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THE DREAM MERCHANT
by Linda Mooney
She awakened to warmth, solid and comforting -- the feel of hip to
thigh, her nose buried in a thick golden mass of fragrant hair and her
arm encircling a softly furred chest. Sleeping like spoons definitely
had its advantages, she discovered as she shifted slightly to press
herself closer against the broad muscular back. A voice still gritty
from sleep rumbled gently. ”Are you cold?”
She smiled into his neck as a large hand clasped hers and hugged it
against the slow beating of his heart. Refusing to rouse herself into
full waking status, she sent him a drowsy wave of contentment and
allowed herself the extra twenty minutes of rest before the alarm went
off and demanded attention. Vincent crawled out from beneath the quilts
first, casting her a loving look as he pulled on a thick patched sweater
and a pair of well worn cords. He went to light the small brazier in the
corner of the chamber to help warm the room. The January cold had seeped
through the bedrock, bringing its bitter chill to the tunnels, if not
its fourteen inches of snow and ice. As he left her to get them a pot of
tea and a bite of breakfast from the kitchen, Catherine watched him go,
giving herself five more minutes to snuggle in the cocoon of body heat
before reluctantly leaving the bed to face another day. At least --
thank God - it was Friday
She was zipping up her knee boots when Vincent re-entered, bearing a
tray. He placed it on the table beside the bed. “If I’m not here when
you get home, I may still be at
She warmed her hands around the cup. “Claude Benton? Doesn’t he live in
“He’s giving us the crop of potatoes he’s grown in an abandoned lot and
I’m taking some of the boys to help cart them to the storerooms. I don’t
know how long it will take but I’ll try to be back before too late.”
“That’s okay,” she replied and shrugged on her coat. “I’ll call Jenny
and see if she can have dinner with me, or maybe get in a couple of
hours of shopping.” Standing on tiptoe, she gave her husband a tender
kiss. “Just be careful.” He cupped her cheek in his hand and gave her a
loving smile before she placed her empty mug back on the tray, grabbed
another cinnamon roll, and scooted out the doorway.
***
“No, it’s all right. Can I call you Monday? Sounds great. Thanks, Jen.
Bye.”
Catherine hung up the receiver, frowning, she stuck her tongue out at
the phone, thoroughly vexed. Today was one of those rare times when she
could actually take her hour-long lunch break away from her desk, and
no one was available to go out with her! Oh, well…maybe Saks was
having a sale. She half-heartedly straightened the permanent paper chaos
on her desk before collecting her coat and scarf. The phone rang
unexpectedly, and she stared at it -- debating whether or not she should
answer. Duty won out. She picked up the receiver.
“Catherine Chandler.”
“Hello Cathy! Am I interrupting anything?”
“Peter! It’s so good to hear from you,” Catherine said, sitting on the
edge of her desk. “I thought you were in
“Things got a bit warm down there, so Margaret Kay and I decided to cut
the vacation short and come home. But the reason I’m calling is to see
if you’re free for lunch.”
“Am I!” she laughed. “Where and when”
“Thirty minutes at Cricket’s?”
“Great. I’m leaving now; I’ll hold a table.”
“See you then,” Peter said and hung up
Sometimes when you least expected it, good things did happen to
deserving people. But she wasn’t going to hang around the office any
longer than she had to. Errant causes and good intentions had a bad
habit of finding her when she least needed them to. She quickly made her
way to the restaurant and was lucky enough to grab a table by the
picture window; there she settled herself to wait for her old family
friend.
Prompt as ever, Peter stomped his way in, blowing loose snow and cold
air from his overcoat. Giving him an affectionate smile she kissed him
on his frozen cheek and helped him with his chair.
“Mercy!” the older gentleman exclaimed. “When I left
105 in the shade. My old bones haven’t acclimated to this
Catherine beamed. “Thank you, Peter; but every now and then I keep
expecting the other shoe to fall.”
“Really? How?”
She shrugged, looking out the window to see people bundled up and moving
in little clumps through the gray, wet streets. “All this happiness, all
the love and joy I have now with Vincent…does anybody really deserve so
much in his life?” She turned to face him. “Isn’t there supposed to be
an equal amount of sadness and tragedy to balance it out?”
“Maybe,” Peter reflected. “Maybe you’ve already had your sorrows, Cathy.
You’ll have to admit those first couple of years after your attack were
not exactly smooth sailing.”
She sighed. “You’re probably right. I shouldn’t dampen what we have -
just accept it fully and quit looking for the darker side.”
Peter patted her hand, then leaned back in his chair, motioned to the
waiter, and ordered for them both. He watched his goddaughter for a few
more moments before placing his elbows on the table; he used his napkin
to wipe his reading glasses, then slipped them back into his breast
pocket. “Actually, I had an ulterior motive for inviting you to lunch.”
“Oh. Time to pay the piper, is it?” Catherine quipped over her glass of
water.
“More like a favor and a request,” he replied. “Have you thought any
more about what we talked about last month?”
“About the tests?” Catherine asked, remembering the earlier
conversation. She took her water glass and made a pattern of rings on
the tablecloth appearing deep in thought. He waited patiently, watching
the play of emotions shadow her face, knowing her decisions were made
not just for herself, but also for the man with whom she now shared her
life. The young woman sighed and looked back at him. “Vincent and I
talked about it when you first brought it up, and we’ve decided to place
ourselves in your hands. So...you want to go ahead with everything?”
Peter smiled and toyed with his silverware before asking, “How soon can
we begin?”
Laughing, Catherine clasped his arm and squeezed it affectionately.
“I’ll call you. all right?”
A small grin revealed a dimple that sixty-odd years had not erased.
“Ready when you are”
***
Late at night on the weekend, the medical professional building was
deserted and dark. The glare of the street lamps reflected in the outer
windows of the modern structure, effectively disguising the single glow
of the fluorescent lights from the inner office on the first floor.
Peter looked up when a faint rapping on the outer door startled him. He
went over to it, pressed down on the bar, and opened the heavy
fire-proof door.
“Come,” he said, gesturing them in.
Catherine and Vincent followed him into the small lab adjacent to the
building’s pharmaceutical company. Peter took a sterile wrapped cup from
the counter and handed it to Vincent. Wordlessly, the couple went into
the adjoining room, shutting the door behind them. Peter finished
setting up a space to work, readying the computer to help interpret and
print out his findings. A little later, Vincent emerged from the room
alone and handed the cup to Peter, his gaze never wavering from the
older man’s face.
Dropping his eyes first, the physician took the container and turned to
a microscope as the leonine man disappeared in the back room. The couple
returned and stood by a short set of lockers while Peter was busy at the
computer keyboard. Peter hit the print key, waited a few minutes, then
tore the hardcopy he wanted off the printer, quickly glancing over the
information.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said. They took the stairwell to his office,
where he gestured for them to sit in chairs positioned in front of his
desk. He walked behind it, and collapsed in his own over-stuffed chair.
