The Huron's Bend

Part 1

Prologue

Nothing soothes a person's ego more than being smack in the middle of a lucid dream.

I amble down the sidewalk along Bonisteel Boulevard as the sun sets behind the roof of Earl V. Moore School of Music. North Campus has a blurred, surreal feel to it, but it comes into sharp focus wherever I cast my eyes. It must be a Sunday, judging by the scant number of students around. I slow down as I close in on the grassy knoll, beyond which lies the music school building, taking care not to alarm the flock of mallards milling around. As I stroll near each street lamp along the trail, I will it to light, spotlighting the short distance ahead with a cone of illumination. The cherry trees rain blossoms and paint a medley of pink polka dots on the snowy landscape. Just for the heck of it, I will the falling petals to freeze in midair. They do so without delay.

While I am enjoying my little game, the sun pushes its white disc over the eastern horizon, showering blinding rays through the birch trees. Suddenly the street lamps blink out and the suspended petals fall to the ground. For reasons that are not altogether clear, I understand the cause of the interruption and move to find the culprit. I stride over the grassy knoll and onto the music school grounds, ignoring the ducks' loud cackles and their violent fluttering, but I fail to locate a single soul. But then the faint, metallic plucks of a harpsichord are heard emanating from one building. I try the entrances, but all are locked. I look in through the windows but cannot spot anyone inside. As a mix of excitement and dread start to take hold, I quicken my pace and circle around the sandstone building one more time. As soon as I turn the southern corner, I see, from fifty yards away, alone at the edge of the Piano Pond, not far from the G clef sundial, leaning against an elm tree, the vague silhouette of a young woman.

Starting with a trot, I break into a run halfway through. But the quicker my pace and longer my strides, the farther away she recedes from me. It begins to feel as if I am fighting against hurricane winds as I continue. Drenched in sweat and with cramping calves, I stop to recover, putting hands on my knees. When I finally catch my breath and straighten up, I inexplicably find myself face to face with her.

She's dressed in a pair of skinny, mid-rise jeans, torn at the shins, a Maize-and-Blue hoodie open in the front, and Converse sneakers that are long past their prime. Hands stuck into trouser pockets and hips swaying sideways ever so slightly, she cocks one leg at the knee and tosses me a lopsided grin: all the signs of a body language I used to know—intimately—but for the life of me I just can't remember from whom.

I lean in closer, and the freckles from her blanched cheeks leap out, like blotches from staring at an intensely bright light. Dazed, I close my eyes, and when I open them again, one side of her face is basking in the sun's glow; a few crabapple blossoms are caught in her unkempt pageboy hairstyle. There is certain effervescence in the way she carries herself—a certain in-your-face rebelliousness bubbling beneath the surface—but the fleeting, pensive looks of her eyes hint at some deep-seated vulnerability. I still don't recognize her, but I recall a couple of people who possess these very same attributes.

As if dismissing my thoughts, she laughs and twitches her nose, jiggling the pair of brown horn-rimmed glasses, then reaches out and pulls me into her arms.

The honeysuckle fragrance of her hair unlocks memories I thought I'd safely tucked away in the furthest recess of my mind—memories of the smells of late autumn and muddy river water. They come in waves, one after another, surging and cresting. Each brings forth a role she once played in my life: lover, friend, tutor, and co-conspirator. And when the final swell ebbs, I'm left with a sharp tinge of regret. Now I know who she is—if only I could remember her name.

But then the cinnamon taste of her lips recalls the image of someone different—someone I cared about but in a wholly different way. I realize I was wrong. She is not who I thought just a moment before. The confusion throws me into a tizzy.