw someone in a worn, black cassock standing next to me. He was young—maybe the same age as Orlando, maybe a year or two older—though his black hair was snow-white along the edges. His dark eyes held mine and the
The fog in my mind shifted, an almost-memory stirring, but before I could bring it to light, he leaned forward. For a moment I thought he might touch my cheek, but instead he lifted my empty bowl from my hands and set it to the side.
“You should try to rest a little. Morning will be here soon.”
I nodded, yawning. I was warm and fed and feeling at peace in a quiet and still place. Rest sounded wonderful. I lay down on the pew, curling up to cradle as much of my body heat next to my chest as possible.
Through half-closed lids, I saw Orlando quietly slip from the pew and wrap the blanket around his shoulders. He walked the few steps to the main doors of the church and stood in front of the window, watching, guarding, protecting.
Between one breath and the next, I closed my eyes and let myself drift away.
• • •
The dream was as dark as midnight and as vast as the sky. Woven into the darkness was a thin mist of light, a curtain of song that swayed and chimed. The song wasn’t anything fancy or grand, just a few simple notes strung together in a gentle harmony.
And then out of the blackness, out of the mist of notes, a man with a bandage across his eyes emerged.
I had seen him before, hadn’t I? I couldn’t quite remember.
He strode forward, a lion on the prowl. In his hands, he carried a polished golden guitar like a fresh kill. He wrapped the embroidered strap around his fist and his mouth twisted into a snarl.
“You should know better than to leave your prize possessions unattended,” the blind man said. “Why, anyone could just come by and take them and break them into pieces.”
For a moment, I thought he was talking to me, but then I saw, standing along the edge of shadow, someone else. A second man. But he was just a blurry outline. Just a shape in the margin of my dream.
Without warning, the blind man lifted the guitar high above his head and brought it down hard, smashing the instrument with a sound of split wood and torn strings. The neck snapped in half. The sudden violence rippled through the dream like a shock wave, silencing the music that had been playing.
The shadow man dropped to his knees, and in the quiet that descended, a roar of rage and pain tore through the dream, blowing the curtain of music to tatters.
The blind man stood tall and still, listening to the wild sound as it built to a piercing crescendo.
After an endless time, the scream finally faded away.
In the silence that followed, the blind man dropped the broken remains of the guitar at his feet, turned, and walked away. The outline of his body blurred along the edges as he vanished.
The shadow man vanished as well, leaving behind the lumps of wood and strings that had once been a guitar.
I was alone again in my dream.
The darkness reached out for me like shadows.
Slowly, the music returned, but hesitantly, the chimes only occasionally ringing.
I thought they sounded a little like a voice, like they were speaking a language I could almost understand. They sounded a little like my name. A little like . . .
“My lady?” The voice came to me on a hurried breath, a tone mostly filled with deference, but underscored with a thin thread of demand.
The shape of my dream shattered as I jerked awake and sat up quickly. I hadn’t been asleep for long; the windows were still dark with night. I could feel my heart beating faster, anxious and unsettled. The fragile images from my dream were already fading. There had been two men and a guitar. And there had been music. A song I almost recognized, almost remembered.
I blinked, forcing my eyes to focus, and saw someone in a worn, black cassock standing next to me. He was young—maybe the same age as Orlando, maybe a year or two older—though his black hair was snow-white along the edges. His dark eyes held mine and the
Similar Books
