Heartbeat of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  When she stepped outside to toss the dirty water, Henry and George joined her. They stood in awkward silence.

  “Wait,” she said. “I will get your cloak.” She ran into the cottage and soon returned. She handed it to him. “I cannot express how grateful I am for your assistance today.”

  He opened his mouth, closed it.

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if perhaps you might be agreeable to…”

  She waited, watched his mouth, found herself closing the distance between them. Stopped. How could she be feeling this magnet pull toward him, a stranger, and a…oh God. A night soil man. He had rescued Elunid, had rescued her as well. But the man handled shite. And even if the thought didn’t make her shudder, there was no room in life for her own happiness.

  She backed away from him. “Again, I thank you.”

  He inclined his head. “Anytime I can be of service, Mistress Bethan.” His eyes held a knowing look, as if he read her thoughts. “Please take a care for yourself.”

  “Thank you for your kindness, George.”

  “Anytime I can be of service.”

  The lad’s perfect imitation of his father was so apt, she had to bite her lip not to smile. “It is good to know,” she said gravely.

  “Come, my boy. Let us go to the Siren Inn and see about dinner. I’m sure Lena and Josef could use a hand.”

  She stood and watched them walk away, waited until she couldn’t see them. What was he going to ask her? A walk, perhaps? Tea? It was implausible, for she had duties to attend to, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. She straightened the skirts of her dress, smoothed her hair, and went inside to see to her sister.

  Chapter Nineteen

  At dusk, Ian escorted Maggie to the Siren Inn. There was nothing more they could do until the light of day. Most of the town was gathered there, commiserating and grieving the loss of life and property.

  Ian sat Maggie down and fetched her some ale.

  “Will you not sit here with me and have a bite, Ian?”

  His Maggie did not understand the impossibility of sitting still when the inn was so alive with stories of the storm and destruction, their adventures, and their survival. The experience of shared grief had brought the town together like nothing else did, and it did much to comfort him.

  Once again, Henry and George kept themselves busy, delivering food and clearing off tables in Josef’s stead. Ian had just checked on the innkeeper. The fever seemed to be lessening, and he rested well, but was in no way well enough to work. Ian joined Lena in the kitchen.

  She shot him a thankful glance. “My Josef is feeling better, ya?”

  “Yes, his fever seems to have abated. Best not speak too soon.”

  “Gott sei Dank.” She lifted a pot of oyster stew out of the hearth.

  “Here, Lena. Let me be of use.”

  She should not be lifting such heavy things in her condition, particularly when she had lost a child. But she was stubborn, like his Maggie.

  He returned to the taproom with the soup to find Pete Stowe had come in with a few friends. Who knew why he returned here when his reception was less than cordial? Perhaps he hoped he would one day get a rise out of Josef and Ian. The former constable had been taking a gulp of ale, and upon seeing Ian, slammed his mug on the table, splashing his tablemate, and earning a cuff on the ears. He scowled and picked it up again.

  “Hey, Pierce. Where’s our innkeeper? Good of him to be lolling about when his poor wife is slaving away.”

  Ian stopped. “Where were you today? I didn’t see you, working.”

  Stowe held his bad hand in the air. Yellow matter seeped out of the bloody bandage. “I am unable. I have an injury obtained while in the service of this town.”

  “Service to the town?” Captain Jacobs yelled. “In service to your own needs, maybe.”

  The room as a whole laughed, particularly old Harold, who’d had a wooden leg since ’29, and tirelessly cleared debris all day. “Would your mum not let you off her teat, lad?”

  The room exploded with laughter.

  Stowe pushed off the table with both hands, forgetting his injury. The color faded from his face.

  Ian rushed to sit him back down and lowered his voice. “Come see me tomorrow and get your hand taken care of.”

  “The day I see a lunatic for doctoring is the day I’m desperate indeed.”

  Ian shook his head. “You look desperate enough.” The dolt would lose his hand if he didn’t get it attended to. His mother’s ineffective nursing would not do the trick.

