He tilted his head in sympathy; it was heartfelt.
She forced a broad smile, flinching with pain.
‘I promise you,’ he continued. There was a spark of anger in his tone. ‘They shall never harm you again. You have my word.’
He rose from her bedside, where he had tended to her needs for days on end. There had been moments of deep concern when he thought he had lost her to the hellish fever that had gripped her. Thankfully, though, the warm, herbal infused liquid he’d provided, had done its duty, slowly renewing her health.
As he moved about the room, he felt her eyes follow him, and contemplated her thoughts. Unaware of this, she maintained her observation. He was tall and broad, and had the look of a labourer; his clothing was loose and casual: a pale shirt beneath a waistcoat, and breeches tucked into boots. She lifted her head slightly when he reached for something: an iron rod. He paused, holding it in his hand like a weapon and stared into the fireplace, watching the burning embers. He seemed distracted, as though momentarily lost in thought. She then swore she heard him mutter something: “Damn them!” as he plunged the poker into the embers, before adding more firewood.
She had many questions to ask him, but in her attempt to speak, the rawness in her throat prevented it.
There’ll be time enough, she thought, eager to discover how, and why, she was still alive.
She looked around. Where am I? she wondered, then realised it no longer mattered. It’s not like I’m going anywhere! she thought, knowing she had no home to return to, now. Her weary mind suddenly raced, with thoughts of an uncertain future.
What will I do? Where will I go? I have nothing! Absolutely nothing!
It was then, the awful reality of her dilemma struck her hard. Her head throbbed at the mere notion of it all, before exhaustion took its hold again, giving her temporary relief.
He turned, having sensed her struggle, only to find she had slipped into another deep sleep.
Her strength gradually returned, with each passing day, along with her voice. Her skin felt warm to the touch, and her hair, clean and soft, its sheen renewed.
She noted his comings and goings—leaving at the same time, each morning, and returning in the late afternoon. In time, she found the strength to leave her bed and, sometimes, after he left, would take interest in his abode—inspecting the cosy lounge, taking care not to disturb a thing. She noticed his means were simple, and yet her impression of him was that of something else—something… finer.
Something is amiss, here! she mused, becoming embroiled in her curiosity, as she searched for clues to his identity. Most def—'
‘Up and about I see!’
She spun at the unexpected sound of his voice. Standing in the doorway, his frame seemed to fill its space. As his eyes rested on her, she looked down, then quickly grasped the front of her clean tunic, in a vain attempt to hide her modesty, failing to conceal her blushes.
Sensing her awkwardness, he gave her a reassuring look. ‘I’m a respectful man,’ he stated, shutting out the cold, fading light of day.
She stared back at him, gnawing on her lip.
‘And… I am trustworthy… in every way,’ he continued, carefully removing the damask cloak from his broad shoulders. The luxurious fabric flowed gracefully from him at the bare touch of his hand. Its deep, rich shade of noir was weaved beautifully, with a subtle silk garnet thread, hinting of quality. She observed how he consciously placed it on a single hook, behind the closed door. Then, with great tenderness, he slowly ran his hand down the soft fabric, pausing, before turning to face her.
They lingered in a moment of awkward silence. She raised her head until their eyes rested on each other.
‘Why did you save me?’ she blurted.
He raised his brow, taken back by the sound of her voice; he had imagined it would be light and timid.
‘I did not expect such strength to come from—’
‘A woman as weak as myself?’ she snapped.
‘You are by no means weak…’ He paused, hoping she would say her name.
Maintaining her silence, she lifted her chin in a display of strength.
It was when he noticed the familiar faint line of determination, between her brow, he was instantly reminded of the woman he had once known—Sarah—the one name she had repeated over and over in her disturbed sleep. He had to be sure, though; it had been a long time, since…
‘’Tis strange,’ he continued. ‘Having tended to your needs… I do not know your name.’
