by BJ Hoff
Only a supreme act of will finally enabled her to turn around.
When she did, she found herself trapped in her own worst nightmare.
The wagon shot forward without warning, clattering wildly into the night as if a legion of demons were hard upon them.
Inside, Tierney saw Morgan grasp both arms of the wheelchair and rear back with a sharp grunt of surprise. Seated on the floor across from him, Tierney pitched sideways, flinging out a hand against the wall to brace himself.
“Something must have spooked the mare,” he said, clambering to his feet. “I’ll go and see.”
Hanging on to the brass rail that ran along the side of the wagon, he made his way to the double doors behind the driving bench. When he stepped onto the connecting platform, the dim glow from the front lanterns revealed Jan Martova at a crouch, leaning forward over the mare. Sandemon, his face taut and set straight ahead, gripped the bench with both hands.
Planting one foot between the two, Tierney watched Jan Martova. “What’s going on?”
It was fully dark now, the moon completely concealed by dense clouds. The wind was up, whipping the tree limbs that hung over each side of the road as the wagon raced through the night.
Jan Martova glanced back at Tierney, then at Sandemon, who merely shook his head.
“Sandemon…feels anxious,” Jan replied, his attention again on the road. “He thinks something might be wrong at the Big House.”
Tierney looked from Jan to Sandemon, who still remained rigidly silent. He typically placed little if any stock in the “feelings” and premonitions of others. But he had lived around the West Indies black man too long not to take him seriously.
He thought Sandemon was downright strange sometimes. More often than not the black man could sense what a person was thinking the way other people sensed a change in the weather. There was also his way with animals, especially horses. Jan Martova said even the Gypsies didn’t understand horses as Sandemon did.
If Sandemon thought “something might be wrong,” it probably was.
He shivered. “What do I tell Morgan?” he asked, looking from Jan to the black man.
It was Sandemon who answered. “Tell the Seanchai we knew he would be anxious to return, with night coming on.”
The black man remained silent for a moment. When he finally spoke again, there was a raw edge to his voice Tierney had not heard before. “After we arrive, stay with him,” he said, still not taking his eyes from the road. “Be sure he is not left alone.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Tierney’s for only an instant. But something in that dark, inscrutable gaze made the skin at the back of Tierney’s neck prickle.
After a moment he turned and went back inside the wagon.
All reason deserted Finola.
The nightmare was real.
This was her darkest dream, in the flesh, standing close enough that she could see the madness in his eyes.
It was him…the monster from the black chamber of her night terrors.
An irrational, numbing sense of dread overtook her, sharpening her senses. In the dim lantern light of the stables, every line, every shape, now became clearly defined, highlighted by the pulsing glow of terror.
He stepped toward her, stopping only an arm’s length away.
In the flickering glow from the lantern, his face was shadowed, eerily pale, hideously familiar.
The same wolfish, predatory face…same torn, misshapen mouth. But the eyes…the eyes were different, more frightening than before, filled with rage as well as lust, burning with madness.
Behind her she heard Gabriel begin to whimper. But shock had frozen Finola in place. She could not turn, could not look at her son or at Aine, could only stand and let her own fear wash over her like an icy waterfall.
His mouth cracked to an ugly smile. “Well, now, I see you remember me. I had hoped you wouldn’t forget.”
She would never forget…how could she hope to forget?
His voice hit her with a flood of sick remembrance. Unnatural, chilling, a grating rasp of a voice that spewed words from that mutilated mouth like bullets from a gun.
Behind her, Aine was silent, but Gabriel continued to cry, harder now, huge choking sobs of childish despair.
The monster pressed closer, waved something in his hand.
A knife…oh, Lord, have mercy, he has a knife…
She heard Aine gasp. Gabriel stopped sobbing, letting out a high, steady whine that seemed to go on and on.
“Shut him up! Now!”
He was close enough that Finola could smell his unwashed body. Again a mind-shattering memory swooped over her. Like before, he reeked of sweat and cheap whiskey.
And something else.
Hatred…
A blistering, savage hatred emanated from him, a force so intense, so bestial, it made him seem less than human.
He came at her. Two steps, and now his foul breath heated her skin, making her turn away in disgust.
He caught her arm, holding her fast with a bruising grip.
Finola closed her eyes, trying to deny the monster holding her captive, trying to convince herself it was all a nightmare, that she would awaken any instant to find him gone.
But when she opened her eyes he was still there.
26
Echoes of a Nightmare
To our misfortune, a thing
Will sometimes prove
As deadly as it seems
In the darkest of our dreams.
ANONYMOUS
This was no nightmare. It was hideously real. He was here.
She was trapped. Just like before.
No…not like before. This time at least, she had a voice!
Somehow she forced a scream up from her throat, past the terror choking off her windpipe. “Aine—run! Take Gabriel and run!”
In one blinding movement the man caught her right arm, yanking it behind her with such force Finola thought it would surely break. “You can talk!” he grated into her ear. The idea seemed to enrage him even further, as if she had betrayed him somehow, harbored forbidden secrets.
