Solomon's Dream

“You have it?” She asked. The question sent her eyebrows arching towards the mass of dark, curly hair that framed her face. The curls were loose and vibrant, tumbling down over her shoulders to reach halfway down her back. A breath of wind pushed an errant strand across her face, then slid through the branches overhead and sighed its way off into the distance. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and stared at him.

The boy nodded and reached down into a canvass bag he had carried up the hill. The book he slid from the coarse cloth was heavy and limp, bound in leather with a small, circular pattern of gold leaves etched across the front. Centered below the leaves, a single name had been scribed in gold with a calligrapher’s pen. The swirling letters arched their way across the soft brown hide in metallic loops and flourishes that gleamed in the summer sun. The book had a warm, antique look to it like something that had been taken from a museum rather than crafted by the boy.
She took it and held it out in front of her. Sunlight glittered across the single word.

‘Solomon.” She whispered as her fingers traced the glistening letters. When she finally looked up, she nodded her approval.

The boy breathed a sigh of relief. He had worked hard putting it together.
From the valley below came the laughter of children playing, an occasional shriek as a new “it” was found in a game of tag, the muted din of too many voices trying to talk at once. The sounds were good ones, a testament of a world at peace with itself, of everything right and nothing wrong.

She reached down to stroke the fur of a huge gray and black dog lying quietly at her feet. “Do you have a pen?”

The boy nodded again and held up the same one he’d used earlier to write the name across the front of the book. She studied its flattened tip and curled her nose.

“You want me to write the whole thing with that?”

Exasperation slid across his face. “It’s all I have.”

She sighed and lowered her body towards the soft grass. She crossed her legs as she sat, not tight and close as a woman would have, but bare knees splayed out to the side and feet crossed beneath the soft hollow her dress formed in her lap. Small, patent leather shoes peeped from beneath the hem, caught the sun and glittered, shrugging off shards of white light as she settled them. Pink ruffled socks rose across her ankles. They were spotless, as clean as if they’d been washed that morning and folded perfectly near the top so the ruffles hung down.

The boy wondered if she had always looked so neat.

She settled the book across her lap and opened it to the first page. The soft leather binding draped over her leg and molded itself to her form.

He handed her the pen and watched as she bent over the book, tongue pressed between tight lips, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she wrote a single line near the top. The pen carved the words onto the paper in a script that was flowing but neat. She paused when the first line was complete, studied it for a moment, and then added another below it.

The boy leaned forward to read what she’d written so far.

“Solomon’s Dream” He mused, then looked up at her in surprise. “Interpreted by Dana Roberts? I only put his name on the front. I didn’t put any of this dream stuff and I didn’t use your name. You think that’s a smart thing to do?”

She shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I use my name? I am doing the interpretation. Besides, you told me about the dream. Do you want to do it? You’ve had a lot more contact with him than I have.”

The boy shifted uncomfortably. “No. I don’t want to. It was hard to make him understand, to be his bridge. You know?”

She smiled softly. The gentle tug at the corners of her mouth carried a hint of sadness. She reached out and put her hand on his arm.

“It’s ok. No one is going to believe it for a while anyway. We’ll leave it where they can find it though. They need to know what happened.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. The boy finally nodded. She was right. They did need to know. Her name would generate a huge amount of interest and spur the search they all wanted to happen.

She touched the dog, and let her hand trail across the broad expanse of his head. The fur was warm and full, soft like silk against her skin.

Brown, inquisitive eyes looked up at her.

“Ok.” She said. “Where do you want to start?”