by Holly Kelly
* * * * *
Hope’s mind raced as she followed the meandering path. What she'd seen was impossible. She knew enough about anatomy to know that a live, talking, severed head was just not within the realm of possibilities. But then, witches and the power they wielded was not supported by science either. And they existed. Didn’t they?
Mr. Jones did say a witch was the cause of his unique situation. She had removed his head and left it in an abandoned cabin. How long had he truly been there?
They had met over eight years ago. Could he have been there that long? No. He would have been reduced to a blathering idiot with that much seclusion. It had to have been recent. Still, being trapped beneath the floor with no one to talk to must have been torture.
Perhaps she’d gone too far when she threw him into the chamber pot. Guilt gnawed at her. What she’d done was not very Christian-like. Why did she let her anger get the best of her? She’d never in her life had trouble controlling her temper before. But, Mr. Jones was exceptionally insufferable—threatening to whip her. The only other time she’d had a hand raised to her was when Eli struck her on their wedding night. Her father had never even raised a hand to her backside. Perhaps, the incidence with Eli affected her more than she cared to admit.
There was simply something so wrong about a man who vowed to love and honor and then turned around and beat his wife. She’d seen enough of it to be sickened by it. And everyone turned a blind eye. According to the law, it was a man’s right to beat his wife. He was unquestioned in his methods of discipline. Why should a wife need discipline? She was not a child. And from what Hope observed, it was more often the husband in need of correction than the wife.
The path widened into a road. She was nearly to town. Several carriages passed her by, but no one offered her a ride. This town did not seem as friendly as her previous one. Looking at the faces of the people, their expressions seemed strained. Their eyes suspicious.
The town hall came into view on the right, and Hope straightened her shoulders. Should she even be doing this? She still wasn’t sure of her sanity. In all likelihood, she had lost her mind. But she prided herself in giving people the benefit of the doubt. She herself deserved the same courtesy.
She approached a door with a large glass window. Colorful images flashed across the wavy glass. Looked like this town started early. She hadn’t planned to come until nine o’clock, but the situation back at the cabin changed her plans for her.
I really should get him out of that chamber pot.
A man with salt and pepper hair and rounded belly looked her way. His eyes widened. “May I help you, Ma’am?”
“Um, yes. Rebekah Smith told me you were looking for a teacher.”
A frown darkened his face. “But, you are a woman. This town has the funds to pay for a man with qualifications. We don’t have to scrape the bottom of the barrel when it comes to the education of our children.”
“I have ample qualifications, despite my gender.”
“Oh, really?” he smirked, doubt written on his face. He turned to two men speaking to each other across the foyer. “Dr. Porter?”
“Yes, Mayor Jansen?” a well-dressed man who appeared to be in his early thirties looked at him and then eyed Hope curiously.
“This woman claims to be well educated. She’s here for the teaching position.”
“Is she now?” He sauntered over, keeping his eyes on her. “Then I suppose she would not be opposed to answering some questions to gauge her level of knowledge.”
“Absolutely not,” Hope answered, her voice steady, her nervousness properly masked.
“Why don’t you join me in the mayor’s office,” he said, and he turned to the mayor. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course, not.”
Hope waited for Dr. Porter to sit behind the desk before she took her seat. “May I ask,” she said, her curiosity piqued, “what you are a doctor of?”
“I have two doctorates—medicine and philosophy.”
“Impressive,” Hope said.
“Might I ask what your husband thinks about you wanting to work outside the home?”
“Mr. Jones is no longer with me,” she said, alarmed at the blunder she’d just made. She should have picked a different name. She did not want to give Eli anymore to go on in his search for her.
“I am sorry,” he said and then cleared his throat. “Now let’s see how impressive you are. Arithmetic skills are important. I would like you to solve a problem without the use of script.”
Hope nodded, her stomach tying into a knot.
“What two numbers multiplied by each other will equal three hundred forty-nine?”
Hope felt a measure of relief. She knew this one. “There are no two number that will equal three hundred forty-nine when multiplied. That number is prime.”
He cracked a smile. “So, it is. Alright. Name the thirteen colonies and their capitals.”
“Maine’s capital is Augusta, New Hampshire’s is Concord, New York’s is Albany, Massachusetts’ is Boston, Maryland’s is Baltimore, Delaware’s is Dover, Connecticut’s is Hartford, Pennsylvania’s is Harrisburg, New Jersey’s is Trenton, Virginia’s is Richmond, North Carolina’s is Raleigh, South Carolina’s is Charleston, and Georgia’s is Atlanta.”
Dr. Porter shook his head.
“Did I forget one?”
“No. I am beginning to be impressed.
He continued to grill her with question after question. Hope’s confidence soared. She was sure she’d answered each one correctly.
“Now if you can answer this last question,” Dr. Porter said, “you’ve got the job.”
Butterflies erupted in Hope’s stomach. Please let him ask me a question I know.
