Haunted Ground

by Irina Shapiro

  The second drawing was even more disturbing. It showed the ruin and a man kneeling beneath a tree. He was just a stick figure with long hair, but what it meant was unmistakable. Sandy had seen him, and maybe her mother had as well. Despite my reservations, I pulled out the second album. This one was full of baby pictures, the baby growing older with every page. I kept looking at pictures of a blissful Kelly, her daughter in her arms as Neil looked on contentedly. My eyes slid to the little girl. I hadn’t focused on her at first, eager to see Kelly with her husband, but as I looked at the child’s face, I felt the hairs stand at the back of my neck, cold fingers of dread closing around my heart. I’d seen that little girl many times before in the pictures all around my parents’ house. There was a portrait of her by my mother’s bed, only the child was slightly older. I was looking at a picture of myself, my face alight with happiness as I posed with my parents.

  I took out the picture and slammed the album shut before carefully placing it back in the box, but the damage had been done. Memories came rushing back like an incoming tide, fragments of the past that I had somehow suppressed all these years. I squeezed my eyes shut and put my hands to my pounding temples, but I couldn’t stop the onslaught. The images came in a flood, flashing before my eyes with alarming frequency. They weren’t in any chronological order, but rather like colored pieces in a kaleidoscope, shifting and rearranging themselves into something different every few seconds. I had glimpses of being put to bed by my mother— my real mother. My father reading me a bedtime story and my grandmother handing me a cookie that was still warm from the oven as I gobbled it up and licked my fingers. I was playing in the yard, chasing a ball, then putting my doll to sleep in her dollhouse.

  I rested my head on my knees and wrapped my arms around them to keep myself together, but nothing I could do would make any difference now. I was standing in front of the ruin by myself, a doll hanging from my chubby, childish hand as I stared at the man in front of me, his face twisted in anguish and tears running down his lean cheeks. I was crying too, but I wasn’t sure why because I wasn’t afraid of him. Perhaps I simply felt sorry for him. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and offered him my dolly, but he didn’t seem to notice me; didn’t accept my heartfelt offer.

  And then the image melted away and was replaced by another. My parents screaming at each other in the front room as I played with my dollhouse in the corner; my mother’s voice shrill and taunting as my father’s face crumpled and fell, before being replaced with a look of such rage that I hid behind the sofa in terror.

  “Are you so blind that you can’t even see that she’s not yours?!” my mother screamed. And then I heard her cry out and crash to the floor, and all was quiet for a moment as I crept from behind the sofa, thinking the argument was over. My mother was lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath her head as it trickled from the gash at her temple. I could see my three-year-old self throwing myself at my mother, crying and begging for her to wake up; my beautiful mother who was staring at the ceiling with sightless eyes as my father fell to his knees, his head buried in his hands as he cried like a child.

  I could hear the anguished scream of my grandmother as she came running into the room and wrenched me from my mother’s body, her own slight frame shaking violently as she carried me up the stairs and locked me in my room to keep me from returning downstairs and seeing what was left of my mom.

  The pretty colors of the police lights were now flashing before my eyes, reflecting in the pane of glass as I pressed my nose to its soothing coolness in an effort to understand what was going on. There were people coming and going, and I saw my father being led to a police car, his hands behind his back as a stern man put a hand on his head to prevent him from hitting his head as he got into the back of the car.

  Later on, all was quiet, except for my grandmother’s weeping as she held me against her and rocked me to sleep, repeating over and over that everything would be all right somehow. And then everything went blank.

  I grabbed the photograph and the drawings and ran from the room. I couldn’t bear to be in that house any longer. The ghosts were all around me, not outside as I suspected. They were in every room, suddenly clearly visible to me now that the veil had been lifted. I grabbed my purse and ran outside without even locking the door. I had to get away; had to flee to a place of safety where I could come to terms with what I’d just discovered.

  I ran down the dark lane, the wind whistling in my ears as the first fat drops began to fall. The sky was overcast, the stars and moon hidden behind a thick cloud cover, and I stumbled and almost fell several times as my foot landed in an unseen hollow. I wouldn’t have been able to see them even if it had been light outside. I was blinded by tears; could taste their saltiness as they rolled into my mouth and down my throat. My chest was burning, so I eventually slowed down to catch my breath, but no amount of gulping in air could seem to fill my lungs. I was suddenly an entity unknown to myself. I didn’t feel right in my body, and I didn’t recognize my mind or my soul. My whole life had been a lie perpetuated by others, and now I had no idea who I was.

  October 1650

  England

  Chapter 50

  The dining room of the tavern was unusually quiet for early evening, the fire glowing in the hearth and the serving wench eyeing Sexby with a practiced eye, wondering how much she could take him for if he invited her up to his room. He looked like a man who had money and would pay generously for her services. Sexby gave the girl an appreciative smile and turned back to his mutton and boiled potatoes. The girl would wait; she wasn’t going anywhere, and at the moment, neither was he. Will drained his tankard of ale and motioned the girl for a refill as he tucked into his food. Sexby never failed to marvel at how much Will could drink without showing any traces of intoxication. Sexby, himself, preferred to stop after one tankard in order to keep a clear head and quick reflexes. One never knew when either would come in handy.

