by Seven Steps
Before I Wake
Seven Steps
Before I Wake
Seven Steps
Published by: Seven Steps
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Copyright © 2016 by: Seven Steps Third Edition, 2016
Published in United States of America
Cover art by SwoonWorthy Book Covers
Table of Contents
The Cottage
Playthings
About the Author
Other works by Seven Steps
Keep In Touch
The Cottage
Ireland
1798
He ran.
Searching voices rose from the chilly fog that misted the countryside. The earthy smell of manure filled his nose, telling him a farm was nearby. The sound of hooves against wet grass beat in time with his heart. Emerald green hills rolled and tumbled through the darkness, dotted here and there with flowers.
The voices grew closer.
A small farm came into view. In the center of it sat a cottage. Silver moonlight washed over its gray stone walls, the rays bleaching the thatched roof white. Off to one side, haystacks kept guard in the night, golden soldiers taller and wider than any man. A large oak tree, taller than any he’d ever seen, grew in the back of the house. Its branches reached at odd angles, like arms ready to grab at the cottage. Holes and notches opened in a eerie mask, complete with eyes, nose, and mouth. The moon shone behind it, giving the tree a menacing appearance. Chills rolled through him at the sight of it.
A leather satchel banged painfully on his back, the latch barely holding. He pressed a hand to the brass lock. If the maps within the satchel were found, thousands of Irishmen would be as good as dead. The British would seek out and execute anyone he’d ever contacted, including his mother, father, and younger brother, Harry. The thought tore at his heart.
Desperate fear forced his feet forward. Ink black hair clung to his wet brow. The muscles in his legs screamed painfully. He ignored the discomfort. Nothing could be done about it now. If he stopped, he would die.
He reached the haystacks just as the small band of soldiers crested the hill.
“There he is!”
He turned towards the voice.
White and brown horses reared up and whinnied, their rounded flanks shining against the star soaked sky. The red-coated riders zeroed in on him, hate filling their eyes.
“Forward!”
His feet moved again, frantically seeking an escape. Hiding in a haystack was not an option. Nor was the cottage for that matter. If the soldiers suspected he’d taken up shelter in either of them, the farm would be burned, the inhabitants hung.
No, he wouldn’t put anyone else in danger. Enough people had been killed because of him today. His contact in the British camp. The traveling baker who’d brought the maps to him. Aunt Ann who’d sheltered him. They’d slaughtered her while he jumped from the roof, stole one of her horses, and found his way to the country hills, in route to his contact in Aylinborough. Sadness ran through him. Ann was his favorite aunt.
Around him, hills stretched as far as he could see, mocking him. They were open ground. He’d be gunned down before he crested the next one.
There had to be a way out.
Then, a shimmer. Moonlight danced atop a blue ribbon of water.
His prayers were answered.
The horse’s whinnied again before resuming the chase.
Flying forward, he was careful to stay close to the towering piles of hay. The cottage came up on his right. In the window, a candlelit face. Thick brown curls shook as the woman turned to him, her beautiful brown eyes wide as he ran past her window.
Her face lit a spark in him.
His heart knew her name, even as his mind told him he’d never seen the maiden before.
Ashling. Her name is Ashling.
And then, as quickly as she appeared, she was gone, the shutters of her window hidden by a large haystack.
His heart made a promise to her,
I’ll be back for you, Ashling.
An open field was all that stood between him and the river. Hope bloomed within his chest.
His mind turned giddy with exhaustion. I’m almost there. Just a bit further.
But he’d been running too long. His legs slowed. His chest tightened. His heart felt as if it would break through his ribs as his feet touched the muddy riverbank.
Just a little further.
A man’s voice, Cockney accent thick, called out, “We’ve got him now, lads!”
The smell of oats, hay, and equestrian sweat surrounded him. A heavy snort wet the back of his neck. A second soldier laden beast pulled up on the left, a third on the right.
Suddenly, his feet were thrown out from under him, caught in a branch risen from the muddy bank. His body pitched forward, his face smacking into the brown clay. Something hard hit his forehead, making his head spin.
Reaching forward, he touched his hand to the icy water. For a moment, he thought he was safe. Then, someone grabbed his legs, pulling him back to the field.
He swore.
Colorful stars clouded his vision with magenta, gold, orange and green.
Save Harry, he prayed. Dear God, please save Harry.
The first strike of the club hit him hard across the gut, draining the last of the air from his lungs.
With his vision gone, he tried to orient himself with sound. He swung his arms wildly, honing in on the sounds of feet that shuffled and dug into the dirt. The soldiers laughed at him as they easily dodged his fist. They rained down more blows on his arms, legs, gut, and face.
His body turned stiff and sore under the assault. Finally, he curled himself into a ball, the knowledge that he was now blind, helpless, and at the mercy of the soldiers dragging icy fingers of terror through him.
“So you thought you could run from us?” The soldier asked, his voice rough.
