"Whose is it, then?” The doctor fell silent and Elliot went on passionately. “Since his father will not accept the responsibility, it is up to all of us as Christians to do so in his stead. I cannot do it alone. I am asking for your help, George."
"Oh, I'll help,” said Howard. “I'll help put you back together when ‘responsibility’ breaks your body and your spirit, and your heart in there gives out for your efforts. That's my responsibility, Elliot. When you give me some help with that, we'll broach this subject again."
* * * *
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Chapter Ten
* * * *
The vicar looked in on Mary at daybreak. She had lapsed into a state of lethargy, staring into nothingness, and Amy quickly steered him out of earshot toward the far corner of the room.
"She woke quiet like that,” she whispered. She usually wakes thrashin’ and screamin’ and tryin’ ta get her hands free. She still don't know me, but do you think ‘tis a good sign—this calm come over her, sir? I dunno’ what's natural and unnatural with her anymore."
The vicar studied the girl from his distance, but he wasn't prepared to take this new development at face value. He had long since given up trying to fathom Mary's unpredictable moods. It seemed she had retained that aspect of her personality even in madness, and he wasn't about to trust it.
"I'm sure I don't know, Mrs. Croft,” he said. “Dr. Howard would be the one to sort out what to make of it better than I. Let's leave the natural and unnatural to him, shall we?"
"I hate to disturb him,” said Amy. “He just went off for a lie-down half an hour ago. He's been back and forth between young miss and the master all o’ the night. Do you think I should fetch him anyway?"
"No, let him rest. Just stay with her and see how she fares. If it's an improvement he'll see it when he returns, and if not we'll have disturbed him for naught. Who's tending the master?"
"Elsie, sir."
"Where's Sara?"
"Somebody's got ta do the chores and serve the meals. She's better at that than she is at nursin'. ‘Tis best that she looks after young miss after she's been dosed for the night."
"And Master Colin?"
"I dunno', sir. I seen him in the kitchen before I come up here."
"Ummmm,” the vicar grunted. It didn't take much to imagine what Colin was doing in the servants’ wing with everyone else scattered but Sara. But there was no time to deal with that then.
"Can you manage without me for a little while?” he said. “I'm going to be out of the house for a bit this morning."
"Yes, sir. Where are you goin’ . . . in case somebody asks?"
"I'm going to the stones."
"Whatever for, sir?” she cried.
"Shhhh,” he cautioned her, “to do what you did in this room. I'll need water, and some of that lye soap and pumice. I'll have it from Cook. I need to do this alone, Mrs. Croft, so I'd be obliged if you'd keep my whereabouts to yourself and the staff, unless there's an urgency here, then I would want you to send young master for me at once, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir,” said Amy, “but you're scarin’ me now. You shouldn't go near that place—'tis evil!"
"That's just why I must. It has to be cleansed, Mrs. Croft. It should have been done days ago. Perhaps if it had been . . . well, at any rate, it will be before the sun sets on it again."
Though she continued her tearful protests, Elliot couldn't be dissuaded. As far as he was concerned, that there was an evil presence among them was a certainty. Just what that presence was or how to fight it remained a mystery. Solving it would begin with the exorcism of whatever unholy phenomenon it was that presided at the ring, and within the hour he'd collected his tools from Cook in the kitchen and started down the footpath in the trap, his vestments and prayer book on the seat beside him.
The day was bright with fleecy clouds scudding before a stiff wind. They raced by overhead, bearing no threat of rain, and had passed over altogether by the time he'd reached the standing stones and he tethered his horse to the tall, thin column at the entrance, capped with the lintel that the lightning had struck. But Elliot trusted neither the deceitful sun nor the peculiar warmth of the March morning as he put on his chasuble and stole, entered the circle—prayer book in hand—and began to recite the prayers he'd chosen to bless the water and cleanse the ring.
The wind had risen sharply, playing a mournful tune about the stone pillars, and he raised his voice in competition with the eerie, flute-like music. Blatant gusts lifted the hem of his chasuble and played with his stole, as though some unseen entity mocked him, but he gave it no quarter.