Peter picked up a file folder, shuffled through more papers -- pausing
often to study a page here and there, then cleared his throat before
speaking.
“I got the first set of lab results back last week; you know, the ones
we took on the blood cultures, the DNA and genetic typing. And we were
only lacking the sperm count which I was able to complete just now. Both
of you are in excellent physical shape.”
“Yet. the news is not good,” Vincent interrupted. He could feel the
nervousness and dread radiating from Catherine as she gripped the arms
of her chair, but her face remained outwardly calm.
Peter sighed. “No. The news is not good.” Biting his lip, he tried to
phrase his next words carefully. “First of all, let me assure you that
Catherine is capable of having children and you, Vincent, are just as
capable, but..” He tapped the thick folder in front of him on the desk
and looked at the man sitting across from him. “But you’re simply too
different, Vincent.”
He hated saying the words, hated their affect on the couple who were so
much in love; yet the truth was the truth, and it had to be spoken.
Vincent’s metabolism, blood pressure, genetic makeup -- even his type
of blood were so vastly different from “human” standards that the
tests Peter had pushed through at the lab had created questions he could
not answer. He’d had to discontinue normal lab procedures in order to
stop the unwanted curiosity about the research he was doing, and finish
the last tests himself. Watching Vincent literally withdraw into
himself, Peter’s heart went out to him, he cleared his throat trying to
ease the tightness in it.
Catherine’s eyes were bright with unshed tears and her voice quavered
slightly. “Surely there’s some way Peter?”
Peter bent his head and sighing, spread his hands to encompass the
amount of paperwork he’d been through. “I’ve tried to think of
everything: artificial insemination, test-tube fertilization; I’ve even
gone over all the latest medical journals and manuscripts that I thought
even remotely affected your case. I’m sorry; I tried. God knows I’ve
gone over every possible detail.”
Silently, Vincent stood and walked over to the door; he removed his
cloak from the brass butler. Catherine watched him, knowing deep inside
he needed to get away to be by himself to think, to try and reason out
these last few minutes. It was so ironic, she mused, that it had taken
her months to conquer his initial fear of creating another life, one
that could possibly have his features, thus condemning the child to the
loneliness and terrors to which he’d been subjected while growing up.
And now it was a moot point.
There could never be any children human-looking or otherwise. She
ached inside with the knowledge, but her heart bled for her husband. She
let him leave the office; he’d return to her later at the apartment
where they would hold each other tightly and let the tears fall without
recriminations. Turning back to the doctor, she lifted her chin and
asked in a stronger voice, “Where do we go from here? And don’t say
adoption. We’ve already ‘adopted’ the children in the tunnels as our
own, but it’s not the same.”
She leaned forward and set her elbows on the edge of the desk. ”Do you
have any idea how long it took me to convince Vincent to have children?
How long it took him to believe that I would love any child
regardless of what he or she looked like, with all my heart, and that
the child would also be loved and completely accepted by the community
Below as fully as they have loved and accepted him?”
Peter matched her green glare with his own brown one. Catherine
hesitated, then sat back again. “I’m not accusing you, Peter. I’m sorry
if it sounds that way.”
“No offense taken, Cathy.”
“What if we run the tests again?” she appealed.
Peter pulled a particularly bulky folder from the top drawer. He stood
up and walked around the desk to place it on her lap. There was no label
on the slightly battered tab, but it had the look of being roughly
handled. She gave him a curious glance before opening it and leafing
through the paper. Some pages were typed while others bore extensively
scribbled notes. She came to one sheet of vellum, bearing a familiar
letterhead and paled.
“What is all this, Peter?”
“You know what it is. It’s Dr. Hughes’ research on Vincent. All the
notes and results from the tests he conducted on him when he held him
captive,” he answered quietly.
“Where did you get this? How?”
He closed the folder, taking it from her and placing it back in the
drawer of the desk. She noticed that he locked the drawer. “It doesn’t
matter where or how I got it, Cathy, just be assured that it’s in my
hands now; safe.”
“How did Dr. Hughes’ notes compare with yours?”
Peter shook his head. “His findings concur with mine. Forgive me,
kitten. If there was any way at all --”
Catherine stood, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes on her lips.
“We understand, Peter. We really do. It’ll take some time to accept, but
we love each other. That” -- she sighed deeply, almost painfully – “is
what matters. It is enough,”
***
There is only so much crying that the body can do before it gives up,
leaving the eyes swollen and red, the face blotched and heated, and the
spirit weak but calm. Vincent arrived at the apartment shortly after
Catherine, who had locked the front door and thrown herself on the
queen-sized bed. Stepping through the french doors, he dropped his cloak
on the carpet and knelt beside her, taking the woman of his life into
his arms, his tears mingled with hers. No words passed between them;
their bond emptied the grief from their souls, giving them respite from
their sorrow in a night of exhausted sleep. They lay together,
intertwined, her face buried against the soothing rhythm of his heart.
Daybreak and bird song drifted through the half-opened doors, waking
Vincent first. He carefully disengaged himself, and sliding off the bed,
he padded around it to the wardrobe, pulling out a fresh set of clothes.
The sound of his shower brought Catherine to consciousness. She
stretched, crawled off the bed and went into the bathroom.
“Leave some hot water for me!” she called to Vincent as she stripped out
of her clothes and put them in the hamper.
He eyed her past the stall door. “Then you’d better hurry,” he replied,
stepping aside as she smiled at him, and stepped into the stinging
spray. He hugged her quickly before relinquishing the shower. Through
the frosted panel she watched him towel down, then wrap the large bath
sheet around his waist. He was brushing his teeth when Catherine turned
the water oft and reached for a towel.
“What say we stay here this weekend?” she suggested. “I’ll shut down the
phone and padlock the door. We can even grill hamburgers on the hibacht
out on the balcony and watch PBS, they’re showing Zefferelli’s
La Traviata
at seven.”
Vincent made eye contact with her in the slightly fogged mirror, and
Catherine giggled at the sight of him foaming at the mouth. He caught
her swell of mirth and bent over the sink to rinse his mouth as she
walked up behind him, running her fingers over his broad muscular back.
His muscles felt like corded steel beneath her hands. Gently she kneaded
the tightness away causing Vincent to groan softly. He gave himself over
to her supple fingers, enjoying her touch, letting it melt the stress
across his spine. Kissing him between the shoulder blades, Catherine
left the bathroom.
She put on a comfortable pair of jeans and an old cotton shirt before
stepping barefoot into the kitchen to start a pot of tea. Dressed in
jeans and a pullover shirt, Vincent joined her, watching her prepare
them breakfast.
