“Ok, let me try to explain it this way,” said Feanna.

“Shut your eyes. You don’t need to, but it helps. That’s it. Now, just focus on your hearing, focus on the sounds. I can hear many different kinds of sounds, can’t you? So many different sounds. The birds singing quietly in the trees. The breeze tickling the leaves. Our breath. Alright, please bear with me here. Imagine that you are a sound. Forget sight and touch and taste and smell for a moment, if you can –think of yourself in terms of a sound. You are a just a sound. Now, some sounds in this world are harsh and unpleasant…” Feanna deliberately played a duff sequence of notes on her flute at this point, making it shriek. Anthē jumped, but she didn’t open her eyes. “And some sounds are sweet and tuneful...” Here she drew a short lilting phrase out of it, making it sound light and pleasant. “At any given time we might be making a harsh sound or a sweet sound. By ‘harsh sounds’ I mean things like hate, or jealousy, or anger, and by ‘sweet sounds’ I mean things like love, joy, peace, patience and so on. Maybe some people have different tastes in music, but I think we agree more than we think about what is a ‘sweet’ sound and what is a ‘harsh’ sound in these cases. Right, here’s what I was trying to say. Some people believe that, to talk about it in terms of sound, if you could hear the whole music of life from start to finish, including everything that has ever been done or said anywhere, then it would sound beautiful. They believe that even the harsh sounds would have their place in the theme of the whole music. They believe that somehow, when you listened to the whole of the music together, some theme would be traceable throughout, some great melody that would harmonise with even the discordant parts to make the music beautiful.”

“I’m not sure if I believe that...” said Anthē. She was feeling sleepy. Closing her eyes and concentrating on the sounds she could hear had started to make her doze off.

“Well, not everyone does,” said Feanna. “But remember, saying this isn’t to ignore the fact that there are harsh sounds. Of course it’s so much better to be making a sweet sound, to be acting out of love...”

“But it’s hard to do that all the time...” said Anthē, more quietly.

“Yes it is. Incredibly hard. But so much better to be making sounds that way. If you were a musician, you’d know that music sounds best not when you’re just listening to the sound that you’re making yourself, but to the sounds of other musicians as well. If you’re entirely preoccupied with your own sound, the music won’t be as good. To play listening more to the other sounds –that produces the more beautiful music.”

“Dreaming for the dream...” Anthē murmured, now barely audible. Her mind was making quick and easy connections as it danced on the borders of sleep.

“Exactly, exactly, Anthē. That’s my point. Playing music for the sake of the music, not just for it sounds to you, dreaming for the dream, and not just for how it feels, that’s what I’m trying to get at. And you’re right, you’re completely right, we can’t play that way of our own accord, we need help, we need someone’s help.”

But Anthē was no longer listening. She was sinking into a deep, peaceful slumber, wreathed in dreams.

She opened her eyes. She was lying in a beautiful garden. She wanted to cry for the beauty of the trees and flowers that covered her. Here colours came alive in the eye; here, colour was felt. The flora and fauna that encompassed her body leapt out at her, giving themselves to her, speaking themselves uniquely to her. She could concentrate on how it felt to her, on the joy that they gave her, or she could concentrate on the garden itself, on what it was saying, and let the joy follow after. Her gaze settled on a single purple crocus, flaming silently. She sank back down.

She opened her eyes. She gasped breathlessly. How was it night all of a sudden? The sunlight had disappeared. She looked around with anixety. No, it was alright. Tromo lay next to her, sound asleep. She could hear his soft breathing as his little chest rose and fell –for once he wasn’t trembling or having a nightmare, it appeared. And there were Conn and Feanna and Ethall, close by. They were asleep too, all lying down close together on the forest floor. She was safe. She had been having a wonderful dream; she tried to remember what it was. If only she could recall it, pick it up where she left off… She sank back down.

She opened her eyes. There was a silhouetted figure, just nearby, standing up. Was that Zantheus? Yes, it must be. He was standing very still, looking straight forwards. The only thing that moved was his chest. He was breathing very slowly and deliberately. Occasionally he would give out a little gasp and then carry on breathing heavily again, but still slowly. He just stood there, doing that. He seemed almost in a state of shock, or relief, it wasn’t quite clear which. All he seemed to be able to do was stand right where he was, now and again making that gulp for air. Perspiration seemed to glitter on him in the dark. Had he made it out of the plant then? Anthē wondered. Had he escaped? Had he learned how to be still, and clambered out in time?

She sank back down.