Once he'd finished the ritual, he carried the bucket of holy water to the altar and began scrubbing the clumsily drawn pentacle with the lye soap and pumice. Though they were faded, the stains had bled deeply into the porous stone, but he wasn't about to leave the ring until every last speck of the symbol was erased, and it was nearly four in the afternoon before he'd finally removed it.
The sun had sunken low in the sky, and the light was fading early as it always did on the coast. The wind had gained velocity. Cyclonic gusts slammed against the stones humbling the heather low and rippling the water in the bucket. The thorn shrubs chattered as the wind passed through them and moved on to grieve the mare, fanning her mane out on end. She began to whinny and dance nervously straining the tether, and the vicar hurried to tighten the reins at the pillar for fear of her breaking free before he'd had a chance to deliver the benediction.
As he struggled with that, the wind stole the breath from his nostrils and narrowed his eyes just as it had done the night he'd found Mary there. Dead leaves and twigs swirled up from the ground and beat at him, stinging his face and hands. Above him the lightning-struck capstone shifted, jiggling against the pillar as the horse jerked the reins. Another howling gust blasted the ring. Over the roar of it, Elliot heard a sharp, grating sound and looked up in time to see but not avoid a slab of the broken lintel hurtling toward him. It struck him hard on the left shoulder and drove him down in the dead scrub, pinning him there semiconscious.
Frightened by the elements and the vicar's outcry, the mare strained at the tether until she had worked one of the reins loose—snapped the other, and galloped back up the footpath toward the house with the empty trap jouncing along behind.
Overhead what was left of the capstone rattled against the pillar, threatening to follow after as the vicious wind that teased it whistled among the stones. But the vicar scarcely saw, nor did he hear the blood-chilling sound. He lost consciousness and lay still beneath the slab as the sun disappeared into the ocean behind the rise, and a soft, purple twilight crept over the valley.
* * * *
Colin had just returned from the south moor astride Odin when the vicar's trap careened into the stable drive empty. Once Harris told him where Elliot had gone, he didn't wait for the stabler to grab a lantern and climb into the carriage, he dug his heels into his exhausted mount's sides, drove him at a gallop over the eastern rise to the footpath, and raced toward the valley below.
He reached the ring before Harris ever left the stable. The soft semi-darkness was still fraught with a rampaging wind. It threatened his balance as he slid out of the saddle and ran to Elliot who had begun to stir, moaning awake with the weight of the stone sending sharp, tearing pain through his shoulder.
"Christ, Elliot, don't move,” the boy cried as he lifted the slab. Stripping off his cloak, he covered the vicar with it and sank down beside him. “Harris is right behind me with the trap,” he said, “and Howard is due at the house any time now. You're going to be all right."
The broken lintel had begun to grate against the pillar, and Elliot shouted, “Colin—look out!” shoving the boy out of its path as it came crashing down alongside them. But the exertion was costly, and Elliot cried out as pain threatened consciousness again.
Colin scrambled to his feet. “Bloody hell,” he breathed, raking back his hair as he stared down at th
e stone laying where he had knelt seconds earlier.
Just then Harris pulled up to the ring in the trap. He climbed out of it, lantern in hand, and swaggered toward them.
"It took you long enough,” Colin snapped. “Grab his legs, I'll take his shoulders. Easy, you dolt. I think that damned stone has broken his collarbone again. What damage it didn't do he did just now shoving me out of the way of that there,” he said, pointing toward the stone that had just fallen.
"Holy Jesus,” the stabler murmured, having lowered the lantern for a closer look. He set it down quickly and between them he and Colin carried Elliot to the trap.
"Fetch the lantern, Master Colin, while I fasten him in,” Harris charged.
