Heartless A Shieldmaiden's Voice: A Covenant Keeper Novel

by S. R. Karfelt

  “Of course there is a father.”

  Anne pursed her thin lips. “I meant a husband,” she reproved.

  “Of course I have a husband.” Carole closed her eyes again. It is true! She argued with the voices before they spoke. The problem was simply that Ted didn’t know he was. The problem was he was afraid. “The problem is he doesn’t want to be.” The voices were ruthless.

  The man spoke from the chair in the corner of her room. “Should I boil water or something, Happy?”

  “You watch too many movies, Junny. What am I going to do with boiling water?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I need old newspapers. Can you get me some of those?”

  Junny stood up and shuffled off as another pain engulfed Carole. She recognized Junny as the homeless man she’d shared her grapes with, and judging by Anne’s appearance, she was homeless too. Then the pain took her away again.

  A RING OF pain burned cruelly between Carole’s legs. Anne caught the baby as it finally shot out of Carole’s body, and wrapped it in newspaper. Carole leaned back and closed her eyes. It hadn’t been bad, labor. The memory already receded from the fog she lived in. Anne poked her, grinning when Carole looked up. She forced the baby into Carole’s arms. Carole reluctantly held it, lifting a flap of the paper to check the sex. It was Mark and Melissa’s newspaper; the pencil mark circling their names rested against the baby’s rosy stomach. It was a baby girl. Carole closed her eyes again, ridiculously feeling disappointed. She’d expected a boy—a likeness of Ted, although she’d never admitted it to herself until that moment. Her heart sank further as she thought of him, her missing husband who hadn’t allowed her to touch his heart. What difference did it make? This baby would be Mark and Melissa’s baby. Surely they would love her, even if she came too early, even if she heard the voices and had black dreams.

  Something brushed Carole’s heart then, something big and shining and full of light. It bounced against her heart. Carole’s eyes shot open as the touch pulled her from the haze she’d been living in. It yanked her roughly out of the fog and she landed in crystal-clear reality, sitting on an old mattress with her newborn baby resting on her chest. She stared at her daughter, arms tightening around the impossibly small human being blinking up at her. The touch came again. Accepting. Open. Loving.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God! Is that you?” she shouted.

  The baby wailed and Carole’s arms tightened, rocking back and forth in an attempt to comfort her.

  “Is that you? Is that you? Oh my God! Thank you! Thank you!” The touch burrowed into her heart, making a home, taking up residence. I’m yours, you’re mine, we’re us.

  Tears flooded her eyes, Carole rocked back and forth sobbing, clutching her daughter. Images darted through her mind. Dancing. Sunshine. Puppies. Puppies? Carole started to laugh through her tears. This is what the touch of a heart felt like! The touch of Ted’s had been a dim shadow of this. This was what it had been like before they’d all gone. Her mom, her gran, and her father’s hearts. This heart was even more than theirs, she was sure of it. This little girl’s heart shone brighter, bigger, and bolder.

  “This is real!” Carole shouted. “This is real! Do you feel it?” She tore her eyes from her daughter to look at Anne. The old woman stood beside her, rubbing her chest.

  “What is that? Is that her?”

  “Can I have some more of those grapes? Or maybe a banana?” Junny asked from the corner of the room.

  Anne turned towards him. “Yes, take some fruit, Junny. You can go now.” He shuffled off, whistling.

  Carole’s eyes turned back to her baby. She weighed about six pounds, but she was long and narrow for a baby. She looked slimy, covered in a thick white substance beneath the damp newspaper. Her eyes were big and dark blue, alert, her mouth an angelic little bow, her hair was either blonde or red, Carole wasn’t certain because of the blood. She peeled the newspaper off her daughter, wiping streaks of ink from her, nestling her naked baby against her damp T-shirt. Quickly she touched everywhere, examining fine skin, and the shape of long thin baby fingers. They were shaped like Gran’s! The toes were impossibly perfect, the cutest things she’d ever seen in her life, and there were no nails on them. The feet were long and narrow. The touch of the heart spoke, without words, yet Carole understood it. I am cute. I am perfect. I am yours, Mom. Carole tore her eyes away and turned them towards Anne’s again.

  “Do you feel that too?”

