Heartbeat of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ian stepped out into the fog and adjusted his breeches. He should leave now, before he frightened her. No matter how often he made love to her, he wanted more. But this was different, and only served to confirm his worst fears.

  And there was naught he could do about it. When he and Henry buried poor Josef, he had been both alarmed and impressed by his friend’s persistent cockstand. So when Ian awoke with the same condition, he could deny it no longer. It was more than his affliction. It was a symptom of the same thing that had killed Josef and his nephew.

  No matter how much he wanted to, he could no longer deny the symptoms: the hypersensitivity to sound, taste, smell. An endless erection. The fear of water. He should leave her now, before his Maggie had to witness the agony of his death.

  He covered his face against the fog. It prickled on his skin like needles, and the sound of the surf hurt his ears to bursting. A high-pitched hum threatened to split his head open. He walked without direction, seeking silence.

  Where was he? Had he climbed up the hill past the church to the other side, and toward the Landgate? Doors slammed, voices clashed inside the cottage, a woman’s voice raised in anger, a man’s voice raised in defiance, a slurry of sounds and the flash of a lantern. His throat ached with thirst, and perhaps if he visited a quiet alehouse, the one on the edge of town?

  Yes, the Landgate, and the Landgate alehouse right beside it. He entered, and squinted against the fire’s glow. It burned into his skin. Perhaps the other customers would assume he was merely mad, as usual. He was mad, for certain. Mad dog, madman.

  Good. The townspeople seemed to accept him, as long as he didn’t provoke anyone. He had never killed a man but the rush of heat and desire to hear the smack of flesh on flesh rose from deep within, and he tamped it down with every bit of strength he possessed.

  Greetings all round. He tried to respond but found his mouth too dry. He could only mumble, “A pint, please.”

  The alewife gave him a funny look. “Not feeling quite the thing, are you?”

  When she placed the mug upon the table, he flinched at the sound.

  “Looks like Pierce is having one of his fits.”

  They waved to him, smiling for pity’s sake. They should not pity him, for he could plaster the wall with their guts had he the desire. And oh, he did desire. He brought the cup to his lips but could not drink it. He set it away from him, for the thought of drinking made his throat constrict.

  Some men came over, ready for a song.

  He must leave or he would hurt them. The wound on his hand tingled, and his fists did too. He would dearly love to slam his fist into the pity on their face.

  “Sing us a song, Pierce.”

  “No, not just now.” His words sounded garbled to his ears.

  “Aw, come on.”

  He tried to swallow so he might respond. They could not know how close they were to having their faces pummeled. He turned away as their voices engulfed him, flying into his ears like spears, ears like spears. He smiled, but no melody came. He gasped and stumbled out the door.

  The fog had cleared, but it was colder now, and he shivered. Tried to swallow, knew he must get home to Maggie, his light, and mayhap she could save him. He passed by Reginald. Friend of his? He couldn’t remember. And that slip of a girl, did he not swive her once? He tried to keep his distance; they hailed him and he kept walking. Footsteps, then Reginald approached him, put his flaming fingers on his shoulder.

  He turned and grabbed his chin. “Don’t touch me. Let me on my way.”

  The baby girl voice—not a woman, a girl and it made his ears itch. “Looks like my man needs an experienced woman to tame him. I’ll have a go at it again.”

  Saw Reginald rub his chin. “No, I think it’s best we leave him to his wife, Charlie.”

  “You know I hate it when you call me Charlie.”

  Her whine split his ears open. He growled and rushed past them.

  “My God, Pierce! What ails you, man?”

  “Maggie, I need Maggie.”

  The cottage was blessedly quiet, the only sound her breathing in sleep, but it filled the room with peace. For a moment he stilled himself enough to undress and climb into bed with her. He must get himself away, but let him have this one last night with her.

  ****

  She awoke with a start when his cold arms wrapped around her. She turned without thinking to embrace him. “You’re cold as sea water,” she said.

  “Help me, Maggie.”