“Catherine...”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“Forgive me for leaving you last night at Peters office. I –“
“Shhh.” She held a finger to his lips, then exchanged it for a quick
kiss. “I understand.” And she did. He knew that.
“I did a lot of thinking,” he continued, dropping a sieve of tea leaves
into a boiling kettle. “I looked into alternate solutions.”
Catherine was buttering muffins, but the knife paused in mid-air. “There
are no alternate solutions,” she said flatly.
“There is one,” he countered, meeting her gaze. They locked eyes, even
with their deep love and the power of the bond, there were times when
they had to move carefully with each other. This was one of those times.
“What?” Catherine asked, afraid of what he had to say.
“Peter mentioned artificial insemination,” he reminded her.
Catherine put the knife down and reached for a towel to wipe her hands.
“So?”
Vincent dipped his head, tracing the pattern on the formica counter top
with one clawed fingertip. “It would not work with my seed, but you
could become pregnant by another man’s...”
“Vincent. No!”
“Catherine, I’ve thought long and hard about this. I’m not saying for
you to lie beneath another man, listen to me,” he begged as she mutely
shook her head. “Go into the lab and have Peter impregnate you with seed
that comes from someone more compatible with you -- someone more --
human.”
She threw her arms around him, denying his words. “I want your
child, my love. No one else’s.”
“It’s a possibility we cannot ignore,” he murmured into her hair. “You
may not agree with me now, but perhaps in a few days or months, you’ll
see I’m right. And I would love the child with the same depth of love
and devotion as if he had sprang from my own loins.” Pulling her gently
from him and holding her at arm’s length, he sought her face. “I will
speak no more of this until you are ready to hear me out. We’ve suffered
a tremendous blow and need time to heal each other. Let’s enjoy today,
we can tell Father of Peters findings tomorrow.”
Catherine shuddered. “Okay,” she agreed and turned back to breakfast,
but Vincent was aware of the rigidity of her stance, her body sending
out subconscious signals of denial. He moved up behind her and pulled
her back against him, offering his immense love in a tender embrace.
Catherine melted, but still she held fast to her conviction. I would
give anything, she thought to herself to have his child. I
would do anything. Anything.
***
The clock-radio on the night stand read 5:23 in bright green numbers.
Catherine, wide awake, shifted to ease the cramp in her lower back and
sighed. Vincent would be leaving to go Below in another hour, she would
be left to get dressed for work, and for once, the prospect of her job
did not excite her.
Dearest Lord, what have I done to offend You?
You have given me the love of a man I never knew existed, never knew
could be, and yet You still deny us our ultimate heart’s desire. You’ve
given
us
a love rarely experienced by others,
but while the lowest creature of the earth can reproduce, we cannot.
Please help us to understand Your purpose for our lives. Show me an
answer to our problem and give me the strength
to endure, if it is not to
be. But I would do anything to have Vincent’s child. Anything.
It began as a shimmer in the air beyond the foot of the bed, a wrinkle
in the fabric of molecules as if a transparent veil had slipped into the
room. The sight of the louvered doors behind it looked distorted, the
slats not quite meeting each other like the reflection from a disjointed
prism. There was no sound, no light from the abnormality. Catherine
glanced over to see her beloved sleeping peacefully, oblivious to
everything going on. And, incredibly, she did not fear what her eyes
were seeing; calmly, she waited to see what would happen, curious as to
the outcome.
The shimmer took shape, coalescing into the form of a diminutive,
albeit, portly man. His skin was dark, but smooth, his hair thick, but
snow white, his eyes had wrinkles at the comers, but glittered from the
pale light coming through the balcony doors. He wore a heavy-looking
overcoat over dark, loose trousers. He appeared old and young at the
same time, new and well-worn -- a neophyte and a master of some
mysterious power. He smiled past a mouthful of strong white teeth, and
Catherine sat up in bed. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“Questions?” he asked, in an almost feminine voice. He looked about the
room, then moved to the side of the bed, peering down at her husband.
“He conquers much for one so weak,”
“What are you talking about?”
The little man grinned up at her. “I do not always talk in the literal
sense, Catherine.”
Surprised to hear her name, she replied. “Either way I want you to
leave. Now.”
“You’re not afraid of me at all? Very good. My name is unimportant, but
you may call me a Dream Merchant.”
“Pardon?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I deal strictly on a one-to-one
basis. I heard your prayer; I’m here to respond.”
Catherine blinked twice before answering. “You’re nuts. I’m giving you
five minutes before I wake my husband.”
The little man smiled again. “Try,” he invited. “He won’t awaken unless
I allow it.”
“What?
Just who do you think you are?”
“I repeat, I am a Dream Merchant. I can grant you your heart’s desire --
for a price.”
Giving a little laugh, Catherine ran a hand through her hair, cupping
her chin in her palm. “Okay. If you know so much, tell me what my
heart’s desire is and what I owe for it.”
The Dream Merchant walked around to the foot of the bed and perched a
knee on the settee there. “You wish to have your husband’s child,” he
stated simply. “I can grant you that.”
Catherine snorted. “Your name wouldn’t be Rumpetstiltskin, would it?”
The Dream Merchant threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh. “That’s
a good one! I’ll have to remember it. But, no, Catherine. I mean what I
say.”
“Fine; I’m game. But how do you guarantee it?” she challenged.
He spread his hands. “Trust me.”
“And the price?” Catherine nudged again.
The strange man paused as if weighing his options finally answering,
“Your sight.”
“My sight? You mean go blind?” She was astonished by his
answer and his nerve.
He nodded, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat. “That’s my
offer. Do you accept?”
“I have to decide now?”
“My time is short,” he said tersely. “Dawn is approaching. I cannot and
will not come again. As they say, it’s now or never. Take it or leave
it.”
Half out of incredulous belief and half out of desperation, Catherine
grabbed the chance. “I accept. Now what? Do I sign a contract or
something?”
Already the Dream Merchant was growing transparent, a wavering curtain
that floated toward the ceiling. “Don’t worry.” the high-pitched voice
drifted. “I’ll soon be by to collect.”
The first orange arms of dawn reached over the balcony to hug the city
and Catherine ducked the glare. When she looked back up, the apparition
had completely disappeared, and Vincent began to stir from his sleep.
The clock-radio now read 5:52. She shook her head, still not believing
she hadn’t dreamt the whole episode, and climbed out of bed to shower
the sleep from her eyes, seriously debating whether to tell her love
about the weird little man or to drop the entire thing.
She chose to drop it.
