Darkness was pressing close called early by a leaden sky bearing down on the coast ahead of the rain that had already begun to fall out to sea. The vicar couldn't take his eyes from Colin's face, so pale in the half-light, praying for some sign of life in the strong, sinewy body lying so terribly cold and still. After a time he bowed his head and closed the worried eyes listening to the wind whistle over the brake. Stronger gusts began ripping his hair and drying the cold sweat that had broken out all over his skin. He'd heard the wind howl before, but the sound of it had never set his teeth on edge quite the way it did then, in the belly of that lonely hollow.
It was nearly half an hour before Colin stirred, his feeble moans jerking the vicar's head up with eyes focused toward the sound. The trembling lips worked, but uttered nothing more than a barely audible stutter, and his eyes opened no wider than a crack beneath the ledge of his swollen brow.
"Colin,” breathed the vicar, “ahhh, Colin, thank God!"
Colin struggled to speak, and Elliot bent closer pressing his ear low over the quivering lips. “B-bastard,” he murmured, “the . . . bastard."
"Malcolm?"
"A trap . . . laid in wait . . . Odin . . . oh, Jesus!"
"Don't talk, Colin,” the vicar pleaded, “you're badly hurt. Howard is on his way."
"Can't see. My head . . . Odin's hoof . . . ahhhh, Jesus."
"He kicked you?"
"Dragged me . . . from the crest . . . my foot feels broken . . . blast! D-don't leave me, Elliot . . . I can't see."
"Ahhhh, Colin, I'm not going to leave you,” moaned the vicar. “It's all right—it's dark out, that's why you can't see; it's nearly six. Rest now—please don't talk anymore."
"Dark out? Uh, pain . . . my head . . . uh . . ."
Overhead the clouds began spitting out their first drops of rain. Cold and sharp, they came driven hard out of the mean southwest tempest boiling at sea. A deluge was falling in slanted sheets by the time the vicar saw George Howard's lantern bobbing over the crest. Colin had lapsed into unconsciousness again, and Elliot crouched with his back to the pelting rain using his body as a shield to keep the full force of it from beating directly into his face. Over the fury of the gale, he could hear the doctor's bark well before he was close enough to present a clear image. The sound of it set his heart racing.
"Christ on His throne, Elliot, what are you after—another seizure? Get up out of there. Let the bounder drown! Goddamn you, man, are you trying to kill yourself?"
The vicar ignored him. “Hurry, George,” he cried, “he's badly hurt."
The doctor thrust the lantern toward Harris, and squatted over Colin with a grunt. “How long ago did this happen?” he said to Elliot, meanwhile glancing over his shoulder toward the stabler. “Hold that closer down here, Harris,” he charged, motioning.
Harris’ arm shot forward and he crouched low, holding the lantern nearer Colin's face.
"It happened about noon, George,” said the vicar. “He was conscious awhile ago for a bit. He said the horse dragged him all the way from the crest and kicked him in the head when he came down. His ankle's twisted, too—I think it's broken. Ahhh, George, is he going to be all right? His color—he looks so pale."
The doctor ground out an exasperated sigh probing the damage. “Well, he's peeled the skin off this shoulder and arm pretty nicely,” he said, “and his side is scraped raw. The ankle's broken for sure. I'm going to have to cut the boot off to get at it, but that's not the worst of it—looks like a fractured skull. Can't tell out here in the dark in all this muck. Christ, he's done a proper job of it—three sheets to the wind no doubt."
All at once his focus shifted and he studied the vicar through the rain splinters. “Christ Almighty! Get into that blasted trap and get up to the house this instant,” he brayed. “Ye gods—look at you. Damn it, man, you're half drowned. Oh, he'll live, he'll live, blast him. That skull's too bloody thick for even a fracture to dent. Now, do as I've said. Make it easy on me, Elliot. You can't travel in this. Get up to your old chamber so I don't have to wear myself out trudging all through that mausoleum trying to tend the pair of you. I'm not getting any younger you know. Have Amy Croft find you some dry clothes and heat up some broth. You'll be lucky if you don't take pneumonia."
