‘The child.’
His face dropped, in disbelief.
‘It was not her fault,’ she persisted. ‘The child was too ill—gone beyond help. I begged her not to interfere… because of the accusations. You see, they had started again. But, despite my pleas, she insisted. She did her best to save him and… still they…’ She slumped, closing her eyes.
‘Tell me!’ he urged her, pulling his chair closer.
‘She warned me—you know—to leave. But I didn’t listen. How foolish is that?’
‘Do not dwell on it, Kristene,’ he broke in, clasping her hand. ‘You’re safe now.’
Re-assured, she smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of his hand on hers, then slowly relayed
the events which had led to her mother’s incarceration and untimely execution. He then sat back and, folding his arms, nodded, as he listened intently. He was fully aware that Sarah could not have harmed a living soul, let alone a child. Inside, he blamed his pig-headedness for keeping him away.
I should have come back, sooner, he realised. Should have, could have, would have—what difference does it make, now? he told himself. Her mother was dead—because of a simple act of kindness—seen through the eyes of blame: as “Witchcraft”.
Now he was considering the face of her daughter as she stared back at him, broken by the same hurt and betrayal. He would make it right… for her.
‘And what are your intentions, now?’ Kristene demanded, tearing him from his thoughts.
‘Do you plan to leave again, now I am almost recovered?’
I owe it to her, he told himself. It was the least he could do, having failed her mother.
He leaned towards her. ‘I may have been too late to save her, Kristene, but it is not too late for you. I vowed, after her callous death, to watch over you. And I did… from a distance. It was vital I stayed hidden in the shadows, away from those same judgemental eyes. I could, and would not take the risk of being seen, by anyone who might have recognised me. Do you understand?’
‘I’m trying but…’ Her voice drifted.
‘It is a lot for you to take in.’
She slowly nodded.
He could see the redness in her eyes, telling him she needed more rest, and yet…
‘If I may…’ He hesitated, eager to know more of what had followed, after his untimely departure, then thought better of it; his questions could wait.
‘Ask what you will,’ she replied, maintaining her enthusiasm.
‘There is time enough,’ he said. ‘It can wait ’til—’
‘Please, Oran,’ she said, lowering her head. ‘I insist!’
He looked into her persuasive eyes. How can I refuse her? he thought, then nodded. ‘What happened after I left?’ he enquired.
‘I believe, a sense of normality returned to our lives. If there had been trouble, it never showed on her face.’
‘Because she was protecting you… from the accusations,’ he stated.
‘And yet she continued to help those who needed it. She had to… if we were to survive. There was no other income since my father died. I was only a child, then.’
‘Do you remember him?’
‘I have few memories. Though… there are times I’m haunted by his face. I still see that look of death, staring up at me, before the Loch’s waters wrenched him from us. He gave his life because of my stupidity. I should have listened to him, then I would never have slipped on the rocks and’—she lingered on the memory before shaking it away— ‘my mother spoke little of him after that.’
‘It was her way of surviving,’ he said, trying to reassure her. ‘She told me how he died. It was not your fault. It was the most natural thing any parent would do for their child—for any child. Your mother was reluctant to dwell on “what was”. You became her priority. She felt it her duty to shield you from harm.’
‘I wish I could have protected her,’ she returned, with remorse.
‘You were too young, Kristene. She expected nothing from you.’
She subconsciously raised the goblet to her mouth, taking the last sip of its contents. He smiled when she made a face at its, now, cold, bitter taste. Putting it aside, she continued:
‘It was when I grew older, I began to observe subtle changes in her personality.’
He tilted his chin, with added interest. ‘In what way?’
‘She developed a need to… look over her shoulder, as though she was being watched, or followed. Perhaps I’m mistaken, but I am certain it began after the encounter with’— she stopped, recalling the face from her past— ‘with that odd-looking man.’
He lowered his head in a sideward glance. ‘Odd?’