***
Joe Maxwell made his way to the corner of the world that held Catherine
Chandler’s desk, and tossed a bright yellow folder on top of the stack
in front of her. She looked up from her legal pad to give him a cautious
eye. “Unless it’s good news, I want that thing removed from my sight
immediately,” she warned.
Joe grinned at her and leaned on the tall file cabinet against the wall.
“Oh, it’s good news, Cathy; I promise.”
She reached for the folder and flipped open the cover to glance inside.
“What is this? The
Crutchley case?”
“Yep,” he smirked. “The one you’re gonna prosecute.”
Catherine gasped. “Me? But I didn’t do the legwork on this one!”
“But you remember me talking to you about it, don’t you? The nut case
who wrote all those threatening letters?”
Faint memory came to her. “Yeah, now I think I do.”
Joe stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, part of my
prerogative as DA is to assign who gets to take our cases to trial, and
I just happen to think you’ll get the conviction. Besides, Peterson’s
presiding.”
“Penitentiary Peterson?”
“One and the same, so wear the blue dress of yours. You look good in
it.” He turned to leave, but she called him back.
“Joe! What’ll I do with the
“Put it In ’pending. We can’t do anything until we can find the mother
up in
“One more thing,” Catherine quickly blurted, laughing, and Joe raised an
eyebrow in question “Since when have you decided to emerge from your den
back there to visit us plebes? We all thought that after the election
you’d be too busy hobnobbing with the mayor and commissioner to get down
this way again.”
“Aww, Radcliffe, you know me better than that,” he said. “I still have
to pass by the water fountain at least twice a day to make sure the
taxpayers are getting their money’s worth.”
Catherine giggled as he sauntered out, laying her pencil down and giving
herself a good long stretch. Joe’s rescheduling of her itinerary was a
welcomed respite, she didn’t have to worry about paperwork until
tomorrow. Glancing at her watch, she noticed it was still early
afternoon Oh, well - she deserved the rest of the day off. Standing, she
grabbed her purse to sling it over her shoulder when her phone rang.
Once…twice...three times.
“Hell,” she muttered and snatched the receiver. “Catherine Chandler.”
A moment’s hesitation then a soft voice, “Catherine?”
She stared at the phone for a split-second before placing it back to her
ear. “Vincent?” she whispered back, “where are you?”
“I’m at Peter’s,” he said. ”Can you come?”
She closed her eyes and concentrated on him -- on his feelings, on his
emotions at that moment -- and realized the tension and anxiety she
thought had been hers was in reality an extension of his nervousness.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” she promised and the phone clicked gently in
her ear.
The reception area was empty when Catherine arrived, and as surprised as
she had been to hear Vincent’s voice at the other end of her telephone,
she was even more surprised to see Father beckoning her into Peter’s
office. Speechless, she walked past him to see Vincent and Peter seated
and waiting for her. Vincent stood and offering his hand, led her to the
chair next to his.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?” She turned to her husband. “How did
you get here in broad daylight?”
Peter spoke before the explanations began. “I called this meeting,
although it’s not exactly an emergency, Cathy. It’s about those tests I
ran on you two a couple of months ago.”
A glimmer of hope lit in her eyes. “What...did you find something?”
“Well” - Peter rubbed his hands together – “let me start by saying that
after you left that night I sent the materials and specimens off to a
friend of mine at John Hopkins who owes me a lot of favors, and asked
him to corroborate my findings. It was partly my fault for telling him
to take his time, that there was no rush.”
Exasperation was setting in, “Is this good news or bad, Peter?”
Catherine asked. Vincent squeezed her fingers where they lay on the arm
of the chair; she let the physician continue.
“I got the results back yesterday and I took them home last night to go
over them. First of all, for the most part they simply repeat what I
found before.”
“Then why this meeting? It’s obvious you’ve cancelled your appointments
for it, she remarked, then -- after another repeated pressure on her
hand she apologized. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’ve been so testy
lately.”
Peter smiled and stood to circle around the side of his desk. “Cathy,
there was an additional note in the files. For some reason, with all the
tests and typing and specimens, I overlooked one specific step. But Mark
ran it and dropped it in the folder. Cathy, he says you’re pregnant.”
She was more than stunned. Her field of vision tilted at a weird angle,
becoming distant and fuzzy, bordering on completely graying out.
Suddenly, Vincent was there coaxing without words, bringing her back to
the present to face the news with joy and happiness. Slowly, her eyes
refocused, she breathed deeply.
“Oh. God,” she mumbled, clutching Peters arm. “How? You said there was
no way -- that medical science -- Then another thought hit her. “But I’m
still having my periods!”
“Science has been wrong before.” Peter laughed gently. “According to
science, bumblebees can’t fly, and although it’s not that common, many
pregnant women still go through their cycles --they’re just not as heavy
or as regular.” Catherine groaned, then began to giggle, and Vincent
joined her, holding her tightly to his chest. “One more thing, Peter
continued. “I’d like to run that particular little check myself, if you
don’t mind. Just to verify it and to humor an old medicine man.”
Vincent helped Catherine to her feet, and she accepted Peters arm as he
escorted her into the next room, closing the door behind them. Several
minutes later, they returned and Catherine ran into the welcoming
embrace of her beloved. Peter strode over to Father and took his hand,
shaking it.
“Congratulations, Jacob. Looks like you’ll be a grandfather in about
five months.”
***
Catherine took another look at the chocolate-covered cheese doodle
before popping it in her mouth. To think they used to turn my stomach
and now I crave the
repulsive things. She ate another one, wiped her fingers on a tissue
and turned back to the files on her desk. Rita came over carrying a
report.
“Hey, little momma how’s it going?”
Catherine sighed, watching her friend perch on the edge of the desk,
then smiled wearily. “The work’s no problem since Joe’s put me almost
exclusively in the courtroom,” she said.
“Well, three convictions out of four cases isn’t a bad track record,”
the woman complimented her. “Besides, in your condition, you don’t need
to be walking the streets.”
Catherine laughed. “You make me sound like a hooker.”
“From looking at you, more like one who let her job get to her,” Rita
quipped
“Is this a private party or can anyone crash it?” Joe asked, drawn by
their laughter.
Catherine wiped tears from her eyes and blew her nose when a solid kick
in her lower abdomen knocked the breath out of her. Instantly, her
friends were concerned, but she assured them it was the baby just
getting its exercise. A thread of worry wove itself around her heart and
she closed her eyes, taking a moment to assure her love that she was
well and fine and that the movements were natural for a healthy, growing
fetus. He responded with an emotional caress before leaving her calm and
contented.
Later that afternoon, Vincent met her at the
Being fond of chocolate, he had tried one once, then promptly washed his
mouth out with a swallow of water. Now, Catherine gave him a squeeze
about the waist, noticing that she wasn’t able to cuddle as close to him
these days. “No, no” she grinned.” Those stay Above in the office where
Joe can help me polish off the crumbs. Actually. I felt like some ice
cream tonight. Care to join me?”
