The Shadow Behind Her Smile

by Janene Wood

  When she left Sydney at the end of 1975, she had been fresh out of university with virtually no surgical experience. The Ethiopian refugee camp to which she had applied to volunteer was aware of this and was desperate enough to want her anyway. The camp’s residents were mostly sick and malnourished women and children, so there was plenty for her to do using her non-surgical skills. The last thing she thought she would be doing was digging bullets out of wounded soldiers and stitching their bodies back together.

  Things started going wrong before she even reached the camp. In fact, she never actually made it, having been waylaid and abducted by a band of vicious bandits. But despite the anguish of those few hours of captivity and the resultant injuries, which weren't insignificant, she couldn't bring herself to regret them completely. If not for her abduction, she would never have been rescued by Marc. To her traumatised mind, he was an angel sent to earth to carry her to heaven. That opinion didn't change upon seeing him in the cold light of day.

  As the only physician within a 50-mile radius of Adi Sehul, there had been no choice but to adapt to circumstances and learn from her mistakes. There were plenty of able bodies to help, but most of her assistants were simple village girls whose willingness barely made up for their lack of training. In the ten months she was there, she lost count of the patients they treated. Even in the sorry state she was in when she first arrived, with cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder and bruises and contusions from head to toe, she helped save lives that would otherwise have been lost.

  On this particular night, the casualties were so bad she even dragged Marc in to help. He had no medical training, but was a fast learner and not afraid to get his hands dirty. He didn't even mind taking orders from a girl, which is more than could be said for most of the men in the village. When the “hospital” was a limp piece of canvas strung across the village square, when there was no running water and the lights were powered by an ancient and unreliable generator that broke down at least once a day, every pair of willing hands was a valuable resource. Somehow they managed.

  Incredibly, of the two dozen badly wounded soldiers brought in that night, only one man died, of an horrific chest wound that would have killed him wherever he had ended up, even in the best equipped hospital in Sydney or London. 10 hours after they started, most of the wounded were sleeping fitfully, bandaged and splinted, though still moaning in pain. The last of the morphine had been used hours before. The hard-packed earth floor was soaked with blood; the air smelled of iodine and ethanol and the organic odors of unwashed bodies and human waste, but the general atmosphere grew hopeful as the crisis passed and the recovery process began. There would be scars from the wounds treated that night, psychological as well as physical, but such was the price men were willing to pay for freedom.

  Dawn arrived without fanfare. No one even noticed how late it was until Marc looked out toward the horizon, newly tinted with the rosy glow of the sun's first rays. He looked ready to drop, thought Kate, watching him surreptitiously as she adjusted a patient's IV. He wasn't the only one who was tired, she realised belatedly, noting the heavy movements and subdued manner of the half dozen nurses who had worked so conscientiously all night. She tended to forget that most people needed more rest than she did. After a quiet word in Desta's ear, they began drifting away, zombie-like, to grab a few hours’ sleep while they had the chance.

  “You should go to bed,” murmured Kate, coming to stand beside Marc and leaning her head against his shoulder. “You must be exhausted.”

  Marc wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. A heavy contentment filled her, banishing the stress and anguish of the last few hours. She loved that he made her feel so safe. It was something that had been missing from her life for so long.

  “I'll go when you go,” he replied, absently kissing her forehead.

  “That doesn't make any sense,” she argued, turning to face him and giving him her best I'm the doctor and you'll do as I say glare. “You need to sleep. I'll be fine on my own for a few hours.”

  The glare had no appreciable effect on Marc. “I'm sure you will,” he smiled crookedly, “but I'm staying.” He had that stubborn look in his eyes that Kate privately called his don't-fuck-with-me look. The one he employed on his most recalcitrant trainees.

  Kate didn't bother arguing. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

  He complied willingly, bending his head to bring their lips together, kissing her gently at first, but with growing intensity. Kate knew her breath was awful, but his was no better. She could smell his sweat, even riper and muskier than her own. There would be time enough for perfume and bubble baths when they left this place. Right now, she just needed him close.

  Marc raised his head so he could look at her face. “Any time this gets too much for you, Katy, just say the word and we're gone. We've done our time.”

  They had agreed to stay until Marc's replacement arrived, but knowing they would soon be free to begin their lives together, each day seemed to go on forever. Kate knew she was desperately needed, but Eritrea had no monopoly on sickness and injury. She would be useful wherever they ended up.

  “After tonight, I would like nothing more than to run away and never think about this place again,” she confessed ruefully.

  Marc remained silent, waiting for the but.

  “But we promised to stay, and God knows, they need us more than ever.” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. “We can last four more weeks, right?”

  “Piece of cake,” said Marc with feigned enthusiasm.

  If only they had packed their bags that night, lamented Kate, brought out of her reverie by the slamming of a door downstairs. How different would their lives be now?

  She took a deep breath, annoyed with herself for indulging in what-ifs. This was her life now and she had to take responsibility for it. It might not be ideal, but in the overall scheme of things, she was pretty damn lucky. She might not have Marc, but she had Ryan, and Ryan was a damn fine man in his own right. He was kind, thoughtful, honest and loyal. And sexy; don't forget that. He made her feel beautiful, desirable and adored and that was nothing to sneeze at.