* * * *
But Elliot didn't go to his old chamber. He went to Malcolm's. He found him staring out of the window into the sheeting rain and hail that hid the cliff beyond from view. The dark child turned as the vicar approached, but he didn't shrink from the fury in his face.
"You know why I've come, don't you, Master Malcolm?” said Elliot.
The child met the challenge of the vicar's cold stare taking in his bedraggled appearance but made no reply.
"I know what you've done,” Elliot went on, “not just today—all of it."
"Uncle drinks too much,” sniffed the boy haughtily. “People imagine things when they drink too much."
"Oh? Did the children at St. Simeon's—the ones you murdered—did they drink too much? Did the vicar general? Did they, perchance, imagine the fire that took their lives?"
Malcolm ignored the question. “Uncle means to kill me,” he announced. “He said so himself."
"So you decided to kill him first, is that it?"
The child didn't answer.
"Why do you imagine he wants to kill you, Master Malcolm?"
"I was born!” the boy blurted, his eyes reduced to slits.
Cold chills riddled the vicar, but his demeanor remained unchanged. “Let me tell you just what will happen if you attempt to cause harm to befall anyone in this house again, Master Malcolm,” he said, looking down his nose into the onyx eyes that mocked him. “Give me the slightest provocation—just the slightest, mind, and I will lock you inside St. Michael's Church to meditate upon your repentance for however long it takes to satisfy God—and myself, which shall definitely take longer. Do we understand one another?"
Malcolm glowered, his hooded stare had become deadly, and the vicar nodded. “I can see that we do,” he said, “but I'm half hoping you do provoke me, actually. I'm quite anxious to have a look at your . . . performance. Do not put me to the test, young man. I promise you will live to regret it."
Malcolm jutted his chin in defiance, but made no reply, and the vicar gave a start. “Oh? That's how it's to be is it?” He lunged, making a grab for the child. “Perhaps I'll rescind all that and do it right now after all,” he thundered.
Malcolm darted out of the way making a blood-chilling hissing sound through snarling lips.
"Ahhhha!” triumphed the vicar. “So we do have an understanding. Good. You'd best see that you don't provoke me."
But Malcolm had dismissed him. Turning his attention back to the window, he stared out into the storm enraptured, and he didn't hear the vicar's angry footfalls carrying him away, or the racket of the door slamming shut with a thunderous crack behind him.
* * * *
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Chapter Twenty-three
* * * *
Colin's convalescence was slow, but effectual, since the broken ankle held him down long enough for the head injury to heal. While the physical tether did much for his body, it did not benefit his spirit, and his three-month confinement was passed for the most part in a temper as foul as the weather.
The vicar came often to Cragmoor then. Neither he nor Colin mentioned the fight, though it stood between them under a pall of gloom. Elliot's visits were geared more toward monitoring Malcolm's activities than Colin's, for he worried over Colin's safety in his vulnerable state, compounded by the brandy that dulled what wits his friend still had about him. But Malcolm kept his distance, giving both Elliot and Colin a wide berth. Secure in that he was safe with Colin's activities curtailed, he reveled in his rambles on the cliff and at the ring, only surfacing when the mood struck him to remind his adversaries that he was by no means out of the picture.
The child's fine-tuned cunning chilled the vicar to the bone, and
since sending him to school wasn't an option after the St. Simeon's massacre, he persuaded Colin to hire a tutor to keep the boy occupied. The acquisition was met with great relief by everyone in residence—everyone that is except Malcolm, who didn't want his freedom diminished by academic restraints, and he drove off tutor after tutor over the next two years until he finally realized it was no use. Then all at once he shifted his strategy to one of arming himself with as much knowledge as he could absorb. He settled down with the current instructor, one David Foster-Smith, and the next three years were passed, if not more peacefully, more productively for all concerned.
Foster-Smith was by no means without fault. His fondness for Madeira, and pursuit of the housemaids and tavern wenches in his off time hardly went unnoticed. But Colin was willing to overlook these shortcomings, since the man did manage to keep the dark child from interfering with his own pursuits more effectively than any of the other tutors had done. And so it went until one late August day in 1876.
