The Digger's Rest

by K. Patrick Malone

  “Here, drink this,” he said, struggling to think what else he could do for Sean.

  Sean took the glass and drank, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” Sean said, having gotten control of himself again for the moment.

  Mitch didn’t know what to do. Sean didn’t fit the lunatic persona, and everyone downstairs treated him with a great deal of respect and sympathy. He got no sense from them that they were simply humoring Sean. Then he heard his little voice, the one that sounded like his mother in the back of his mind, You cannot let him suffer, it said. He thought maybe if he could find something for Sean to do, even if it wasn’t much, it might be enough to help him make peace with what had happened to him.

  Maybe going back to the scene of the crime, as it were, would help if he didn’t go alone. It would mean yet another responsibility for Mitch, responsibility for another man’s sanity, but he caved. “I’ll see what I can do, Sean. We haven’t even started yet. Give me a few days to see exactly what needs to be done. I’m sure there’ll be something for you to do. Just let me figure it all out first,” Mitch said with his hand on the man’s shoulder, looking up in the air, taking a deep breath, and thinking, Fuck, I could really use a drink right now.

  “Thank you, Dr. Bramson,” Sean said gratefully as he stood up.

  “Okay, now why don’t we go downstairs and I’ll buy you a beer this time,” Mitch said, walking him to the door. “We’ll work it out somehow.”

  ***

  A few doors down, Lady Madeline changed into her nightgown and sat at her dressing table to begin her pre-bedtime regimen; make-up removal, wrinkle cream, moisturizer. Looking at her reflection the mirror, she couldn’t help but remember what it was like when men looked at her the way that nice young Australian looked at Sandrine. It made her feel…old, less valued, like a dress from a bygone era long gone out of style.

  She missed Neville terribly. Whenever she was with him, she forgot that she wasn’t young and vital anymore because she knew, in his eyes, she would always be the young and pretty redhead he met at the museum all those long years ago, so it didn’t matter what the rest of the world saw.

  As she sat there, lost in her thoughts, wiping the excess cream from her face, she heard a rustle over by the windows and looked over; noticing the bottoms of the curtains billowing, as if a draft was coming through. But it couldn’t be. She’d closed the windows tight, and the night was still. No matter, she thought and turned back to her unadorned face in the mirror, her hair pulled back and pinned, revealing the slightest outgrowth of new gray hair reminding her that she would need a new coloring soon.

  The curtains rustled again. This time she felt the warm breeze on her ankles and looked over, the curtains were still. When she looked back into the mirror she thought she saw a shadow move somewhere behind her, from over in the corner by the curtains. Her eyes darted to follow it. Nothing.

  She looked back into the mirror and froze. The shadows were standing behind her, three figures, shrouded in robes covering their heads and faces, translucent but somehow solid. Men. She could see the powerful build of their upper bodies rippling through the thin gauzy shrouds, and something that looked like bowed arches behind their shoulders, shrouded; reminding her of a rolling hillside.

  Terrified, she tried to move, to scream, but she couldn’t; she was paralyzed. Only her eyes could move. The central figure and largest of the three leaned in, putting his head next to her ear; his scarred hand poised to whisper in her ear. She looked in his eyes. The irises weren’t solid but white clouds rolling through blue skies. Only the pupils gave any indication of life or intelligence. She heard his voice, whispering in a language she didn’t recognize but the sounds, the sounds told her it was a long dead language not spoken for possibly thousands of years, yet somehow she understood.

  “We have need of thee, daughter of Eve.”

  Lady Madeline then realized that she could move again. She reached down into her sewing bag at the side of the dressing table, never taking her eyes off of the strangers behind her. She knew the feel of her needlepoint hoop the minute she touched it and pulled it out, placing it in front of her on the dressing table. Set with new cloth, she had not yet begun a pattern.

  “Sew,” she heard him say and she reached down again, coming back up with her needle set and thread pouch. He whispered three words in her ear and she began to sew. After the first letter was completed, she asked him with her mind, “What? Why?”

