It's big enough to accommodate all of them, about the size of a large braided area rug. It is not equipped with seats, but it does have seat belts, and the passengers have buckled up for safety.
In the center, Daniel sits comfortably cross-legged, nestled in the saucer's circular indentation. It's as if he's in a small, shallow wading pool that's been drained of water. Margaret and Stephen kneel on either side of him, on the saucer's rim. Underneath them is the china pattern: a bold, complex collision of geometrical shapes in black and white and maroon, accented here and there with gold leaf. It rolls around the edge of the saucer like a carpet runner. All three of them wear togas fashioned from white cotton bedsheets.
Although there is no steering mechanism, it is understood that by some invisible means, some mental mastery— hike a wizard, perhaps, Margaret thinks, or a sorcerer —Stephen is the one who is directing their course.
In this version of the dream, Daniel is eight—the age he was when he was killed. Margaret and Stephen, however, are very old, maybe as old as a hundred. But they are not at all infirm; they are extremely fit and vital. A pair of ancient health gurus, like Jack LaLanne and his wife.
Daniel is drinking a bottle of Orange Crush and eating Bugles. Margaret and Stephen watch him with a smiling, indulgent benevolence while they sip beet juice from primitive earthenware bowls.
They are flying over a rural landscape that is infinitely and variously bountiful: There are fields of barley, milo, soybeans , and wheat; rice pad dies; fruit trees; a field of cauliflower—the heads are huge, the size of inflated beach balls, and colored, too, in the same bright shades of red, blue, yellow, and orange.
The next phase of the dream begins with a weather change. At other times it's been snow. Hail. A plague of frogs. This time, it starts to mist. Mottled, bruised-looking clouds crowd around them, obscuring their view of the landscape below. Stephen scowls, the way some people do in an effort to improve their vision. Margaret shivers.
"Are you cold, Danny?" Margaret asks.
Daniel looks at her and laughs. "Hey, Mom! You have a mustache!"
"What? I do?" Margaret asks, wiping her hand across her upper lip. She looks down to see a smear of bright magenta staining her skin from the forearm to the index finger. She looks up at Daniel. "Did I get it?"
"No. Not quite."
Margaret swipes her other hand across her face.
"How about now?"
Daniel laughs again. It is a musical sound, a cascading parade of notes that reminds Margaret of a xylophone. "You're a mess!"
Margaret laughs. "I am?" She looks over the top of Daniel's head to Stephen. "Stephen! Look at me! I'm a mess!"
"We're out of juice," Stephen says, still staring straight ahead. Margaret notices that he's now holding a lit cigarette.
"Here, Mom." Daniel offers Margaret his empty box of Bugles and the Orange Crush bottle. "I'm done."
Margaret reaches out. A sudden gust of wind tears the box from Daniel's hand and sends it somersaulting violently into the clouds. As Margaret makes to grab the bottle, she fumbles it; there is a loud, dull thwack as it drops, still intact, to the saucer floor. Before Margaret can retrieve the bottle, it scuttles off the edge of the saucer. Margaret looks over the rim. Below them is a swirling cauldron of clouds; they are dense now, and vividly green. HA! Margaret thinks giddily, Pea soup! It is several seconds before she hears the faint crash of the bottle breaking far beneath them.
"It certainly is a long way down," she remarks, sagely. "I'd say about fifteen thousand square feet."
When Margaret looks up again, she notices a small crack in the saucer where the bottle hit. As she watches, the crack begins to lengthen in two directions, snaking its way across the saucer in a jagged line that separates her from Daniel and Stephen.
"I'm still thirsty," Daniel says. "Can I have some of that, Mom?" "Sure, honey," Margaret
In the center, Daniel sits comfortably cross-legged, nestled in the saucer's circular indentation. It's as if he's in a small, shallow wading pool that's been drained of water. Margaret and Stephen kneel on either side of him, on the saucer's rim. Underneath them is the china pattern: a bold, complex collision of geometrical shapes in black and white and maroon, accented here and there with gold leaf. It rolls around the edge of the saucer like a carpet runner. All three of them wear togas fashioned from white cotton bedsheets.
Although there is no steering mechanism, it is understood that by some invisible means, some mental mastery— hike a wizard, perhaps, Margaret thinks, or a sorcerer —Stephen is the one who is directing their course.
In this version of the dream, Daniel is eight—the age he was when he was killed. Margaret and Stephen, however, are very old, maybe as old as a hundred. But they are not at all infirm; they are extremely fit and vital. A pair of ancient health gurus, like Jack LaLanne and his wife.
Daniel is drinking a bottle of Orange Crush and eating Bugles. Margaret and Stephen watch him with a smiling, indulgent benevolence while they sip beet juice from primitive earthenware bowls.
They are flying over a rural landscape that is infinitely and variously bountiful: There are fields of barley, milo, soybeans , and wheat; rice pad dies; fruit trees; a field of cauliflower—the heads are huge, the size of inflated beach balls, and colored, too, in the same bright shades of red, blue, yellow, and orange.
The next phase of the dream begins with a weather change. At other times it's been snow. Hail. A plague of frogs. This time, it starts to mist. Mottled, bruised-looking clouds crowd around them, obscuring their view of the landscape below. Stephen scowls, the way some people do in an effort to improve their vision. Margaret shivers.
"Are you cold, Danny?" Margaret asks.
Daniel looks at her and laughs. "Hey, Mom! You have a mustache!"
"What? I do?" Margaret asks, wiping her hand across her upper lip. She looks down to see a smear of bright magenta staining her skin from the forearm to the index finger. She looks up at Daniel. "Did I get it?"
"No. Not quite."
Margaret swipes her other hand across her face.
"How about now?"
Daniel laughs again. It is a musical sound, a cascading parade of notes that reminds Margaret of a xylophone. "You're a mess!"
Margaret laughs. "I am?" She looks over the top of Daniel's head to Stephen. "Stephen! Look at me! I'm a mess!"
"We're out of juice," Stephen says, still staring straight ahead. Margaret notices that he's now holding a lit cigarette.
"Here, Mom." Daniel offers Margaret his empty box of Bugles and the Orange Crush bottle. "I'm done."
Margaret reaches out. A sudden gust of wind tears the box from Daniel's hand and sends it somersaulting violently into the clouds. As Margaret makes to grab the bottle, she fumbles it; there is a loud, dull thwack as it drops, still intact, to the saucer floor. Before Margaret can retrieve the bottle, it scuttles off the edge of the saucer. Margaret looks over the rim. Below them is a swirling cauldron of clouds; they are dense now, and vividly green. HA! Margaret thinks giddily, Pea soup! It is several seconds before she hears the faint crash of the bottle breaking far beneath them.
"It certainly is a long way down," she remarks, sagely. "I'd say about fifteen thousand square feet."
When Margaret looks up again, she notices a small crack in the saucer where the bottle hit. As she watches, the crack begins to lengthen in two directions, snaking its way across the saucer in a jagged line that separates her from Daniel and Stephen.
"I'm still thirsty," Daniel says. "Can I have some of that, Mom?" "Sure, honey," Margaret
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