  “I think he’s long gone, Edward,” Will said through a mouthful of mutton. “We’ve been asking for days and no one has seen him. Maybe we should return to Scotland.”

  Sexby speared a piece of meat on his knife and looked at it for a moment before putting it in his mouth. This was the best meal he’d had in weeks, and he meant to enjoy it. “I disagree, Will. The men Carr killed were found almost five miles away from Lakeview, and we know that Carr didn’t go back home. He’s a fairly good swordsman, but I refuse to believe that he got away from that skirmish unscathed. One against three is not good odds in a fight. He must have been wounded, so he couldn’t have gotten very far. According to Jasper Carr, his brother never showed up at the uncle’s house, but suppose the uncle was lying? Brendan Carr might have deduced that this wasn’t a random robbery. If he thought his brother might be behind the attack, he’d make sure his whereabouts weren’t made public, especially to his brother’s man. No, Will; I think Brendan Carr is wounded and in the vicinity of Caleb Neville’s house. And that’s where we go next.”

  Will smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “Sometimes, I wish I had your brains, Edward,” he said without any bitterness. “I see what’s in front of me, but you look three steps ahead.”

  “That’s what’s kept me alive all these years.” Sexby pushed away his plate and rose to his feet, signaling for Will to remain in the dining room and finish his meal. Will grinned in understanding, turning his attention back to the tender meat. Maybe he’d have a turn after Edward was finished. He watched as Sexby whispered something in the girl’s ear that made her smile before following her up the stairs. She was a pretty little thing, with big tits and a plump ass. That’s just the way Edward liked them. He was surprisingly gentlemanly when it came to women, whether dealing with a lady or a whore. Will finished his ale and shook his head with confusion. Edward was a very complex man, which made him extremely dangerous if you got on the wrong side of him.

  Chapter 51

  Reverend Pole looked from Brendan to Rowan�
��s glowing face and back again. He really must be getting on in years if he missed a courtship right beneath his nose, or in this case, above. Granted, he hadn’t really been upstairs much while the two were together, but he never thought that a chaperone might be warranted for a critically injured man and a mute woman. But, the Lord had always worked in mysterious ways, and he would continue to do so. Reverend Pole had to admit, rather guiltily, that like most people in the village, he didn’t pay much mind to Rowan. She was a beautiful young girl, but her lack of speech and desire to always remain on the fringes of village life rendered her a shadow, but clearly not to everyone.

  “So, will you, Reverend?” Brendan asked, his patience running out.

  “Will I what?”

  “Will you marry us?” Reverend Pole could see Rowan getting anxious, her eyes full of worry that he would refuse. He couldn’t help noticing the way she moved closer to Brendan, his hand reaching for hers in a gesture of reassurance. He’d better marry them, and soon. Judging by the intimacy of their behavior a child could already be on the way, and it was his moral duty to prevent that child from being born a bastard. Reverend Pole supposed that it was too late to ask Brendan if he’d thought this through, so the only thing he could do was marry the young people and wish them well. They’d be away from here in less than two weeks, so their fate would no longer be his responsibility. He would pray for their safety, however, and hope that Brendan was able to win back his inheritance and prove his innocence in the murder of his attackers.

  Normally, the banns would be called a month before the wedding, but in this case, the marriage had to be kept secret, especially from poor Stephen Aldridge, who would be in for a surprise. Reverend Pole had been of a mind that Aldridge only wanted to marry Rowan to provide his children with a mother, but now he had his doubts. Maybe the man truly was in love with her, as Brendan clearly was. Reverend Pole sighed and sat down heavily on the wooden bench by the table. One day, very long ago, he had been in love. He was sixteen then and life was full of promise and possibilities, until he told his father that he wanted to ask Delwyn Jones to be his wife. He thought his father might object to her Welsh background, on account of thinking them backward and wild, but his father barely even registered the name of the girl. It didn’t matter who she was, for Hugo Pole was meant for the church, and to the seminary he would go despite his wishes. Reverend Pole momentarily wished that he had been stronger and stood up to his father. How different his life would have been. He might have known happiness, and possibly even joy; instead, all he knew was the cold comfort of a benevolent God who never saw fit to grant a heartbroken boy’s dream. And now, Brendan and Rowan were taking matters into their own hands and making their own future, and he would help them. Oh, yes, he would help them.

  “I suppose there’s no time like the present, is there?” Reverend Pole asked, smiling at the light in Rowan’s eyes. “I will perform the ceremony, but I will not enter the marriage in the parish records book until a week after you’ve gone.”

  “Yes, that would be best, Reverend. No need to alert anyone to the fact that I was here.”

  Reverend Pole nodded at the wisdom of this thinking and turned to Rowan. “And what of your aunt and uncle, young lady? What am I to tell them? They’ve had the care of you these past years; they don’t deserve this ingratitude from you. Will you at least let them know you’re leaving with Brendan?” Reverend Pole tried to look stern, but he couldn’t help grinning at Rowan. She was so clearly anxious to be married; she was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, her eyes pleading with him to dispense with the questioning and get on with the wedding. He’d explain the situation to Caleb and Joan if it called for it, but he hoped she would at least say goodbye.

