by D B Nielsen
‘I’m sorry, Sage, this is all my fault,’ Dad muttered, apologetically. ‘You wouldn’t be in hospital, forced to have an MRI and stitches if it weren’t for me.’
My eyes flew open in consternation.
‘Don’t be silly, Dad,’ I protested, ‘It was hardly your fault that I wasn’t looking where I was going!’
Dad’s expression was grim, his hazel eyes still held self-reproach despite my assurances. ‘Sage, I put you in harm’s way.’
I rolled my eyes, exasperated, ‘No, I put myself in harm’s way. But I’m okay.’
‘Thanks to St. John,’ Dad took hold of one of my limp hands, lying on top of the cellular blanket, and gave it a squeeze.
‘Yes, thanks to St. John. But go easy on him Dad – I think you’re embarrassing him. He doesn’t seem too comfortable with the label of superhero.’
His voice was grave as he said, ‘I owe him more than I can ever repay.’
It seemed like he was about to say more but, at that moment, Dad’s BlackBerry began to ring, emitting an incessant buzzing sound. He pulled it out of his trouser pocket just as a male nurse popped his head through the curtain, cautioning, ‘I’m sorry, we don’t allow mobile phones in the Emergency Ward; they interfere with the equipment. You’ll have to turn it off.’
Dad nodded as the nurse left, looking down at the numeric display before turning it off and pocketing his phone.
‘It’s your mum,’ he informed me.
‘Maybe you should go call her again and see what she wants – it might be important,’ I said, closing my eyes in fatigue, ‘You don’t have to babysit me, you know? I’m okay. I think I’ll close my eyes and get some rest.’
I wasn’t feigning tiredness; all of a sudden I felt exhausted from the trauma of the day’s events and the effects of the drugs were wearing off, so I could feel the dull throb where the flesh covering my temple had been stitched back together. Dad took one look at my pale, worn face and agreed to let me rest for a while.
As he bent to give me a kiss on my cheek, I opened my eyes briefly to say, ‘At least now you’ll be able to tell Fi and me apart.’
I heard him give a chuckle as my eyelids weighed down again and the whisper of the curtain as he exited the cubicle. And my last conscious thought before I drifted off to sleep was of several winged guardians protecting me ... even from myself.
When I next resurfaced after a dreamless sleep, I was in pitch darkness. My mind was still hazy from the effect of the drugs, and rising from the depths seemed an impossible feat. A vague and dreadful suspicion grew in my mind that I was not alone, and I floundered in an etherised miasma, trying to see into the darkness of the ward.
‘Who’s there?’ I croaked, my voice harsh and parched. But it came out almost upon a whisper.
There was a rustling sound from the end of the bed like taffeta.
I tensed, but already the meds were pulling me back under, drowning me. The last I saw, which passed into dream, was a pair of burning eyes, watching me intently.
I woke once more during the dead of night. Only the thinnest thread of light stole in from under the door from the hallway beyond. I noticed several things simultaneously; I’d been moved from the Emergency Ward to a private room elsewhere in the hospital and my meds had been topped up and taken effect, so I no longer felt the dull ache at my temple. I also realised I had been unhooked from the heart monitor and was grateful that I could no longer hear the rise and fall of my own erratic heartbeat in response to my fluctuating emotions. Most importantly, however, my sense of smell and my intuition in the pervasive darkness were acute and I realised that I was not alone.
At first, in my semi-conscious state, I thought Dad had returned or Mum had taken over from him to watch over me at night. But as the scent of sandalwood filled my nostrils, I realised that my visitor was my own personal guardian angel and a satisfied smile hovered on my lips.
‘You look like the cat that got the cream.’ A disembodied voice from the corner of the room floated towards me, deep and alluring.
He must have incredible eyesight, I thought, as I strained to see in the darkness to where he presumably sat.
‘How can you see so well in the dark?’ I asked.
‘I ate all my carrots when I was a boy,’ he replied with a low laugh.
I ignored him. Struggling to sit up in the bed, I probed, ‘What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night!’