  “Thou wilst know hence, daughter of Eve. When the time is nigh.”

  The central figure stepped back and the other two at his side stepped forward. “Thou hast done well, daughter of Eve, and for thine aid we shall reward thee, both now and hence,” the figure to her mirror-reflected right whispered in her ear as he raised his hand, also scarred, to touch the mirror-reflected right side of her face. At the same time the figure to her left reached over and placed his scarred hand on the other side of her face. They stroked it gently, forehead, eyes, mouth and throat. She closed her eyes at their touch, thinking how loving and soothing it felt.

  When Lady Madeline opened her eyes again she felt oddly refreshed, looking into the mirror, a tissue in her hand damp with the moisturizer. As she looked at her reflection she couldn’t help but remark to herself that she must remember to get more of that brand of cream. The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes were gone, and the little laugh lines around her mouth, the lines of age in her lips, and the pouch under her chin. All gone.

  Feeling oddly relaxed and content, she got up from the dressing table to go to bed. Something fell from her lap and hit the floor. She picked it up. It was her needlepoint hoop with her new project already started, only a few letters in a new style for her, almost like a primary school lesson, “Snvi . .”

  ***

  When they got downstairs, Mitch was immediately reminded of his other charge. There was Simon at the end of the bar with Sandrine. He walked over with Sean. Jed was there waiting for him. “Drinks, Dr. Bramson?”

  “You said it, Jed, old man, and plenty of them; a round for all my friends here, and one for yourself, too. Just make mine a double.” Jed shifted his eyes toward Simon who was practically sliding off of his chair. Mitch picked up on it instantly.

  “So, Simon, how are we tonight?” Mitch asked him with a good ol’ boy slap on the back while he nonchalantly gave Simon’s chair a good shove against the wall for him to lean on. Sandrine giggled loudly. They were both drunk as skunks. Simon looked up at him, his eyes floating in his head.

  Jed leaned over and whispered to Mitch, his eyes serious with concern. “He wanted to know what you drank, so I gave him some. He’s had about four shots. Should I not have done that, sir?” he asked.

  “Nah, it’ll be alight. He’s just a beginner. I’m here now. I’ll take care of him.”

  Simon tried to speak, his lips starting to move, but no words came out, the sound followed later in the “I jus’ want to tell you…” voice he’d had in London. “Boooyyy, aaam aye everrrr gggglad to ssseeee yooouu, sirrrrr,” Simon slurred. Mitch looked back to Jed and comically crossed his eyes.

  “Uh, make mine a triple, and back Sean here up for the night, and put it all on my tab. You have another one for yourself too, on me, for taking such good care of all of my children,” Mitch said and laughed out loud thinking, So much for birth control and not wanting any responsibility as he watched Sandrine about to slide off her chair with a case of the giggles; grabbing her by the arm just in time.

  By the time the night was ready to wind down, Mitch had had share, too. Simon was practically in a stupor, Sean was singing Irish ditties about unrequited love for some “lassie o’ me heart” and Sandrine couldn’t stand up without holding onto the bar for support. They’d all overdone it. The excitement of a new place, visiting the site for the first time, the romance of discovery, or in Sandrine’s case, the romance of romance, all made them feel like they were living outside of themselves. Almost like they
were players in some cosmic Camusian ensemble piece written by God or fate, pre-destiny or karma, with no one knowing how it would play out except its creator. Everyone involved having no choice but to play their parts to the fullest.

  Mitch, having the most experience, took Simon in hand, but he would need help with Sandrine. Being the man he was, there was no way he was going to trust an amorous young man to help make sure Sandrine got to her room unmolested. A good guy like Jed, was still, after all was said and done, a man, so he did the next thing that came to his mind. He asked Jed to call Fi to see if she could help take Sandrine back.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but tonight is Fi’s night off.” Then his eyes got the look of a man with an idea. He called out in the direction of the kitchen, “Ivy!”