“What kind?”
“Well, usually I prefer butter pecan, but I found I was more in the mood
for rocky road.”
Vincent’s eyes twinkled. “Chocolate?”
Catherine nodded. “A whole gallon of it. Just you, me, the ice cream and
two spoons. Game?” He hoisted the sack on one hip and offered her his
arm, escorting her back to their home Below. That evening they sat on
their bed, propped up against pillows, facing each other knee to knee:
alternately dipping spoons into the softening ice cream while Vincent
read aloud to her in his smoky voice
”You
and I by this lamp with these
Few
books shut out the world. Our knees
Touch almost in this little space.
But I am glad. I
see
your
face.
The silences are long, but each
Hears the other without speech.
And in this simple scene there is
The
essence
of all subtleties,
The freedom from all fret and smart,
The one sure sabbath of the heart.
The world-- we
cannot conquer it,
Nor change the mind of fools one whit.
Here, here alone do we create
Beauty and peace inviolate;
Here night
by
night and hour by hour
We build a high impregnable tower
Whence may shine now and again,
A light to light the feet of men
When they
see
the rays thereof:
And this is marriage, this is love’”
Catherine lightly massaged her protruding belly, letting her contentment
flow from unborn child to spouse as she bathed in the warmth of her
husband’s voice.
***
Securing the large post against the damp earthen tunnel wall, Vincent
held it steady as Raymond and Cullen drove the wooden spikes into the
Moor to hold it.
Catherine! The baby! He could feel, simultaneously, a double cry
for help and he was filled with wonder that he had established a small,
tenuous bond with his child. Mumbling a curt apology, he ran for the
apartment sub-basement, knowing his wife would meet him there so he
could help her to the hospital chamber Below.
When the first pre-labor pain hit her, Catherine had been standing at
the foot of the steps leading up to the Criminal Courts building, trying
unsuccessfully to hail a cab. It was late afternoon and she had been
silently wishing she could drop the deposition she still needed to get,
and go home to a hot bath and a foot- and back-rub. The vise-like grip
that squeezed her abdomen robbed her of her breath. She doubled over,
tears rolling out from under her lashes as she bowed to the pain. The
instant the agony receded, she was filled with fear -- she was still six
weeks from her due date! Without realizing, she sent out a mental plea
for help.
Vincent!
A taxi bounced to a stop in front of her and a pair of hands grabbed her
arms. Unable to straighten up, she allowed the driver to place her in
the back seat. Catherine took a deep breath to fight the beginnings of
another contraction when she looked up to see the face of Frank Finchley
watching her in the rear-view mirror. He gunned the cab’s motor and
pulled out into the
Her apartment was not as close as the
Father and Mary were waiting; the table and room cleaned and ready when
Vincent rushed through the doorway. He lay his wife on the delivery
couch. “You knew,” he panted, throwing Father a quick look while
cradling Catherine’s head.
“Cullen called me on the pipes after you left,” Father replied. How far
apart are the contractions, Catherine?”
She rolled her eyes up to the physician; her face pale and glistening
with perspiration. You mean there’s supposed to be a lull?” she gasped,
smiling feebly.
Father nodded to Mary and they began removing her clothes, then covered
her with a soft cotton sheet. Father instructed the older woman to ready
the instruments in case Catherine should need a C section, then turned
to Vincent once Mary had gone.
“We may need more blood than I have in supply. Put a message on the
pipes calling for donors.” Vincent hesitated, glancing down at his wife.
“There’s still time, if you go now.” Father assured him and the
younger man bowed his head in acquiescence before rushing out.
”Father...is there something wrong?” Catherine asked wearily.
He gave her his hand to clench and said, “There are so many factors we
have yet to know about. By human terms you’re early, but we can’t
assume...”
“The baby is human,” she finished for him. A sudden stab made her cry
out and she bit her lower lip, drawing a drop of blood.
Father tenderly brushed the hair out of her eyes and tried to comfort
her. “I’ve got to set up outside so Mary can begin accepting donors.
Don’t worry: we’ll be right back.” He patted her hand once more, then
left the chamber through dark, heavy drapes.
Catherine shivered from the chill, taking a deep breath to face the
fresh waves of pressing agony, she felt the calming presence that was
Vincent sending her love and expectant joy through their bond; sharing
the birthing process in every way he could, and his solicitude warmed
her.
“It appears I’m just in time.”
Catherine threw her head around to see the Dream Merchant standing in
front of a blank rock wall. “How did you get in here? What do you want?”
The odd little man smiled, stepping closer. “I’ve come to collect what
is due me.”
Fear raced through her, its intensity stronger than her labor. “Oh,
God.” she whispered. ”Not now. You can’t collect now.”
He moved to the table, nearer her head. “A deal is a deal, and I’ve kept
my end. Now it’s time for you to ante up.”
“But I want to see my baby,” she pleaded. “Please let me see my child.
What’s a few more minutes?”
Shaking his head, the Dream Merchant intoned, ”That was never part of
our original agreement.”
“Our agreement was for you to take my sight. Exact time was never
specified,” she spat at him. Her fear had been quickly replaced by
anger, the knowledge that she would be denied ever seeing her newborn
child giving her strength to rebel, to argue her case like the
prosecuting attorney she was.
The Dream Merchant studied her. She watched his thoughts flash across
his face as he mulled over her statement. Quickly reaching a decision,
he turned to walk back to the wall as sounds beyond the partition drew
closer. Father and Vincent were returning, the latter moving with more
speed and concern over the turmoil of emotions he was receiving through
the bond.
“I’m sorry,” Dream Merchant said. ”I cannot leave without my price and I
must leave now.” His form began to shimmer in the air, then darken, and
the torches in the chamber moved between gold and amber in the graying
air. With rising horror, Catherine realized her sight was fading with
his departure. She screamed in pain and anger.
“No! Let me see my baby! I want to see my baby! You have no right, no
right!” Hands cradled her head, a voice tried to calm her. The feel
of the infant beginning to move in her, through her, jerked breathless
gasps from her lungs, and Father was there coaxing her to ”push,
push” the child into the world. Vincent was a glowing nearness in
the almost inky blackness, and she struggled against him, reaching out
in the direction where the Dream Merchant had vanished. She yelled
futilely, desperately.
“Let me see him, dammit! It won’t hurt you to let me see him just once!”
She felt herself ripping below, becoming numb in the all-encompassing
heat of pain; she was sinking into the void that promised healing --
yet, she fought to stay awake, fought for her right, for the agony she
was bearing for the sake of the enormous love she had for her husband,
then she felt the child sliding from her body. Her words were hoarse
screams, pleading…begging…demanding.