  “Her sweetness? Yes, that is one very sweet baby girl. Sweeter than my own I’d say. What are you going to call her?”

  Carole considered that. She hadn’t thought of names! For a fraction of a second she considered Melissa—the woman who she’d almost—no, never! Shoving that idea far away, Carole thought. Sandy? She laughed. No! Names? For a moment she wondered what Mom and Gran’s real names had been, wishing she knew. Then her rejoicing heart landed on Ted for a moment, and considered naming her daughter for him, the heart that helped create her. The memory of Ted and the faint touch of his heart didn’t even hurt now. She smiled, thinking of Ted’s heart.

  “Beth. I’m going to call her Beth. I think it is her Daddy’s favorite name!”

  BETH AT FOUR-MONTHS-OLD looked like a thin cherub. Silky hair rested smoothly over her creamy forehead, intelligence shone through big clear eyes, and bow shaped pink lips smiled or protested beneath a perfect snub nose. Carole wandered down a sunny row at the farmer’s market, frequently peeking at her daughter. Wrapped in a sling Carole had sewn from Ted’s good khaki service uniform and one of Carole’s own olive T-shirts, Beth’s weight rested solid and reassuring against her mother’s body. I love you, Carole thought, running a finger down the most perfect profile she’d ever seen. It took effort to turn her focus to a bin of vegetables and examine tomatoes. The yellow ones interested her. She could make a salad with the red and yellows mixed together, with some fresh mozzarella, basil, and balsamic vinegar. Her mouth watered at the thought. Nursing Beth had her eating twice as much as she usually did. Eating and nursing was a full time job, her favorite job. Running a hand beneath the sling, she smoothed Beth’s silky blonde hair, so like hers, except it was soft and smooth and beautiful. The touch of Beth’s heart tinkled against hers, pure as the note of a silver bell. Mom, Mom, Mom, you’re my Mom, it said. There was something very open and honest about the touch of Beth’s heart. Carole rarely passed a person who didn’t reach out a hand to brush over the bundle always dangling close to her heart. Madly in love with this little person, Carole was deliriously happy.

  A Hispanic man stopped in front of her, displaying a melon in each hand. Carole shook her head, refusing them. He leaned towards her and whispered, “Sand, and we leave in twenty minutes, so you’ll need to come with me now.”

  Gaping at him, she dropped her bag of vegetables to the ground and both hands went to Beth. Hidden beneath the folds of fabric she yanked her T-shirt up and pulled her daughter to a breast. Beth bit on with enthusiastic vengeance.

  “I need five minutes,” she pleaded.

  The man smiled, and patted the bundle suckling at her breast. “Take ten, we can run.”

  As she raced through the market Beth jostled against her, making little noises of annoyed protest, very faint noises because her mouth never once left the breast. Carole spotted Anne haggling over a cotton baby blanket she’d had her eye on for weeks. Only the purple rabbit’s foot gave clue that Anne was the woman who’d delivered Beth four months ago. She might have been anyone’s neat grey grandmother dressed in an emerald green gypsy dress smiling with new dentures. Rushing to Anne’s side, Carole grabbed her arm.

  “Remember I told you I’d have to go sometime?”

  “Now?” Anne protested. “What am I going to feed that child? My breasts don’t work like that anymore.”

  “God, how I wish they did,” Carole said. She reached to run her hand over the woman’s sagging breasts, drawing horrified glances from passersby. “Oh, if only they would.” Carole felt
something warm zing from her hands, sensed it moving invisibly over Anne. She held her hand there, wishing, praying, and certain she was beginning to suffer moments of delusion.

  Anne didn’t flinch. She rubbed her breasts too and said, “They wish they did too, but they don’t. What should I feed her? I don’t think she’s big enough for your bread.”

  Carole shook herself. Wishful thoughts wouldn’t feed Beth while she was gone. “Try soy milk, from that corner store where I get the sprouts. Mix it with a bit of goat’s milk if she won’t take it. Warm it a bit, and hold her close when you feed her. Use only those glass bottles I bought…” Carole’s voice trailed off and she shivered at the thought of the rubber nipples, dropping her hand from Anne to rub Beth’s little back. There was nothing to be done for it. This was what she did, she had to go. Anne would guard Beth with her life, and Junny would camp out in the entryway downstairs and help Anne if she needed anything. Carole pried Beth off one breast with a popping sound. Before Beth could shout, she pushed her mouth onto the other.