She noticed the intensity in his interest. ‘Aye, he looked… different, in that, he was not a villager; nor was he from this land.’
‘What did he looked like?’
‘Tall. His hair was dark—black—perhaps—deep brown. It was difficult to say in the light of dusk.’
‘Dusk?’ he said, impressed by her recollection. ‘Your memory is good.’
‘Sometimes, it is the little things about my mother I remember, vividly. The moon was unusually bright that evening. She loved the beauty of the night sky and all its wonders, always making a point of sharing it with me.’
‘What else do you remember about him?’
‘His clothing was dark,’ she continued. ‘I could not distinguish any colour. His skin was sallow—no—pale and… his eyes stood out; they were dark, like ours, only deeper and intense. He looked almost… ghostly.’
Oran narrowed his keen eyes. ‘Where did this… encounter take place?’
‘We were returning from a neighbours’ house. She had been treating him for an ailment… of sorts.’ She lingered on the memory, smiling to herself. She would always accompany her mother, on her visits. And, when whispers had spread, regarding William Crane’s ailment, she could not contain her growing curiosity. Told to “Wait outside” she had broken her mother’s rule, by stealing a glance through his window. Her mother had seen her, out of the corner of her eye. She recalled the long walk home in silence, expecting a scolding, on their return. But it was never mentioned again.
‘Kristene?’ The sound of his voice roused her from her nostalgia.
‘It was near our home, when he came upon us,’ she continued. ‘I can still see the agitated look on my mother’s face.’
‘Do you think she knew him?’
Kristene looked at him, suspicious of his enquiry of the unusual stranger.
‘Am I to believe that… you know this man?’ she asked.
He was taken back by her perception of him. ‘Did he return?’ he asked, avoiding her question.
‘No. You see, while they spoke, he kept looking at me. It made her uncomfortable—nervous. And when he drew down to the level of my eye and smiled—that’s how I remembered his eyes—she pulled me away, threatening him. I remember how tightly she squeezed my arm as she drew me behind her. It was like she was… protecting me.’
‘Do you recall any of the conversation?’
‘Not much. He said I was’—she shrugged— ‘I can’t remember the strange word he used.’
‘What did he do, then?’
‘When he tried to touch my face, she screamed at him. It was frightening. I imagined her
voice must have carried through the village and beyond. It was the last we saw of him, then; he simply… disappeared, into the night.’
The room fell silent, save for the crackling of wood on the roaring fire—the flames making its shadows dance and quiver. Oran sank back in his seat, musing over their conversation, then rose abruptly.
‘We must leave this place!’ he said, moving towards the little window, beside the door. He partially drew back the small curtain and glanced out, as if expecting someone.
Her voice lifted with excitement. ‘We?’ she echoed.
‘As soon as you are fully recovered,’ he said, glancing out into the darkness.
‘Wher
e are we going?’
He returned to her side, with intent, peering into her eyes. They were alive with hope, and he knew she would quiz him further about his past. Reluctant to do so, he chose to avoid it… for the time being. However, if they were to embark on a journey together, he would, eventually, have to share some of his secrets. But first, he had to be sure of her trust.
‘You are right in your assumption, Kristene,’ he admitted.
‘I knew it!’ she said, moving closer. ‘You do know him!’
He could feel her energy when she drew near; it was exhilarating. ‘Perhaps,’ he returned, pulling back slightly. ‘Which is why we cannot risk staying here.’
‘Do you think he’ll come back?’ she said, her eyes darting towards the door.
‘I have my suspicions.’ He surveyed her carefully, before inquiring. ‘How old are you now, Kristene? Sixteen? Seventeen?’
‘Almost Eighteen!’ she returned, with an air of maturity. ‘Why do you ask?’
All the more reason to take you with me, he thought. ‘Do you trust me?’
She hesitated before replying, trying to read his thoughts. Inside, her instincts screamed.
Yes! ‘I have nothing left in this world to keep me here,’ she said, in earnest of everything she had lost. ‘I have no choice but to place my trust in you.’
