Land of a Thousand Dreams (30 page)

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 underneath 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.