As it happened, this selfsame Sarah Williams, freshman at Verencia College and erstwhile Mighty Conqueror of Jareth’s Labyrinth, stood quite sorely in need of any sweet dreams that might be available; her own, she reflected bitterly, seemed to be imploding at an alarming rate.

The campus through which she trudged so dispiritedly was a truly stunning sight in early fall, an amber-and-gold blaze of gaudy glory capable of snatching the breath away from all but the most jaded observer. Sarah Williams hardly qualified under that criteria, by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, she was more impressionable than most. Although she’d die before confessing, its medieval revival stone-and-ivy structures, meticulously maintained lawns, turreted library -- its very indefinable air of collegiateness -- had been the deciding factors swaying her to enroll here, much more so than its famous theater program. It practically reeked atmosphere. It was the ideal setting, she had thought, to play the part which lay before her. Unfortunately, she didn’t appear to be enjoying her role terribly much at present. The maples blazed in vain. Sarah Williams couldn’t have cared less.

She felt absurdly betrayed by no one in particular. This was all supposed to have been such a piece of ca---well, a cinch, anyway. Following her Labyrinth lessons, Sarah had been convinced that she had this whole growing-up nonsense reasonably under control. Certainly, it must be admitted, nothing aids the learning process better than repeated near-death experiences and hallucinogenic peaches. For the first time since she’d found the goodbye note from her mother attached to the refrigerator with a bright yellow smiley-face magnet (a particularly Linda-esque touch), she felt as if she’d gained some solid ground beneath her feet: no bogs or quagmires to drag her under, no stench to make her retch.

Now she was beginning to suspect that her conclusions had been premature, to say the least. The thing was, what exactly did “growing up” entail? Back then, it was relatively cut-and-dry. Pay more attention; be decent to your stepmother; try not to wish your stepbrother out of existence. Above all, stop whining. Mere child’s play, really.

Then she had ventured boldly forth into the big bad world to announce her dreams to one and all. She was Sarah Williams, theater major; Sarah Williams, would-be actress. And, inevitably, Sarah Williams, daughter of Linda Williams -- oh, so you’ve heard of her, have you? Time to do or die. Time to catch a dream, or let it slip away. Time to take the leap of faith. She was used to leaps of faith, wasn’t she? The Escher Room and all that.

Watch out, Mac; that first step’s a lulu.

Shrouded in darkness, the package lurked. It seemed somehow smug beneath its neatly innocuous mask of smooth brown-paper folds; seething elemental forces just barely contained. Not that a package could do anything as anthropomorphic as “lurk,” mind you, let alone in a smug fashion, but it was doing a damn fine imitation thereof. If packages could smirk, it was just short of indulging in a wicked chuckle or two. Which, if you think about it, wasn’t unduly surprising. The peach never falls far from the tree, metaphorically speaking. It was Jareth’s handiwork, after all.

It seemed to sense that this was going to be a piece of cake.

Of its own volition, The Scene was once again replaying itself inside Sarah’s head, The Scene which she always pictured in terms of boldface capital letters; anything less dramatic didn’t do sufficient justice to its horror. As she walked, her shoulders were hunched less against the erratic gusts of crisp autumn wind than the weight of the words which jeered within her brain like her own personal goblin entourage. Those unspeakably vicious words. How dare he? Her hand furtively darted from her jacket pocket to swipe at the telltale tears which stung her eyes once more, the wound as raw and fresh today as it had been a week ago. Distractedly, she raked that same hand through her waist-length black hair and began to chew her lower lip, as she always did when distressed or confused.

Lately, her lips never stopped bleeding.

No, Sarah, stop crying. You shouldn’t even give him the satisfaction. You’re better than this. It was an admirable little pep talk, really it was. The only conspicuous flaw being that it failed utterly to cheer her in the slightest. If anything, she cried harder.

So much for daily affirmations.

