So, last night, or early this morning, I dreamed that the Master Harper had died, and in fulfillment of his last duty to the Hall and the Craft, his spirit had spanned the world, looking for the one who would come after. He found her soul in Dreamland, and revealed himself. When he was certain that she had seen, he turned, for the last time, toward the Hall, showing her the way.
The spirit of the new Master Harper turned into a hart — by which we learn that she is a traditionalist — and followed.
A nice story, really, and about then I realized that I was one of several persons auditing this event, and my companions were Not Best Pleased.
“A motorcycle!” said one. “One does not Seek Through Dreamland on a motorcycle!”
“Why not?” I asked. “The steed we ride in Dreamland is that which is chosen by our soul.”
“It’s not traditional!” said another one.
“Well, he wasn’t traditional, was he?” said a third. “That’s not exactly a surprise, after all these years, is it? Gods know, we all came against his Ideas, down the years.”
“You want traditional?” I said, turning back to the screen, or the window, in time to see the hart leap from Dreamland into the cluttered room at the top of the tower, skidding slightly on the old pages underfoot.
The shape went misty for a moment, reforming into a ragged young woman, her hair tangled with brambles, her face dirty, clutching a leather bag to her meager chest. She gazed around the room, face dawning awe and then delight as she discovered each instrument beneath its piles of books, scribbled notes, and gee-gaws.
“It looks like you’ve got traditional,” I said, waving my comrades over to watch the new Master Harper start her tentative tour of the tower.
In the distance, a motorcycle roared, wound out, and faded. . .