The blows ended. A rough hand searched his body, while he laid still, waiting for an opportunity to escape or strike. He took comfort in knowing that the satchel was well hidden, buried deep in a haystack.
“Nothing here, sir.”
He tried to lift his head, but the movement sent ripples of pain throughout his body.
“Where is it, you mangy Irish mutt?!” He felt hands grab his ears. Someone snatched his head forward as if they meant to tear it off his shoulders. “Where is the satchel?”
The too quick movement of his head caused his stomach to lurch. He spewed vomit onto what he thought was the soldiers shirt.
The soldier’s roar echoed through the hills.
He felt something come down hard on his leg, shattering it. He screamed.
“Throw him in the river!” The soldier cried. “Let the bloody Irish dog drown.”
Several hands lifted him off the ground. He tried to wriggle his body free, but with his busted leg, and lack of vision, he was powerless.
Then, he was airborne.
There was no ground, just wind and sky.
Maybe God has turned me into a bird. Perhaps he will fly me home? Perhaps he will fly me to Ashling?
The thought lifted his spirits. He flapped his arms once, twice.
Then, the river splashed around him. The current - strong with the melting winter ice - pulled him downstream, and out of the soldiers clutches.
***
Someone pounded at the window.
Ashling dropped the bread pan she had just pulled from the oven with a small yelp. It clanked again
st the wood planked floor.
She swore.
Great. One less thing for dinner.
“Ashling!” Bernie shouted at her through the window.
She wiped the flour from her hands with the skirt of her apron and pushed the mess of dense, brown curls out of her eyes.
“Ashling!” More urgent this time. The pounding of her small fists shook the white washed shutters.
Her foot connected with the ruined bread, kicking it, pan and all, across the room. With narrowed eyes and balled fist she glared at her older sister. “You made me spoil the bread!”
Bernie disappeared from the window, and a moment later burst through the blue, wood paneled door, all wide green eyes and flushed skin.
Ashling forgot the bread. Something was wrong. Something threw Bernie into a panic, and Bernadette ‘Bernie’ McGlowden never panicked.
“You must come quickly!”
Bernie pulled her sister across the field, her long red curls coming undone from their braid. Their feet swept over the grass, still wet with morning dew. They raced past the two cows, the horse stable, and a chaos of panicked clucks that lifted from the chicken coop. They left in their wake a slew of lazy, chewing goats and several families of ducks who’d congregated near the pig trough. Finally, they stopped at what appeared to be a heap of clothes next to a haystack.
Ashling blinked hard to clear her vision, blurred from the frantic run and the rising daylight.
She leaned down to inspect the water logged heap of brown and black, her breath still coming in hard.
The pile of clothes shifted. Thick arms wrapped ever tighter around a leather satchel. A man’s face, shockingly blue and trembling, laid with closed eyes, his mouth whispering something Ashling couldn’t understand.
“What’s happened to him?”
Bernie shook her head. Her hands went to her hips as she struggled to catch her breath. “I don’t know. I was feeding the goats when I found him.”
Ashling placed a hand on the man’s forehead, then pulled it away. “He’s freezing. Quickly, help me bring him inside. We have to warm him.”
Bernie took a step back from the body. “What if he’s dangerous?”
“He’s no more dangerous than a wounded goat,” Ashling snapped. “Now help me carry him.”
Stooping, Ashling grabbed the man under his arms. When she touched him, his deep, strained voice began to babble in earnest. She made out something about a map, but everything else seemed to be gibberish.
She looked at her sister.
“A little help?”
Bernie hesitated, shaking her head vigorously. “He’s not well.”
“Aye. That’s why we’re taking him back to the cottage. To help him.”
“I don’t like this. We should leave him here. We could call Father Peter to come for him.”
“The man needs medicine, not prayers.”
Bernie shook her head again, fiddled with her fingers as she did when she was unsure about something.
Ashling’s eyes turned pleading. “Please sister. I can heal him. We can’t leave this poor creature out here to die. It isn’t our way.”
Bernie still didn’t move.
Ashling blew out a breath, pulled the stray hairs from her neck. “This is what father would have wanted. When he was alive, he taught us to help others, didn’t he? What would he say if he knew that this poor man was out here suffering while we stood around him, clucking about like a bunch of hens? I’ll tell you what he’d say. He’d tell us to do what the Good Lord would have done.”
Bernie huffed, “Alright, alright.” She crossed herself. “May the Lord protect us.”
Together, they picked up the man, trying their best to keep from jarring him too much. He moaned when Bernie touched his leg. From the way it hung, Ashling could tell it was broken. His face was blue, his skin cold. They had to act quickly. With small, shuffled steps, they carried, and at times drug him, across the field.
“Who do you think he is?” Ashling asked through harsh breaths.
“A soldier, from the looks of his coat. He must’ve dragged himself as far as he could go, then fainted.”