Colin ran back inside the ring, but rage moved him then, and a savage howl leaked through his lips, as he tore at the pillars in a mad attempt to topple them. In total aberration he beat his fists against the stones until he'd scraped them raw. But failure only served to feed his frustration until, enraged beyond reason, he snatched up the lantern and smashed it against the immovable pillar alongside the entrance. It burst into flames spread by the wind and ignited a patch of dead scrub at his feet, where the vicar's prayer book had fallen. Following the woodbine creepers that clung to the column, lean tongues of fire leaped up and caught the back of Colin's cambric blouse.
He cried out and spun around trying to beat out the flames searing his flesh, but they were out of reach and the motion only served to spread them faster.
"Holy Christ!” cried Harris, running toward Colin. “Lie down on the ground, you young lunatic.” But Colin could scarcely hear him over the roar of the wind.
"Harris—the bucket,” the vicar called out from the trap. “There's water in the bucket!"
A blow to the pain-crazed boy's jaw sent him sprawling, and the stabler grabbed the bucket, extinguished his flaming blouse, and slung him over his shoulder.
It was too late to save the vicar's prayer book; the flames had engulfed it. Nonetheless, Harris attempted to stamp out the brush still aflame alongside the altar.
"Leave it,” Elliot moaned, “maybe the fire will cleanse it . . . I . . . could not."
The shock of cold water, and the stench of scorched flesh and charred fabric in Colin's nostrils revived him momentarily, and he groaned, but made no protest as the stabler hoisted him face down over Odin's saddle, tied the animal's reins to the back of the trap, and drove back up the footpath to the house
* * * *
Dr. Howard had just come to make his evening rounds when the trap rolled into the circular drive. He and Harris carried Colin and the vicar to their respective chambers with Amy on their heels, wailing that she hadn't hands enough to tend the whole household come down around her.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Elliot begged the doctor to see to Colin first, but Howard refused him. Leaving the boy in Amy's hands, he took advantage of one of Elliot's unconscious periods to set and bind his collarbone and shoulder. When the vicar did finally stir, he opened his eyes to the blurred image of Howard's frown.
Bending over him, the doctor listened to the erratic heartbeat beneath the bandages with his stethoscope for a long moment before he set it aside and opened his satchel. He took a packet from it and emptied the powder it contained into a glass at the gate-leg table. After mixing it with a splash of water from the pitcher, he returned to the closet bed, raised Elliot's head, and held the glass to his chalk-white lips.
"Drink,” he said, “all of it."
Elliot swallowed the bitter liquid and the doctor eased him back down again.
"Colin?” the vicar murmured.
"Mrs. Croft is looking after him,” the doctor replied. “I'll be joining her directly."
"George, I asked you to tend him first."
"Your situation was more grave,” said Howard. “You've broken your clavicle again, and your shoulder and sternum into the bargain. They're clean breaks, though, and I've set and bound them. You'll mend, but you're going to stay right there in that bed ‘til you do."
"I can't be laid up here now."
"You have no choice. Christ on His throne! Did I not have enough to deal with in this house without you and young Chapin atop it? I do have a practice, you know.
"When my dear wife passed on ten years ago, half the village begged me to marry again. I'm glad I resisted. If I had a wife waiting at home there'd be grounds for divorce. I haven't seen my lodgings in nearly a week. My housekeeper probably thinks I'm stone dead in a ditch somewhere, and I shan't put her mind at ease tonight, shall I? No! I've got to spend another night in this miserable, accursed house spreading myself thin between four patients now instead of two, with precious few helping hands to lighten the load.
"Young Chapin won't be off his feet for long, but he doesn't count. He hasn't lifted a finger to help with anything here yet. All he knows how to do is create more work for the rest of us. Well, at least with him out of the way for awhile, I won't have to spend my spare time out in that stable tending lame horses."
"I'm sorry,” the vicar murmured humbly.
"What the devil did you go out there for? And what possessed that young libertine to smash an oil lantern in a stiff wind knee-deep in combustible scrub? I can't stomach the boy, it's true, but I gave him credit for more brains than that."
"He was angry."
"Do tell. So am I, but I've got more sense than to set myself afire. Never mind about that—I'm not through with you yet."