  “Ian,” Maggie called. “The stew is getting cold.”

  “Listen to your wife, man! I’m starving,” Ed the butcher said.

  “Sorry.” He then made a show of passing the stew around, serving Maggie first, and stopping to kiss her soundly.

  She rewarded him by displaying a lovely pink blush, which made him think of the flush on her bare skin when he’d driven her to pleasure and beyond. He soon returned with hot bread. Despite the din of the room and the commotion, his beloved had fallen asleep with her head upon the table.

  He roused Maggie. “I will walk you home, love.”

  She nodded. “It is late. But you need not accompany me.”

  “Save your breath, sweeting. The fog is thick and treacherous.” He took her arm.

  ****

  “You act as if I have never walked in the dark or the fog alone,” she muttered. But truth be told, it had not taken her long to get used to the sensitivity of his fingers again, as if he knew exactly how hard or soft to please her most, with the mere touch of his hand, any hour of the day.

  “I will do it just the same,” His tone brooked no argument. “Give me your basket.”

  She had to admit Ian was right. As she stepped out the door, she felt encased in cotton.

  “Be careful, love.” The warmth of his hand through her cloak made her feel secure, warming her heart as well.

  As they set out toward the cottage, she could barely see. He took her arm as they walked downhill and guided her over the uneven and slippery cobbles. The sounds of people going about their nightly rituals echoed in the air. Muffled sounds rose from the shipyard, the pounding of hammers and the clang of a ship’s bell accompanied Ian’s humming.

  Suddenly, something panted and snarled behind her, blew its fetid breath and a reek of blood and death upon her neck. With inhuman strength, the panting creature knocked her to the cobbles, wrenching her away from Ian’s hold.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Maggie!” Ian picked her off the ground and held her in his arms. “Are you hurt?”

  Her heart pounded in her throat. She gasped for breath. “No, I just got the wind knocked from me.”

  In truth, a white hot pain shot through her shoulder, the same one injured by Edward Carter. For a moment her vision grew black around the edges, and she forced herself to breathe deeply. It hurt when she inhaled, but otherwise the pain was manageable. And what was the man doing, carrying her?

  “Put me down.”

  He ignored her. “No, my lady. You are obviously injured.”

  “Stubborn man.”

  “When it comes to your welfare, yes. Your face is wet.” He wiped it with a handkerchief. “I am sorry, Maggie. I was taken unawares.”

  “It was not your fault.” Why did the man take everything on himself? “What manner of thing was it? I don’t know if it was man or beast.” She still had trouble catching her breath.

  “Just be still, love.” He held his hand on her heart. “Your heart is beating like a gong.”

  “A gong?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You can put me down now,” she said as they entered a narrow close.

  “No.”

  She shuddered.

  “What is it?”

  “It was heavy, and stank of death.” She trembled, chills racing down her back.

  “Shhh,” he crooned. “It was probably just a stray dog, confused by the fog.”


  “It did not feel like a dog.” It was something else, something more sinister. But what?

  A short while later, Ian examined Maggie’s shoulder. “Look at the swelling.” His labored breathing raised the fine hairs on her back.

  “All I need is a good night’s sleep. And there’s no need to get upset, Ian.”

  “I know. But I do not like to see you in pain.” He had taken off her bodice and untied her shift so it fell over the swell of her breasts. He laid a warm compress on her injured shoulder.

  “Ah! It feels wonderful.”

  “I have some lady’s mantle already infusing for the bruises and something to help you sleep.”

  He put the cup into her hands. “Drink this. I’m sure your shoulder isn’t broken or displaced, but I assure you it is going to hurt for a few days.”

  “Ian, whatever knocked me down did not seem like a dog. What if it was a supernatural creature? It would not be the first time we witnessed the supernatural, would it?”

  Suddenly the cool mist of the fog surrounded her, acrid fear invaded her senses. She began to shake.

  “Maggie.” His voice echoed from a long distance. Arms wrapped around her.