She closed her eyes tightly, blocking out an image of him tending to her, before realising he did, in fact, save her life. And, for that, she would be indebted to him. Therefore, she would have to dismiss any embarrassing thoughts of his attentiveness.
She frowned, pressing her lips together, as though scolding herself for her rudeness towards him. He had, at least, the right to know her name.
‘Kristene.’
It glided from her mouth.
‘Of course, you are!’ he uttered beneath his breath, relieved.
She tilted her head. ‘What did you say?’
‘I like it!’ he swiftly replied, before she could question him again.
‘It was my Grandmother’s.’
‘You must be like her… for your parents to name you after her.’
‘It seems I inherited some of her qualities, according to my…’ Her voice trailed off, when struck by weakness. Feeling light-headed, she reached out to hold on to a small wooden table, standing alone by the fireplace, but missed.
In a moment he was by her side, catching her as she fell into his hold.
‘You’re still weak, Kristene,’ he stated, carrying her back to his bed.
She allowed him, without argument, letting him cover her with blankets, making her comfortable again.
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling, her eyes red with tiredness.
‘We need to build up your strength and appetite,’ he insisted, turning from her.
She watched as he moved about his small domain, busying himself. Her nose twitched as the smell of food found its way to her senses, its pleasant aroma comforting. She slowly propped herself up, feeling a pang of hunger—the sudden need to satisfy her appetite, marking her improvement.
As if reading her mind, he returned to her bedside, and handed her hot soup and fresh bread. She took it willingly. As she fed herself, he sat in the seat from where he had watched over her during her fever, and nodded, satisfied. ‘The broth, I take credit for,’ he said, grinning with pride, ‘while, I must confess, the loaf… I purchased from the market in Balloch.’
When he smiled, his face lit up; it was infectious.
She pondered over his age again, while she ate; it was difficult to tell. He had clearly seen years, though, was not old. His skin was sallow, showing few lines of age on his strong, but calm features, and yet he had a determined look about him; a look that had experienced life. His thick, dark hair, fell loosely on his shoulders and, when he ran his fingers through it, she noticed the subtle, strands of silver, highlighting it.
‘Good?’
‘Mmm!’ She nodded, smiling, relishing in the broth’s nourishing warmth.
When she’d eaten her fill, he took the empty bowl from her, then handed her a plain, pewter goblet.
‘What is it?’ she asked, staring at its pale-amber watery contents.
‘Just a natural remedy,’ he said. ‘Trust in its curative qualities, and it will restore you to health, in no time.’
She drew it to her senses; it had a familiar pungent aroma. She took a mouthful.
‘You know the forest and its herbs,’ she commented, regarding its taste.
‘Somewhat,’ he replied.
‘I recognise it,’ she added. ‘But it has an added bitterness I’m not acquainted with. Tell me… I’m curious… what is the added ingredient?’
‘Indeed, you are!’ he grinned.
‘What?’ she asked, confused.
‘Intriguingly curiou
s.’
She now sat up, smiling, already feeling the better for it. ‘Is it a secret?’
He lowered his head, frowning. ‘If I told you it would mean certain death,’ he joked.
The smile then slipped from her face. ‘Please… don’t—’
‘Forgive me, Kristene,’ he begged, pulling an apologetic smile. ‘That was in poor taste.’
Silence divided their awkwardness, momentarily, as she quietly drank the warm liquid, savouring its restorative allure, until it was almost gone.
‘My mother used to make medicines like this for—’ Her voice broke off as she stared into the goblet, lost in thought.
He regarded her, contemplating her words before replying: ‘I know.’
She looked sharp. ‘What did you say?!’ His remorseful look answered her question. ‘Did you… know my mother?’
He slowly nodded then took a deep breath. ‘Aye. I knew her well. We had a deep friendship.’
Her eyes widened, astonished.
Alert to her conclusions he drew back, lifting his hands as if in self-defence. ‘Nothing more! I assure you. She simply provided me with great strength, at a time when I needed… guidance.’
