A Stag in the Shadows

by S E Turner

  'Thank you for intervening sir.'

  'It was your mistress who wanted me to check that you were all alright. '

  'Thank the gods. Goodness knows what would have happened to our dear friend otherwise.'

  Coben looked at him knowingly, and bobbed his head up and down. His mood was sombre.

  'I know that underneath all the facade, you are a good man,' said Moira. 'Only the gods know what your secrets are to make you work for a master such as this.'

  Coben breathed deeply as a past life flashed before him and then returned to the present.

  'Your mistress asked me to check on all of you. And after what has just happened, you can be sure that I will do so on a regular basis.'

  'We can never thank you enough.'

  'Just work hard and keep your head down. That is the best advice I can give you.'

  She touched his arm as he took his leave. Atilus clutched his cap in both hands and dipped his head.

  Many people worked on the farms at Hezekiah Hall. All of them taken from wealthy landowners and flourishing farmsteads and other thriving communities. Some of them had to provide meals for the king and his guards. There were those who looked after the huge assortment of animals. Others had to make clothes for estate. Turners and welders made kitchen utensils and trade implements. Everyone had a service to do.

  But although it wasn't ideal, it was a far better life than those who worked in the mine.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the waiting area, Philipe and Saskia had watched the last of their comrades go through the passageway. A guard came to take Philipe to his destination, and Coben took Saskia.

  'Where are you taking him?' Saskia struggled to get free. 'Let me go with my father. Please.'

  'Saskia, you can't,' said Coben. 'This is a deal.'

  'Deal! What deal?' She tried to fight him.

  'Go with him child,' said Philipe. 'I will be all right, and I know that Coben will take care of you.'

  'Father!'

  'Please Saskia, don't make this anymore difficult than it already is.'

  'But father.'

  Philipe nodded to the guard and he was taken one way and Saskia was taken another.

  The passageway was long, and coiled round labyrinths of shadows. The stone flagstones chilled the air, but fixed lamps along the walls created warmth. The smell of damp and burning cloyed the air, and a tense silence amplified her shuffling footsteps.

  'I promised you that I would look after you Saskia, and I will keep that promise.'

  She wanted to hold his hand or steal under the protective hook of his arm. She wanted to feel that fatherly protection that was suddenly missing. For the first time in her young life she had no one. Her brother was dead, her mother was miles away, and her father could be anywhere in this stone glazed warren. She followed closely behind him, with her head bent low. He didn't see the tears running down her face.

  Another long passageway led to an arched doorway. He unlocked it and invited her through. The ramp curved upwards. There were no steps here, just an endless spiral that made her legs ache. At the top he opened another arched door; this was wooden in construction with small vertical bars that served as a peephole. To her, it looked like a prison cell. Coben opened it and gestured for her to go inside.

  She was hesitant. She didn't like enclosed spaces. She had never been confined before. Her world was open and free where she could run as far as she wanted, or conceal herself by a brook or lean by a tree. This world was hostile—and she hated it.

  'Please Saskia, believe me the alternative is far worse.'

  'What alternative? What are you talking about?'

  'You have to trust me Saskia, for your life and your father's life depends on it. '

  She had to trust this man—for right now he was her only ally. With tentative movements, she stepped over the threshold and into her new prison home.

  The first thing she noticed was how spacious it was. With vaulted walls of precious white marble, its blank curvature even more imposing for its lack of carving or gilt. Small, lead-light windows were arched into the pure white facade. The floor, like everywhere else she had been, had no steps, just a continual ramp of polished tiles that followed the curve of the walls. And pillars like tree trunks, that rose from the ground, soared into the domed lacquered ceiling above.

  She walked into the room, raising the candle to maximise its throw. 'It's huge.' She turned in a circle. 'So many books.' She moved closer in and heard a grating sound followed by a clang of bolts as the door was shut behind her.

  'Coben!' She span around.

  'I'm following orders Saskia. For your own safety.'

  She went to the bars and reached out to him.

  'Please Coben. I'm scared on my own. Don't lock me in.'

  He didn't make eye contact. He was fearful he would act on her pleas. 'I'm never too far away. Tell your maid if you need me.'

  She didn't want him to go.

  'My father, where have they taken him?'

  'I will keep both of you informed of how the other is faring. I promise you that dear lady.'

  He bowed low and took his leave.

  'Coben, just check on my friends, please. They will be terrified without me or my father. Please go and see that they are all right...please...Coben...please.'

  He could still hear her voice calling him as he marched down the passageway.

  Terrified of what was going to happen to her, she suddenly felt vulnerable and weak in this huge prison. She held her flame to the wick of a large bronze lamp on a table. Immediately the space brightened, the endless shadows solidifying into the walls and ceiling of the curved room. She felt herself drawn to the wooden reading table under an arched window. It was covered with parchment and small brass weights. A pot of ink and a gold feather quill sat unused.