‘What if I told you that I’m not here and that you were having a dream?’ he whispered in response.
‘I’d say that you’re the one who bumped your head!’ I hissed.
Again came that low amused laughter which was so seductive, it thrilled me.
‘Sage, Sage.’ It sounded like he was shaking his head, laughing at me. ‘“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet, Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”’
I whispered back, ‘How did you know that’s my favourite poem?’
‘I didn’t.’ I could hear the warmth in his voice, ‘But it seemed appropriate somehow.’
I felt myself tremble in response.
Repeating the question, I demanded, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Don’t be afraid,’ St. John murmured, ‘I’ve appointed myself your protector. God knows you’re in need of protection.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked a little too sharply, thinking back to what Fi had said about me being in danger because of the artefact.
‘Shh, calm down, Sage,’ he whispered, ‘After this morning’s incident I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. And your father told me this afternoon that you’d been having a lot of dizzy spells lately.’
I shook my head in denial, refusing to confirm his unspoken query.
‘We’ll save that for another time,’ he stated.
There isn’t going to be another time! I thought mutinously.
If I mentioned having visions, he’d think I’d gone mad and that was the last thing I wanted.
‘Anyway, I also wanted to talk to you earlier but we were interrupted,’ he continued, ‘Your father has asked if you could accompany me to Paris next week.’
‘When did he ask?’ I demanded.
‘Before the artefact disappeared, he asked if I was going to Paris and whether I could keep you company as he’d promised you a trip there.’
‘You mean babysit me,’ I said bitterly, recalling St. John’s earlier conversation with Dad that morning and my own misery.
‘No, that wasn’t what he meant.’ St. John corrected, ‘But initially I refused. It would be better for both of us if I kept my distance from you.’
I had known that he was going to tell me about his impending trip to Paris without me, but being prepared still didn’t stop my emotions twisting inside of me.
‘What I wanted to tell you this afternoon was that if you still intend to go to Paris I’d changed my mind,’ he continued, his spectral voice deep and melodic like scales played on a viola, ‘If you like, we can travel down together on the train and I’ll make sure you get safely to your hotel. I’m hoping you’ll even join me for dinner on occasion.’
‘Why?’ I asked confused, ‘Because it would appease my Dad? Give him some peace of mind after my accident today?’
St. John laughed, this time without humour. ‘No, because it would give me some peace of mind.’
‘Oh,’ I said lamely, not knowing how to reply but glad I was no longer hooked up to the heart monitor because I could feel my own heartbeat racing madly without needing to know that the cause was sitting opposite.
The darkness enfolded him like a shroud and when he went silent, as he was doing now, it was as if he was as ephemeral as a dream.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, warmth filling his voice again, ‘“Oh.”’
/> I could feel myself blushing hotly, feeling like Juliet after realising she’d been spied upon by Romeo.
‘Yes,’ I said, decisively, answering his question, ‘I was intending to go to Paris. I want to go to the Louvre again.’
His low chuckle returned.
‘Then I’m hoping you’ll allow me to take you there,’ he said.
I directed a smile into the corner of the room. ‘That would be nice. I’d like that.’
The air shifted marginally, as if he’d unfolded himself from a seated position to stand. ‘Then I’ll talk to your father in the morning. Get some rest, Sage.’
I couldn’t see him but I felt him move across the room towards me. There was a whisper of current near the side of my hospital bed; electric, tangible. And then I felt his lips on mine; a softness, like brushing against the wings of a moth.
His ghostly whisper reached me, even as he disappeared out the door, engulfed in a flare of bright white light. ‘Goodnight, sweet Sage. “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”’
PARTNER
CHAPTER TWELVE
I would have convinced myself that St. John’s visit had simply been a drug-induced dream but when I woke the next morning I found an extraordinary floral arrangement of hothouse peonies, tulips and baby’s breath in a riot of colours next to my hospital bedside with a note attached in a strong masculine hand informing me that a private tour of the Louvre had been organised as promised. As I gazed on his penmanship, slightly reminiscent of Victorian copperplate, the black ink flowing in bold, determined lines as emphatic and intense as his personality, I wondered at the fantastical occurrence that St. John should be interested in me.
