He walked, making his choice at each bend in the maze until every passage became a deadend. Finally he sank to the floor, pulling his cloak close. Resting his head against the wall behind him, he stared into the void. Catherine. If it was his fate to die here, she would be his greatest loss. She would wait for him. She would wait for the three weeks, and then she...and Father...would wait, until there was nothing left for them to do but mourn him. And then...
He shook his head chasing away the thoughts. He was not ready to die yet. He had food, and he had his strength. He would continue his search for the river until the last of his strength was gone. Climbing to his feet, he felt his way into the darkness.
Thirst was Vincent's only measure of time. He was rationing his water, drinking only when he feared dehydration, but now the canteen was light in his hand. He had been traveling in circles. Twice he had come upon the little stone trail markers he had been leaving behind him. When the water was gone his strength would begin to fade. The danger was becoming very real.
His canteen was empty, and now he sat leaning against the wall with his bedroll thrown over his legs. He had taken his journal from the pack, and he pulled the cap from his pen. In the darkness he could not be certain he was writing upon a fresh page, but truly, it made little difference. These words would never be read, but he needed to leave something behind.
What did a man say when there was nothing left? He could write to Father, telling him how much he was loved. He could apologize for dying when there was so much left undone and so much living yet to be experienced. He could will away his belongings, but that seemed a useless waste. Wills were meant to be read. There was only one thing which needed to be said. Not so much for her, as for himself. With uncertain fingers which moved blindly over the page he wrote:
Catherine, I love you.
He woke with a start, hearing the sound, not knowing whether it had come from the world of dreams or of reality. He lay quietly waiting for his pulse to slow, listening. The darkness pressed close, and he closed his eyes against it. His tongue slid across his upper lip, and he reached for the canteen, knowing it was empty. With a sigh he rested his head again on his arm, hoping to find escape in a dream. He was tired, and there was time enough to resume the search through the maze later.
He was in the mist which preceded sleep when it came again -- a change in the air, a current which played against his face and lifted the hair from his cheek. Listening, he raised his head. Something was different. Impossibly, he was suddenly certain he was not alone.
"Here you are sleepin' when I thought you were so eager to be goin' home."
Vincent sat up with a start. He stared into the darkness. "Owl Woman?"
"Aye."
He put both hands to his head and pressed tightly. Then he shook his head violently, forcing himself back to reality. There might be a time for hallucinations between now and death, but not yet. He pushed his back against the wall and planted his feet far apart on the floor with his knees bent. Trying to assure himself with his own voice, he said, "I am dreaming again."
"Who is to say?"
He drew in a sharp breath as the voice continued, "The walls between reality and dreams can grow very thin. Especially when the need is great. And I'm thinkin' you have a need."
"I am lost." Again he spoke to himself, refusing to give credibility to this voice in the darkness.
"Are you now?" He heard a muffled rustle in the darkness, and again the soft air current caressed his face. "I never knew you to be lost before." The sound came closer. "There are many dangers in your life, darlin'. But bein' lost is not one of 'em."
"I can't see."
"Is that all? Vincent, you should have called me long ago."
The rustle moved to Vincent's side, and the breeze upon his cheek turned into a feather touch. Suddenly he gasped, and his eyes flew open wide. He could see. There was light, not just a dim circle thrown by a lantern, not even the soft orange colors of the home chambers, but a miraculous all-encompassing light which exposed every corner, every detail of the tunnel walls and every feature of the gentle creature who knelt before him. He jerked back and broke the contact which her hand had upon his face. And with that motion, the world fell again into darkness.
"Lad," there was mild irritation in her voice, "it only works with the touch."
"But the light...how can it be?"
"You're seein' with my eyes, Vincent. Owl eyes."
The fable. Vincent remembered the children and how they had used the touch of the Owl Woman to escape the dark woods. "I am hallucinating."
"Well, are you callin' me or not?" Still the irritation. "I've little time for doubters. If you want me to stay, I will be needin' your hand."
Vincent froze. Had he really imagined that flash of light? It was a dream, it had to be. But he needed light, even in a fantasy. He lifted his left hand and extended it into the darkness. Instantly his fingers were enclosed in a warm touch, and the Owl Woman was there in the brilliant light, smiling at him, holding his hand. Her eyes sparkled in the illumination which threw no shadows. "There now. Is that not better?"
He shook his head. "This is impossible."
She sighed with a frown. "Either you want me here, or you do not. Make up your mind."
She started to pull her hand from his, but this time he was not ready to break the touch. He gripped her fingers tightly and would not let go.
"Stay."
"Well, now. That is better." She stood. "You are thirsty. I can giveyou light, but I cannot give you water. It is best we be startin'."
"Starting?" He had not moved.
"Vincent darlin', you are an intelligent lad...but sometimes you tend a little to the slow."
He pulled back his hand, but the instant he felt the light slip away, he seized the delicate fingers again. He rose to his feet and gazed down at her.
She glanced at his belongings which lay on the ground. "Roll up your bed and gather your things. It's still a long way you have to go."
He looked at her for only an instant before he knelt. The moment he let go of her hand, she rested her other hand upon his hair, and in full light he packed his bags.
"Good," she said. "Now, I will be givin' you the light, but you must be leadin' the way." She looked up at him. "Can you do that?"
He nodded. "The way is marked."
"Then let's be about findin' the marks."