  He kissed her, so hard it bruised her lips.

  “Ian…you must…”

  “Love me.” He mounted her.

  Hearing his desperation, she opened her legs and let him enter.

  She fell asleep after, and he must have too, because he lay too still, his breathing shallow.

  The moon cast a luminous light in the bedroom. She ran her eyes over the length of his body, on its side, turned away from her, and the long length of his muscular legs, the bulge of his upper arm, his legs bent and feet together.

  She put a hand on his shoulder in tenderness. He sat up, turned a skeletal face to her, eyes empty in their sockets, teeth bared.

  “Ian!”

  Not Ian. A monster.

  He writhed away from her, crouched on the floor. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Help me, Maggie!”

  Her vision blurred. She fought against her fear. He was doomed, like Josef.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  He could not swallow. Saliva frothed at his mouth, and she wiped it away. What must she do? He gasped for air, his eyes splintered like broken glass. Somehow she had gotten him back on the bed. It shook with his spasms. She heard the wagon wheels of Henry and ran down the stairs and outside.

  “Henry, Ian is ill. Say nothing to anyone. But please help me.”

  He nodded.

  “We need to tie him up. It’s all I know to do, so he will not hurt himself—or us.”

  He turned to George. “Come, lad. We must help a friend.” He grabbed rope out of the wagon, and they hastened up to the bedroom.

  Ian stood on all fours, gnawed the leg of the table. No. An animal. Not her Ian. “Oh God, why is he doing that?”

  “The dogs and Josef did the same,” Henry said.

  Ian turned to him. Blood ran down the corners of his mouth as he spit out the wood. He smiled, teeth bloody. “Old friend, I fear you catch me at a disadvantage.”

  “Father, what is wrong with Master Ian?” George shrank against the wall.

  “Son, Ian is very ill. We must help him, you understand? It’s like securing our horse during a thunderstorm, because he is afraid.”

  He nodded.

  “It is just so with our friend, for he is ill and can’t control himself just now.”

  “Ian,” Maggie said. “We’ll help you to bed.”

  “No, no. I can’t lie still.”

  “You must, or you will hurt yourself.”

  “I don’t care. Just let me die. I will anyway.”

  He struggled as George and Henry used all of their strength to tie him.

  “Ian. Please, let them help you.”

  “How can they help me?” The muscle spasms contorted his face into a macabre grin.

  “If you are tied, you will not hurt yourself.”

  “I am going to die,” he said. “Go away from me, Maggie.”

  A convulsion tore through him, then stilled. “I am thirsty. So thirsty.”

  She held water to his mouth, but it brought the spasms on again, turning him into something unrecognizable.

  She looked helplessly at Henry. “It’s hydrophobia, like Josef. Perhaps there’s a way to treat this. I must try to read the Galen book, somehow, but it is in Greek. Maybe there are pictures. But I need someone I trust to take my place here.”

  “George,” Henry said. “Go to Mistress Sarah’s house and bring Samuel. Say nothing to anyone you meet.”

  Samuel was the strongest person they knew and could
likely control Ian if he tried to get out of his ropes.

  Samuel arrived soon. His face was passive as he looked at Ian, but she saw the muscles of his square jaw clench and tighten.

  “What must I do?”

  “Try to keep him quiet. Use force if you must.” I’m sorry, my love.

  Her heart raced as she went behind the counter. How long did Ian have before he was beyond help, and she would have to watch him die? No. She would not lose him.

  Her hands shook as she opened the book. How did she think she could make sense of these foreign words? A guttural scream from upstairs filled the shoppe, the legs of the bed jolted against the floor. She could not hear what Samuel said, only his deep soothing voice in response to Ian’s struggle.

  Ian screamed again. “I have always wanted to kill you.”

  The sound of a hand smacking flesh, then silence.

  “Samuel!”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I had to.”

  She began to pray, to open herself up to the will of God. But what if His will was not hers? Ian could not die. She grasped the stone, rubbed its hard, smooth surface.