“LET ME SEE MY BABY, YOU BASTARD!”
Her body clamped down, she fell into the abyss of the ill and injured as
echoes of healthy wails followed her down the spiraling funnel; and
Vincent released her into sleep with a last thought, it’s a boy...
***
She was blind; completely and irrevocably. Awakening several hours
later, she felt Vincent by her side and his worry was a bitter weight on
her heart. He knew of her loss before she could tell him, and she cried
against the soft corded wool of his vest until she drifted off into
exhausted sleep once more. Sighing, Vincent left their chamber where she
lay on their bed and walked the few steps into Father’s chamber. Near
the smaller entrance, leading into the older man’s bedroom, stood a
cradle of hand-carved oak, polished to a rich, dark gleam and set on an
arched pole that allowed it to sway freely with a gentle push. It was
Cullen’s gift to the child, as yet unnamed until Catherine could regain
her health. Then the three of them would stand before the community and
honor their son with his birthright.
My son.
Still in awe, Vincent watched the swaddled infant asleep and content
after his bloody and terrifying entrance into the world. He traced the
smooth pink cheek with the back
of his lightly furred finger.
“He is a miracle, Vincent.”
The new father turned at the sound of his father entering the room.
“Yes,” he agreed, his tone soft. He turned to his son again, wanting
another look before joining the elderly patriarch at his desk where tea
had been set out.
Father poured, handed Vincent a cup, then waited until they were seated.
“I have some worries about Catherine,” he began.
Vincent waved a hand to acknowledge he was aware of the path the man was
taking. “I already know,” he said. “Catherine is blind.”
Father’s face paled. “Blind? But how? As far as I could tell,
there were no complications in the delivery.”
“Nevertheless her sight is gone. Perhaps a nerve was pinched, we don’t
know. But she wanted me to assure you that she does not blame you for
her condition.”
“But her screams..”
“Were brought on by her pain and by the fact she realized she was losing
her vision. Her words were not directed at you.”
Removing his glasses, Father rubbed his face with his handkerchief,
relieved. After the initial shock of Catherine’s behavior during the
birth, he had seriously wondered if he had inadvertently caused her
undue stress to cause the outburst. Her venomous screams had not only
shocked him, but also nearly caused him to lose his hold on the slippery
child when he’d finally popped from her body.
Father had lost count of how
many children he had brought into the world. He’d seen and heard the
thrashings and cries brought on by the rendering pain of labor many
times, but he had never been the brunt of such anger and hatred as when
Catherine had writhed on the delivery table, unaware of either Vincent
or her son. It had frightened him terribly. Now, there was the bitter
fact of her blindness.
He was sitting by the bed when Catherine awoke; he watched her adjust
again to the fact that opening her eyes did not banish the darkness. She
shifted, paused, and let her other senses begin to compensate for her
loss. Finally, she smiled, turning her head toward him. “Father.” It was
not a question but a definite statement.
“How can you tell?” he asked.
“I feel Vincent farther away, but I knew someone was in the room with
me. You still smell of alcohol and soap. You also have that nervous
habit of tapping your fingernails on the arm of the chair.”
He chuckled, leaning over to take her hand in his. “How do you feel?”
“Emotionally or physically?”
“Both.”
She contemplated a moment before answering. “There’s a dull soreness
below. I supposed I’m doped up.”
“I would say,” he agreed.
“But emotionally...I can’t change what has happened. I know that and I
accept it. I don’t like it, but sometimes we have to make sacrifices for
the things we want most in life. I have given Vincent a son, a child to
carry on his destiny and responsibility when he grows older.” She looked
him straight in the eye, her own green gaze amazingly accurate, if not
seeing. “I’m sorry if I hurt you when I screamed. It wasn’t you...I
mean, you weren’t...” The pressure on her hand told her he understood
completely. She sighed, now at ease. “I want to hold him. May I?”
Father went to the cradle and picked up the sleeping infant, then laid
him in his mother’s arms. With an almost reverent touch she traced the
contour and shape of her son’s head and face; her fingers trembled
slightly when she spoke again, her voice filled with tears. “He looks
like me.” She caressed the tiny hands and feet, feeling the soft
smoothness of the round tummy. Reaching back to the baby’s head, she ran
her fingers through thick hair. “What color is it?”
”Blond,” Father whispered.
Overwhelmed, Catherine snuggled the child closer to her, buried her face
in the fragrant warmth of that living, breathing miracle and sent
heavenward a silent prayer of thanks. Resolved, she found she could live
with her handicap if it meant she had a part of Vincent and herself
combined in the little body; she rubbed her cheek in the boy’s hair. A
tenderness covered her heart, tendrils of happiness and cautious
optimism shining like threads of light. Catherine grasped the feeling
within her as the love of her husband flowed in to her, growing stronger
as he neared their chamber. Entering the room, he hurried over to kneel
beside the bed and enclose his wife and son in the protective circle of
his arms. Deeply moved, Father backed into the doorway leading to his
chamber.
***
They named him Jacob Winslow Wells at the Naming Ceremony two weeks
later, and when Eric inadvertently began referring to the infant as
J.W., the rest of the tunnel community immediately picked up the
nickname. J.W thrived on the love and attention afforded him. Mary
appointed herself as Catherine’s third arm, helping the new mother with
learning to nurse and care for her newborn and teaching Vincent the fine
art of changing diapers. Vincent found he had a special gift for calming
his son when the child had trouble going to sleep or had an upset
stomach. The new father knew he had a type of bond or connection with
the baby, but it was weak and tenuous like smoke, yet steadily
strengthening as the child grew and became stronger.
In the meantime, Catherine regained her strength and soon returned to
work on the arm of Doctor Peter Alcott, who had been adept at covering
for her when she’d gone into labor, then disappeared from the face of
the earth. After the initial shock, surprise, and words of sympathy, Joe
assigned her to prosecution full time, knowing her blindness would not
handicap her bulldog approach in the courtroom. His no-nonsense ‘go-getemdammit’
attitude was refreshing and Catherine dove head-first into the backlog
of cases with help from Rita.
At night Vincent tutored her in reading and writing Braille so she could
take notes for herself on her special punch pad. The going was slow and
often frustrating to the point of tears, yet she kept pushing herself,
knowing that she couldn’t let her blindness get the best of her.
Catherine felt her other senses heightening; lovemaking became sweeter,
more sensual. She traced the beloved planes of Vincent’s lightly furred
face, recalling the sight of his lapis blue eyes in her memory. But she
was not happy, and he would try to comfort her as best he could; letting
his love cradle her heart, protecting and healing, even as he held her
tightly against him.