She screamed again, but he seemed not to hear. He dragged her over to Aine and Gabriel, who stood wide-eyed, clearly terror-stricken, as he whipped the knife over their heads.
“Either of you move so much as a hair, I’ll rip your hearts out!” He snapped the knife back to wave it in front of Finola. “And hers as well!”
Finola stumbled as a storm of ugly memories exploded in her mind, whipping through her with the driving force of a hurricane.
How could it be happening again? Merciful Lord, are you really going to let it happen again?
One rough hand yanked her to her feet, while the other stabbed the air with the knife, over her head, in the direction of the children. “Now you stay put, the both of you! Not a move. Not a sound.”
His eyes blazed as he turned his attention back to Finola. “And you—if you don’t want the both of them butchered as you watch, you’ll keep still, mind! Not a word, understand? Not a word!” His reddened, watery eyes went over her, searing her skin, making her feel dirty, diseased.
Finola could feel his rage, the dangerous lunacy that burned from him like smoke from a fire.
“How long?” he snarled. “How long have you been able to talk? What was it with you before? An act? A game?”
Finola turned her face away, almost overcome by the stench of his breath, the raw malignance in his eyes.
He caught a handful of her hair, jerking it so hard that pain shot through her like a furnace blast. When she shrieked in agony, he pulled her hair again, pressing his face even closer. “You’ll look at me when I’m talking to you, witch!”
Finola groaned. The tears she’d been trying so desperately to suppress finally spilled over.
“Stop your blubbering! Didn’t I tell you to keep quiet?”
He released her hair and locked his hand around both her wrists, pinning her arms behind as he bent
her backward. To keep from crying out, Finola bit her tongue with such force she drew blood.
He brought the knife blade flush against her throat. “Don’t worry, lassie. I got no intention of using this unless you force me to.” He cracked a predatory smile. “At least not until I’ve taken my pleasure.”
Finola’s blood turned to ice at his words. She had to steel herself, keep herself from flying apart. She knew if she started screaming, she would never stop.
Abruptly he wrenched her upright. “Who does the brat belong to?” he demanded, jabbing the knife toward Gabriel.
Finola’s heart stopped. For one insane moment she considered telling him the truth. Would it make a difference if he knew?
Seeing her look of dismay, he sneered. “So he is yours, then? I figured as much, with that yellow hair.”
Appalled at the thought that had crossed her mind, she immediately quelled it. She would never allow this monster to know that Gabriel was of his flesh! Never! In her heart, he wasn’t. Her son was not the offspring of some monstrous sin, but a living testament to God’s grace—a precious gift of joy. Gabriel was Morgan’s son…and God’s.
His ugly laugh jarred her back to her reality. “He’s not the cripple’s, sure?” he goaded. “It takes a whole man to sire a son.”
Morgan. She could not bear even the mention of his name on this madman’s tongue.
Her legs shook violently beneath her. Her heart was racing out of control, hammering against her chest so furiously she felt she might die where she stood. She knew she was dangerously close to fainting.
She despised herself for her fear, her weakness. Only her resolve to protect Gabriel and Aine kept her from surrendering to the darkness closing in on her. She dared not leave them to fend for themselves with this monster.
If only someone would come! She had lost track of time, but surely someone would be returning before long.
Please…oh, please, sweet Savior, bring someone soon…
In the same instant, she almost recanted the silent prayer of her heart. What might this animal do to Morgan, to anyone who happened to step into his path?
To her horror, she realized that Gabriel had begun to cry again, louder than before. His childish fear might soon give way to genuine hysteria. Racked with hard, heaving sobs, he sounded shrill, terrified, as if he might strangle on his own tears at any moment.
Finola could hear Aine’s shallow breathing and saw both horror and anger in her stare. She feared the girl might try something desperate that would only make things worse for all of them. Their eyes met, and Finola gave a small shake of her head. Please, Aine, she begged silently, do nothing foolish, or we may all die…
Almost from the instant she had set eyes on him, Annie had known the identity of the man with the knife.
This was the beast who had attacked Finola, had very nearly murdered her.
Just for a fraction of a second it occurred to her that he was also Gabriel’s father. She glanced down at the wee wane clinging to her hand, and immediately denied the thought. The Seanchai was Gabriel’s father, himself alone! This monster could not possibly be sire to anything but evil!
Poor Gabriel was crying ever so hard now, tears streaming down his cheeks like rivers, his breath coming in loud, strangling gasps. She squeezed his hand, then put a trembling finger to her own lips to try to silence him. When he merely stared up at her and went on sobbing, she bent to gather him up in her arms.
She turned to watch the man with Finola. He was big, not so big as Sandemon or the Seanchai, but a hulk of a man all the same. And he was scary looking entirely, with his crazed eyes and misshapen mouth.
The thought of the Seanchai and Sandemon made her heart leap. Surely they would be arriving at any moment now, the two of them, with Tierney Burke and Jan Martova!
Sister and Lucy Hoy ought to be coming back soon as well. But they would be of little help against the beast with the knife.
She had to do something now. The man with the knife was obviously a lunatic. There was no telling what he might do unless he were stopped.
