ONE

The dream wasalways the same. Well, mostly the same. Initially, Gavin had tunnel vision, seeing only the wing of a plane, drab brown in color, in flight. A fighter’s wing probably, with RAF markings, set against a grey, brooding sky. The dreams had an ominous feel to them, yet nothing seemed to happen. He had woken each time and afterwards couldn’t sleep. The dreams seemed important and unsettling, but he had no idea why. He was not a pilot and knew little of planes.

The dream in all its forms continued to stalk him though, seeking him out repeatedly on subsequent nights in the small hours, four or five times in total. But each time there was more, as though a curtain was slowly being drawn back. The second time, along with the wing, he saw the nose of the plane, and the indistinct blur of the propeller. In the following dream, the cockpit was revealed, showing the pilot in clear silhouette. He saw now that it was a fighter plane, and guessed that it must be something new, perhaps a Spitfire.

But what struck him most about these dreams was how real they seemed, with everything rendered in stark detail. More, there was obviously a story being told here, unlike the seeming triviality of most dreams. It was like watching a movie, but on constant rewind.

Finally, the entire plane was revealed. But terrifyingly, it was now in flames and diving earthward. Although he couldn’t be sure, he had the unerring sense it was plunging into the English Channel. The pilot was trying to open the cockpit canopy to escape, but it was jammed. Flames began to lick at the pilot’s body, and with the strength born of desperation, he finally wrenched the canopy loose and tumbled out of the cockpit before the plane exploded on impact with the sea.

Gavin awoke, bathed in a cold sweat.

With that, the dreams came to an end.

A few days later, he was wandering the inner quadrangle of Trinity College, Oxford, the late summer sun warm on his face. While he had always enjoyed these solitary walks, he was robbed of even this simple pleasure. He felt adrift and melancholy, pondering his future. He had dreaded this moment of decision but could no longer put it off. He was no longer a carefree undergrad, focused on coeds, parties, and cricket, and only when pushed, mugging for exams.

At his core he was a romantic, and Oxford had worked a spell on him. Over the past four years, it had enchanted him with its history and traditions, and the many characters that haunted this ancient place of learning. But he knew it was not the real world, nothing like that world, but a sanctuary for the dreamer and idealist in him.

He had passed his finals that spring, receiving a first in Literature, being a gifted if sometimes disinclined student, but had remained at Oxford over the summer tutoring some fear-stricken freshmen, who had only recently grasped the real and awful possibility of being sent down. This realization had worked wonders on the youths, who suddenly displayed a hitherto undiscovered interest, real or imagined, in Renaissance literature. However, the summer term had ended, and the students were gone, leaving him with no reason to stay on.

As he wandered