  “Now that’s a mother of the 1980’s,” Anne complimented. “Back in my day the doctors told us to use canned milk, that breast feeding was bad for them. I didn’t listen to doctors then either.”

  Carole’s eyes watered. Four months was all they’d had. It could be a year—she would ask. Surely they would let her come here sometimes, instead of camps, between missions. Surely—Carole could sense her contact waiting for her, sense the minutes ticking by double time. With only twenty seconds left, she pulled Beth loose. She came off the breast with another popping sound and made sweet grumpy sounds of protest, too sated to really fuss. Carole lifted the babe from the folds of fabric and looked into her four-month-old face. Beth gave her a milky drunken smile and burped at her. Carole kissed her forehead, cheeks and messy mouth, memorizing her, breathing her in. She pressed her face against her daughter’s torso, wallowing in the taste of that sweet heart as it bubbled against her own. Mom, Mom, Mom, mine, mine Mom, it seemed to say. Finally Carole yanked the cloth sack from around her neck and draped it over Anne’s.

  “Love her hard. Make her feel it.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. I will do that.” Anne took Beth from her mother’s arms and Beth’s baby heart bounced after Carole’s as she ran off. The sound of Beth’s cries and the touch of sudden tears reached farther than the touch of her heart, and Carole cried with her, not caring who saw her tears.

  FOR MONTHS CAROLE prowled back alleys in Buenos Aires. Dressed as a homeless woman, she pushed a cart full of junk she’d secured from trash bins. Her mission was simply to locate another agent when he crossed her path, give him the code word, and take him to a drop point. The voices didn’t like cities. They didn’t like the food. They didn’t like the touch of the dirty clothes that hung over Carole’s grimy skin. They complained during the entire assignment. Carole wondered if Beth would ever behave as childishly as the voices, and the thought made her smile. Carole fit in with the homeless better than she did with most people. Sometimes she hoped that Beth would fit into the world they lived in, but mostly she hoped that Beth wouldn’t hear the voices.

  After Carole located the agent and made the drop, she spent weeks aboard a submarine. It felt good to be clean again, but the voices were frantic beneath the sea. Carole couldn’t ignore them. She was frantic beneath the sea too. At not yet twenty years old, posing as a specialist in nuclear psychics seemed ridiculous, but she managed to pull it off. Keeping to herself, she simply listened to the reports of naval officers and said “Hmmm” a lot. There was a quiet young man on board, Petty Officer Leo Milton whose duty was cooking in the tiny galley. Leo kindly noted what Carole ate and put only those rations on her plate whenever she came through the galley.

  The sub surfaced off an uninhabited island in the Atlantic. Outside a control room Carole hugged the wall so Leo could pass her. Leo tapped her elbow and mouthed, “Antler,” the pass code.

  Dragging a garbage bag, Leo hurried behind Carole as they moved through corridors. Carole focused her talents on passing unseen, using that part of her brain that saw through walls. Arriving at a hatch, Leo opened it. Carole helped him drag the bag through the hatch and they stood on top the submarine. The sun headed for the western horizon, but it wouldn’t be dark for hours, and the water stood so calm it barely lapped the sides of the craft. The petite cook squatted on the hull and opened the trash bag, handing over equipment: a wetsuit with fins, a hand-operated desalination water tool, and a small packet of first aid supplies.

  Leo riffled through a stack of photographs and handed them over one at a time. “This is the most important one. I know it’s in black and white, but see the markings on the boat? It will come alongside the island in a week or so. You need to get on it. Take a good look at these men and this woman.” He handed over their photographs. “You can take these with you to memorize, but burn them as soon as you get on that island. Do not interface with any of them. They’ll know why you’re there if they see you. Don’t attempt to take them prisoner. You have to kill them, and as quickly as you can.”

  The voices started to shout, and Carole’s heart sank. Kill them?

  “Boarding would be best done at night so they don’t raise the alarm, or detonate the weapon. The details about that weapon are need to know, and all you need to know is it’s nuclear.” Leo shook his head, looking at the sea glistening around them, reflecting the setting sun. “It’s a dangerous world.”