He took up his stethoscope again and laid it against the vicar's breast, silencing him with a gesture as he started to speak. “Be still and let me listen,” he said. After a moment he set the stethoscope aside and studied Elliot carefully. “You've got a murmur there, you know,” he said, “an irregular heartbeat."
The vicar popped a cryptic laugh. “It's a miracle it's beating at all."
"I don't like the rhythm of that heart in there. I've never been happy with it. I don't like your color either. Is there any nausea or chest pain?"
"Chest pain?"
"The pain I'm speaking of . . . it's different. Believe me, you'd be able to distinguish it from the rest."
The vicar shook his head. “I was a little nauseous in the trap, and I had a pain in my arm before of a different sort, but it's gone now."
"Which arm?"
"My left, but that's due to my collarbone and shoulder, surely."
"Oh? So you're doctor here now are you?"
"Of course not, but—"
"Is there history of heart ailment in your family, Elliot?"
"Not that I know of. What are you suggesting?"
"That pain in your arm was a warning. Unless I miss my guess—and I rarely do—you've suffered a mild heart spasm. That powder I gave you just now should keep it in check, but you're going to have to be careful."
The vicar drew a cautious breath. “Heart spasm?” he murmured, digesting it.
Howard nodded. “I'm sorry."
"I don't want you to tell Colin this, George—or anyone."
The doctor gave a start. “Why on earth not? If that young scoundrel and the servants are aware, they might just give you an ease."
"I'll do that on my own."
"Ummmm, like you have up to now, eh? Rubbish!"
"I didn't know this before, George. I'm asking as a personal favor. I don't want Colin to know—it's important."
"I give no favors with life in the balance,” Howard growled.
"Surely it can't be as grave as all that?"
"Not yet, no, but it could be. You're young for this sort of thing, Elliot. I don't like it. If you continue under this kind of stress you won't see thirty, I promise you. The heart is nothing to play with. Yours is telling you it needs rest. It's my responsibility to see you get it however I have to go about it."
"If I cannot appeal to you out of the friendship I'd hoped we were forming, then I shall have to insist that you uphold your obligation to keep professional confidentiality. I mean it, George, I do not want Colin t
o know."
The doctor breathed an exasperated sigh. “I'll strike a bargain with you, Elliot,” he said, “since you're hell-bent upon sparing young Chapin—"
"That's not why I've asked it,” the vicar interrupted him. “You know what I'm trying to accomplish with that boy. We'd gotten off to a good start before all this, and in order for me to succeed now he has to be able to confide in me. He won't do that if he thinks that involving me in his...situations is going to give me heart failure, and you know it. If there is any meaning at all to my being thrust into the middle of this nightmare it has to be Colin's redemption. I've failed at everything else. I will have my way in this, George—with or without your cooperation. It would, of course, be easier with."
"Are you quite through?"
The vicar nodded.
"Very well then, as I was saying, I'll make a bargain with you—I'll keep your secret so long as I see that my doing so causes no threat to your health. We shall see if you can, as you say, deal with it on your own. At the first sign that you cannot, the bargain is off. Take it or leave it."
"That's fair."
"That confident, are you?"
"I'm not confident, George, I'm determined."
"Stubborn, if you ask me."
The vicar smiled. “It comes with the calling,” he said. “Now if you've got something for the pain, I'd be obliged if you'd give it and see to Colin. Mrs. Croft's skills are not in dispute, but he needs you now more than I do."
"Open . . .” said the doctor, offering the laudanum he'd poured. “Get some rest, Elliot. I'll look in on you later. Oh, and, just for the record, our bargain is struck out of friendship—one I don't want to lose so soon after gaining over the likes of young Colin Chapin."
He took up his satchel and went to the door, but the vicar's voice halted him halfway through it.
"Thank you, George,” he said, “you won't regret it."
The doctor looked him in the eyes. “I'm not the one who needs to worry about regrets,” he said, closing the door behind him.
* * * *
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Rape of the Soul Page 14