Her face gradually softened, relieved. ‘How did you meet?’
‘Oh, by mere coincidence.’
She leaned towards him, showing interest, beckoning him to continue. For an instant he saw the face of the little girl he had met all those years ago—the one who had now grown into a beautiful, strong-willed young woman.
He recalled their first meeting: when she was a child. He had come to her mother’s aid, when a sinister threat had presented itself; however, he presumed she had been too young, then, to remember him now. He was thankful for it.
‘I had spent my years travelling… as a merchant,’ he lied. Our paths crossed when’— he stopped to correct himself— ‘she fell into a minor difficulty. It was that chance meeting which led to our friendship.’
‘What difficulty?’
‘Your mother never interfered in the business of others, Kristene,’ he began. ‘She only cared for those who were sick. Her heart was larger than her spirit of inquiry. We met, when I intervened in a heated exchange of words between herself and some villagers. They were quite suggestive in relation to her “practice”, making immoral accusations which, to her misfortune, drew on the ignorance of those she helped.’ He hesitated, then sighed, slipping back into his thoughts and regrets. ‘Little did I know it would be the beginning of her downfall.’
She recoiled, gasping in disbelief, clasping her hand over her mouth. ‘You mean—you knew?!’
He stared back at her, aware of his error; he had subconsciously voiced his inner thoughts.
Her silent, desperate plea for answers was evident in her hazel eyes, as she slowly shook her head, her mouth open, unable to speak. But his temporary silence only heightened his guilt. However, there were certain things he simply could not share with her; at least, not yet… until he was sure.
Finding her voice, her hand slipped from her mouth. ‘I… I’m at a loss, sir. I… don’t understand. You say you knew my mother yet—’ She stopped and stared at him, noticing she had called him, “sir”. It then occurred to her.
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend,’ he blurted.
She grunted at him. ‘A true friend would have saved her.’
‘I—I know,’ he quietly admitted.
‘Then why?! Why didn’t you?!’
‘Kristene, believe me when I tell you… I would have tried… but’— he hesitated and looked away— ‘I was…’
She glared at him with a judgemental frown. ‘Well?!’
‘… too late.’
Hearing his own admission made him cringe with shame. He closed his eyes, feeling hers boring into him with resentment. But he knew he would have to face her… and explain.
Taking a deep breath, he released it, then opened his eyes, meeting hers. ‘Please, let me explain!’ he pleaded, his voice urgent yet calm, reflecting on her anger.
Silence.
He waited—and would continue to do so, for as long as it would take for her to listen.
The moments quietly passed, locked in their stubbornness, until a sense of calm returned. She remained silently still, then looked at him, her eyes now filled with enquiry. Finally, he knew she was ready—ready to listen.
‘If only she had been as curious as you, Kristene,’ he began. ‘It may have—’
‘Saved her life?’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps—then again—there is no way of knowing.’
‘I tried to warn her,’ she blurted.
‘You did?!’
She nodded, holding his gaze.
He couldn’t help but compare her likeness to that of her mother’s—the strangeness in her beauty, making him feel a little vulnerable. He felt compelled to divert his eyes before continuing. ‘There was no mistaking the look of accusation on their faces. The villagers were nothing but narrow-minded. But… your mother dismissed their ignorance… or, at least, chose to. It led to some disagreements between us. Another regret, I’m ashamed to admit. My stubbornness has, at times, been my downfall… and at a great cost, too.’
Kristene drew her brow and tilted her head; something was niggling at her; there was something about him. A vague expression crossed her face as she struggled to recall a memory. She promptly glanced back at him when it suddenly entered her mind. ‘You argued!’ she stated.
He sat up, alert; he did not expect that.
She nodded. ‘I remember! And what’s more… I remember you!’
Chapter Four
‘Your name is… Oran!’