“Discuss the path food takes through the anatomy of the body.”
Hope’s eyes widened. This question was far beyond what a normal teacher of children would ever need to know. Even highly educated, seasoned teachers did not teach anatomy—unless that teacher was instructing a medical school class. She was being sabotaged.
Hope held back a smile. This doctor could not know the study of anatomy was somewhat of an obsession for her.
“First,” she began, “food is macerated by the teeth with the help of the tongue. Saliva aids with the breakdown. Then it travels down one’s esophagus—passing by the lower esophageal sphincter—on its way to the stomach. There, acids break down the food to a liquid state. Then, the pyloric sphincter opens up and the food continues on to the small intestines. There it moves through about twenty feet of intestines until it transfers into the large intestines. Liquids are absorbed by the intestinal walls, and what’s left is solid waste. That is then expelled through the rectum to the outside of the body. The whole process takes about five to eight hours.”
Dr. Porter’s jaw hung down. He snapped it back together and shook his head. “I am officially impressed, Mrs. Jones.” He stood and put out his hand to shake hers. “I would like to welcome Tarrytown’s newest teacher.”
Chapter 9
As Hope and Dr. Porter stepped back into the foyer, they met the smug look of the mayor. His smiled faded when Dr. Porter turned to her and said, “I will meet you at the school Monday morning. Eight o’clock.”
Hope smiled brightly. “I look forward to it.”
As she turned to leave, she heard the mayor whisper harshly, “You hired her? Are you insane?”
“She’s the most brilliant woman I have ever met,” Dr. Porter said. “If she were a man, I would be writing a letter of recommendation for her to get into medical school.”
“But, she’s a woman!”
Hope frowned at the conversation. She would prove to the mayor that she was an asset to the town.
Still, acceptance or not, she had a job. Hope wished she could stop by Rebekah’s to celebrate, but she needed to get back. She could not abide the thought of Mr. Jones sitting in that chamber pot any longer than need be.
Perhaps he would be gone, proving she had
imagined him. Then maybe she would not have to apologize to the revolting man.
* * * * *
Conall closed his eyes and tried not to think about the brown crusted streaks pressing into his nose. The smell, though, he could not ignore. That woman was insufferable! He had no idea what he’d found appealing about her before. And to think he’d wasted years dreaming about seeing her again. All the sweet imaginations and lucid dreams could not erase his current predicament. The woman was a menace!
“Mr. Jones?” the familiar sound of her voice floated into the room as the door creaked open.
Speak of the devil.
She lifted the cloth from off his head. He still could not see her, as his face was flattened into the side of the pot.
“Oh,” she breathed, disappointment in her tone. “You are still here.”
“Where else would I be? And the name’s Conall.”
“Is it?” she said, sounding surprised.
He did not bother answering her.
“Well, Mr. Conall, I feel the need to apologize. I am afraid I overreacted.”
“Can you apologize after getting me out of this damn pot?”
“May I please ask you not to swear in my presence?”
“Get me the hell out of this pot,” he roared, the pot amplifying his voice.
“Alright, alright.” Her hands came around his head, one of her fingers jabbing into his eye socket.
“Ouch,” he hollered.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just . . . it’s hard to get a good grip from this angle.”
The room spun around, and finally it stopped with her face inches from his.
“Now, I will admit,” she said, “your treatment of women does leave something to be desired, but your opinion is shared by most men. I was just raised differently. My father always treated me with respect and never raised a hand to me. When I think of the terrible treatment some women have to endure, I go a bit nuts. But the treatment you received by the hands of that witch pales in comparison, and I should have been more understanding of your fear and showed you more compassion.”
“I am not afraid of anything.”
“Everyone is afraid of something,” she said.
He frowned at her.
“This morning I was terrified I had lost my mind. But then I came to accept that because I know witches exist, it’s only logical that there may be witches at work in your situation. And although I understand— “
“Do you always talk this much?” he interrupted.
“I . . . well, no, not usually. I am alone a lot.”
“Yeah, and you still talk.”
“That is a rude thing to say,” she said.
“As rude as throwing someone into a chamber pot?”
Hope pressed her lips together. “I apologized for that.”
“That doesn’t erase what you did.”
“No, but a Christian man would forgive.”
“I am not Christian.”
“Hmm, well, no one is perfect. Speaking of imperfect, you could really use a bath, Mr. Conall.”
“It’s just Conall. There’s no mister.”
“Oh, okay, then I guess you can call me Hope.”
“I already call you Hope.”
Her eyes widened as red blossomed in her cheeks. “So you do.”
He could not help noticing how appealing she looked. He nearly smiled, and then a scowl settled over his face. He almost forgot how furious he was with this woman.
“I think it best,” she said, “that we begin with the river. You are quite filthy. Once we have you mostly cleaned up, you can bathe properly in the basin.”
“Just don’t drop me.”