She wanted desperately to fly at him, claw his face, strike him with murderous blows. She wanted to hurt him in the worst way, make him pay for what he had done to Finola.
But he had turned Finola about to face them, and she was signaling Annie with her eyes to do nothing rash.
A riot of conflicting emotions raged through Annie. It seemed to her that if she and Finola rushed him at the same time, they could bring him down. It would be the two of them—and they were not weaklings, after all—against him alone.
But there was the knife…and Gabriel.
Again her gaze met Finola’s. The message was the same. Do nothing. At least for now.
So she would wait, if reluctantly. She would watch him and wait for her chance. Perhaps she could find a weapon of some sort, or figure a way to outwit him.
Sister said his sort of man had a terrible anger inside, a need to punish others, to assert power by inflicting pain and degradation. That was why they often picked on women to hurt. They considered them weaker, less likely to fight back.
Perhaps for now she must let him think just that. She would pretend to be weak, give him no sign she meant to fight. But she would fight, given even half a chance, one timely moment. She would…
A muffled sob against her neck and a renewed fit of wailing brought her back to the dread reality of their situation. She whispered a reassurance to wee Gabriel, who had turned in her arms and was looking at his mother with a pitiful expression that nearly broke Annie’s heart.
I won’t let him hurt you, Little Brother, she promised silently. I will die before I let him hurt you.
Behind the children, in the back of the stables, Morgan’s stallion, Pilgrim, snorted, then whinnied and began to bump at the door of his stall. Gradually, Finola heard the other horses throughout the building join in, squealing and snorting, pounding at the ground with their hooves and thrashing against the stalls, setting up a terrible din in the stables.
Pilgrim reared in the stall and let go a furious protest. The noise seemed to set the man off like a torch to tinder. For a moment he appeared to forget Finola, releasing her hands as he whirled about to bellow in rage at the horses.
In the split second as he released her, Finola sprang away, bolting toward Aine and Gabriel, intent on making a run for the back door of the stables. Aine saw, and pivoted toward her, pressing Gabriel tightly against her shoulder.
But the man was too quick. He was upon Finola in an instant, grabbing her and yanking her against him.
He was a big man, much heavier than Finola, but she was nearly as tall. Trying not to think about the knife, she twisted, kicking behind her, catching him on his shin bones.
The blows stopped him, at least long enough for her to pull free.
“WITCH!” He began to chant the word at the top of his lungs, like some sort of macabre incantation. He came at her again, both hands raised above his head, one balled to a fist, the other gripping the knife. “Witch, witch, witch!”
He was on her again, one thick arm wedged under her throat, dragging her backward with such force her feet left the ground.
Finola saw Aine move to help. “No, Aine!” she screamed at her. “Stay back!”
Still carrying Gabriel, the girl backed off. But after a moment she set her brother to his feet, then stood poised, as if waiting for an opportunity to strike.
The heavy arm around Finola’s neck unexpectedly dropped away, then circled her waist so tightly she lost her breath. With his other hand he brought the knife around to her throat.
Facing Aine and Gabriel, Finola could not escape the horror in their eyes. Her son was clinging to Aine’s hand, but seeing his mother entrapped, he now strained to press forward, to run to Finola.
“No, Gabriel!”
Immediately she realized that the fear in her voice had communicated to the child. He stopped, then began to cry—terrible, heart-wrenching wails that pierced Finol
a’s heart and threatened to sever her last remaining cord of sanity.
She knew her life, and probably the lives of both children, depended on her not losing control. Somehow she managed to lower her voice, to inject a note of calm into her tone. For the sake of her son and Aine, she swallowed her own terror, strangling on a knot of panic even as she tried to soothe him.
“Gabriel…my precious, stay with Aine,” she choked out. “Mama is all right. All is well.” Her eyes went to Aine’s, silently pleading for her to restrain him.
But as she watched, Aine’s stricken face turned hard. White-lipped, rage blazing in her eyes, she looked at Finola as if searching for a sign, a signal of some sort.
Terrified, Finola raised a hand as if to hold her back. “Aine…no,” she warned, her voice low and unsteady. “You must not.”
Slowly the girl’s thin shoulders sagged, then slumped in defeat. But her dark eyes still burned with helpless rage as she stood, unmoving, holding her brother’s hand.
Finola swayed on her feet, then squeezed her eyes shut. She could not bear Aine’s look of utter desolation or the bewildered terror in her son’s small face.
27
Dread and Despair
The bravest heart
No more is brave.
FROM AN ARTICLE IN ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS, 1848
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Sandemon was more familiar with the road than Jan Martova; he knew about the wicked turn just ahead. But for the past several minutes he had deliberately shut out his surroundings in an effort to pray.
Only moments before, the dread that had been growing within him all evening had risen to the surface in one chilling instant of awareness, driving him to seek the Presence. His spirit was far too agitated, his concentration too fragmented, to gain any measure of peace for himself. But he had at least managed to loose the binding chains of fear and seek divine protection—and intervention—for those he loved.
Because of his inattention, they were almost into the sharp bend before he realized it. He shouted a warning as they approached, but it was too late.