Land of a Thousand Dreams

by BJ Hoff

  At the sound of the quiet voice behind her, Annie whipped around hard enough to dislodge Fergus from her lap.

  “I believe you may be absolutely right,” Sister Louisa repeated. “Perhaps the two of us should say as much to the Seanchai.”

  Annie gaped at her, speechless. The nun stood close enough to touch her, and for once she looked less the policeman and more a warm-blooded human being. Then she did a most amazing thing: she actually put her hand to Annie’s shoulder—and squeezed it!

  “It occurs to me,” Sister Louisa said reasonably, “that the two of us might just go and talk with him right now.”

  Faith, and didn’t she sound almost kind? Why, even her eyes—eyes that ordinarily would slice marble—were kind!

  Annie stared. “The two of us? Talk to the Seanchai?”

  The nun gave a nod and then—and then, the most incredible thing happened: she smiled. The TROUBLESOME NUN smiled!

  Annie scrambled to her feet. “D’you mean it, Sister? You’ll go with me?”

  Again, Sister Louisa nodded. “Indeed, I will,” she said firmly. “I’ve thought as much for quite some time now, but was reluctant to suggest it, for fear I would offend. But you know the two of them far better than I. I trust your judgment.”

  Annie swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry as straw. “You—you trust my judgment?”

  Sister nodded. “The surgeon’s way isn’t working at all, that much is evident. If there was indeed a bond of trust and affection between Finola and the Seanchai before the attack, it’s quite possible that this business of keeping them apart may only be making things worse for her.”

  Taking Annie by the hand, she said, “Come along.” The wolfhound barked, and she added, “Yes, you, too, old boy. You can come with us.”

  Fergus fell in between them, and again the nun smiled. Suddenly, an astonishing thing struck Annie: Sister Louisa seemed to have lost her vinegary look! Where had the stern and stuffy face gone?

  Uncomfortably, she shifted from one foot to the other. The truth was, she had seen the nun smile before today. The entire truth was, the nun had smiled at her, and on more than one occasion. She had simply ignored it, until now.

  But now she noticed. Annie stared at the smile, transfixed to see that the nun was not so unattractive, after all. She was old, of course—she must be well past forty if a day—but in spite of that, she had a rather nice face when she smiled. Why, it might even be considered a somewhat… pretty face.

  Immediately, she squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. No doubt it was a wicked and blasphemous thought, to think of one of God’s nuns as—pretty!

  When Annie finally opened her eyes, Sister was watching her with a very strange look. But, wonder of wonders, the TROUBLESOME NUN was still smiling!

  17

  The Singer and the Swan

  Long the swans have wandered over lake and river.

  Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir,

  Gone and long forgotten like a dream of fever;

  But the swans remember the sweet days that were.

  KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON (1861–1931)

  On the third consecutive day of disobeying the surgeon’s instructions, Morgan took his harp along when he went to Finola’s room.

  The first day, he had scarcely drawn breath as he sat beside the silent, slender form on the bed. He simply sat watching her, praying for her, willing her to acknowledge him.

  It was an unnerving thing, seeing those glorious blue eyes opened wide, even turned in his direction, yet seemingly unaware of his presence. It made him feel invisible—and altogether helpless.

  There had been no change on the second day, although he’d ventured to speak a few soft words. The words had gone unanswered, and his fear for her had only increased.

  At last he had decided to heed Annie’s suggestion. She had reminded him, this fey, capricious child, of Finola’s great love for the music, of the depth of emotion it seemed to call forth from her in the days before the attack. Although he could not bring himself to hope too much, Morgan allowed that the lass’s idea was at least worth a try.

  And so today, when he wheeled himself into the bedroom, the harp was in his arms. He stopped halfway into the room, waiting. Although Finola seemed to pay no heed whatsoever to his being there, there was always the danger she would stir and panic at his presence, just as the surgeon had warned. He would not risk it.

  After a moment, he wheeled himself up to the bed where Lucy was seated on the opposite side. At Morgan’s approach, she moved to go, but he gestured that she should stay.

