The Raid of Balvenie and the Maiden Who Survived
Page 14
Jean knelt near the chancel in the family chapel next to the Eucharist table. The table beside her was intact, the splintered apron in one piece, of course with no sign of ever having been destroyed, because now it had not been. Just like everything else in the small church. The thick velvet drape hung around the edge of the ornately carved table in flowing waves, no singed edges or ragged tears. The old wooden candlesticks were positioned on either side of the table with five beeswax candles on each of the slanted arms. Each candle stood erect, straight in its sconce, burning steadily and bright. The benches in the nave were lined up in even rows, intact and unburned. Jean could barely believe it was real. Her other experience had been seared into her brain, so much more real than just a vaporous, tormenting nightmare. Visions of the fiend who had searched for her beneath the table would still freeze her breath in her throat, but she knew she was safe from him. He’d been one of the brutes her father had struck down dead and whose body was left behind by his cowardly clansmen.
Parson Paterson had been inside the chapel when the raid came, just as before. But the second time, he had remained unaware of the battle outside until long after it was over. None of the Gunns had burst in on the unsuspecting parson. No one had slaughtered him in cold blood.
Now as Jean bowed to pray, she was alone. The unharmed parson was in the keep breaking his fast with the rest of the household, preparing for her sister’s upcoming wedding. But Jean had skipped the meal. She wanted to be alone to ponder what had happened to her. Her mind was reeling.
In the midst of all her churning feelings, she had to face what she’d done to win her family back. Most certainly there would be a reckoning for her. She’d sold her soul. Now she knew the truth. She truly did have a soul, and there indeed was a supernatural world that existed. She’d seen it. She’d been there.
Unable to hold the burden and weight of all she’d done, of the soul she’d squandered with so little thought—though she didn’t know that she wouldn’t do it again, which gave her no small pang of guilt—she began to finally cry. In the midst of her quiet weeping, she begged for forgiveness for making the deal with a devil, or whatever that being had been. Beyond a doubt he was evil. If she’d bothered to consider it before, it would have been obvious. But she’d put her desires before all else—and in the process she’d lost her eternal hope.
“Child,” Parson Paterson said.
Jean looked up, but the parson wasn’t there. A huge being, vaporous and brilliant, hovered above the altar. She gasped. It was the angel who had tried to stop Akhekh.
“You are distraught,” the angel said.
“Who—what are you?” Jean asked.
“I am your Guardian. I battle to keep you safe, not only physically but spiritually as well. But your choices, as well as the choices of others, play a part in your fate too. You have had quite a time of it lately. You’ve experienced something humans don’t usually see. The veil was lifted for a time and you saw in.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Jean exclaimed. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I have damned myself for eternity.”
“No,” the angel said. “The trickery of the evil one is to steal your hope. It was a false deal he made with you. You always have a choice.”
“You mean I don’t have to give away my soul? Even though I got all I’d hoped for?”
The angel chuckled. It was soft and kind, in no way mocking. “No child. You are free to choose the path of life. I will guard you as time continues, but try to avoid what trouble you can. As you have learned, difficult things in life occur. And the chance to redo events is a rare thing. Make the most of this second chance. I will always be only a prayer away.”
The vision dissolved and Jean was left alone in the empty church.
Stunned, elated, overwhelmed, she wiped her face dry and headed for the keep. When she walked out of the church door, light on her feet with new hope, Alick came around a corner. He had on a sling holding one arm to his chest. It pained him to move it and it needed to stay still while it healed. The stab wound was glancing enough that his mother thought he’d not lose the use of his arm.
“Hello,” he said. “I…I…I noticed you were not at table. I worried about you. The fighting yesterday seemed especially har…hard on you.”
“Aye,” Jean said. “It has been overwhelming.” She smiled at him, thinking it sweet that he’d thought of her.
“Wuh…would I be too bold to think mayhap you worried that I was hurt? Mayhap you feared me dead?”
Jean laughed freely, merrily. Before, such an audacious statement from Alick would have flared her anger at him. But now, it endeared him to her.
“Nay, not too bold. ’Tis true. I worried for your safety. I am glad you are okay. Truly.”
He let out a long breath, like he’d been afraid about her answer.
“Are…are you ready to join the march back here to the chapel? They are gathering in the keep to come over.”
“Then I best go back, shouldn’t I? Janet wouldn’t forgive me if I drew attention away from her by walking in late and holding up her processional. I’m supposed to be a part of her retinue.”
Walking across the bailey toward the keep, they ducked beneath the tents that were billowing gently in the wind, each canopy’s corners secured to tall tent poles solidly sunk into ground and staked in place, once the battle was finished. The tables and benches were arranged in rows leading up to the stage where the musicians would play pipes, flutes, and drum for the dancers. Flower wreaths hung on each of the tent poles with ribbons of different colors draped between each pole. After Janet and her betrothed exchanged vows in the chapel, everyone would pour into the yard and begin celebrating with a feast and dancing until the moon was high.
“Wuh…would you pro…promise to dance with me?” He blushed, turning redder with every word. His freckles popped out darker than ever. Jean was surprised when she realized that she thought he was adorable. Her heart thumped a little harder behind her breastbone.
“Aye. We’ll dance. And we’ll see what kind of ideas our mothers come up with once they see us together.” Jean reached over and took hold of Alick’s hand while they walked. She turned her gaze straight ahead but could see with her side vision that he had turned his freckled face toward her and looked down at her hand holding his. And his face broke into the widest grin she’d ever seen him have.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning author Cheri Gillard has been a freelance writer and editor for twenty-five years, working for several publishing houses and companies writing or editing projects, books, magazines, and curricula. She earned the coveted IndieB.R.A.G Medallion for Chloe’s Guardian, Book One of the Nephilim Redemption series, as well as winning several other awards for her fiction over her writing career. Before writing, she was an obstetric and pediatric registered nurse, but she hung up her nurse’s cap when she gave birth to quadruplets. She is also a violinist, and she blogs about life raising quadruplets and her own c
hildhood growing up with her unique perspectives of the world. She lives with her family in Colorado.