Even his dire comment made last night about it being better for both of us if he kept his distance from me failed to dampen my spirits. I wasn’t about to question my good fortune despite St. John wrestling with his inner demons. I knew he was way out of my league but I had never felt before such an overwhelming feeling of rightness and knew I would never feel this way about anyone else. I presumed he still had doubts about the differences in our ages and me being the daughter of Professor Woods, but I felt that he was simply making excuses for the completely irrational and overwhelming attraction that had flared up between us.
And now we would be in Paris together – the most romantic city in the world. I was feeling absolutely elated.
Dr Mukherjee did her rounds earlier that morning and proclaimed that I was fit enough to return home. The gauze bandage was removed by the nurse on duty, revealing tiny butterfly sutures that covered an angry red wound on my right temple which I was told would eventually turn silvery-white with time. Luckily, my long chestnut hair fell in a curtain to cover the disfigurement for the time being, so that to an observer my wound was barely noticeable.
When Mum arrived with my boisterous siblings in tow I was ready to leave, having already packed the overnight bag Mum brought last night when I was asleep. I’d had no knowledge of her arrival or departure but it was a comfort knowing she’d been there.
I’d placed the bag on the hospital bed, next to the floral arrangement sent by St. John which was coming home with me; though I’d already pocketed his note to avoid what was sure to be the third degree from my family.
‘Sage!’ Jasmine and Alex’s shrieks could no doubt be heard down the ward as the door to my room flew open and they launched themselves in. They were both very excited and, with the innocence of children, began jabbering on about my “awesome adventure” and St. John’s heroism. It already sounded like one of the legends of King Arthur.
Mum’s expression on seeing me awake and sitting up on the edge of the hospital bed would have been comical if it weren’t for the circumstances that had seen me placed in hospital overnight. Concern warred with relief – but relief won and she gave me a feeble hug as if she was afraid of breaking me.
‘Mum!’ I protested, laughingly, ‘I’m not made of glass!’
‘But you look so fragile, Sage!’
She brushed my hair back off my face to peruse my wound, taking in the rawness of puckered flesh under butterfly sutures.
‘It’ll heal, Mum, don’t worry.’ I said, trying to allay her concern. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was upset at seeing my wound – not because it would leave a scar but because she hadn’t been there to protect me.
She gave me a wan smile before taking in the floral arrangement on the bedside table. The artist in her was immediately attracted to its colourful abundance.
‘They’re from St. John,’ I told her before she asked, ‘Probably to complement my pale cheeks and bloodshot eyes.’
She immediately began to protest before catching my teasing grin.
‘Oh you! You’re a very lucky young lady,’ she said, picking up my overnight bag from the bed and ushering Jasmine and Alex into the corridor, ‘I can’t thank St. John enough for saving your life.’
It seemed that my entire family was enamoured with St. John Rivers.
I retrieved my flowers and followed her out the door to the nurse’s station where I was given a prescription for painkillers and instructions on how to clean my wound. Mum signed the release forms after making an appointment to have the stitches removed later that week.
In the car on the way home I closed my eyes and, lulled by the purring of the engine, fell into a deep sleep, only waking when we reached the gates of the Manor House. At the sound of the car coming up the driveway, Fi ran outside to greet us with Indy bounding up the rear.
‘Sage!’ she exclaimed as she threw her arms around me as soon as I stepped out of the BMW. ‘You look terrible!’
I could always count on Fi to tell me the awful truth.
‘Thanks, it’s good to see you too.’ I replied sarcastically, crossing to the rear of the car to collect my floral arrangement.
She laughed at my tone before raising an eyebrow at my arms filled with flora.
‘W-o-w!’ Fi drew the word out, her tone ripe with insinuation. ‘Need I ask who that’s from?’