  Small One, Finola’s cat, lay dozing near the foot of the bed. This was Lucy’s idea, her attempt to keep things, as much as possible, the way Finola was used to them.

  The cat stirred, raised her head just enough to eye Morgan, then settled back to her nap.

  “No change?” Morgan questioned Lucy in a hushed voice.

  The woman shook her head, her gaze intent on Finola’s face. She had proved a most excellent nurse, this strange friend to Finola. A small cot had been moved next to the bed for her, and for weeks now, she had lived in this room, refusing to leave for more than a few moments at a time. She kept Finola impeccably groomed, her flaxen hair clean and shining, her bed immaculate.

  “Pardon me, sir,” she said now, rising, “but if you’ll be staying with her a bit, I’ll just go down and prepare the medicine tray.”

  Morgan watched her hurry from the room, then turned his attention back to Finola. He noted with satisfaction that her face, although still somewhat bruised, seemed to be healing nicely. Scrubbed of the excessive paint the women at Gemma’s had taught her to use, she looked younger than before…and lovelier still. Her hands were folded atop the bed linen, her hair fanned out on the pillows. She appeared peaceful, and, although too thin by far, more fit than Morgan had seen her for weeks. Had it not been for the vacant stare and a certain slackness to her facial muscles, she would have looked to be enjoying a perfectly normal rest.

  He had to knot his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to her, to smooth back the golden strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. Instead, he sat, unmoving, speaking to her in soft, lulling tones. He spoke of the crisp, bright December day. He told her of Annie’s having at last mastered a complete lesson in Latin. He promised they would attend a concert as soon as she was stronger. He told her that Small One was growing quite fat and lazy.

  As he spoke, he lightly plucked the harp. When he could no longer think of anything to say, he went on playing. Slow, quiet ballads at first, then a happier, carefree children’s tune. Finally, he began to sing, at first so softly the words played over the bed like water lapping across small stones in a riverbed.

  He sang his own music, childish airs to which he had set a number of the folk tales, then melancholy songs of country and home. At last he turned his voice to the song he had written for her—“Finola’s Song.” The song of the beautiful, enchanted swan whose sorrowful lament was eventually transformed to a hymn of glory.

  When Annie heard the Seanchai singing inside Finola’s room, she plopped down on the floor in the hallway to listen, cautioning Fergus to be very quiet.

  She didn’t think the Seanchai would mind. She loved to hear him make the music, would have sat listening to him play and sing for hours at any opportunity.

  He was a true artist of the ancient instrument. Under his hands, every melody became a quiet stream of liquid gold. And his voice—ah, he could do things with his voice like no other man, and that was the truth! He could rumble deep and thunderous—why, he could shake the foundations of Nelson Hall, should he choose to do so! But when he sang, as he did now, that rich, gentle voice did flow so sweetly, the very birds in the trees would soon be weeping!

  “He does have a gift for the music, the Seanchai.”

  Sister Louisa had a way of coming upon a person without a bit of warning. Did she really have feet at all, Annie wondered, or did she have herself a wee magic carpet unde
rneath all those skirts that allowed her to glide up and down the hallways like some silent specter?

  Annie shot her a guilty look from her perch on the floor.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping, Sister! Truly, I wasn’t! I only wanted to listen to the Seanchai sing!”

  “Of course, you weren’t eavesdropping,” Sister Louisa replied matter-of-factly, “That would be childish. Besides, I’m sure the Seanchai wouldn’t mind your listening. So long as you sit quietly and don’t intrude. I was wondering, however, if perhaps you would like to join me and Sandemon for vespers this evening?”

  Annie’s head shot up, and she gaped. “Vespers? Me?”

  Sister nodded. “And Fergus, of course,” she said, her mouth twitching slightly. “Sandemon suggested we—‘join forces,’ I believe he calls it. ‘Join forces to do battle.’ For the Seanchai and Finola.”