The rest of the community went to great lengths to downplay Catherine’s
problem. Mouse even came up with an ingenious method of hanging
pre-punched strips of shoulder height leather at tunnel conjunctions to
guide her when she needed to travel alone. It was Father who eventually
went to Vincent and Catherine to discuss the possibility of running some
tests to see if there was any way she could regain her sight.
“I’m sick to death of tests,” Catherine remarked late one evening as the
three of them shared conversation over apple turnovers and hot tea.
“Between you and Peter, I feel as if you know me inside and out, better
than I do myself.”
“I can sympathize, Catherine; but I received a note today from Peter.
He’s flying a specialist in from
Vincent added softly, “If he fails to give us hope, then there is
nothing else we can do, nowhere else we can turn .” Our last
option….the thought floated
unspoken between them. Catherine bowed her head and relented, but in the
far recesses of her mind, behind an iron door of resolve, her memory of
the Dream Merchant laughed at her. delighting in her unhappiness. She
felt a questioning touch and she gently smiled at her husband. Someday
she would have to tell him the whole story. Someday... Soon.
***
It came, in fact, four days later.
Catherine was nursing J.W. when she heard a rustling just beyond the
outer tunnel, followed by the soft chime of the small Chinese gong that
had been a wedding present from Lin and Henry. Placed on a narrow ledge
outside their bedroom, it served as a doorbell, allowing would-be
visitors to announce themselves before entering, thus preventing any
embarrassing interruptions. Catherine covered herself before bidding
whoever it was to enter. She wondered about the caller, as the hour was
late and most of the community was asleep. The soft rustling noises
entered the room and she smiled.
“It’s late Mouse. Did you need to see me? Or Vincent?”
The young man moved closer to her. “How’d you do that?” he puzzled.
Catherine laughed softly and explained. “You drag your feet. You also
smell like wet soil and machine grease. It’s very descriptive of you.
Now, what is it you need?” She placed her son face down over her lap and
gently patted his back to burp him.
“Got a note. For you and Vincent,” Mouse said, watching her care for the
baby.
“From whom?” she asked. “Could you read it to me? My hands are full.”
Mouse unfolded the paper, pausing to scan the handwriting. ’Dear
Catherine and Vincent. I wanted to bring you the news personally but
I’ve been suddenly called out for emergency surgery. I met with Dr.
Jurisch this evening and his findings, though not conclusive, are as
final as he believes they can be. Physically, Catherine’s eyes are
perfectly healthy. There are no signs of infection or disease; the
retina shows it is receiving visual stimuli. Therefore the problem must
be when the signal reaches the brain. As your CAT scan failed to show
any ab-no.,.ab-nor...”
“Abnormalities,” she prompted.
“Abnormalities, Dr. lurisch proposes you make an appointment to talk
with a Dr Leonard Glasgow. He’s an excellent psychiatrist, Catherine;
the best in the field. Maybe your problem is not physical. Think on it
and let me know. I’ll come see you as soon as I can get away. All my
love, Peter.” Mouse cleared his throat. “Too many big words,” he
mumbled.
“You read very well,” she praised him. Pointing in the direction of the
writing table, she asked him to leave the note for Vincent to see when
he returned, and Mouse placed it under the edge of a book before wishing
her and the baby good-night and shuffling from the chamber.
Catherine felt her way to the cradle that stood by the wall on the far
side of the room. Laying her son down on the sheepskin pad, she covered
him with a nubbly cotton blanket, then made her way to the bed to await
her husband’s return. She mulled over Peter’s message, realizing that
things had taken a turn in a direction she didn’t wish to pursue. Her
blindness was not psychosomatic, yet Catherine could see that with all
the other avenues closed, this was a new path they hadn’t travelled, but
it was one she didn’t wish to. Peter and Father would put pressure on
her, but she just couldn’t take any more.
Vincent would question her reluctance and argue her reasons, but in the
end, he would let her make the decision. She sighed heavily. The charade
could go no further. As long as there remained the possibility of
a cure, she’d have to continue to feign faint hope, subject herself to
God knows how many more tests only to suffer the disappointment of those
around her. The worst of course, was Vincent. He placed no blame on
himself, or anyone, yet knowing the woman of his heart would never see
the sun of her child’s smile was a dark gray burden he bore for her
sake.
The sound of air flowing past fabric broke her concentration, and she
readied a smile for her beloved entering the chamber. She heard his warm
chuckle as he laid his cloak over the back of the chair by the table.
“I’m beginning to believe your hearing is becoming more acute than
mine,” he teased her.
“You used to be able to startle me when you’d come up behind me so
quietly. Like Sandburg’s fog.”
Vincent chuckled again. “My feet are not that small. Is J.W. asleep?”
“I just laid him down. Vincent...” she tried to gather her courage
before proceeding, and felt his patient, silent question, “We need to
talk. I need to talk. There’s something I must confess.”
***
In the lower tunnels the rich smell of damp earth was thick and cloying,
the humidity clinging to the lichen-painted rocks with warm fingers.
Vincent walked carefully through the narrower corridors, feeling
uncomfortable in the heat. He held the lantern in front of his body and
followed the inexplicable inborn knowledge that would lead him to his
goal. After Catherine had broken down and told him about her strange
nocturnal visitor, he’d held her in his arms, soothing and rocking her,
until she’d fallen asleep.
The hour was very late, but he knew he would be unable to rest. He
reviewed several options then, left to seek out Narcissa. If anyone knew
about the Dream Merchant, she would. Her world was steeped in magic and
fantasy, it thrived on spells and incantations. She was what father
called an Old Soul, she was ageless and revered by everyone in the
community. Vincent finally arrived at her chambers and stepped carefully
into the gloomy room. Being blind, the old woman had no need of light,
but a few candles burned dimly on a makeshift altar.
With his excellent eyesight, he spotted the old woman easily, she was
hunched over a woven tray and throwing a handful of shells upon the
matted surface. A slight straightening of her spine told him she was
aware of his presence. “Vincent,” she intoned slowly.
“Forgive me for the lateness of the hour, Narcissa...”
“But you have need of this old voodoo woman, hmm?” She turned smiling.
“Your Catherine has made a pact with the Dream Merchant, and now you
wish to remedy the situation.”
Always amazed by her astute insight and bluntness, Vincent sighed, glad
he didn’t have to give a detailed explanation of the problem. “Can
Catherine ever regain her sight? Is there a way we can bring the Dream
Merchant back?”
“Back? My child do not call on the devil. When he gives, he must
receive; and the price you pay will always be a painful one. No,
Vincent. Do not bring him back.”
“We must try,” he insisted.
“The risks are too great.”
“Our life together was a risk I
believed was great, yet Catherine’s love overcame that risk. Now, I am
more than willing to call upon the spirit if it means she can see once
more,” Vincent persisted.