  Ivy Farthing came out of the kitchen, her eyes flying into anger as she witnessed the bacchanal that had become the bar at her pub. When she saw Mitch they turned hot, like glowing blue-gray embers, white hot. She walked up to Jed. “What is going on here?” she asked through her teeth.

  Jed smiled sheepishly, knowing his cousin well enough to know that if he gave the wrong answer, she might take it into her mind to grab her peacemaker club from under the bar and give him a good one for letting it happen. “Dr. Bramson was just wondering if you might help take Miss Boucher to her room. They’ve all had a few drinks,” he said, backing away from her slowly.

  She turned her ire towards Mitch, but didn’t say anything. She just stomped around the bar and took Sandrine solicitously by the arm like she’d been a woman wronged and started walking her towards the back of the inn. Mitch followed, practically holding Simon up from around his waist, bidding good night to Sean and drunkenly reiterating his promise to him from earlier in the evening. “We’ll work something out,” he called back as he half dragged Simon toward the back of the inn.

  By the time they’d gotten to the cottage, Ivy Farthing had disappeared, apparently depositing Sandrine safely in her room. Mitch took Simon to his and let him fall slowly down on the bed then sat down beside him. He looked over at the sleeping boy, passed out. Out of the back of his mind, Simon’s London “I jus’ wan’ to tell yooouuu…” speech rushed back to him. Suddenly awash with emotion, he touched the boy’s head gently and whispered, “I will always take care of you, Simon,” then got up and went to the door leaving the sleeping boy with a somewhat slurred, “Good night, sweet prince,” before closing the door and finding himself back out in the hall.

  When he turned, she was waiting for him; her eyes glaring at him like cobalt coals stoked with fury, her hands on her hips in a stance that told him that she was ready for a fight.

  “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” she said to him, the decibel level of her voice rising with each word. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. “What kind of a man are you? A grown man encouraging those…children to act that way? You come here, flashing your money around, tempting my brothers into abandoning their responsibilities here to go off with you on some lark of yours. I want you to remember something, Doctor Bramson. Once you’ve gone and taken your American money with you along with whatever it is you came here to steal, they’ll be left behind, damaged in the wake of your selfishness, so let me make something perfectly clear to you. I may have to be civil to you for my brothers’ sake and for the sake of the business because it’s their life and they love it, but don’t you think that I can’t see through you. You’re a selfish spoiler, you and all your kind. I don’t like your being here. I don’t like the way you encourage others to behave like you do in my establishment, and quite frankly, Dr. Bramson, I don’t like you,” she spewed, shouting her last comment.

  Blown away by the sheer force her tirade, like a scalding desert wind, a sirocco, not to mention the substance of what she was saying, Mitch backed up until he was flat against the wall, raising his hands up in mock surrender until she’d stomped off down the hall, waiting until he heard the door slam behind her to make sure she was gone before he went the few steps back to his own room.

  Fuck she’s beautiful, he thought. And more beautiful the angrier she gets, as he sat on the bed fumbling to get his boots off. A fucking knock out of a fire breathing, red headed dragon with a temper straight from hell. Just what I needed. Just shoot me now! he slurred to himself as he fell over on the bed, pulling the quilt around him; the bed spinning beneath him in the darkness.

  ***

  After she left the cottage that night, Ivy Farthing ran to her room, slammed the door behind her, threw herself on her bed and cried. She hadn’t always hated men, or she didn’t think so…and not all men.

  Since she was about thirteen, Ivy had always known that she was different from other girls her age. She didn’t dream of any Prince Charming coming and sweeping her off her feet as she swooned in his arms. She’d been raised with two brothers, and felt like one of them, only deep down, she knew she wasn’t and it made her angry.

  Even before that she’d resented the different way her father loved her brothers from the way he loved her. Oh, she knew it wasn’t his fault, she was always Daddy’s little girl and he’d always treated her special, but she never wanted that. She wanted him to love her the same way he loved the boys.

  She also knew she wasn’t a lesbian. She enjoyed sex with men way too much to even consider that. It was just that the boys she chose to date and become involved with were always the ones who let her feel that she was in control, and it was that power over them, and their relationships, that gave her the next best feeling to being one of them.