‘I will only take you with me, if I have your absolute trust,’ he insisted. ‘And… I shall only accept your honest reply. It is for this reason I will ask you, one last time. Do you trust me, Kristene?’
She nodded with certainty.
It was enough to convince him. ‘Then, know this,’ he said. ‘I will never let another soul harm you in any way. I give you my word. I will take you far away, where no one will know us.’
‘And I shall gladly go,’ she replied. ‘But, if I am to spend time in your company, however long it shall be, you must answer my questions.’
He prepared himself for the onslaught of her enquiries.
‘What did I see in the loch?’
He did not expect it; when the creature brought her to him, she was unconscious, barely alive. How could she have known? he thought.
‘You know what it was,’ she stated.
He opened his mouth, prepared to lie.
‘I saw it!’ she blurted. ‘For a brief moment, before I—’
‘What you saw, Kristene, was an illusion, caused by your—’
‘It was no illusion,’ she persisted. ‘I know what I saw’—she hesitated, glaring at him— ‘because it looked at me, before I lost consciousness. My instinct told me to reach out to it. It was the last thing I remembered.’
He diverted his eyes from her intense stare.
‘Do not play me for a fool, Oran!’ she hit out. ‘I see it in your face.’
He shook his head slowly, in defeat of her perseverance. ‘You are no fool, Kristene Blane,’ he said, fascinated by her awareness. ‘How clever you are.’
‘So, it does exist—the Kelpie!’
‘Indeed,’ he replied.
She frowned, tilting her head as she recalled the myth. ‘But I was told it lures its victims to their death?’
He nodded. ‘Aye. The Kelpie is a solitary creature. It lives wild and free and can never be tamed. It has always shared this land alongside man, who, unfortunately has not always respected its privacy, leading many to drown under its influence. I, however, have always shown it the greatest respect and care. And, in return, I receive its trust and loyalty.’
‘But why did it save me?’
He hesitated. ‘Because I asked it to.’
She stared back at him, amazed.
‘You are no ordinary “Man”, Oran.’ The words drifted slowly from her mouth—filled with suggestion. She moved towards him, to inspect him further. He knew what was coming next.
‘Tell me… truthfully!’—she leaned closer— ‘Who are you?’
Chapter Five
Triora – Italy: 1571
The girl ran with a sense her life depended on it, her heart pounding with every step as her youth carried her swiftly through the dark, narrow cobbled streets.
The moon dipped in and out between the heavy clouds, occasionally lighting her way. But she knew the route well and was glad of it as she quickened her pace.
Distant voices suddenly disturbed the silence. She stopped abruptly, listening for their approach, while taking a moment to catch her breath.
Glancing behind, from whence she came, she watched for any sign of movement. The badly lit street, where she stood, was devoid of life; everyone else seemed to be hiding behind their doors. Even its familiar night prowlers were nowhere to be seen; it was usual to hear the whining of the street cats in conflict with one another, and yet not one had ventured out on this particular evening. Perhaps they, too, had sensed it.
The eeriness hovered over the small cittadina as if waiting to pounce on its unsuspecting victims. She held her breath a moment, thinking she had imagined its unnatural air.
No, she had not.
Rumours had escalated of a sinister attachment to the city, casting suspicions on the restless townspeople, hinting they might be true.
Trusting her instincts, she glanced behind, making sure no one had followed her.
Gripped by a sudden chill, she quickly turned on her heel, taking a short cut through a quiet lane-way—one she frequently used. It had become her saving grace, when she found herself delayed. The Mistress hated it when she was late.
I can’t be late! she thought, reminding herself of the radical changes in her Mistress’s persona, of late, displaying bouts of anger for her slightest error. Even the boy did not escape her wrath.
The thought of another scolding spurred her on. She hoped the Master would be there. But he was seldom at the house, these days, looking for excuses to stay away, while leaving them to suffer the consequences of her ever-changing moods.
