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“Heaven?”
She smiled like I had said something cute.
And what am I?
“An angel?”
I am the one who waits. And this is the place of waiting.
“What are you waiting for?”
You know what I am waiting for.
I would have guessed she was the Lady of the Lake from the Arthur stories—only there wasn’t a lake anywhere in this dream—and that she was waiting for us humans to stop mucking around with Excalibur and give it back.
Lying with my head in her lap, I was looking straight up at the yew tree, and the leaves were fluttering in the wind you couldn’t feel, and I noticed something funny about them: The leaves of the tree were multicolored, red and black and white, and then I saw the branches were bare and it wasn’t leaves fluttering at all, but the wings of thousands of butterflies beating uselessly in the air, because each butterfly was pinned to the branch by a long silver needle. That kind of freaked me a little, and I started to pull a needle free to let the butterfly go, but the Lady slowly pushed my hand down.
It is not time.
“Time for what?”
She had a sad, faraway look in her eyes, which were as dark as her hair and shone like she was about to cry.
When the mast
er comes, he will free them.
“The master,” I said. “Who is the master?”
The one who remembers.
“Remembers what?”
What has been forgotten.
I stared at the butterflies fluttering helplessly above my head and thought that was my problem: I wanted to forget everything. I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t.
“What’s been forgotten?” I asked.
She leaned over and pressed her cool lips against my forehead. I caught a whiff of jasmine.
When the hour comes, you will remember.
31
I woke up, rubbing the back of my neck. These military cargo planes were not built for comfort. Bennacio was awake, staring out the window.
“You were dreaming of her again, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Is she the Lady of the Lake?”
“I do not know. She is important, whoever she is, if only to you.”
“It was one of those dreams where you never want to wake up. You don’t think she’s kind of the ghost of my mother, do you? She’s dead, you know.”
“I cannot answer that, Kropp.”
“Only my mother was never that pretty, even when she was young. I don’t think it was heaven. I mean, you don’t picture heaven being on top of a slag heap. Where are we?”
