Book of Dreams

by Bunn, Davis

  But before the ambassador’s wife could join her, the butler entered, rang a crystal bell, and announced, “Lunch is served.”

  They were thirty-eight for lunch. They were seated in a formal hall with walls of golden wood and lit by the three largest chandeliers Elena had ever seen. Eight liveried servants waited on them. The refectory table could have comfortably held another dozen. Elena was seated midway down the table, between an elderly gentleman who was clearly hard of hearing and a striking woman of perhaps fifty. Elena did not catch the woman’s name when they were introduced, but heard the man on the woman’s other side refer to her as Comtessa.

  The conversation was vapid, the lunch endless. Finally dessert was served, a gold-rimmed plate of fresh fruit and sherbet, topped by a wing of woven sugar. Elena discovered that the elderly gentleman seated to her right had fallen asleep. As she toyed with her dessert, Elena felt eyes upon her. She lifted her gaze to discover the ambassador’s wife watching her. Sandra Harwood nodded once. Then turned away.

  The ambassador rose to his feet, and in the ensuing tumult Sandra Harwood motioned for Elena to remain where she was. With practiced smoothness the ambassador’s wife disengaged from an overbearing gentleman and moved around the table without appearing to hurry. She slipped into the chair the comtessa had vacated. “We don’t have much time. Give me the other message for my husband.”

  Elena heard a booming laughter at the table’s head. “I’m not certain that would be—”

  “There are issues at work here that you do not need to concern yourself with. Just know that Lawrence has refused the President’s offer. Now he wants to know the remainder of your message.”

  Elena turned in her seat. Perhaps a dozen people clustered around the ambassador. He stabbed Elena with a look just as Sandra touched her arm and said, “Lawrence remains in the room so we can speak and not be overheard.”

  Elena turned back and asked, “We are being monitored?”

  “Always and everywhere. It is a price one pays for power in this day and age.” She waved that away, the gesture more impatient this time. “Give me the message. Please.”

  “Three words,” Elena said. “Feed my sheep.”

  The news pushed Sandra back hard in her chair. “There is nothing more?”

  “I had the impression that the ambassador has already been asked to take on another job. He had to choose between that and the vice presidency.”

  Sandra Harwood was clearly rocked hard by the words. “My husband receives many offers.”

  “This one was very special. Something he was uniquely qualified for. Something he was called to do. The only other word I received was mission. As in, God was calling him to take this on.” A shadow fell over Elena. She realized a servant was holding her chair, waiting for her to rise. Elena leaned in closer and said, “I had the impression your enemy nominated Lawrence for the vice president position so that he would be drawn away from accepting this other job.”

  The ambassador’s wife rose with her, her face set in grimly determined lines. She repeated softly, “Mission.”

  13

  Midway through the limo ride back to Oxford, Elena’s phone rang. She had not even realized it was on. She checked the readout but did not recognize the incoming number. “Hello?”

  “Carlo Brindisi here, Dr. Burroughs. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Cardinal, hello. Not at all.”

  “I am most grateful for our time together yesterday, Dr. Burroughs.”

  “Please call me Elena.”

  “Most grateful, both to you and Brian and to God. For I saw God’s hand at work in our meeting.”

  “I did as well.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that. You see, I am phoning now because I was wondering if I might ask you to do me a very great favor.”

  “If I can.”

  “Wonderful. Wonderful.” The priest’s accent seemed much stronger today than it had while they were seated together in his office. Elena had the impression the priest was nervous, and the strain was affecting his command of English.

  Brindisi asked, “Will you travel to Rome?”

  “Will I … what?”

  “Monday. The day after tomorrow.” The priest’s nerves were far more evident now. “Say you will. Please. I beg you.”

  Elena’s protest sounded strangled to her own ears. “It would be very difficult.”

  Brindisi appeared not even to have heard. “A very dear friend and ally. A man who truly holds a heart for God. He is in need of your help.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “My friend, his name is Antonio d’Alba. He has been having dreams.”

  14

  As soon as she arrived home, Elena called her pastor. Brian agreed to meet with her that evening, though clearly he would have preferred otherwise. She exercised for a half hour, showered and changed clothes, and set off again.

  Oxford’s medieval heritage was largely lost to the sprawl of industry and commerce. But tiny pockets still remained of its more rural beginnings. One such area was Wolvercote. The place was remarkably easy to miss, even by seasoned locals. The only road leading to the village began in the middle of a wretched sixties-era housing development. To anyone who did not know better, the narrow lane looked like just another driveway. But beyond the development’s perimeter stretched a meadow, and then a forest, both of which were protected by royal treaty. The River Thames cut a narrow swath through the woods, and was crossed by a bridge whose foundations were set in place by the Romans. Standing next to this bridge was Elena’s favorite restaurant in Oxford, the Trout Inn.

  The inn’s heritage was so ancient as to be inextricably bound up with lore and fable. Certainly the current structure had been in place for well over seven hundred years. But if legends were to be believed, Roman soldiers had once rested in the very same place, watching river trout feed in the sun-dappled waters. When Elena rose from her car, the faint rumble of traffic could be heard from the city’s ring road. Other than this trace of metallic thunder, however, the present day was not allowed to intrude.