  Looking out of the window she could see how high up she was. The sculpted foliage beneath, curved round the tower, the tops of trees didn't come anywhere close to her room. It was silent and gleaming under a blanket of stars. She opened the top light a fraction and breathed in the air. She heard the brush of leaves and branches in the warm wind. It made her think of home and how magical it was. She thought of her brother and a warm tear ran down her cheek. The crack of a breaking branch alerted her, she squinted into the darkness. Eyes of polished garnets in black smouldering faces looked up at her. There was a soft guttural call. Then a screech. An owl dived past her window, and into the undergrowth. There was a brief rustling. Then it appeared again with something in its talons. She watched it disappear into the night sky, predator and prey. There would always be winners and losers she thought. For in life, death was always a whisper away .

  Chilled fingers shut the window again and felt a soft click as it closed. In the candlelight, she followed the curve of the wall to a massive king sized bed. White silk sheets lay gracefully over the sleigh, and huge pillows plumped up against the headboard was a warm welcome after a gruelling day. Putting the candle in a holder beside the bed, she swaddled herself in the soft cocoon and let the tears flow.

  A disturbed night followed. She thrashed about in the dark, dreaming of monsters and dragons. Immense beasts looming over her homestead, breathing fire as they crashed through turbulent black clouds. Columns of grey smoke rose up to stain a deepening crimson sky. They circled the farmstead, wicked flames burned rapidly, devouring her home and the precious possessions within. Crops were cremated and dropped like rows of fallen soldiers in seconds. She saw her brother writhe on the ground in agony, screaming at the daggers of fire above him. His flesh was burning and she could not help him. He was suffocating and struggling. No one could help him.

  She sat up, sweating, her heart was racing, her face stained with tears. Disorientated, she panicked, then realised where she was. Looking round, she saw that the candle had withered down to a discarded skin. A small flame was barely visible. She got up to blow it out and inched her way back to the warmth of her bed.

  'I'm sorr
y Vlavos, I am weak without you, I am lost without father, I am a child without mother. I feel that I am on the dark side of a tunnel, and that however much I try to reach the other side, my legs won't carry me and I cannot see the light.'

  'You are strong Saskia, lift your head high. You will see the light'

  'There is no light brother. It's dark and it's cold. When they took the life from you, they took the life from me.'

  'Don't waste your time in misery Saskia, use it wisely and you will find hope.'

  'I want to get out of here, but I can't, how can I get out of here Vlavos. How can I ?'

  'You can do it, there is a way. There is always a way.'

  Chapter Thirteen

  Philipe was lead from one damp, cold, passage to another, down flights of stairs, round stone cold walls and further down into the abyss. At one point he was wading through foul smelling water; he stumbled over a rock and fell against a wall, his hand plunged into moisture that crumbled in his grasp. The guards looked at him and kept moving, they wanted to get out of there quickly it seemed. He scrambled up, almost tempted to make a run for it in the other direction. But then he thought of the people who had gone through the tunnel; where had they been taken to he wondered? He prayed that they were they safe. Then he thought of his daughter. She was somewhere else in this mountain labyrinth. Would any of them get out of here alive?

  Tears stung his eyes, and he let them fall into the water that lapped at his feet. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried. Now he couldn't stop.

  The further they went down, the warmer it became, which was some form of consolation in this vacuous mountain city. Flickering candles with wisps of grey smoke lit the way for the small troop. They resembled small dragons he thought, but was told they would be put out soon, then it would plunged into perpetual darkness till the morning again. Noises came and went; crying, sobbing, men trying to find salvation. It soon quietened down in the void. Only a few sobs could be heard now. He was pushed into a cell. Shackles were locked into place. His metal door was bolted. And he was left on his own.

  He watched as their shadows, tall as giant serpents, writhed against the walls. He could still hear them laughing and joking outside his cell. His senses were heightened. The smell was overpowering. He retched and instinctively reached out to a wall to support him while he recovered. The cell stank of decay, faeces and urine. It seeped under his skin. He breathed in small pockets between pursed lips. He would soon get used to the smell though, and forget to purse his lips. In the distance he heard his captor's diminishing voices. The clanking of keys and scraping of shackles echoed through the chamber. Then the lights went out and he was in the blackest pit he had ever known. There was nothing to see, even when his eyes adjusted, darkness still pooled in the emptiness. He moved his hand in front of his face. The air moved with it, but that was all. He saw nothing. Night blindness was all that he was aware of. He reached out with his hands, and shuffled forwards, his fingers brushed against a rough stone wall. His foot found a soft palette and he scrambled on top of it.

  He thought of his homestead, the beautiful farm that had been started from a small dwelling by his forefathers. He lifted his nose and could smell the fragrance of honeysuckle and the sweet perfume of climbing roses. He tried to hang on to the scent, but the overpowering odour of his cramped cell consumed it. He searched in his visual memory for the fields of wheat and corn, the meadows full of livestock, the paddocks teaming with horses. Oh what he would give to wander round all of those acres right now. The bluebell woods where Troubadour would roll around and bark contentedly. 'Oh Troubadour, my dear friend.' How many times had he forgotten it was all there, now all he wanted was to see the sky above him and feel the grass beneath his feet.