  “All right, then. Let’s begin.”

  ***

  Brendan locked the door behind Reverend Pole and turned to his bride. Rowan just stood in the middle of the room where Reverend Pole married them a few minutes ago, looking as if she was afraid to move or the illusion would shatter. She raised her eyes to Brendan, a slow smile spreading across her face as Brendan walked over to her and took her in his arms. There was so much he wanted to say, but somehow couldn’t find the words to express exactly how he felt at that very moment until their eyes met.

  After years of silence, nature compensated by making Rowan’s face a map of her soul. Brendan could read the myriad emotions shifting in her eyes as clearly as if they were written on a page. Rowan was feeling as he was: shy, expectant, apprehensive, impatient, but most of all happy and amazed that such joy could come from such savagery. Brendan pulled her to him and kissed her, slowly and deeply. They had a few hours till Reverend Pole returned, and he planned to make the most of them. This was the closest to a wedding night they were likely to have, so the old reverend’s bed would have to do.

  Brendan was no stranger to women, but all his experiences had been a transaction; pleasure given and pleasure received after money changed hands. He’d never made love to a woman he had any feelings for, nor had he ever been with a maid. The women had been coarse and cheap, skilled in the art of love the way he’d become skilled in the art of war. He suddenly felt nervous; an unfamiliar fluttering in his belly making him wish he’d had some mead before consummating the marriage. How he acquitted himself now would have a lifetime effect on Rowan. He’d met many men who, when in their cups, complained that their wives wanted nothing to do with them, and lay there with a pained expression on their faces in the hope that their husbands would finish their business quickly and leave them in peace. They had no objection to their husbands slaking their lust on whores, as long as they didn’t saddle them with another child.

  Brendan didn’t want that type of marriage. He wanted his wife to be his lover, strange as it would seem to some. No matter how much he wanted Rowan right now, this moment was about her, and he would put his needs aside and devote the afternoon to her, initiating her into the art of love with all the gentleness and skill he could muster.

  ***

  Rowan purred like a kitten and snuggled closer to Brendan, her body aquiver with feelings she had no idea she could experience. She’d been a little nervous, but her fears were unfounded. From the moment Brendan kissed her after the wedding, she knew that this would be different. They’d kissed before, and he’d held and caressed her through the fabric of her dress, but this kiss was different. This kiss wasn’t just a kiss, a moment unto itself, but a beginning of something wonderful. Brendan’s lips weren’t soft and tender as before, but firm and demanding, letting her know that she was his at last and he meant to possess her, body and soul, and he meant to give himself to her completely. Rowan melted into his arms, allowing him to take control and show her what it meant to be his wife. She’d expected it to be quick and painful, a deed done, but Brendan had other ideas. She felt as if she were falling, freewheeling through the air with no fear of crashing to the ground as Brendan kissed nearly every inch of her as he marked his territory. By the time he slid his fingers inside her, she was quivering with desire, ready to receive him and satisfy his lust, but he wasn’t quite done with her yet. He wanted her to yearn for something she couldn’t name, her body aching for fulfillment that could only come from him.

  The sharp pain that tore through her womb was short-lived and quickly forgotten as he filled her body and carried her with him to a place she never knew existed. It wasn’t at all what she had prepared herself for, and she sighed with pleasure, her full mouth spreading into a smile of joy as her husband buried his face inside her neck, his forehead damp with effort and his heart hammering against her breast. Rowan wrapped her arms around him, wishing that she could hold him forever, and reminded herself that she could. They were now man and wife, and this was just the beginning of their life together. She felt as if she would burst with joy at the thought of the future, traveling away from this place and all the painful memories, and setting on a journey that would carry them to the New World and be the start of a wondrous life. She’
d forgotten what it was like to be happy and hopeful, and was overcome with the intensity of her feelings.

  Brendan raised himself on one arm and looked into her face, his eyes asking a question that needed no answer. It had been beautiful. Rowan would have said “sacred” if that didn’t border on blasphemy. She just smiled into his eyes, and he knew that he’d served her well.

  The Present

  Chapter 52

  Aidan stopped to stretch in front of his house before going inside and stripping the sweat-stained clothes from his morning run. The day was overcast with a light mist falling, but he didn’t mind. His run was a part of his morning routine that began after Noelle left. He’d been so consumed with grief and hurt that he needed a physical outlet for his pain. He hadn’t meant to start running, but one day he just came outside and took off, his legs pumping and his chest burning with the unfamiliar sensation. He’d run until he couldn’t run anymore and then he collapsed on the grass beside the lane and cried like a baby, his heart no longer able to hold on to the pain he was so desperately trying to keep at bay.

  Surprisingly, he felt much better once he finally got hold of himself and sheepishly looked around to see if anyone had seen his breakdown, but he was blessedly alone and marginally cleansed. And so he began running every day. There were no more tearful outbursts, but the physical exercise helped purge the ache in his heart, and day by day he began to regain some control over his inner life. It still hurt to think about that time, but the pain was now a dull ache, not the razor-sharp agony of those first few weeks.