Four

Eric sleeps well.

When he wakes, he feels much better. Wonderful in fact.

He opens his eyes and is surprised to find the room in total darkness. First he thinks that night has finally come, then remembers that there will be no such thing as night here for a month or two at least. Not really.

He stumbles to the window, and pulls the curtains back.

It is still dark; his hands reach and touch the black-outs Merle spoke of, and finding a cord to one side, he pulls them up.

Bright, strong sunshine floods into the room, and he shuts his eyes and waits till they adjust.

When they do, he is overwhelmed by the beauty of the island.

His bedroom window looks to the south and to the east. Below him is another small slice of heaven. Pretty colored houses, little lanes, tall birches swaying in a gentle wind, and everywhere flowers.

Flowers.

People are walking in the lanes, they call to each other, and pause to chat at the tiny toy-town intersections. From somewhere he cannot see he can hear music. And singing. It sounds like a dozen voices, a haunting, conflicting yet beautiful melody, to a simple accompaniment of a guitar and accordion. He strains to catch the words, but they are blown away.

The sky overhead is blue, and everywhere there are flowers.

Eric feels wonderful. All grogginess from the night before has vanished. All thoughts of the night before are forgotten.

But he feels hungry, amazingly hungry. He wonders if they will have been thoughtful enough to have left some food for him, and he goes downstairs, where he finds not just food, but a whole breakfast laid out on the kitchen table. A pot of coffee is warming on the stove.

“Hello?” he calls, turning about him. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

There is no one, so he sits down and eats as if he has never eaten before. He has bread, and honey, and cheeses, and there is some tasty dried meat, and apple juice, and then there’s the coffee. And in the middle of the table is a vase of small pretty yellow flowers, freshly picked from the meadow.

Flowers.

Flowers, he thinks. Flowers.

He was supposed to do something about flowers.

But he cannot remember what it is.

He happily finishes his breakfast.