‘No, you needn’t,’ I replied flushing with embarrassment. I held my flowers protectively in front of me like a shield, the abundant arrangement shielding most of my face from Fi’s mocking expression.
‘Impressive.’ She declared, signalling her admiration.
Walking upstairs to my bedroom I placed the arrangement on my dresser facing my bed, so that when I went to sleep I’d be able to see St. John’s gift to me. Even now, it brought a small satisfied smile to my face just thinking about his appearance in my hospital room last night – something I was determined to keep to myself for just a little while longer, possessively hugging the inner knowledge of his words and tender kiss.
As Fi followed behind, questioning me about the events of the past twenty-four hours, I crossed to the bathroom to take a good look at the damage. A livid red gash held together by tiny white sutures confronted me. It was nasty and raw. And next to Fi’s flawless complexion, it made me want to cry.
Fi must have noticed my reaction as she came to stand beside me, placing her arms across my shoulders as her eyes met mine in the mirror.
‘Don’t worry, Sage. It will heal and when it turns white you won’t notice it.’
‘I will.’ I declared emphatically, ‘I know it’s there.’
‘But no one else need know,’ she reassured me, giving my shoulder a squeeze, ‘A little bit of concealer should do the trick.’
I gave her a lopsided smile, tearfully dabbing at the corners of my eyes with a tissue. I didn’t want her to know that my reaction was less to do with vanity and more to do with the fact that as identical twins I’d lost some unidentifiable part of me with this new scar – now everyone would be able to tell us apart.
Claiming tiredness and wishing to be alone, I suggested that I’d take a couple of painkillers and climb into bed. Fi agreed to leave me to my solitude though her look of concern spoke volumes.
As soon as she left my bedroom, I crossed to my dresser and
buried my nose into the soft silken folds of peony and tulip petals; their mingled richness a balm to my distress. Inhaling the intoxicating scent, I closed my eyes and thought of St. John again. As always, the thought of his golden perfection had my heart racing thrillingly. It was the antidote I needed, a tonic for my self-pity. When I opened my eyes, my tears clung to the petals, glittering like crystals.
Perhaps it was this, or perhaps it was the scent of the flowers that made me go woozy, so that I found myself hurtling into another vision.
Time recoils. My exile’s done. The prodigal son returns. Griffins stalk the outward walls as the Word that transforms earth is uttered. The season of fruit ripens to juicy succulence. Your eyes flecked with my golden image encloses me in burnished amber as we stand, stripped bare, surrounded by fronds of green palm fanning God’s breath. A pair of fruit trees mirror our stance, resplendent in quicksilver and golden leafed apparel, twigged fingers reaching out to touch the other’s branched hand. Knowledge. Life. I stare in wonder through human eyes renewed by memory, holding a golden orb in my palm. The quiet pulse of mountain, the river tinkling on rock, the drift of incense in the air, mark one long dreaming night of exile and the serpent sting of day.
This time I found I was better able to control my response to the vision. In a semi-conscious state I found myself still standing on my feet, though only just, one hand crushing the smooth fleshy petals of a swollen scarlet peony, the other clutched around my midriff. I was thankful no one was around to witness this incident because, despite being given the green light to leave the hospital, I knew Mum would have driven me straight back and demanded a second opinion on the state of my health – something I wanted to avoid.
As I slowed down my breathing, I realised that I could hear Indy howling mournfully outside my bedroom door. I wasn’t sure if his behaviour was caused by the onset of my vision but, rather than calling attention to myself, I decided to let him in. Crossing the room on unsteady legs, I opened my bedroom door to find Indy’s nose pressed against it. He raced into the room, a liver and white blur, but instead of curling up at the bottom of my bed as he usually did, he began to pace, prowling the perimeter as if on guard duty. I urged him repeatedly to lie down but he wouldn’t obey me. His fervent actions and occasional low growls were disturbing, reminding me of what I’d witnessed in the museum and had been trying so hard to suppress. Only when he was finally satisfied that the room was empty save for me did he relax, resuming his usual position at the foot of my bed.