Ashling thought about the massacres throughout Ireland. British troops burned Irish rebels alive by the dozens when they could catch them. She shivered.
Bernie carefully stepped over a stone. “Are you sure about this? Maybe we should put him back where we found him. He could be dangerous.”
“He’s unconscious, what harm can he do?”
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. He’ll be gone by morning if God wills it. Besides, we could use some excitement around here.”
“I get enough excitement milking the goats, thank you very much.”
The ground inclined, ending the conversation.
Ashling’s lungs burned with exertion. Sweat matted her thick brown hair to her forehead. She tried to blow the wretched curls away to no avail.
The ground evened out again a hundred feet from the cottage’s front door. They passed the distance quickly, finally dropping him onto the table in the kitchen. Bernie sent Ashling to fetch the wood bench from the barn to accommodate his long legs.
Finally, the stranger was moved into a comfortable position, both legs straight before him.
While Bernie wiped down her wet body, and took in a cool drink, Ashling rolled up her sleeves and set to work. The man needed help, and she would see to it that he got it.
He was stripped, his clothes set out to be washed and dried in the sun. Next, they washed him, bandage his wounds and set his leg. Finally, they covered him with every blanket they could spare.
Bernie built the fire until it roared. When it was hot enough, she placed bricks near it. They would be slipped under his blanket for extra warmth later.
“We’ve done all we can,” Bernie finally said, her legs creaking as she sat in a nearby chair. “He’s in the Lord’s hands now.”
“What did you do with the satchel?”
“In the potato cellar.”
“Did you look into it?”
She shook her head. “No. Whatever’s inside is between him and the Lord.”
Ashling nodded. She ran her fingers through his midnight hair, pushing it off his face. The movement came naturally, as if she’d done it before.
The thought nagged at her, and she focused on his face. A beard was starting to shadow his chin, cheeks and throat. His skin was tanned and rough. His lips were chapped, but full.
“Do we know him?” she asked.
“What?”
“He looks familiar.”
Bernie shook her head and set herself to collecting the bloody rags to be washed. “No, I’ve never seen him before.”
“Are you sure? Maybe we’ve seen him in town?”
“I’ve met every man in that town, and this one doesn’t strike me.”
Ashling smiled gently. She angled her head, drinking in the sight of him. “Handsome lad, isn’t he?”
She tried to imagine him awake. He’d tower over her, that was for sure. By the looks of him, he wasn’t more than twenty, same age as her. A lean, hard body and callused hands told her that he was no stranger to hard work. She wondered if he had been a farmer before he became a soldier. Perhaps she knew his father?
The sound of shoveling floated to her ears. She looked towards the window, but no one was there.
Odd.
“Ashling!”
Ashling snapped to attention.
Bernie was frowning at her. “Please fetch me a bucket of cold water. I’ve asked you three times now.”
“Yes, of course.”
Taking one last look towards the empty window, Ashling grabbed the water bucket and headed out the back door. She walked around the house once, searching for the source of the sound.
When she arrived again at the door, she laughed shortly, shaking her head at the impossibility of it all. The property was set amongst the hills. No one
was around for miles.
Dismissing the strange ache that formed in the pit of her stomach, she kneeled next to the shimmering water that ran beside the cottage. Though the day was warm, chunks of half melted ice bumped against the sides as they floated in the frigid pool. It was a sure sign that Spring had come to warm the land.
Years before, when her mother was heavy with Bernie, Ashling’s father had dug a trench from the river to the front door, lining it with rocks. It was a small gift so that Ashling’s mother wouldn’t have to go quite so far for water. Ashling thanked God for her father’s ingenuity, and his love, whenever she reached a cup or bowl into its gurgling depths.
She wondered how long the stranger had been in the river as she dunked the bucket in the stream and rushed back inside the cottage.
Bernie was still at the strangers side, pity radiating from her emerald eyes. Ashling placed the bucket on a chair, the legs dragging against the floor as she pushed it next to her sister. Bernie plucked a rag from the table near the man’s head. She dipped it into the bucket, squeezed it out with one hand, and placed it on the man’s feverish head. Her lips pouted as she shushed his soft babbles.
“There, there,” she whispered. “Just relax now. You’re in good hands with the McGlowden sisters. We won’t let any harm come to you.”
She cocked her head to the side as she dabbed at the sweat that had begun to line his brow. “What should we do with him?” Bernie asked.
“We can’t do anything until he wakes up.”
“How long do you think that’ll be?”
“A little while, perhaps.”
Ashling’s heart broke a little as she took in the sight of her older sister looking down on this man as if he were a sick child. She wondered if Bernie would get the chance to look at her own children that way.
Perhaps if I marry, she thought, then Bernie wouldn’t have to be so worried about me. She could finally have a family of her own.
“Ashling, are you listening?” Bernie said. “What has gotten into you today? I swear your head is in the clouds.”
“Yes, sorry Bernie. I guess I’m just worn out from all the excitement.”