And just as I said that, something crashed through the undergrowth nearby. I gasped. Marion put her hand on my thigh. I looked at her hand on my thigh and nearly forgot about the thing crashing in the undergrowth.
Nearly.
The sound came again. And again. And that's when I realized it wasn't so much a crashing as a scurrying. I relaxed. Just some critter.
I hoped.
We sat in silence some more. She took her hand off my thigh, and I was sad all over again.
"I was told to expect a writer," said Marion suddenly.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came immediately to mind. At least, no rational words. So I closed my mouth and let her words sink in a little more. And the more they sank in, the less sane they seemed.
Finally, I gave it a shot. "A writer?"
"Yes."
"When were you told this?"
"Months ago."
"But I only decided to come here a few days ago," I said.
"You only consciously decided to come here a few days ago. Deep down, you knew all along you would come."
I opened my mouth to speak. Nothing.
"You can close your mouth, James. You know what I'm talking about."
Crazy as her statement was, a part of me, a part that I was beginning to hate and fear, knew exactly what she was talking about.
I found my voice. "Who, exactly, told you to expect me?"
A strong gust of wind rattled the branches above us, shaking loose a shower of water over us. I shivered. I could feel the nearly physical touch of Marion's eyes on my face.
"The who isn't important, James," she said. "If I had to guess, there are many who's - that is, many people and beings and entities - that worked hard to get you here today."
"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."
"Not now you don't, James. But you will. Soon."
"Am I dreaming?" I asked.
"No, James. But you are here because of your dreams."
Her words might as well have been an arrow. I gasped and swung my head around, thunderstruck. "How did you - "
She reached out and touched my thigh again, sending a shiver of pleasure coursing through me.
"Because I'm here because of my dreams, too," she said.
Chapter Ten
"What sort of..." I stopped, swallowed, and tried my best to collect my thoughts. I tried again, and heard myself ask: "What sort of dreams?"
"Dreams of the Holy Grail. Dreams of Christ hanging from the cross, dreams of Glastonbury, dreams of this night, dreams of this park, dreams of this very hollow."
"Which is how you knew to find it."
"Exactly. But mostly I dream of a writer. A handsome, blue-eyed, blond-haired mystery writer."
"I'm afraid I'm the one dreaming now," I said.
She reached out and pinched me. Hard. I was about to yelp but she promptly clamped her hand over my mouth.
"Shh," she said, then slowly removed her hand. "Still think you're dreaming?"
I rubbed my arm. "No, but now I don't like you as much."
She giggled. Her giggle said that she didn't believe a word of it. She was right, of course. I liked everything about her. Except for maybe the crazy part.
"Okay, fine," I said. "So I'm not dreaming. Then can I ask what the heck is going on?"
"What the heck do you think is going on?"
I thought I might know the answer, but I didn't want to admit it. Admitting it to another person would positively prove that I had lost my mind.
Marion was watching me. She was taking short, sharp breaths. My breathing had leveled off, but not hers. She seemed to be having a problem. The rain picked up, tattering the overhead canopy.
"Talk to me," she said.
"I think...I think I might be here to find the Holy Grail," I said. "And, if I'm correct, you're here to help me."
"I think," she said, grinning, "that you might be right."
* * *
The harder the rain came down, the worse Marion's breathing seemed to get. It was to the point where she was making a conscious effort to breathe.
"It's called LAM disease," she said, turning to me. "In case you're wondering."
"Lamb?" I asked, frowning.
"LAM," she said, spelling it out for me. "It's a disease that strikes the lungs, among other things."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Strikes one in a million," she said, looking away. "Lucky me."
I didn't think she was so lucky.
"And once diagnosed, a woman is given about ten years to live."
"A woman?"
"Yeah," she said. "As in female. It's a disease that strikes only women, and only in their child-bearing years."
I was silent, digesting this. "So how long ago - " I began, but couldn't bring myself to finish.
She finished for me: "How long ago was I diagnosed?"
I nodded.
"Ten years ago, James. I guess you could say I'm living on borrowed time."
"I'm so sorry."
"I am, too."
"What is LAM disease?" I asked.
"Something cruel and not very nice," she said, and actually smiled at her own play on words. "LAM disease attacks the lungs, lymph nodes and liver. In my case, it attacked my lungs, forming cysts that restrict breathing."
"Is there a cure?" I asked, but I already knew the answer and felt like crap asking the question.
"No," she said. "And there's far too little research being done to find one."
We were silent some more. My heart rate finally - finally - seemed to be settling into a normal rhythm after all that running. "So they can do nothing for you?" I finally asked. Normal rhythm or not, I could practically hear my heart breaking.
"There is something," she said. "But it's risky and there's only an eighty-percent survival after the first year."
"That's not too bad."
She looked away. "Survival drops to fifty percent after the first five years, and then declines dramatically after that. Translation: the surgery would probably only buy me a few extra years."
An image came to mind. A very unsettling image. I voiced my thoughts without thinking. I said, "You're talking about a lung transplant."
How I knew this, I don't know. She nodded and looked at me curiously. I think she was surprised, too. "Yes," she said. "I'm scheduled for surgery next month."
"Jesus," I said again.
The rain intensified. So did the rattling in her chest. Lord, did she even have a month?