  Annie ran her tongue over her lower lip. “And—and you want me and Fergus to—to join forces with you?”

  “Of course, we do. You’re the Seanchai’s daughter, child!”

  Annie looked away. “Not yet, I’m not.”

  Surprised, she felt Sister’s hand on her shoulder. “Look at me, Annie Delaney.”

  Annie looked up, saw the kindness in the nun’s eyes. She blinked, waiting.

  “You are the Seanchai’s daughter,” Sister Louisa repeated quietly. “A man is not a father because of a legal document or even because of the blood tie. A man is a father by a choice of the will and a commitment of the heart. The Seanchai thinks of you as his daughter, and certainly loves you as his own.” Without giving Annie time to respond, she straightened, saying, “Now, come along, you and Fergus. While the Seanchai does what he can for Finola, we will do what we can for them both.”

  Finola moved among a tapestry of dreamscapes. She had rejected the real world. It was too real, too harsh, too painful.

  At times the world of her mind, the new world that she was even now still creating, was also frightening and painful. Yet even the darkest of its ominous shadows were less forbidding than the pitiless reality of the other world…the real world….

  She was walking beside a lake, watching the swans, listening to bird-song. In one hand she held a tin whistle. From time to time she stopped to imitate a bird’s call, then went on.

  The sun was going down, but there was still light for walking and gazing into the lake. Suddenly a shadow, wide and deep, fell across her path, and Finola started, whirling to look around her.

  A huge black bird—no, not quite a bird, but a bird-like creature—sat beneath a large beech tree, watching her. Without knowing how she knew, Finola was suddenly aware that the bird had been following her all along. Without casting a shadow, without making a sound, the ugly black thing had hovered over her from the sky, dogging her steps, never letting her out of its sight. She knew this, and it chilled the blood within her.

  The creature was nearly as tall as a man, and, perched as it was with its long, webbed wings folded at its sides, it took on the appearance of one of the hideous other-world beasts of the ancient legends. The small eyes locked on Finola were the color of slate and altogether lacking in expression.

  Frozen by fear, Finola saw the sinister creature take a step with one large, clawed foot. Slowly, with a rush of air, it spread its wings and stood, poised, not to fly, she sensed, but to spring at her in attack.

  Suddenly, as if the sun itself had recoiled in horror and fled the sky, the last light of evening trembled, then went out. Now there were no stars, no moon, no light at all except for the dim glow that seemed to rise like a vapor off the lake.

  Panicked, Finola tried to scream, but no sound came. She looked around in desperation for help, but there was no one. She was alone.

  Unable to take her eyes off the creature’s looming presence, she began to back away, darting a glance over her shoulder to judge her distance from the water. As she watched, the bird’s beak opened, and the thing seemed to smile—a terrible, menacing rictus of evil.

  A shudder of cold terror seized Finola. At that moment she realized that this loathsome creature, obviously bent on her destruction, somehow embodied the whole of her worst fears. Whatever evil she might have imagined, whatever danger she had ever sensed lurking in the night—every horror that had ever struck her with dread—faced her now, in the form of this dark abomination.

  She whipped around to run, but there was nowhere to go. She was surrounded by dark forest and lake water. Even if a path of rescue existed, she would never find it. The forest was entirely unknown to her. In the forest, she would meet with death.

  Or something worse.

  Her only hope was the lake. Somehow she knew the vile bird-creature could not touch her in the lake. She would go to the lake with the swans. She would become one of them.

  Finola, the enchanted swan…

  She tossed the tin whistle onto the ground, then slowly walked into the lake, where the swans were waiting. In the pale glow of the water, she saw the vast, dark shadow above her, circling, heard the grinding of wings, the angry screeching….

  She followed the swans into the middle of the lake, and felt herself changing, diminishing in size, becoming more graceful and fleet. Drifting now, gliding over the lake, a peace began to settle over her.

  Overhead, the huge wings beat the wind…swooping…hovering…watching. Finally the shadow lifted, then disappeared altogether.