‘Please, be there! Please, be there!’ she repeated, through her tiring breath.
The end of her secret little laneway drew near, urging her to stop again. Once more, she listened.
Nothing.
It was as though the whole cittadina had abandoned her, leaving her alone to face the unknown entity lurking in the shadows. On that thought she quickened her step, knowing the great house was not far.
At last, through the darkness, she could make out the shape of the old building and ran towards it. The moon showed its face, illuminating the façade. The ominous front seemed to crawl up from the depths to greet her as she drew closer. Her pace slowed to a sudden stop as the moon’s ghostly light crept over the exterior, its disturbing presence appearing to stare down at her. She shuddered at the notion of having to pass through its doors again, then thought, Better in there than out here.
She suddenly jolted, hearing the sudden return of distance voices from the streets. She looked back sharply, listening.
They’re coming this way! she realised, forcing herself towards the entrance. But the doors were locked.
She knocked hard and quickly on the wood, continuously glancing over her shoulder—the constant rapping, echoing above and beyond the rooftops.
When the door swung wide, she was relieved to see the face of Petrio, gaping at her. The young boy stared, confused by her frightened expression.
‘Dov’é?’ she blurted, trying to catch her breath. ‘Where is he?’
He could sense the urgency in her voice. ‘Who?’ he replied, his curious, dark eyes looking up at her.
‘The Master, idiota!’
The boy continued to stare at her, bewildered.
Frustrated, she took hold of his small frame, and shook him hard. ‘Where is he, Petrio?!’
‘In his study,’ he growled, ‘with orders not to—’
She disappeared before he could warn her of the argument which had ensued, earlier, between their Master and the Mistress. Over what, he did not know, but was aware of how frequent the quarrels had become. This was, perhaps, the reason why th
e Master went out so often—too often, for her liking—which would then lead to her unpredictable moods.
The girl knocked once, before barging into his study, unannounced. Wrenched from his thoughts, he threw himself back in his chair, in disbelief, at her unexpected entrance, and looked up at her, wide-eyed.
She hovered at the open door, holding on for support—her head spinning as she paused to catch her breath.
‘My… mio Signore!’—she swallowed hard— ‘they’re searching the streets and buildings!’
Any notion of scolding her, now, melted away as he realised her meaning.
‘Close the door, Lucia!’ he said, his tone steady as he beckoned her in.
She edged towards him, her long, black locks clinging to the beads of sweat on her forehead; and her round face, pale with fright. She then paused, as he rested his elbows on the elaborate walnut table, clasping his hands together, holding her gaze.
‘Where were you?’ he inquired, his tone now low and demanding. It then dawned on him; he knew exactly where she’d been.
She opened her mouth to answer—almost letting it slip—then hesitated. He sensed her awkwardness as her eyes lowered in shame.
He sighed. ‘Never mind, as much as I am aware of it,’ he said. ‘Now, what have you seen?’
Her eyes flickered in response to his remark. How did he know? she thought. But she no longer cared. She would defend his disapproval; after all, she was of age, and intended to marry Aldo… when the time was right. She loved him, and wanted to be with him. Where was the wrong in that?
‘Lucia!’ he snapped, snatching her from her thoughts of love, as he rose from his comfortable, cushioned armchair. ‘Forget it! Forget him!’
She jumped at his demand, taking a step back as he approached her.
‘It—it seems the whole cittadina has gone mad, my Lord,’ she promptly replied, lifting her eyes to meet his. She raised her brow and stared at him. He looked tired, worn out—the dark, heavy shadows beneath his eyes, displaying his lack of sleep—no doubt the result of his flamboyant lifestyle, his constant entertaining, keeping him up most nights. It was evident it was all catching up on him. She glanced down at his clothes; they looked unusually dishevelled—out of character—for someone who took pride in his appearance, especially when mixing with influential people of society. Nor had he changed; she’d seen him in the same attire, the previous night, before he went out.
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