The worst of it was that when Dr. Ashby had asked to speak with her in his office after class, Sarah had been so jubilant. Exhilarated. At long last, her moment of recognition had come. Her knock ‘em dead recitation of Juliet’s “Come, vial” monologue from Act IV, Scene iii, from her mother’s most famous “artistic” role, had obviously impressed even that dour, sardonic, balding little hatchet-faced troll. She could still see herself, an idiotic grin of triumph on her face, reflected in the tiny, cracked mirror that hung behind his desk (which had cracked, students snickered, when he’d displayed the temerity to inflict his reflection upon it). If she could muster up sufficient detachment, she had to admit that it had been rather fascinating to watch her grin, her color, and her ego fade simultaneously in one fell swoop. Rather like watching the mask of comedy morph into the mask of tragedy. A neat trick, that.

“So you really think you’re up to tackling Shakespeare, do you, Ms. Williams? I have to admire your nerve. That monologue has always been one of my favorites. ‘My dismal scene I needs must act alone.’” He finally looked up from the papers on his desk to acknowledge her presence by skewering her with his choicest condescending glare; she’d begun to shift uneasily from foot to foot, twisting the strap of her backpack, wriggling aimlessly like a pale moth on a pin.

He had slowly, deliberately removed his spectacles, polishing each lens with exaggerated care, making her wait and writhe. And enjoying it, the bug-eyed, pasty-faced sadist! Then he lowered the boom.

“Juliet, you see, offered some excellent advice in that monologue to all those considering this fine craft. Dismal scenes are best acted alone -- or at least dismally acted ones. One should refrain from subjecting an innocent audience to them.”

Suddenly Sarah had remembered vividly the sensation of the bridge across the Bog of Eternal Stench crumbling underfoot, leaving her hanging for dear life onto the thinnest of branches. It seemed positively stable in comparison to her present position, without so much as a shred of dignity to grasp. Nothing whatsoever to break her fall.

“Please understand, Ms. Williams, that what I am saying I say for your own good, to spare you much hurt and disappointment later on. This is, as you know, a cruelly competitive industry. I’m afraid that you quite simply do not display the talent for roles like that.” He paused briefly, as if considering a new thought. “Not that such deficiencies ever stopped your mother.”

She had run all the way back to the dorm, as if she could somehow outdistance the surging choking sensation which threatened to smother her with every step. Consigned to a fate of commercials and dinner theater by that little . . . that little. . .

The Bog of Stench would be too good for him.

It was outrageous. It wasn’t fair!

She censored herself automatically in mid-thought. Like references to certain forms of pastry, that phrase had been edited out of her vocabulary by a vigorous and vigilant self-censorship, born of the Labyrinth’s notorious extremes of negative reinforcement. At the moment, though, nothing with less strength of feeling would do. And she damn well had a basis for comparison, thank you VERY much. After all this time, it felt good to finally say it again. Liberating, somehow. She tried it out loud, experimentally, hesitantly, rolling around the sounds on her tongue like a wine connoisseur might test a fine claret.

“It’s not fair!” There, she’d said it. No skies fell, no oubliettes opened. No Jareth appeared to belittle her pettiness. Only a few passers-by cast a furtive glance or two at her vehemence. Oddly enough, this conspicuous absence of consequences wasn’t in the least comforting. Rather, it only served to underscore her utter insignificance. As she suspected, the universe was, more than ever, wholly indifferent to her finely tuned notions of justice and right.

Still deep in reverie, she reached her destination: the post office, a cavernous little pit located in the basement of one of the oldest buildings on campus. At least this was one foundation she could cling to, come hell or high Bog water; her stepmother’s letters arrived every Friday afternoon like clockwork -- provided the clock had been designed by an anal-retentive Nazi. She sometimes wondered why she bothered to pick them up; they could have been Xerox copies, for all the variety they offered from week to week: Your father and I are fine, Toby did the cutest thing the other day, how are your studies going, are you sure you don’t want to consider a more practical major, just to fall back on in case this acting business doesn’t work out? Sarah unsuccessfully fought a resurgence of that choking pressure in her chest. She’d vaguely heard of “panic attacks,” but never thought she’d have the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with them. After all, if being stuck between the Cleaners and a dead end doesn’t induce the mother of all panic attacks, what will? Certainly not a letter from home. Logical or not, though, here she was, gasping for breath in the middle of the campus post office like a beached fish in the throes of atmospheric culture shock. That did it. Let the letter sit ‘till hell froze over, if necessary. She was going back to the dorm to lie down. And maybe, just maybe, if her roommate was out, she’d curl up with her stuffed Didymus doll. Nothing quite like regression to make it all better. A couple hours in the fetal position and she’d be ready to face the world. Or at least ready not to throw up on it.