  She was safe. For a time, Finola glided with the swans, serene, comforted by the cool, placid water all around her, the stillness and peace of the lake.

  But now the swans broke away, began to move swiftly toward the shore, as if in answer to a call. Finola tried to call them back, but they could not hear her silent voice.

  Alone in the middle of the lake, wondering, curious, but not yet frightened, she waited and listened.

  The sound at first seemed to come from the forest. Softly, so softly she thought she might be imagining it…but, no, it was closer now, clearer.

  A voice. The sound of singing…

  At last Finola followed after the swans, gliding across the quiet, glowing lake in search of the Singer. Growing stronger, the voice nevertheless retained its infinite gentleness, its low, sweet tones of grace and beauty.

  As she approached, the other swans parted, allowing her to move among them, then past, toward the shore.

  The voice was near now, so near, yet still soft and ever so gentle, and familiar.

  As she approached the shore, Finola became aware that the voice of the Singer was calling to her…only to her…calling her to leave the lake…to come to him….

  Suddenly, Finola looked up, above the forest, and saw the dark shadow looming over the trees. The demon bird was still there, waiting…waiting for her.

  Terrified, she started to turn back, then stopped. The Singer was still calling to her, and, unable now to turn away, Finola began to drift toward the voice…toward the song…toward the Singer….

  The shadow dipped lower, the whirring of wings grew louder. If she left the lake, the creature would be waiting for her, lurking in the forest.

  If she stayed on the lake, she would be safe. But she would never reach the Singer, never hear his song again.

  Leave the lake! whispered her heart. Leave the lake…go to the Singer….

  Go to the Singer….

  When Morgan first saw the hand flutter, he thought he had imagined it. He went on playing, singing, scarcely aware of the words, lost in the tide of his thoughts as he sang.

  “Morgan?”

  Morgan’s fingers stiffened on the harp strings, and his throat went instantly dry. Had someone called his name?

  He jerked his head toward the door, expecting to see Sister Louisa or Sandemon. But no, the door was shut tight, just as Lucy had left it.

  “Morgan?” the whisper came again—very faint, faraway.

  Morgan wheeled his chair around and stared hard at the still figure on the bed. Finola lay motionless. Small One had moved to the head of the
bed and was pawing at the pillow, mewing piteously.

  Morgan shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He must be imagining things. Who would be calling to him? There was no one here—no one but himself, and Finola, and the cat. And, in truth, no one in this house ever called him by his Christian name. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called him Morgan; it was always Seanchai.

  Only in sleep did he hear his true name spoken, in dreams where he stood upright like a man, and the woman he treasured called his name with love and laughter on her tongue. He had yearned for it, prayed for it, wondered a thousand times what it would be like to hear Finola whisper his name, she who had never uttered a sound in his presence.

  He shut his eyes and heaved a ragged sigh, then put his fingers once more to the strings of the harp.

  “Morgan!”

  Morgan’s eyes snapped open, and then he saw it—her right hand moved! She reached out, slowly, and touched Small One’s soft fur. The cat pressed her head into Finola’s outstretched palm and began to purr.

  Carefully, his hands trembling, Morgan braced the harp between the bed and the night table. Holding his breath, he wheeled closer, looking first at her face, then at her hand.

  Finola’s right hand went on stroking the cat gently. Ever so slowly, she extended her left, reaching—reaching for him.

  Morgan inched his hand toward hers and touched her gently. Her fingers closed over his, and held.

  Then her lips moved. “MORGAN!” she cried, her fingers gripping his hand like a vise.

  It was no dream! Finola had spoken, had called his name—his name!

  Tears lodged in Morgan’s throat, and he had difficulty answering her at first. “Aye,” he managed at last, his breath coming in short gasps. “I’m here, lass.”

  The wide blue eyes locked on his face, and she whispered, “’Twas you…you were the Singer?”

  “Aye,” he choked out, his heart rising up on a thundering wave of love and incredible relief. “You heard me, then? You heard me singing to you, Finola?”