“Is her loss of sight such a bad thing?” Narcissa questioned softly. Her
milk-colored eyes looked directly at him and Vincent felt a sense of
shame.
“I grieve,” Vincent tried to explain, “that she can never see our son’s
face. I grieve for the beautiful things she will never again be able to
enjoy, and for the sights I will never again be able to experience
through her. If it is selfishness that drives me, then I gladly accept
the blame. However, I can’t sit idly by and watch Catherine slowly
wither inside.”
Narcissa nodded. Making her way to a shelf carved in the rock wall, she
picked up a small covered wooden bowl. She lifted the lid to show
Vincent it contained a white powder. “Put a tiny amount in her drink and
the Dream Merchant will come to her. But remember, Vincent you are
powerless to help her. She alone deals with the minion of the devil.”
Vincent took the bowl, thanking her, and made his way back to the main
tunnels and his wife.
***
The following night Catherine swallowed a cup of tea containing
Narcissa’s powder, then waited for the little man to appear. She had
spent hours going over what she would say, what she would do, but
realized only one truth held firm -- the Dream Merchant would not strike
another deal unless he felt sure he was getting the better end of the
bargain. Vincent had told her of his visit to Narcissa and explained the
risk she was taking, to which she reminded him of something that she had
said many months before: her life and subsequently their lives were full
of risks and complications, but those had been steps they’d both
accepted and gladly taken for the sake of their love. What she planned
to do now was hanging precariously on a single deal of the cards, and if
the Dream Merchant gave her the wrong answer, all her hopes would
instantly vanish, leaving her with an empty hand and an even darker
heart.
She sighed, tuning out the sounds of underground life, aware of the
gentle breathing of her husband next to her in the bed. Laying a hand on
top of the covers, she felt the warm rise and fall of his chest, the
slow beating of his heart. His soothing strength flowed into her…calm
and trusting. Absorbed in her love for Vincent, she was startled by the
voice that spoke out next to her.
“This better be worth my while.”
Catherine’s expression hardened. “I believe I can strike a fair
bargain,” she replied. She tracked the sounds of the little man as he
perched himself at the foot of the bed.
“You have powerful friends,” the Dream Merchant informed her. “It is
rare that I revisit a client.”
“Oh?”
“But, at the same time, I’m intrigued. What could you possibly offer
me?”
“I want...”
“I know what you want,” he interrupted. “You want your sight back.
However, because of the suddenness of my reappearance, I’m not prepared
with a price.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
”You?” he sounded genuinely surprised.
Catherine felt over Vincent’s face and let his hair run between her
fingers; she closed her fist in it. “Yes, me,” she stated firmly. “But
first I need to know a few things.”
Dream Merchant snickered softly. “You’ve captured my interest. Please
continue.”
Taking a deep breath, she took the plunge. “Can you foresee the future?”
A short pause. “If I can… so?”
“Tell me…who will die first? Me? Or Vincent?”
“What does this have to do...”
“Humor
me,” she snapped. Her nerves were
already raw, the stakes too impossibly high to banter back and forth.
“The man will,” he mumbled.
Oh God, she
prayed, give me the
strength. The chamber felt suddenly chilly, and she hugged her arms.
“Can you tell me…how?”
“You want details?”
She knew he was baiting her. “Just tell me if he dies as bravely as he
lived, or will it be a senseless death.” She felt the odd little man
looking her over as he contemplated her question, obviously enjoying the
verbal cat and mouse game.
“He will die protecting those he loves,” he finally answered.
Catherine nodded. The sting of tears in her eyes went unnoticed.
“Then…please tell me...how long will I live after him.”
“How long?”
“How long after he dies do I survive?” How long will I have to bear
the cold ache of living without him? How long will I have to suffer?
She didn’t know the kind of answer she expected, but the truth, if it
was the truth, shocked her.
“Two years, eight months, and ten days. Now, do you want to know how
you’ll die?”
“That is the future that could be,” Catherine pointed out, ignoring his
last question. “The past is done and cannot be altered; the present is
as it is. Am I right?”
“Correct on both counts.”
“But the future…can the future be changed?”
“Death cannot be changed,” he began.
“But can the time of death be altered?”
Another moment’s hesitation. “Explain.”
“Here is my offer. Listen carefully. I will give you two years eight
months and ten days of my life in exchange for having my vision
restored.” She heard the man choke.
“You are trading away life for sight?”
“That much of it, yes. Do you accept?”
“Are you mad?” the Dream Merchant barked. “Your life is a gift even I
cannot trade for!”
Catherine felt her hope failing. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I can’t request any term of life in exchange for a wish.”
“You are not requesting it! I am offering it to you. And only a
portion of it, at that. Can you accept?”
“Are you sure, Catherine?”
“Why?” She gave him a malicious grin. “Will it
get you in trouble with the boss?”
“You can’t call me back after this,” he warned her. “No potion or spell,
no wish regardless of how passionate you may dream it, will bring me
back. Ever. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Very well,” the Dream Merchant said, his voice already becoming
fainter. “I accept your proposal, just remember it was your
offer.” The voice died out. Catherine remained still, listening, waiting
for the first fuzzy images to come to her. Laying her head on her
pillow, she turned her face in order that the first thing she saw would
be the expression on her beloved’s face. Sleep took her with cotton
gentleness.
***
Morning crept into the tunnel world. Exhaustion had taken its toll on
Catherine so that when she finally awoke it took several moments before
she realized her eyes were wide open -- and she could see the room!
Relief washed over her, drowning her with the sudden flow of
happiness and tears as she buried her face in the pillow beside her to
inhale Vincent’s scent that still clung to it. Throwing back the quilts,
she jumped out of bed, ran over to the cradle against the wall, and
stood staring down at the face of her infant son. Tears dropped on the
hand-knitted coverlet and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Catherine felt a tug on her heart; she responded with a glow of purest
sunshine, drawing her husband back to their chamber where he stumbled in
to stop and gaze at her with unconcealed hope etched on his face. Giving
him her most loving smile, she teased. “The maroon shirt is new. Did
Bernice make it or you?”
“Catherine!” He pulled her against him and covered her face and eyelids
with a thousand feathery kisses. “How? How? Did you see the Dream
Merchant; did he return?”
She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and murmured into his ear.
“Yes. He returned, and I won.”
His body tensed. “But at what cost?” Drawing back, Vincent looked long
and deep into her face. “What did you give up, my Catherine?”
Lovingly she ran the tip of a finger over the silky brows, down the
length of his unusual nose, around the cleft mouth, and smiled
secretively. “I gave up an eternity of terrible loneliness, my darling.”
At his worried, puzzled look; she laughed softly, happily. “Never mind,”
she assured him. “Trust me. I won.”
The End |