She had wanted to lash out, to get revenge, and the arrival of John Mays had provided an opportunity that was nothing short of providential.
The cluster of people that occupied the clearing near the grove watched John Mays and Constance Beckett approach with expressions ranging from placid warmth to wide-eyed eagerness. Constance thought that perhaps she detected a hint of envy in some of the smiles, but disregarded the impression as a trick of her own imagination. She was still experiencing the rush of excitement that had overtaken her when, having listened to Miss Anna's quietly forceful plea for her not to go with John, she went anyway. During the course of her conversation with Anna, she had found herself feeling a profound contempt for the matriarchal woman's grip over the colonists—her machinations and manipulations, couched in experience and spiritual authority. She had made the colonists helpless, Constance thought. She had wanted to lash out, to get revenge, and the arrival of John Mays had provided an opportunity that was nothing short of providential.
Her eyes moved from person to person in the small crowd. There were perhaps 30 or 40 in total, mostly fellow-colonists, but a few representatives of Westward's less essential crew. Barney and Betty Downs were there; their toddler daughter Maggie was with them, but their older twin boys had been among the children in Sarah Brown's class on the other side of the garden. Walter Ames and his wife Susan were there. Howard Ambrose, who, with Constance, had been part of Clyde's ill-conceived expedition beneath the garden, was also there. Constance felt a flash of embarrassment when he looked at her, knowing that he had seen her in that state of utter helplessness. The memory ate at her like acid, made her want to escape, to disappear. She looked at the grove.
It looked the same as it had when she had first stumbled upon it—was it only days ago? Weeks? Something like an arbor, it was defined by columns that bent into archways before branching out into a complex canopy that fractured the dusky ambient light into a mosaic of colors. The kaleidoscopic effect from the top was met with a ghostly blue glow from the water that trickled in a thin stream through asymmetrical but vaguely geometric patterns in the floor, which was reminiscent of marble flagstone. In the center of the grove, about 12 feet from the circle of silvery columns, was the statue. It rose from the floor as if it had been organically grown from the marble-like substance.
"She's waiting for you," John Mays urged.
The people gathered there had worked out a system of turn-taking to enter the grove. The last couple times Constance had visited, she had been obliged to wait her turn. It was strange to see the place empty, with everyone situated to one side or another, watching her.
"How can she be waiting?" Constance asked skeptically. "She's sleeping."
"She dreams," John replied. "And today she dreams of you."
"Why?" Constance asked.
"Perhaps she'll tell you," John answered, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "But don't dawdle. The dream is always in motion."