That’s it. Just one foot in front of the other. You’re not dying. Even though it feels like it.

Before Sarah could take more than two wobbly steps back towards the exit, she felt someone grab her elbow to steady her, and heard a comfortingly familiar voice suffused with ill-disguised alarm. “Hey, Sarah, you O.K.? You look a little sick.”

Give the boy a prize for perceptiveness.

Sarah peered up into the face of Montgomery Harrison Collins, dubbed “The Full Monty” by his friends (or “Monty” for short). Not because of any particular predilection for public displays of full frontal nudity, but rather due to his intense affection for Monty Python, and a physique which inclined towards the husky end of the scale. Also, it would be difficult to imagine a name which suited him less than Montgomery Harrison Collins. “Sounds like a law firm, for God’s sake,” he had told her. “Montgomery, Harrison, and Collins, Esq., at your service, ma’am.” To behold Monty was not to be put in mind of a lawyer, unless, of course, one of the three bears had taken up the practice of litigation against Goldilocks. Almost everything about Monty was arguably bearish, from his careless mop of sandy-colored curls, to his gently southern-accented growl of a voice, to his bluntly attractive features. However, one friend’s teasing assessment that “if you just gave Monty a banjo he’d be ready for the Disneyland Country Jamboree” was very unfair (to risk using that taboo word again). For one thing, no member of the ursine species ever possessed such a ready, self-deprecating grin, or eyes so intensely blue, fringed by luxuriantly thick, dark lashes which would do credit to even a girl. For another, few bears owned every Monty Python episode ever filmed, or every Terry Pratchett book ever written. Fewer still made high enough scores on standardized math and science exams to be classified as something of a prodigy, if not a bona-fide genius.

That was how he and Sarah had become friends, in fact. A physics professor had randomly paired them off as “study buddies,” an arbitrary, perverse and sadistic process designed to allow the law of averages to dictate that everyone must be equally mismatched with the worst person humanly possible. It was more “fair” that way. Only this time, something had gone horribly wrong, and an advantageous pairing had actually occurred. Monty had raised Sarah’s grade a full letter, explaining the heretofore incomprehensible forces governing life, the universe and everything, with a little Monty Python trivia thrown in for good measure.

Sarah, on the other hand, was coaching him through the creative writing course which had become the bane of his existence, introducing his practical mind to forces far less straightforward than gravity or entropy. She seemed a force to be reckoned with herself. Curves upon generous curves, with no hard angles at all. A childlike softness with a will of steel underneath. Resourcefulness and cleverness that you barely suspected until you dug deep and prodded in the right places. A playful sense of humor, barely beginning to emerge. A vivid, if somewhat flamboyant, sense of the drama and limitless potentialities of a life led with imagination. A wardrobe straight out of Ye Olde Faery and Buccaneer Boutique --lots of lace-trimmed poofy blouses and embroidered vests and Victorian jewelry and scarves galore. Endearingly odd habits, such as a violent aversion to peaches. He’d never imagined hair that black, or eyes that huge and grey. He thought of her as a demi-goddess.

Sarah thought of him, albeit with a certain fondness, as a surrogate Ludo.

It wasn’t even that she spurned his awkward attempts at affection. She was totally oblivious to them. The idea was as patently absurd as the notion of Ludo hitting on her. She was looking for a Prince Charming who could hand her the moon on a silver platter, not calculate the trajectory of its orbit to the sixth decimal place.

Sawah Fwiend. He’d just have to make do with that.

“Sarah?” He repeated. “What’s wrong? Come on, you’re scaring me.”

She managed a wan smile. “Nothing, really, Monty, but thanks for asking.”

“Nothing? It sure as hell doesn’t look like nothing to me.” He uttered a tiny cluck of concern. “Just look at that, your lips are bleeding again. You need to take better care of yourself. Here, use my Chapstick.” She accepted the offering in silence. “Sarah, please, talk to me. Maybe I can help.” He doffed an imaginary hat with a flourish and a bow. “Fear not, fair maiden, I will save thee! Brave, brave Sir Robin, to the rescue!”