  As soon as the pastor stepped from his car, Elena understood why he had been reluctant to meet.

  Brian was accompanied by a woman Elena’s age, tall with russet hair and an air of nervousness to match the pastor’s. She wore a checked skirt of forest green. Over this was a long belted sweater. A brilliant silk scarf was tied about her neck. Elena watched as Brian reached for her hand, then dropped it with a teenager’s uncertainty. Elena pretended not to have noticed and greeted them both with her warmest smile.

  The inn was built in the early medieval style, when ship’s timbers were used as support columns for upper floors. The walls were fashioned from the local honey-colored stone. Fires burned at both ends of the main room. Candles flickered upon every oaken table. The patrons’ faces were painted with ruddy tones from another, softer era. Elena held her peace through the ordeal of menus and waiters and the arrival of their drinks. Then Brian excused himself to take a call, as she knew he would. Elena leaned across the table and said, “You don’t have any reason to worry about me.”

  The woman tried for a haughty British air, but her nerves gave her away. “I’m quite sure I don’t—”

  Elena interrupted, “Let’s not start what I hope will be a deep and abiding friendship with falsehoods.”

  Janine Featheringham possessed angular features and a direct gaze and strong hands that played nervously across the tabletop. “I-I’ve been terrified of meeting.”

  “I understand.”

  “He speaks of you with such affection. It’s, well, I hope you’ll forgive me …”

  “There’s never been anything between us, and there never will be. Brian and I have seen each other at our absolute worst.”

  “And yet you still care for each other.”

  “Very deeply. But not in a romantic way.” She sought some way to explain how she felt. “Shared hardships have cast us in the role of brother and siste
r.”

  Janine blinked fiercely. “I can’t tell you how much it means to hear you say this.”

  “I think I know.”

  “He’s very special to me, you see.”

  “Where did you two meet?”

  “He spoke at my village church one Sunday as a favor to our vicar, who was ailing. It was, well, I know this sounds utterly foppish for a woman of my years …”

  “Love at first sight,” Elena finished for her. “For him as well?”

  “He says so.” Janine squared her shoulders. “And I believe him.”

  Elena reached across the table. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am for you both.”

  Which was when Brian reentered the restaurant. He stowed his phone in his pocket, looked down at the clasped hands in the center of the table, and took a long breath. “Well. How utterly splendid.”

  Janine smiled across the table. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Through dinner, Elena was content to sit across from the couple and listen as they shared the breathless delight of new love. She found herself making mental notes. This was how a pair of mature people could reknit the fabric of their worlds.

  Janine revealed how her father had been addicted to unfaithfulness. Janine had always assumed the endless arguments between her parents had scarred her for life. She had put marriage down as something that happened to others. She had focused her life and energies on her role as senior child care supervisor for all of Oxfordshire.

  Only now there was this sapling of young love taking root, and everything must be redefined. There was joy to the moment, and considerable fear. Janine and Brian looked to Elena, the professional, for advice, but she gave none. How could she, when another portion of her mind and heart were filled with what this couple represented. All the avenues Elena had willfully avoided. The chances never noticed. Because she had refused to lift her head from the sands of loss.

  Finally over coffee, Elena said, “I need to speak with you about something.”

  Janine said, “Perhaps I should leave.”

  “No. Please stay.”

  Elena recounted the phone call and the limo and the manor. “I’m sorry to dispel your happy mood.”

  “You’ve done nothing of the sort,” Janine said, though her tone was grave.

  “I can’t tell you who my patient is without breaking confidentiality.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “But you need to understand that the people involved hold considerable political power.” Elena then described the lunch. And then the phone call from Brian’s friend. She said, “I have no idea what to do.”

  “Have you prayed about it?”

  “All afternoon.”

  “You want my advice?”

  “Desperately.”

  “Go to Rome.”

  “I must agree,” Janine said. “This request was not offered lightly.”

  Brian went on, “Carlo Brindisi might present himself here as a bumbling professor, lost in his research and ancient texts. But he is a chameleon. The power he holds in Rome is quite considerable. He would only ask you to do this if it was very important. Even vital.”

  “I have patients,” Elena protested weakly. “Responsibilities.”

  “And what if God is calling you?”

  “Then why doesn’t he say something?”

  Brian directed a tender smile to the woman seated beside him. “Perhaps that is precisely what he is doing at this moment.”

  Elena hesitated, but the sensation of compressed need would not be denied. “There’s more.”

  The couple showed surprise for the first time. Brian said, “More?”

  Elena told them about the book. She wondered all the while if she was doing the right thing. When she was done, there was a long silence, then Brian asked, “Miriam has given you a book that is four hundred years old.”

  “Several books,” Janine corrected. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Five in total. Yes.”

  “All identical copies of the same text. And the oldest …”

  “According to legend,” Elena said. “It’s fashioned from scrolls two thousand years old.”