  When she held all the cards she felt satisfied and complete. Even when she was in bed with them, she always felt more comfortable, more equal, and even more…powerful when she was on top. Then when she got the feeling that they were “letting” her have her way, rather than her taking it as her original right, she dumped them, flat, and moved on. It’s what drove her. It’s what made her feel like a woman; not some mealy mouthed, simpering, prissy sort of woman, but a woman who was their match, and then some.

  More often than not, in the end, she felt that she intimidated them, scared them even. But that wasn’t her problem. They could either give her what she needed or be on their bikes. But now at thirty-two years old, she had to admit to herself that, because she was who she was and lived in the world that she did, she’d never be happy like other women, and that made her beyond angry; it made her…unlivable, bitter, and increasingly more bitter since she’d come back to Devon from London.

  London had been her last hope. London was a cosmopolitan city of modern people, or so she thought. Cosmopolitan, yes, but also full of men bent on their own satisfaction, and much to her disgust, filled with rich American men, drunk with a sense of their own global power trying to make her their plaything. But they had the wrong girl, and after seven years of having to fend them off, she had come back home, defeated and resigned to her fate as one of those old village spinster women who kept everything in their homes ‘just so.’

  Mitchell Bramson was everything she despised in men— rich and successful, confident and influential in his circles and worst of all, he had to be so bloody…gorgeous. With his long, dark brown hair, big gold earrings and those odd catlike eyes, just the hint of artful tattoos peeking out from under his rolled up shirt sleeves, it reached out and grabbed her—and she had hated him on the spot. He was fearless in his approach to life, commanding everything in his wake because he was so fearless, bold and…in control.

  She couldn’t stand the way he sauntered into a room like he owned it; the way everyone around him seemed drawn to him and fawned over him like he was some sort of Greek god recently sent down from Mount Olympus. She knew his type the minute she saw him from behind the kitchen door when he checked in, and it made her blood…boil.

  She told Malcolm that night that she didn’t want anything to do with him, but they needed the money, his stinking American money, for the inn. That made her even angrier, and since there was nothing she could do about it, it made her
feel the thing she’d most dreaded all her life: powerless. Then when she realized that he’d made her lose her cool, it made her feel even more powerless, and she cried all the harder, kicking her feet against the mattress like a spoiled child. Bastard, bastard, BASTARD!

  ***

  He heard horses’ hooves and a minstrel playing a lute in the background, singing a lilting, mournful tune about love denied. Sean? He smelled the horses and the dust that rose from under their feet as he slowly approached the castle. It’d been a long journey and he was weary. The only thing that seemed to make it worthwhile was seeing the castle when he opened his eyes, knowing that his soon-to-be bride would be waiting for him there; wondering what she would be like.

  He knew he had no choice. If he didn’t agree to the marriage, he would lose everything, his home, his title, his lands and his father’s respect. Is it not a son’s duty to honor his father’s wishes?

  William had promised his father that she would be beautiful and of good birth, a high-born princess of Brittany, a second daughter named Alais, so he agreed and was brought back to consummate the marriage.

  He breathed a deep sigh of relief as he looked up to see his family’s banners flying from the towers; the gate opening up to him and his men. When he looked down again, he could see he was wearing half armors. He looked up again and saw his page, Peter, running toward him, distraught; calling out, “My Lord! My Lord!”

  “What has happened, Peter? Is my father ill? Mother?” he asked the breathless boy. The boy took a moment to catch his breath, hanging on his horse for support from what must have been a long run.

  “There has been a disaster, my Lord,” the boy cried, then remembered himself and stepped back to bow to his master. He got down off his horse and took the boy firmly by the arms.

  “What kind of disaster, boy?”

  “A ship wreck, my Lord,” Peter said, having sufficiently regained his breath, still keeping his eyes cast downward. “The ship that was to bring thy Lady from France was wrecked off the coast of Cornwall.”