  Please, Holy Sister. Help this man, this good man. For he sings to me, to my heart, my soul. He opens me up to the newness of life. I cannot lose him. Please, I will do anything to save him. Use me.

  She gave herself up to the Holy Woman.

  The stone warmed in her hand, and heat rushed up her arm, her limbs, her body, roaring with the power of the sea. It washed her soul away from her body, and a new soul with a voice like thunder echoed within her.

  The new hands overtook hers, found the mortar and pestle. “For this malady there is no cure, but I will save him. For the love between you has a higher purpose, and the kind man’s music gives life to the dead.”

  The Holy Sister searched the jars and drawers, mixed the herbs together, ground them to a fine powder. “We must put Kind Ian to sleep. He must sleep deeply, and we will trust his body to rest and heal itself. Listen midwife: we must bring him close to death to heal him. He must take all of this and keep it down, or it will not work. Then, he will sleep as if dead for days.”

  Before the spirit left, she laid her hands upon Maggie’s head in blessing.

  “All will be well. All shall be well. And all manner of things shall be well.”

  Maggie stirred the mixture into a small portion of ale, and climbed the stairs, limbs shaking.

  Ian lay quietly, his eyes childlike. “Mother,” he said in a voice not his own. “Why do I feel so poorly? May I have some pudding? For I cannot seem to count to ten, and I think pudding will help.” He smiled winningly.

  At first she was relieved, for it was so like him to say something stupid to make her laugh, but then his eyes rolled up into his head and he convulsed.

  She told Samuel and Henry what they must do. They took positions on each side of the bed. When Ian’s convulsions stopped, they sat him up. He was limp, but his eyes raced around.

  “Ian. You must drink this.”

  He looked at her again, with limpid eyes and utter trust.

  “Is it my pudding, Mother?”

  “Yes. Here’s your pudding, lovey.”

  “Oh good.”

  When he took the first swallow, he spit it out and grasped his throat. “No.” He shook his head. “You lied. Not pudding.”

  “You must drink it, Ian. It will help you feel better.”

  “I will not,” he roared, the childlike voice gone.

  With a strength she did not know she had, she grabbed his jaw. With each mouthful, she held his mouth closed and tipped his head back. “Swallow it.”

  He gagged, and she held it closed, praying when he choked, until the last of the mixture was gone.

  “What do we do?” Samuel asked.

  She kissed Ian’s damp forehead. “Now we wait.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him.

  “I love you, Mother,” he whispered.

  “I am sorry.” She held his hand and sat vigil.

  Henry discussed the need for secrecy with Samuel. He would return later, after the rounds were finished. Samuel barred the door.

  She knew when the medicine had taken effect, for Ian took a deep breath and slowly let it out. His breathing became so slow at times she thought he had stopped breathing. He was still as a corpse.

  The night and then the day passed, as she sat vigil. His hands lay lifeless in hers, but she rubbed lotion on them, into the rough pads of his fingers, put ointment on his dry lips.

  The second day passed. What if she had given him too much of the remedy? What if he never awakened, or it did not work when he did? No. She must trust in the Holy Sister’s words.

  She did the only thing she could: moistened his cracked lips with a wet cloth, kept him warm, gave him droplets of water and broth to strengthen him, and waited.

  The sun made its way across the room again and again, and dusk settled on the third day. She must resign herself; she might never see his face alight with joy again.

  “Maggie,” Sarah said. “You must eat something.” She handed her a bowl of soup.

  “I cannot.”

  “You must keep your strength up. Do it for the babe. Ian could awaken any time.”

  “Yes.”

  “It will not do anyone good for you to become ill. He will need to be taken care of.”

  “What if he does not awaken, Sarah?”

  “Eat. Do not think beyond this moment, and the bowl of soup in your hands.”

  “I was alone, and now he is my life.”

  “I know, sister.”