  “You have suffered a shock and are now only feeling it. It is over, love. You are safe.”

  A glass against her lips. “Take a sip. Brandy.”

  Her eyes teared as the brandy licked flames down her throat, making her eyes burn, but her shivering slowed.

  He helped her upstairs. “Look at me, Maggie. It is over.” He slowly removed her skirt, her stockings, and skimmed his fingers over her body by the light of the candle.

  “Do you hurt anywhere else?” His breath rustled like a zephyr on her neck as he removed her shift. He took down her hair and brushed it, the rhythmic, steady strokes calming her.

  He carried her to bed and tucked her in. “I will return soon. I must go to Lena’s to see how they fare. I won’t be late.”

  She drifted off, for one brief moment wondering why he did not make love with her, when he clearly had a need.

  ****

  Ian made his way to the Siren Inn. His aching cockstand would plague him until the punishment fit the crime. He did not deserve the reward of her passion, for he had not protected her from injury.

  He should have been vigilant when walking her home this evening. Instead he had probably been listening to a tune in his head, stacking harmonies like wooden blocks. He had let the beast knock her down; she could have hit her head, broken her neck, and it would have been his fault. So for tonight, he would suffer his cockstand as penance. He turned his burning face into the cold gust of wind from the Channel.

  He was alone, his footfalls on stone, the wind whistling through cracks in old cottages, waves against the cliffs. He inhaled the kelp and salt tang, and let the sea wind entice him away to a time when loving one woman was as inconceivable as the face of God.

  He had crossed the sea to be free from the prickling of his skin, the buzzing of his blood, the songs pounding like hammers in his head. He could not escape, for every inch of skin sang with the touch of the morning air upon his face, made him cry with joy and pain. No matter how far he’d sailed he could not escape his affliction. The docks on the edge of the earth offered women soft and bountiful, and he had thought mayhap the cascade of pleasure and pumping of his seed would drain the poison from him.

  So he became a celebrant of all women, worshipped their bodies and begged for their blessings. He lauded their soft flesh with hand and cock and the hard weight of his body, learned countless ways to pleasure them. Make it last, young Ian. Make it last, for the longer you do, the longer you might stave off the crash of cymbals in your head. But a song soured, the raging waves screamed at him, and he ran aground.

  Ian turned from the sea. All he wanted now was the warm embrace of his Maggie, though he did not deserve it.

  When he arrived at the inn, it seemed most of the respectable folks had gone to their beds, and those still there were well into their cups, especially Pete Stowe. He slumped at the table, head in his hands. A group of fishermen joined him, jostling him about.

  “Take a care. I’m wounded.”

  They ignored him.

  One of them said, “We’ve had a mild winter, we have. The storm came out of nowhere. I’ve never seen such a thing before.”

  “It’s yon innkeeper,” Stowe said. “He brought evil back into this town with his talk of the undead.”

  “Hold on.” Ian would make sure everyone heard him. “How dare you malign your host, making such accusations?”

  He had their attention now, but it did no good. Everyone knew fishermen were the most superstitious beings on earth.

  “I heard from Josef’s own lips the boy emerged from the dead.” One of the fishermen raised his mug to get Sabine’s attention.

  The good folk of King’s Harbour stirred themselves up like sea foam.

  From across the room, a man yelled, “Never seen anything like the way the storm came up. Like Satan stirred the sea with his own hands. I survived it, I should know.”

  The room fell silent. Ian guessed they spent a moment visualizing the devil stirring the ocean, forked tail bristling with evil. Wasn’t hard to imagine.

  The man’s companion said, “One minute it was mild, and we headed home with no more on our minds than the warm, open thighs of our wives. The next minute we held on like Beelzebub himself chased us.”

  “I did not think I would make it here alive. Lost all me nets, I did. Would have set me up pretty. The trip was cursed, and it’s Josef’s fault.”

  Henry joined Ian, his countenance stocky and forbidding. “Go ye home, and sleep off your foolishness.”