In spite of herself, Sarah smiled again. Flashbacks of the valiantly useless Sir Didymus danced before her eyes. “Really, Monty, it’s nothing. I feel like an idiot even talking about it. I’ve just been thinking about what Dr. Ashby said again, that’s all.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, Sarah, I told you, he just sounds like a pathetic, bitter, vindictive old man. I mean, if he’s the next Olivier or something, what’s he doing teaching freshmen? His looks would drive audiences away in stampeding herds, that’s why. He’s probably choking on all the dreams he’s had to swallow over the years, and decided to take it out on someone with a famous mom.” A mischievous grin crossed his features. “Hey, he probably tried to hit on her at some point, and she told him to get lost.”

The thought of her mother, enamored of all things beautiful, being propositioned by the infamously unattractive Dr. Lawrence Ashby was wonderfully ludicrous. “Thanks, Monty. You always know how to make me laugh.”

That was something, anyway. If he couldn’t be the knight in shining armor, he might as well settle for the position of court jester.

“That reminds me, the funniest thing happened to me today. Come on, let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you all about it. You didn’t get a letter from your stepmom, huh? Boy, that’s a first. Lightning must’ve struck or something. It must’ve hit the mailman, though, not her -- she wouldn’t let natural disasters affect her schedule at all, would she?” Monty had met Sarah’s stepmother on Parents’ Day and found her to be a formidable person indeed.

Sarah contemplated her boots sheepishly. “Actually, I didn’t pick up my mail yet. I was feeling too lousy. I feel better now, though. Might as well get it over with.”

The pimply-faced wraith manning the mail counter reminded her uncomfortably of those exotic, pigmentless species which flourish in the impenetrable depths of caves; after retrieving the inevitable letter, she hastened to make her grateful escape from Verencia College’s answer to an oubliette. “Hey, wait a sec,” he called after her. “Says here you’ve got a package.” He disappeared into the back room for a moment, then returned with a good-sized box.

Monty craned his neck to see the writing on the label. “Wow. It’s from your mother.” He was vaguely impressed. Deep down, he’d always thought of Linda Williams as something of a myth, a legend, sort of like the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot. You know -- something you only caught sight of briefly in a few crummy movies, but never had any firsthand experience with. Linda Williams wasn’t the sort to turn up for Parents’ Day. She’d told Sarah that she was afraid that the resultant crowds of fans would be just too huge to handle. In reality, she was afraid they would be far too small for her liking.

They climbed the stairs, squinting at the sudden transition from the basement’s darkness to the fading light of late afternoon, with Sarah in something approaching a state of shock. A package from her mother? When was the last time her mother had sent her anything, barring major holidays? Which, more often than not, she forgot anyway. Sarah sighed. Her mother loved her, she knew that. She just had this irritating tendency to become completely oblivious to the inconvenient fact of Sarah’s existence for extended periods of time. Sarah struggled with the sudden irrational urge to hurl the box into the fountain they were passing.

“So, I was going to tell you that story, wasn’t I?”

“Sure, I guess.” She fumbled awkwardly with the string as they walked. It was rude and she knew it. But how could she make him understand that right then she wanted nothing more than to be alone? She wanted to open the package herself, have that moment of fleeting contact with her mother via whatever token she’d sent. She resented sharing any part of it with anyone, even him. “I didn’t realize how late it’s getting, though. I really need to get back and do some homework. I’ll see you tomorrow to study, OK?” Not giving him a chance to answer, she turned and fled into the sunset, hugging the precious box tightly to her chest.

“Well, uh, yeah. That’s fine,” he said ironically to the empty air. “Don’t you worry about me, just run along, now.” Monty watched her retreating silhouette for a full minute, his expression unreadable. When he finally turned to go, still distracted, he walked straight into something very hard and unyielding. Looking up, he found himself face to face (or, more accurately, face to knee) with the statue of the school’s Viking mascot which towered over the fountain. As if seeing this triumph of testosterone for the first time, he regarded it intently, taking in its bulging biceps and broadsword, the confident sneer disfiguring its handsome features, and most particularly the inspirational motto engraved upon its base: NEVER GIVE UP.

“Easy for you to say, you cocky bastard.”

Feather image edited from Graphics by Tammy; Moon image edited from Yahright Graphics Archive; Background from Joerg Doehring's Backgrounds.