  Carole nodded. Yes, it was very dangerous.

  Leo tugged a small knapsack out of the bag and sat it beside the wetsuit. “Give me your clothes, everything. Your stockings, under-things, all of it, then put this on.” Carole obeyed as Leo politely turned his gaze back to the water. She left her clothes in a heap and struggled with the tight wetsuit, forcing it up her legs and over her backside which had never seemed large until now.

  “Wait, don’t put your arms in yet. I need your blood.” Leo turned his attention back to her.

  Blood? Despite the voices objections, Carole complied, standing with the wetsuit squished against her midsection, naked from the waist up with one arm bent modestly over her chest.

  Leo eyed her soberly. “Where wouldn’t you mind having a scar?”

  Carole shrugged. She’d prefer nowhere.

  “Let’s just use your upper arm. It will hurt more, but you can keep it out of the water swimming to the island. Sharks. Don’t worry—I have bandages, and there is a first aid kit in your supplies.”

  Very matter of fact, Leo held Carole’s arm out and sliced into it, catching the blood on her discarded uniform, and squeezing the wound when it uncooperatively tried to clot. Leo remained conversational while Carole’s blood spilled.

  “I have to make it look like you’ve died. I could use a body part, even a finger would help, but you’re going to need them all. If I take some toes, I doubt I can bandage it to keep the sharks off you. I have a torso in the freezer, but there was no place safe to thaw it.”

  “How are you going to make it look like I died?”

  “An explosion. A fire on board is dangerous, but how many ways can someone disappear from a submarine? Some of the men will know there’s more to it, and I’ll deal with that as it comes. That’s enough blood. I don’t want to take much more, you have a long swim.” Leo put pressure against the cut, pulled a vial of superglue from the pocket of his pants and glued the wound closed. “Let’s hope it’s waterproof. Pretty cool stuff.” He wrapped the wound with gauze and then frowned. “Uh, you know, I probably just glued that bandage to your arm. Good luck—whatever your name really is. These terrorists have been trying to bomb a port city, and now they managed to get hold of a nuke.” He handed Carole a knife. “That’s all the weapon they gave me for you. Sorry. I hope you can kill with it.”

  “It’s enough.” Carole ignored the protests of the voices. San Diego was a port city. She took another glance at the photographs and shoved them inside her wetsuit.

  “After you take the sh
ip—” Leo recited coordinates and pass codes half a dozen times, though Carole could recite them back after the first round. “A team will come in and secure the weapon. Keep your head down.” He watched as Carole slid into the water.

  She bobbed in the water beside the submarine, and called back, “Good luck with the frozen torso.”

  Waving, he grinned. “We just got one of those new gadgets—a microwave oven—I might be able to thaw it in there if it will fit. I just worried someone would eat it if I left it unguarded.”

  LEO WAS RIGHT about the gauze and the superglue, the bit of fabric hung from Carole’s arm and nothing she did would get it off. She trimmed it with her knife and left it to dangle. The submarine left a few hours after Carole made the island, so she assumed no one suspected she’d gotten off the vessel. There was no fresh water on the island, and Carole set herself to endure desalinated ocean water pumped through a little gadget made mostly of plastic. The voices would not stop shouting about it, and Carole wondered if they’d rather she just died of thirst. Cleaning enough ocean water to drink became a full-time job. Carole wondered how many agents died while waiting. The ship showed up though, a week and a half later. Sick of eating only seaweed, insects, and roots, she hit the sea in broad daylight. It was dangerous, but not as dangerous as the ship pulling away before nightfall.

  Clinging to the underside of the ship, she climbed the barnacle encrusted, dented hull half way to the top and then got oddly lucky. One of the terrorists she recognized from the photographs climbed down for a swim. He ended up tangled in the rope, his head dangling in the water. Without the body strength to pull himself up he struggled for less than fifteen minutes, occasionally managing to emerge and get a breath before plunging again below the waterline, but never once did he manage enough of a breath to even call for help. Carole knew he’d spotted her clinging impossibly to the side of the hull, watching dispassionately. When he finally stopped fighting she resumed her climb, the sight burned into her mind, and her heart heavy although the voices didn’t even reprimand her.