“I would not drop you,” she said, sounding offended. She carried him outside the cabin, the trees floating past his vision.
“You nearly dropped me last night.”
“I was startled. A bath in the river should offer no surprises. It’s not like I will be seeing your manly parts.”
“Have you ever seen manly parts?”
“That is not something a proper woman would discuss. But if you must know, of course I have.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”
She shrugged. “I was a nurse. Now shush! I refuse to talk further about it.” Kneeling, she lowered him toward the water. He could hear it rushing below him. “It would be best if you could hold your breath. By the way.” She paused, curiosity burning in her eyes. “How do you breathe with no lungs?”
“The witch may have cut my head from my body, but her magic keeps us connected. I breath, it breathes.”
“And will the water flood from the openings where you . . . you know. Where she cut you?”
“Her magic sealed it.”
“Interesting. Alright, here we go.”
Cold water saturated the back of his head, and he took a deep breath. Hope plunged him completely under the surface and massaged his matted hair in the current. His face broke the surface and she gave him time to take another breath before plunging him down again, this time face down. She tugged and pulled at his hair. It was very long, and it seemed she was having difficulty untangling it.
She brought him to the surface again. “Perhaps,” she said, “we should cut your hair.”
“No,” he said firmly.
“But—”
“Absolutely not. I like my hair the way it is.”
“Tangled into a matted mess?”
“You know what I mean.”
“If I could just—” Her words ceased abruptly as her eyes widened. It looked as if she was staring at his ear. Oh, right. Human ears were rounded.
“What . . . are you?” she stammered, and then he tipped.
She cried out as her fingers swiped at his head. The surface of the water flew toward him. He barely had time to take a big breath when he tumbled into the river. He could hear her muted scream as he rolled and bobbed away with the current.
She’d dropped him!
Why was he not surprised? He would have been better off left under the floorboards.
* * * * *
Hope shrieked when the current carried Conall away. Splashing into the water, the current swirled around her, sweeping her off her feet. Hope screamed and then the icy water engulfed her face. Stroking toward the surface, her face broke through. She gasped in deep breaths of air as she fought to keep her head above water. Her heavy gown made it difficult, but at least she had arms and legs to accomplish it.
Where was Conall?
There he was! She could see the white strands of his hair in front of her. Stroking toward them, they were obscured by the water again. At least they were moving in the same direction.
This time she saw his head bob to the surface, his frantic face showing as it rolled along. She needed to get to him before he drowned! Could he drown? Her speed picked up as several boulders passed her by. The water splashed over Hope’s face as the current pulled her down. Her foot encountered something solid, and she pushed off. Her head broke the surface once again, and she took a breath and swam more vigorously.
They needed to get out of this river! But she wasn’t leaving Conall. If she died trying to save him, that would be her just desserts.
Hope searched for him again. This time she spotted him close by. His blond hair was nearly touching her. She swiped at it and got a grip on it.
She got him!
Now to make it to shore. She remembered what her father told her about this situation. He instructed her to not swim directly for the side. Swim diagonally toward it.
Hope looked to the direction of the river and heaved a sigh. As they came around the bend, it opened up into much calmer waters. She swam hard and fast along the shore with shallow waters in sight—Conall’s hair clasped tight in her hand. The current slowed, and she finally felt solid ground beneath her.
She pulled at Conall’s hair, his head not far behind. His eyes were closed. He looked . . . dead. Please don’t let him be!
Staggeri
ng up the shore, Hope coughed the river water from her lungs. Conall should be coughing too.
“Conall!” she shouted between coughing jags as she lifted him to face her. She sank down on the dry shore, exhausted. “Conall, oh please don’t be dead!”
He blinked and then glared at her. “It would serve you right if I did die.”
“Why are not you c-coughing?”
“Do I look like I have lungs to cough?”
“No, but you don’t have lungs to t-talk either.”
He raised an eyebrow and scowled at her. “How far did we travel?”
Hope looked up. A breeze raised goosebumps over her whole body, and she shook from the cold. “N-not too terribly far. About a m-mile, I think.”
“You are hard to understand when your teeth are chattering so. The sooner we get back to the cabin, the sooner you can build a fire and warm up.”
“S-so you are concerned for m-me? Even after—”
“If you die of exposure, who will find my body and bring it to me?”
“So, it’s all selfish concern?”
“Absolutely.”
Hope rose to her feet. Her legs shook beneath her, and her wet dress was terribly heavy, not to mention the fact it was doing nothing to warm her. Despite the difficulty, Hope set off along the shore to get back to the cabin.
“So, what are you, truly?” Hope asked.
He paused for a moment before speaking. “I am Elvin.”
“Elves do not exist.”
He laughed. “You are kidding, right?”
“They’re from faery tales.” Hope frowned. Her practical world was crumbing around her.
“Faery tales often have threads of truth in them.”
“Is that why you are still alive, despite the fact all that is left of you is your head? Is it because you are an elf?”