  He wept when he thought about the many days he had spent pouring over a mountain of papers and writing down figures to make sure it all tallied. Why didn't he go fishing with his son, or visit the Pastor and Inga with his own dear wife Nolene? Why didn't he go to the summer fair with Saskia, and watch his son in a jousting match or win a tug of war. He should have been there, at every moment, to build those precious memories with his family. He shook his head in despair and relived the long lonely days where he had sat behind a desk, alone, and preoccupied with trivial matters to fill his mind. He should have enjoyed his homestead. Watch the seasons morph, feel a change in the weather, watch the animals behaviour as they prepared for a transition. His priorities had been misguided, and now it had all been taken from him.

  There was nothing left of it now anyway. Charred and broken, a stain on the landscape. A black spot on the horizon. The parallels were not that different he thought to himself. He was still in one room. Still in the dark. But this time he had no choice. No choice at all.

  'Do you ever remember falling asleep?' He heard a voice say. 'You never do because the night air is mysterious like that. It descends on you like a heavy shroud, its long black fingers slowly concealing everything in its path. Mist and darkness hover like a hideous veil, bewitching its prey and stripping it bare of energy and life.

  'Sneaking up and sucking the life from the victim who is unaware and unprepared. It's impossible to fight back the aroma and stifling effects of dusk and nightfall. Leaves shake and whisper to each other as the cold night air descends. Branches creak and crane and twigs seem to snap unprovoked.

  'Who knows what goings on occur under this engulfing spell, who knows what tricks are played and acted out when the eyelids drop so heavily over tired eyes. Who knows what demons come out to play under the blanket of the night' The voice in his tired head trailed off as he fell asleep and began to dream of his son.

  'Father, you have shown such strength and such courage in this, the hardest time of your life. You have demonstrated resilience and bravery in front of your people, in front of Saskia, and kept everyone strong. I am so proud of you. But do not give in father. Do not weaken at your lowest point. There are difficult times ahead, dark times, and you will be tested. But keep your spirit alive and you will survive this. Think of mother, talk of Saskia, remember me. You are stronger than you think. '

  The image went. He sat up and reached for his son in the black pitch around him. He cried out, but a disembodied scream was all he could manage.

  His son had told him what to do, how to get through this. So all he could do now, was to keep the memory alive; to talk about his former life, to remember his beautiful home. The fields, the paddocks, the bluebell woods. Yes that's what he would do. He would create stories and remember it that way. And then, maybe, just maybe, he would keep his sanity in this hell-hole, and keep his beautiful son in his dreams.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The long hours of wakefulness gritted her eyes as she watched the room brighten into the start of another day. Her mouth was parched and the skin around her eyes was tight with dried tears. A silk sheet barely covered her legs. She curled up and wrapped the material around her again. A breeze was coming through the window that faced her bed. It smelled of dawn and a new beginning. Though as her eyes became accustomed to the light, the morning emphasised the room's drab austerity. It was as starkly furnished as she had remembered. She struggled upright, where, beside her bed, was a water-jug and cup. Someone must have been in she thought, she didn't remember that last night. She poured herself a cool cup of water, gulping it down without a pause. Another two cupfuls finally quenched her thirst. She swung her legs out of bed, and the sound of the door opening made her look up.

  'Good morning Saskia.' Came a kind young voice .

  Saskia watched as a girl put down a pile of fresh towels.

  'Good morning... and... who are you?'

  'My name is Meredith, and I have instructions from Coben to make sure that you have everything you need.'

  She must have brought the water in earlier, Saskia thought.

  'Well it will be nice to freshen up and change my clothes.' She felt her petticoat under the sheet, and a grey tattered dress lay discarded on the floor. />
  'Of course. Coben has already thought of that.'May I wash. Is there some water other than what is in the jug?'

  'Of course there is. Please, let me arrange everything for you.'

  The maid busied herself getting everything in place. A room divider was pulled out. Then the towels were put on a chair, a clean robe was laid on her bed.

  'If you could wait a little bit longer. Some of the other servants are waiting to bring things that will make you more comfortable.'

  'Of course—please... go ahead.'

  The maid summoned the waiting servants, and each one entered her cell, bearing all manner of items.

  Bowls of peaches, plums and pears were brought in. A flagon of water with matching silver cups, chests full of clothing, more books, maps, board games, and a copper bath tub. Other maids carried in jugs of warm water and filled up the tub.

  Saskia could only watch with her mouth open wide.

  'Coben has thought of everything Mistress Saskia, but if there is anything else that you need, please tell me. '

  'This is fine for now—thank you.'

  The entourage took their leave, Meredith bowed low to Saskia, and she was on her own again.

  She took off her petticoat and left it on the floor. Her undergarments were also shed like an unwashed second skin. She tingled with excitement as a toe felt the warmth of the water, and she breathed in the faint waves of scented steam rising from the tub. The water closed around her feet and shins, and as she lowered herself into the warmth, a sigh of ecstasy escaped her lips. She submerged her whole body and a warm weight broke over her head. She leaned back and felt the ripples run off her face. She ran the water through her long dark hair, massaging her scalp with the oils that had been added; bergamot, orange blossom, sesame and jasmine. She wiped her face thoroughly, to wash away the horrors of the past few days, and breathed out hard, as if she had just performed an ancient ritual.