With Elliot spending every spare minute at Cragmoor, Ted's care was left to Rina Banks, whose duties at the vicarage were too demanding for her to spend quality time with the boy on a regular basis, and he was often left to his own devices. He was a good child, well mannered and quiet, but at five years he had outgrown confinement to the church grounds and often, unbeknownst to his father, went off exploring on his own. It was on one of these outings that he came upon the ring—and Malcolm.
Eleven that year, Malcolm encouraged Ted to join him at the stones, and a clandestine alliance quickly formed between the two. Sworn to secrecy by Malcolm, Ted told no one about these meetings for fear his father would forbid them to continue. He knew all too well what his father's views were on the subject of Malcolm Chapin, but he didn't share those views. He was lonely and bored and eager for a playmate, and the cunning, dark youth took advantage of that.
One afternoon at the end of the month, Harris delivered Ely, a young, chocolate-colored gelding, to the vicarage to replace the mare. The horse was a gift from Colin since the mare was going lame and was soon to be put out to pasture. The stabler rode Ely to the vicarage by way of the south road, but he took the footpath returning with the mare since the distance was shorter and kinder on the ailing animal. As he passed the ring he saw Ted playing about the stone circle and took a sudden chill despite the warmth of the day. In his opinion this wasn't a safe place for the boy to be, considering its past, and since it was one of Malcolm's favorite haunts.
It was only half-past two in the afternoon, and Harris knew that Malcolm would be closeted with the tutor until tea. Still, this was something that Colin should be made aware of, and once he'd turned the mare loose in the paddock to graze, he went up to the house to seek him out.
He came in through the servants’ entrance and consulted Amy, who directed him to the study, where Colin had been occupied since the noon meal. Wasting no time, Harris moved in that direction, but as he approached the gallery he caught sight of Malcolm on the staircase. Flattening himself in the shadows of the servants’ wing hall, he watched the dark youth step off the stairs tucking Colin's dagger into his belt as he darted toward the entrance hall.
Fear momentarily froze the stabler, but when he heard the double doors slam shut behind the boy he ran to them himself to see which way Malcolm had gone and flung them open just in time to see the dark splotch of his Gypsy hair disappearing down over the rise on the footpath. And he spun on his heels bolting back to the south wing and burst into the study with scarcely a rap at the door to announce him.
Colin was seated at his desk. Dressed casually in jodhpurs with his blouse half unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled back to the biceps, he was pouring over the accounts stacked in front of him, a snifter of brandy close at hand. Giving a start as the stabler careened into the room, he vaulted to his feet.
"What the devil?” he thundered. “What do you mean bursting in here like this, damn you, Harris? Are you drunk?"
"No, sir,” panted the stabler, “beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you'd best come. I just seen the bastard goin’ down the footpath with your blade in his belt, and when I passed that accursed ring of stones comin’ back with the mare before, young Ted Marshall was playin’ out there."
Colin paled. “Ted? At the ring?"
Harris nodded.
"Oh, Christ!” Colin all but knocked him down as he ran past.
Strong legs carried him to the stable, and before Harris had reached the front steps, Colin came tearing through the stable doors astride Exchequer bareback, riding him hard at a gallop over the drive toward the footpath. Gouging the animal's sides mercilessly with the heels of his boots, he drove the dark stallion in a crazed frenzy over the top of the rise, and disappeared in a cloud of thick, gray dust and gouged sod.
It hadn't rained in days, and the horse's hoofs raised such a veil of flying dirt from the parched ground that Colin could barely see the stones until he was literally on top of them. When they did come into view, his heart all but stopped at sight of Ted lying on the altar. Malcolm was standing beside it, both hands poised high above his dark head aiming the dagger toward the child below. The silver hilt gleamed in the mid-afternoon sun, and Colin dug his heels harder into the horse's flesh and rode straight for the dark youth, a savage cry pouring from his lips.
Screaming in protest, Ted scrambled off the altar and followed close beside the horse's churning hoofs as Colin came closer and closer to running Malcolm down. “No, Uncle Colin! Don't hurt him, please,” sobbed the child running alongside.
"Keep back, Ted—get out of the way,” Colin commanded, but the terrified child paid no attention.
Malcolm dropped the blade. Trapped in the confines of the ring, he was losing ground against his uncle's riding skills.