  Still, that didn't mean she had to chase after him every minute of the day. She’d done her best to contact him, to reassure herself of his well-being after the events of last night; if he had better things to do than talk to her, then she wasn't going to moon about like a love-sick teenager. She had too much self-respect for that.

  Swallowing the last of her wine, she resolved to put both Ryan and Marc out of her head and think about something else. She changed into pyjamas, made herself a cup of chamomile tea to help her relax, and turned on the TV. The overhead light was exacerbating the annoying thrum in her head, so she switched it off. Tucking her legs beneath her, she closed her eyes, concentrating on the dozen or so candles scattered throughout the room. They immediately flickered alight, casting a gentle glow to all four corners.

  BBC One was broadcasting a live concert and it looked like Paul McCartney singing a duet with Kate Bush. The tune was familiar, but it wasn't one either of them were known for... Ah, realised Kate, finally placing the song and remembering all the hype about Vinny J and the anniversary of her death. It must be some sort of memorial concert.

  Poor Vinny, thought Kate, dead at such a young age, at the pinnacle of a truly extraordinary career.

  The song ended and a series of commercials came on, but instead of returning to the Palladium at the conclusion, the screen now showed the exterior of Westminster Abbey, where a large crowd was gathered, holding lighted candles and huddling together against the cold. The commentator explained that a memorial service had been organised by Vinny's family to commemorate her passing. It was an annual event which usually occurred on a more modest scale, but the enormous publicity over the anniversary had prompted the family to change the venue and admit the general public. Even so, there wasn’t enough room inside for everyone who wanted to pay their respects, and the overflow were forced to listen to
the service by way of a public-address system.

  The TV cameras hadn't been invited inside, but they diligently panned the crowd of mourners outside, many of whom were sobbing and weeping, as though Vinny had died only yesterday. As if they had actually known her. The camera slowly panned their faces, a little morbidly for Kate's taste, then paused for several seconds on a smiling, life-sized photo of Vinny, held up by a middle-aged woman who was likely a teenager at the time of her idol's death. Kate felt the prickle of tears at the sight of Vinny's beautiful, ageless face, but she brushed them aside and thankfully the camera moved on, shifting its focus to the doors of the abbey, which were opening. The service had finished. Those fans lucky enough to have been admitted were now exiting onto the forecourt and slowly departing, although many stopped to chat with friends, hugging and crying and saying fond farewells.

  Kate waved an indolent hand at the TV, switching it off. That was enough of a trip down memory lane to be going on with.

  The deep yearning for Marc which had started with the kiss on her doorstep was stronger than ever and it took all her strength to banish it. She knew if she fell asleep now, she would dream of him, so instead of stretching out on the sofa, she dragged Magdalena's journal off the coffee table and onto her lap.

  Skipping over the first few pages, which she had examined previously, she came to a painting of a large stone building, three storeys high, with a low rampart encircling the roof. It wasn't nearly as large or imposing as Muntbalaur, the castle from which Katryn had been rescued in Kate's first foray into the journal, but it was solid enough to provide shelter and safety from the storm raging all around it. The silhouette of a woman at the very edge of the parapet stood out in stark relief as a bolt of lightning lit up the stormy night sky and struck her in the centre of her back.

  Against her better judgment, Kate traced the lightning with the tip of her finger, wondering if she was making a terrible, fatal mistake. If the woman, whom she assumed was Katryn, was about to die, either from falling off the roof or from being electrocuted, it was possible Kate could also die. But both instinct and intellect told Kate that didn't make sense. What would be the point of killing off both heroine and spectator when she was only part way through the journal?

  Her last thought, as she was pulled back through time, losing herself in the process, was to hope she hadn't misjudged the creator's intent.

  A New Beginning

  1762

  Katryn’s sleep was tormented by delirium.

  The fever was worse than ever. Chills racked her emaciated body, already made weak by grief and dehydration. Willow bark tea and the thinnest of gruels were the only liquids to pass her lips in many days, thanks only to the persistent urgings of devoted Lena, who lay exhausted and snoring on a pallet beside the wide, four-poster bed.

  The fire had burned down to a pile of glowing embers and the wind, whistling through the crumbling mortar, had long since extinguished the flame of the room’s single candle. Yet even with the curtains drawn, the room was alight with an eerie glow. Lightning speared the night sky from one end of the horizon to the other in an extraordinary demonstration of nature’s majesty.

  An endless torrent of rain battered the thick glass windowpanes, though its hammering was drowned out by the howling wind and all-too-frequent claps of jarring thunder. Katryn's blankets were heaped at the foot of the bed and her skin burned with fever. She moaned intermittently, but otherwise thrashed about in silence.

  Her mind had gone beyond the reach of the conscious world. It floated, helpless and unprotected, in a sea of latent memories and repressed emotions. Every unpleasant memory or feeling she had ever tried to suppress was now free to torment her, and she had no strength to fend them off. Anger, hopelessness, betrayal and grief attacked her from all sides. But none of that compared to the fear that consumed her.