  They sat together and watched him. Sarah told her about Mrs. Stowe and her son Pete’s arrest and their imprisonment. Pete had confessed to helping his mother move the body, distribute the pamphlets, and mutilate the dog. But it was cold comfort.

  Days passed, and Ian lay, wasting away, but breathing, as she tried to sustain him with sheer will.

  One morning, she had fallen asleep on the bed beside him. Something woke her up, the absence of his steady breathing, light and shallow. He had stopped breathing.

  She kneeled on the bed, shaking him. “No, Ian. You cannot go.” She beat her hands upon his chest. It cannot be true. When he didn’t respond, she laid her head upon his still chest and gave herself up to her sorrow. Then suddenly:

  “I find it hard to breathe when you are sitting on my chest. Do you mind?”

  She jerked up. His eyes were open, clear, and alive.

  “Maggie.”

  She could not stop but cried in great gulps, held his face in her hands, until he cleared his throat.

  “My face is quite wet, and I find I cannot move my hands to wipe your tears.”

  “You cannot move your arms?”

  “No. Nor my feet, actually. Why can I not move?”

  With a sinking heart, she told him the story of his confinement and treatment. “I did not know this would happen. I’m sorry.”

  “Maggie, do you mean the holy nun helped cure me of the disease?” His voice rasped from lack of use. “How extraordinary.”

  “Yes, and I think there is power in the stone I found in the cave.” She smiled, but inside, her stomach seethed with worry. What if he never walked again?

  No, she would not predict the future. He was alive, and it was enough for now.

  Just then, Samuel let himself in.

  “Samuel!” She yelled.

  He ran up the stairs and relief flooded his face. “Ian, you are awake.”

  “I am awake, but it seems I cannot move.”

  “I will pull you up in bed. Mayhap you are just weak from lack of food.”

  But Maggie knew. “Ian, the dose I gave you was strong. It was your only chance to live. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I do not blame you, Maggie.”

  Samuel smiled. “So you think you will live a life of leisure here, with your wife feeding you every day?”

  Ian smiled, then stopped short. “Maggie, how long have I been…insensibl
e?”

  “A week.”

  “But I am well, other than the moving thing. Thank you.”

  Before long, she was feeding him as often as he would allow. In a few days, he looked immensely better. His face had color in it, and he did not seem so weak. Every few hours, she would take his arm and stretch it, hold his elbow in one palm, take his hand, and extend his forearm, slowly.

  “It’s good,” she said, “to remind your muscles they are supposed to move.”

  “My clever Maggie.” He grinned. “But you are wearing yourself out on my behalf.”

  “No. I am happy to minister to you.” She clasped his hands in hers. “Ian, you’re alive, and not raving, or mad.”

  “Well, just a little mad.” A shadow crossed his face. “What will happen when my affliction hits me, and I cannot move or play an instrument?”

  “Mayhap your affliction is gone,” she said, praying it was true.

  “I like the way you think, Maggie. If only.”

  “Let’s not think about it just yet. We must exercise your other hand.” She started with his fingers, uncurling one at a time. When she stretched them all as one, she felt the pull of resistance as his muscles answered back.

  “Ian.”

  “I meant to do that.”

  “Do it again.” She held her hand in his. He squeezed it.

  She embraced him. “My love, you are getting your strength back. You will recover.”

  “With the help of your healing hands. But Maggie, you saved my life, and if I never walk again, it is enough to be alive, to love you.”

  “But what if you never play your music again?”

  “I will be happy as long as my voice can sing your song.”

  ****

  Indeed, it took two fortnights, but by then, Ian could sit in a chair by the bed for a while with Maggie’s assistance, although he could not walk or bear weight. A week later, he could hold a mandolin in his arms.

  Maggie sat beside him. “How are you?”

  “Maggie, I need to go outside. I’m tired of this room.”

  “Would you settle for some good news?” Maggie grasped his hands. “I felt the babe quicken.” She placed his hands upon her belly, held them there. “It feels like a fish flopping inside of me. Perhaps you can feel it.”