For ten thousand years the box had lain at the bottom of the lake. Entire civilizations had risen and fallen since that long ago time, countless stories told and then forgotten. Once, in other days, there had been legends, outlandish tales, stories told to frighten children. But many centuries had now passed since the box – and what it contained – had last been spoken of within the world of men.
And yet in recent days, in the sleepy town that now bordered the lake, there had been an unease. At first only the children were having the dreams. And at first their parents were not alarmed. Parents know that moods and crazy notions can sometimes jump and catch like chickenpox between children. But the dreams persisted and deepened, grew in detail.
And then the grownups started to have them too.
People began to talk out loud about their dreams, to compare notes. How could it be that each of them was seeing the same things, having the same dream? And such strange things they were seeing! For there were no words to describe these visions. Their forms and colors were like something from out of time.
Something needed to be done. A town meeting was called, debates held, resolutions were promptly passed. A declaration was prepared and duly signed. And so the people went back to their homes, secure in the knowledge that they had met the situation head-on.
But the thing in the box did not care about the people in the village or their resolutions. Its message had not been for them, but for another. And then one day, from far off, it received its answer in a dim and tenuous whisper, a promise delivered in a language that was somehow not language.
It was a promise that would take some time to breat fruit. But the thing at the bottom of the lake was in no hurry. It had waited for ten thousand years, and it could wait a little longer. Meanwhile it turned the thought over and over in its ancient mind, the thought that had been whispered from so far away. It savored the words that were not words: “We are coming.”