Ted gave Exchequer's pumping forefeet room as he ran along beside him, but he couldn't keep up. After a few passes, he tired. His short, little legs became tangled in a clump of thorn scrub, and he fell, sprawled on his belly directly in the horse's path.
Like lightning, Colin pulled back on the reins, and Exchequer reared and spun wildly in circles, pawing the dusty air. Taking advantage of the situation, Malcolm scurried away using the dust clouds as a blind and disappeared into the thicket.
Terrified, Ted rolled underneath the altar just as the stallion's flying hoofs came down in the place where he'd fallen, and Colin slid off the horse's back and pulled the boy out from under the stone. Holding him at arm's length, his frantic eyes slid the length of the wailing child. Satisfied that he hadn't been harmed, he crushed him close in his arms and loosed a cry that buckled the boy's knees in terror.
"It . . . it's all right, Uncle Colin,” Ted hiccupped, “it was only a game. He wasn't really going to do it, you know. We were playing pirate, you see. We play here all the time, sir."
Colin snatched up the blade. “Do you always play with this, then?” he said, brandishing the dagger before jamming it beneath his belt.
The boy shook his head. “N-no, sir,” he stammered, “only today. It was to be a . . . a . . . special surprise, sir."
Colin crushed him close again. All he could see was the bloodied entrails of Elspeth's puppy smeared across the altar. All he could hear was Elliot's heart-wrenching confession to George Howard, in total awe that the boy in his arms was even to be. It was too much. He hadn't consumed enough brandy to keep those specters at bay in the face of this new one, and he wrenched the terrified child who called him ‘uncle’ closer still and sobbed his heart dry.
"Don't cry, Uncle Colin,” soothed the boy, “please don't cry. Please, sir, I . . . I can't breathe. You're hurting me."
Colin emptied his lungs and held the child at arm's length again. “I'm sorry, Ted,” he murmured. “I'm so dreadfully sorry. You know I wouldn't hurt you for the world, don't you, son?"
Wiping his eyes and running nose, the boy nodded.
Colin brushed the soft, wheat-colored hair back from the boy's brow with a gentle hand and looked him in the eyes. “Te
d, you must pay attention to me now, and you must do as I say,” he said. “This is a bad place. You mustn't ever come here again—not ever, Ted. You've got to obey me in this. You must promise me."
"But I like to play here,” the boy whined. “It's grand sport to play with Malcolm. I do so enjoy our games. I haven't anyone else to play with, sir, and . . ."
"Ahhh, Jesus,” Colin interrupted, “help me here. How do I make him understand when I do not?” Tears welled in his eyes again and he searched the child's face through them. “Ted, Malcolm is a bad boy,” he forced. “I know you do not understand this, because he is very clever and he's fooled you into believing he is your friend, but he is not. Do you trust me, son?"
Ted hesitated, frightened of the wild feral look of Colin then. “Y . . . yes, sir,” he whined halfheartedly.
"Then you must obey me in this. And if not that—what do you think your father would say if he knew what just happened here, son?"
"Oh, sir! You aren't going to tell Father?” the boy pleaded.
Colin shook his head. “No, son,” he said, “I shan't tell him unless I hear you've come here again. Someday—when you're older and able to understand, I shall tell you why this has to be. For now it's enough for you to know that Malcolm is a very bad child, Ted. He has done murder. Yes, Ted, murder! Why, he killed a poor helpless pup with this very knife on that stone you were just lying on—and that's not the half of it; ‘twas only the beginning. Believe me, you very nearly died here today, son—a sacrifice to God alone knows what! Do you understand me?"
He shook him again and Ted nodded, but the child's eyes told him there was no real understanding between them. What there was, was fear, and for the moment that was enough. If Ted feared him enough to obey, he'd gotten the help he'd prayed for, and he staggered to his feet and lifted the boy in his arms. “All right, then,” he said, “I shall take you home."
"Upon the fine, black horse?” squealed Ted, his fears forgotten.
"Yes,” said Colin, lifting him up on Exchequer's sleek back. “Sit still now, and hold tight to his mane, son."
Rape of the Soul Page 30