  The object of her fear skulked deep within the shadowed recesses of memory. It was a shapeless, faceless creature, tainted with the unbearable stench of evil. She couldn’t remember what it wanted but she had never been more afraid. She recoiled and fled, the nightmarish chase becoming her only reality.

  On and on she ran, fleeing the creature determined to destroy her. It no longer mattered why; it was important only to stay out of its grasp. Her only hope was to stay one step ahead, but the hunter fed on her fear, growing stronger while draining her energy with every step.

  It seemed like she had been running forever, and finally her strength gave out. The hunter was hard on her heels. As she gasped for breath, she glimpsed him from the corner of her eye, and in that brief second, recognised him for who he was. She had known his love once, but now his betrayal came rushing back in startling clarity. Despair threatened to paralyse her, but as he closed the distance between them, her most basic instincts took over, forcing her onward.

  The ground beneath her feet was more solid than before and the darkness was relieved by an eerie, wavering glow. Her legs were heavy as rocks. The thought of sleep was tantalizingly sweet, a lure for those weaker-willed than she.

  A sudden flash of light illuminated the path ahead. Katryn stumbled forward, slowly dragging her weary body up the stairs before her. As she reached the top and pushed open the heavy wooden door, her nightdress flapped wildly in the gusting wind. The first drops of rain shocked her with their icy touch. The fog in her head lifted ever so slightly and her fear subsided. What remained was the numbing awareness that her love had never been enough... Could never have been enough, even if she devoted her entire existence to his happiness.

  In moments she was soaked through. Her nightdress clung heavily to her legs and an insidious chill crept upward through the soles of her feet. Her mind hovered between reality and delusion. Her strength seeped from her body with every heartbeat. He was coming and there would be no mercy. If she could just show courage in her last moments, it would suffice. Darkness had claimed the child of her loins and it was beyond her power to bring him back to the Light. The wind carried the sound of his coming.

  Lightning flashed, illuminating the edge of the parapet upon which she stood. She gasped aloud in sudden alarm. Far below, the cobbled stable-yard beckoned. Her mind was suddenly clearer than it had been in days. Every cell in her body screamed at her to step away from the edge, but a sudden wave of vertigo swamped her. Her body inclined forward over the edge. Rain had pooled on the cobblestones far below and she saw her frightened face reflected in the puddle's surface. How ironic, that after all she had been through, it was the fear of him that brought her to this moment! The moment of her death.

  As she began to topple forward, a jagged spear of lightning flashed from the sky, skewering her body and throwing her back across the flagstones with the force of God’s own wrath.

  With wide, unseeing eyes, she convulsed briefly and was still.

  Katryn gradually surfaced from the deep sea of unconsciousness. Forcing her eyes open, she looked with confusion at the four walls surrounding her. She lay within a chamber of unfinished stone, austere in its lack of ornamentation but warmed at least by a friendly fire dancing in the hearth. With no recollection of how she got there, she searched the bare walls for some spark to trigger her uncooperative memory.

  An unexpected voice startled her. “Dragă[jwood2]? Finally, you awake!”

  Katryn recognised the voice, spoken with such undisguised relief that she knew she must have been asleep for a long time. Faithful Magdalena rose from where she had been sitting vigil and placed one hand upon her forehead. “How do you feel?” she asked worriedly, as if she had despaired of Katryn ever waking up.

  “What is this place?” asked Katryn, even as fragments of memory began to coalesce in her mind. She remembered fleeing Muntbalaur then finally reaching the safety of the Hospodar’s palace. She felt the heavy weight of the choice she made there – though was it really a choice when there was no alternative? – and then falling sick on the road as they made all possible speed for Constantinople. It was slowly coming back to her: ho
w unwell she had been; how the fever, aches and pains remained completely unaffected by Lena’s ministrations. It occurred to her belatedly that she no longer burned or ached.

  Lena frowned. “You don’t remember stopping at the inn to await the passing of the storm?”

  “Mmm, vaguely,” nodded Katryn, shuddering as she recalled the violence of the tempest.

  “What else do you remember about that night?” asked Lena, giving her a peculiar look.

  The younger woman frowned in concentration. She remembered contemplating her impending death and accepting it, even wishing for it, while at the same time trying to keep the all-consuming roar of thunder and wind from engulfing her. And then there were the fever-dreams, which had seemed so real. She remembered running; the terror urging her on; the icy rain on her face...

  Katryn's eyes widened in shock and she gasped aloud, remembering the agony of the lightning strike. “Was it real?” she asked unsurely.

  Abruptly, she pushed the covers aside, pulled herself upright, and gingerly flexed her shoulders where the lightning had entered her body. There was no discomfort, no soreness. Only confusion.

  “The burns have healed,” Lena informed her. “Your entire body is as unblemished as a newborn babe.”

  Katryn was struggling to make sense of everything and put it into proper context. “How long...?” It didn't seem possible, but she must have been asleep for much longer than she first suspected.

  “It’s two days since the storm passed.”

  Katryn sucked in her breath. “Two days? How could such wounds heal so quickly, leaving no scar or lingering pain?”