He lifted his head, taken back by the accuracy of her memory. It was strange, hearing her speak it again—in the voice of the woman she had now become.
‘I can tell by the look on your face… Oran!’ she said, emphasising his name with an underlying tone of sarcasm. ‘That is your name. Isn’t it?’
He held her determined stare, then nodded.
‘I knew it! And, that she defended the villagers against your accusations. ’Tis vague, but I recall it.’ She hesitated. ‘Then… you left us!’
He stood up, turning his back on her as the memory of that day returned to haunt him. He snatched the poker in his hand, as a distraction, ready to stoke the fire, again.
‘Why?’ she pressed on him.
Such was the desolation in her voice, he was unable to face her. He stared into the flames, trying to block it out; but it was pointless—having being forced to listen to her persistence.
‘Why would you do that, when you knew she was being taunted?’
‘I had no choice. I had to.’
‘No choice?!’ she hit back. ‘You could have stayed! You could have at least tried!’
He spun, glaring at her, his face hardening, re-living the rage it still provoked in him. ‘I had threatened to kill them, Kristene!’ he blurted, his hold on the iron rod, strengthening.
She jolted, seeing the storm of anger in his eyes, hers lowering to the item in his tightening grip.
‘And, given the chance—’ He stopped, realising what he had done. He glanced down at the poker and, shamed by his own behaviour, stepped back and calmed himself, his breath steadying. Returning the rod to the hearth, he moved towards her. ‘I’m sorry, Kristene, but… try to see it from my perspective. They treated Sarah like a—’ His voice broke off. He sighed, shaking his head. ‘Your mother was no “Witch”.’
Kristene chewed her lip when he said her mother’s name. But it was the way he had spoken it: with passion and respect.
Again, he sighed, shaking his head. ‘And yet, she still defended them. Nonetheless, it invited more unwanted attention, leading to further disputes between us. Therefore, she… suggested I leave… for her sake. I refused, at first, but she insisted, convinced they would never harm her.’ He turned to face her. ‘She sent me away, Kristene. That’s the truth of it. You must understand; it was a
difficult situation.’
The tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. ‘I’m trying to understand,’ she cried, wiping them away. ‘I only wish she had listened.’
‘I stayed away, far too long,’ he admitted, slumping back into his chair. ‘I was torn between concern and anger. I tried to go back. But as each day passed, it became increasingly difficult to return. The more distance I put between us’—he shrugged— ‘the easier it was to keep going. My pride eventually won me over—a grave error I will always regret—and one I hope never to repeat.’
‘Then why did you come back?’
He shrugged, shaking his head. ‘I’m not sure. Something inside—call it a gut feeling—brought me back. So, I swallowed that pride and followed my instincts.’
‘Then it is a great pity… Oran, your instincts did not bring you back, sooner,’ she retorted.
He remained silent, in acknowledgement of his misconception, then sighed heavily.
As he stared into his past, she could now see it: his deep regret. In a moment of pity, she let her defences drop.
‘She did not deserve to die,’ she said, her voice lowering to a whimper. He looked up, seeing the tears well in her eyes, again. ‘And the way they—it was barbaric. I can still hear her screams for mercy as the flames took hold’—she glanced towards the fireplace— ‘and the smell of her burning flesh…’
‘Don’t torture yourself, Kristene.’
‘But it’s so hard not to think of it.
As he reached out to console her, she drew back, then diverted her eyes.
Divided by silence, once again, Oran leaned back in his chair, his guilt now getting the better of him; it was eating him up inside, making it harder for him to find the right words to comfort her, knowing she was still raw with grief.
‘She didn’t do it, you know,’ she blurted, her voice quiet and solemn.
He lifted his head. ‘Do what?’
‘Kill him.’
Eyes widening, Oran slowly leaned forward—the startled look on his face, telling her he was oblivious to her meaning. ‘Kill who?’
Beyond the Darkness Page 3