PrologueOne

“It is when your spirit goes wandering upon the wind, That you, alone andunguarded,

commit a wrong unto others and therefore untoyourself.

And for that wrong committed must you knock and waitawhile

unheeded at the gate of theblessed.”

—Kahlil Gibran,TheProphet

Twenty-five years in the Past. . .

She left the dark chaos of the dream suddenly, without warning, but it was only to enter a new kind of darkness, a darkness born of silence, a still void where no walls rose and no rivers ran, a place where emptiness stretched into eternity and life was without form—and she was at once both relieved and frightened. Relieved that she need not complete the recurrent nightmare that would leave her sobbing and depressed for days. Frightened that she was someplace far worse. But where. . .? ‘Focus, darling,’ came her mother’s sudden whisper. ‘Focus.’ But no sound penetrated the heavy silence; no light pierced the void. There was only the vacuous darkness. Thick, and oppressive. Seconds passed, minutes, hours perhaps. She could not tell, for time was without concept here. Yet something was about to happen, something of which she was an integral part. She could feel it, closingin.

‘Breathe very deep, sweetheart, that’s my girl. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Mama’s here. Again, deep breath.’

Her mother. Here to help. Because suddenly she was a small childagain.

‘That’s right. Just follow my voice.’

But something was out there . . . something strange and cloud-like and amorphous . . . yet seeking, expanding . . . taking on proportion . . . taking on shape . . . until it was no longer obscure, no longer a mass without form, but a shadowy silhouette of something large and dark and turreted. . .

. . . hovering there in the darkness . . . waiting . . .

‘Please, darling. None of it’s real—it’s just pictures in your head. You can leave anytime.’ Not real, she told herself. Just pictures.

‘Yes. Remember what I taught you—you must. Come now. Work your way out of the dream.’

But a movement caught her attention. Up high, beneath the eaves of the shadowy edifice . . . a fog . . . a misty whirling. And she watched in dreamlike wonder as from those swirling mists a filmy, hypnopompic image emerged . . . and then another and another and another. Strange, ghostlike creatures floating silkily toward her, dancing and swaying, beckoning with transparent arms. ‘Come with us. Join us. Let us be one.’

Pulling her. Filling her withlonging.

‘No, darling, concentrate.’ ‘Pictures? Just pictures?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. But you must leave now. Leave while there is still time.’

But how graceful they were, how inviting. ‘End your sorrow,’ they seemed to say. ‘End your pain.’

‘No—don’t listen, darling. You mustn’t. You’re needed in the world. You have a destiny to fulfill. It’s why you were spared.’<