  The weathered fisherman scowled. “See here, we have a right to finish our drink in peace without getting run out of here. We did a good day’s work, we did.”

  “Aye, aye!”

  “Henry, there will be no convincing these men tonight,” Ian whispered. “They are too drunk, and when superstition gets ahold of men, it taints their blood like poison.”

  Henry nodded. “I’d best put on some fish. Perhaps more food will settle them down.”

  Ian breathed deeply, expelling the miasma of fear from his lungs. He must do something, but what? Perhaps if he distracted them. They were brave men, men of the sea. The melody already swam in his veins; he had but to dream up the words.

  He cleared his throat. “I have a song for you tonight, gents.”

  “Aye, let’s hear it,” they cheered.

  Ian began:

  “I know some lusty seamen, they drink with me tonight.

  They are the bravest of their kind-aye- morning, noon, and night.

  Their muscles, they are fearsome, their cocks-well-even more.”

  Cheers of “hear, hear” filled the room. Ian took a swallow of ale.

  “They fight while breakers rock their boat

  While horny as a billy goat,

  And when they dock,

  Beware the cock, ye lasses!

  They turn from open seas and they head for open thighs,

  Warm and ready, open thighs, white, delightsome is their prize

  To all you heroes, this applies.

  Warm and willing, open thighs.”

  “Aye, aye.” A burly seaman stood up, mug raised. “To willing women!”

  “Aye, aye!”

  “Those warm thighs await you,” Ian called.

  It was nigh on closing time, thank God. He must return to the cottage to see how Maggie fared. Hopefully, she still slept as he’d left her. The crowd dispersed with haste, one thing on their mind, Ian guessed. Sometimes a few well-placed lines never went amiss, and recalled what was important. The last line elicited a chorus of parting comments:

  “It has been too long. She is waiting for me, to be sure.”

  “Not what I heard.”

  Laughs all round.

  “Shut yer gob, bastard.”

  “What about me? Are there women to be had in this
town?”

  “Of course, young dolt.”

  Finally, the last customer left the building.

  “Well played.” Henry grinned and slapped him on the back. “How do you come up with those tunes, lad?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea.” Or the slightest idea how to stop them.

  Ian and Henry wasted no time helping Lena and Sabine clean up.

  “Lena, I will check on Josef in the morning.”

  “You are good friends,” she said. “Thank you for your help tonight.”

  Ian closed the door and lifted his face to the heavy fog. Perhaps the fresh air would tamp down the malice and confusion imbedded in his skin like splinters. People could so soon forget the goodness of their fellow kind. His well-placed song served as a distraction, but superstition and fear trailed his town like a beast of prey.

  His footsteps echoed as he made his way to the cottage. The rhythm brought to mind a song learned long ago, a steady beat sinking into his skin, pounding through his veins, a rhythm from hell, pounding through the dirt floor, rattling the chains, a pulse of cold setting his joints to aching.

  Poor soul down the corridor, clanging his irons together, chanting, more moan than song, moan song, beyond anguish, as if to say, I am still here, I am human-almost. I breathe, I have a soul. He longed to call out his soul. But his mouth would not open, his muscles gripped in rictus. The cold, heavy boots echoed toward him, and he slid into the corner, where the shallow breathing of his companion gave him some small measure of comfort.

  Ian stood, the fog swirling around him, and breathed deeply to expel the memories of Bedlam. He let the moisture of the fog bathe his face. When he felt calmer, he headed for the cottage.

  But he could not expel the malice of the men in the inn. If he could but climb into the warmth of their marriage bed and nestle into Maggie’s warm thighs, and give himself up to sleep. But he would only awaken her with his restlessness and spread his poison to her.

  Ian poured a glass of brandy. He would better occupy himself with trying to identify the strange disease Nikolaus died from, and Josef now suffered from, he suspected. But he could only think of Maggie, who glowed like the moon when she rose above him in passion. The words for her song surged within him. “You are the moon rising above me, love me.”