  “And each page holds a verse from the Lord’s Prayer.”

  “In Aramaic. Yes.”

  “Should you be telling us this?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’m honored that you chose to trust us,” Janine said. “And touched. Deeply.”

  “This,” Brian said, “I have got to see.”

  15

  The night had grown chilly, which was nice, because it gave Elena an excuse to light a fire. She turned on a pair of lamps in the living room’s far corners. She offered the couple coffee, then excused herself and went into her bedroom. She lifted the book from her desk drawer and felt the now-familiar tingle, as though the energy had grown while awaiting her return. She carried the book into the living room and set it on the coffee table. She pulled a cushion off the sofa and settled on the floor opposite her friends.

  Brian’s face appeared elongated by the room’s shadows and the firelight. “I still wonder if we should be doing this.”

  Now that they were here and the book in its silk cover lay between them, Elena was filled with an air of certainty. “Miriam said distinctly that there were no rules. And if there once had been, she did not know them.”

  “A friend guides you into studying clinical psychology. She suggests you overcome tragedy by studying dreams. She waits for half a lifetime, hoping in silence for such a moment.” Brian shook his head. “I’ve known Miriam for years and now wonder if I ever saw the woman at all.”

  Elena unwound the cords and slid the book from its cover. Brian and Janine both greeted the book with a long breath. Elena opened the cover and turned the book so the image was directed their way. Janine whispered, “What does it say?”

  “Abba.”

  “It’s so beautiful.”

  Brian traced a pair of fingers along the base of the page, creasing his way along the track shaded by centuries of hands before his own. “The earliest alphabet known to mankind is the North Semitic, which dates from around 3000 BC. A thousand years later, Aramaic was developed from these Semitic roots.”

  Janine watched him. “How do you know this?”

  Elena answered, “After his wife died, Brian taught himself to read Hebrew.”

  “Elena worked on her book about dreams,” Brian said. “I had my studies.”

  “Tell me what I’m seeing.”

  “Modern Hebrew comes from the same Semitic roots as Aramaic. Arabic is also a direct descendant of Aramaic and still uses the Aramaic names for letters. These oldest languages—Aramaic, Hebrew, and Arabic—only wrote down the consonants. These slash marks, what in English would be accents, are known as diacritics. They represent the vowel sounds. Around the year 1000 BC, the Greeks took the Phoenician language, which also came from these same Semitic roots, and added actual letters for vowels. This became the base for the letters of the Roman alphabet, which is what we use today.”

  Brian traced his hand around the flowing script. “What you see here, this artistic drawing of letters, is called calligraphy. No one really knows when it began. In the Hebrew faith there were strict edicts against the usage of images, as these were used by idolatrous peoples as a focal point for worship. So calligraphy, turning script into a form of artistic image, was seen as an acceptable compromise.” Brian leaned over until his face was inches from the page. “Which makes this page all the more astonishing.”

  Elena asked, “Why is that?”

  “Because the Judeans were not permitted to speak the name of God. And then here came Jesus, who not only addressed his Father in heaven openly, but used the most intimate of terms. Abba quite literally is the way a young child would address a beloved father, but only in the privacy of a home. It is the most endearing way to address a parent. Cozy, intimate, cherished.”

  Elena waited until Brian settled back in his seat to say,
“I’ve been waiting for days and I haven’t heard a single thing more.”

  Brian kept his gaze upon the page. “You are called to Rome in the service of your Lord. You are going.”

  Elena reached over and shut the book. “I feel like everything is spinning out of my control.”

  Brian nodded slowly, his gaze still fastened upon what he no longer needed to see. “Isn’t it wonderful.”

  “That is the last word I would use to describe this situation.”

  “Wonderful I said, and wonderful I meant.” He looked at her then, his gaze burning more fiercely than the fire. “You are being gently forced beyond your comfort zone. You are being called to rely solely upon your Lord. Go, Elena. Go and serve.”

  16

  SUNDAY

  Saint Aldates’s first Sunday service began at eight and held to the formal Anglican tradition. The choir and clergy wore robes, the liturgy was read from the official prayer book, and the vicar climbed the stone stairs to preach from the crowned alcove. The other two services were modern and informal and raucous. Young families packed the hall, children were everywhere, and music was led by a rock band.

  Elena stood with the congregation as the choir and clergy entered, bearing the sacraments and Bible and cross. This formal service was half-empty, whereas the later services were standing-room only. Elena looked out over the hall and saw a sea of gray heads. She enjoyed the formality from time to time. Today, however, she was here for a different reason.

  At the conclusion of the service, Elena waited at the back of the main aisle. The man she had come to meet walked slowly toward her. Jeremy Yates was the head of the university’s counseling service. His height and well-cut suits partially masked his extra poundage. He was bald save for two strips of frothy white hair by either temple. He was a tutor at Lincoln College, a specialist in teenage emotional afflictions, and spoke all over the world. He was impatient with all meetings and heartily disliked any interruption to his weekends. Elena normally went silent in his presence.