The Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco in 1967. Alex Conley, a part-time writer for a Baltimore newspaper, is dispatched to chronicle the events occurring there. It is June of 1967, and the summer of love is in full swing.
Alone, in this strange and magical place, he meets a girl named Sarah, a free spirit who is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
What are the secrets of her past? Why does she dance each night under the light of the moon? These are just a few of the puzzles Alex needs to solve in the short time he has in that city.
Then there’s another complication. He is beginning to fall deeply in love with her.
PROLOGUE
He dreamed he was in a box.
He was there by himself. His only comfort was a small table, which held a typewriter and a chair. The space was small, about the size of a prison cell. The cardboard ceiling brushed against his hair.
The box had no doors or windows, nor electricity for lighting, but illuminated brightly nonetheless. Seeing his meager surroundings only served to increase his anxiety.
He sensed that the air was thinning. It was stale and smelled of mildew, and he felt his throat burn as he gulped it down.
In desperation, he pushed against the wall, and then battered his shoulder into it. He felt it give a little, but not enough for escape. An idea came to him. He lifted the chair and, holding it in front of him legs out, rammed the wall.
The wall buckled as a chair leg pierced the cardboard’s side, opening a small hole at eye level.
It was enough. Warm air funneled in. He put the chair down and held his nose to the hole. The air was fresh and smelled of flowers. He stayed there for a short while, breathing it in.
The air had a flavor to it that reminded him of his childhood. He realized that he was no longer in fear of his confinement. The ragged opening was escape enough for now.
He heard voices in the air, the sounds of laughter, coming from outside of his prison.
He bent down and peered out of the small opening. He saw a hill in front of him. It was grassy and bare of trees save for one large oak at its apex. There were several people scattered about the hillside. Some sat on blankets, others milled around. They were dressed in bright colors that soaked up the sun. He attempted to get their attention but found he had no voice, not even a whisper.
He heard music, faint and distant. Although far away, he could sense the beauty of the song. It seemed familiar. Had he heard it before, at some time in his past, or in another dream?
Then the breeze favored him by turning his way. The music rolled down the hill and into the tiny hole in his box.
In the magic of the dream, the sound’s enchantment was mighty enough to vanquish his captivity. The box shook violently then disappeared, taking the typewriter, the table, and the chair with it.
Now he was outside, standing at the hill’s base. The song that had freed him swirled about, teasing him like a playful child. Then, abruptly, it began to slip away, moving up the incline away from him. He attempted to give chase but his legs would not move.
He followed the song with his eyes. It led him to the solitary tree at the hill’s crescent. There, where the music stopped its climb and spun about in circles, a girl stood alone. She wore a white dress that flowed around her bare feet. She appeared to be dancing slowly to the music. Her long blonde hair blew about her shoulders and face as she swayed hypnotically to the rhythm.
He somehow knew that he could only watch her. He was not to be a part of this adventure. He was still a captive, not of the box but of a dream with an unknown agenda.
He felt, more than heard, the song ending, and he did not want that to happen. He sensed he would not find this song again, on any wind, imagined or real.
As he looked up the hill at the girl dancing in the shadow of a tree, he saw her stop.
She stood still for a short time then her neck bent back and her face found the sun. She soaked in its warmth, her arms outstretched as if in prayer, as the world went quiet. She slowly turned and looked down until her eyes were on him. He staggered, almost falling to his knees, as she saw him and smiled. Even from a distance, she was as beautiful a vision as he had ever seen.
Then she spoke, a single word, but so softly he could not hear it over the sound of his heartbeat.
As she did this, she began to fade from his sight. Now he tried desperately to speak because he knew he was losing her. His dreams were often as fragile as the moon’s reflection on a wind-swept lake. A few chose to grace his memory, but most remained with the darkness of the night.
It was in this brief instant, before reality triumphed against the fantastic, that the breeze shifted ever so slightly.
It rolled down the grassy hill toward him, and it carried the word that had escaped her lips before she vanished entirely.
“Soon”
When he woke up, he realized that he had been wrong. He remembered her smile and he remembered the song, every note of it.
