Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  Set in motion Ted sprang into the corridor.

  The doctor opened Elliot's blouse and pressed his stethoscope over the lame, ragged heartbeat. He probed his wrist for a pulse, a close eye on his ash-white face so still against the pillow. After a moment, he moistened his handkerchief in water from the pitcher on Elliot's nightstand and pressed it down firmly against his brow. Then listening with the stethoscope again, he growled, unhappy with the sound. “Don't make a liar out of me, Elliot! Come on, man, come on!” he urged, rubbing the vicar's wrists. “Haven't I enough upon me, eh?"

  Ted ran through the door thrusting the salts toward him, and he passed the bottle beneath the vicar's nose. Elliot stirred, shrinking from the fumes, and the doctor withdrew the bottle.

  Elliot groaned. Disoriented, he stared blankly while his dazed eyes focused on Howard's anxious face. “N . . . noooo, ahhhh, noooo!” he moaned, remembering.

  Snatching the handkerchief from his brow, he threw it down, struggling against the doctor's restraining hands. “For the love of God, George, was there no other way?” he despaired.

  The doctor shook his head. “Elliot, it was gangrene. He'd have died if I didn't take it."

  "One day the lot of you will realize—preferably before you kill me—that leaving things to my imagination does more damage than telling the truth. You ought to have prepared me for this. That was cruel."

  "It wasn't meant to be. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this."

  "Well, it has,” snapped the vicar interrupting. “Now you tell me."

  "Then lie back. Christ on His throne! Do you want to come down again?"

  The vicar ground out a bitter groan. “That doesn't matter anymore,” he sobbed, shielding his eyes as he sank back against the pillows. “You cut off his arm! Ahhhhh, dear God!"

  The doctor drew a cautious breath, but petulance spoke. “That was a bad gash from the start,” he began. “I warned him not to open it up when I first tended it right here in this room. Well, he did open it up—the very next day, and infection set in."

  "How?” cried the vicar.

  "Who in hell knows? He says he stumbled—drunk, no doubt. He's stubborn as a bloody jackass. I told him he ought to be packed off to hospital, but noooo, he'd have none of it. Well, he's paid dearly for that. Last night he was burning with fever. He was delirious—half mad with the pain, though he'd never admit it. He all but spat in my face. Christ! The arm was gone—it was rotting there—poisoning him. I won't have you thinking there were options. There was nothing else I could have done, and at that we're lucky he's alive."

  Not trusting himself to speak, the vicar stared.

  "You wanted to hear it,” barked Howard, answering his expression.

  It was a moment before Elliot found his voice. “And now?” he murmured.

  "The fever's broken and he's resting easy or I'd still be there."

  "Does he know?"

  "He knows."

  "Ahhhh, God!"

  Ted had turned his back, raking his hair. Neither of them noticed him, and after a moment he stole away unseen, melting into the shadows of the narrow corridor outside.

  Elliot sat up and began buttoning his blouse. “I have to go to him,” he murmured, fastening his collar back in place.

  "You'll do no such thing,” barked the doctor, laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

  But Elliot shoved it away and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “I am going to go to him,” he pronounced unequivocally. “George, the last thing that man said to me was that if I needed him I was to send Ted. He said he wanted to be here if I needed him. He said that, suffering as he was. Well, he has need of me now and I'm going to go to him. You aren't going to stop me, George—not unless you kill me."

  "I'm not going to have to kill you—you're doing that yourself. Elliot, the new hood for your trap won't be ready ‘til next Monday week, and there's a black fog out there. He's going to be sleeping most of the day. He's getting a proper dose of laudanum—enough to sedate a horse, not to mention the brandy. Give it time...for both your sakes. Be reasonable, man, he won't even know you're there."

  Elliot staggered to his feet. “Then I shall stay there until he does."

  "I'm not going to let you go, Elliot."

  "Did he ask for me? Tell me the truth, George?"

  Unable to carry off a lie, the doctor looked away rolling his eyes.

  "He did, didn't he?” Elliot persisted.

  Howard gave a crisp nod and anger mouthed sharp words, “Yes, damn you, he did—repeatedly,” he said, “but he was delirious, Elliot. He won't even remember it."

  "Stand out of my way, George,” said the vicar, a dangerous calm come into his resonant voice. “I'm a priest of the church. You have no right to interfere."

  "I have every right,” brayed Howard. “I'm your doctor and your friend. Is he so selfish that he would call you to his side via your grave? Can you do more for him dead than you can alive? Come now, Elliot, would he really expect this of you just one week this side of a seizure? I know the man's a bounder, but I'm not going to believe that. Nooo, my friend, he threatened me last night before I operated. He didn't want you to know. Said if I was planning on telling you I'd best take both arms while I was about it. Go there now and you're going to do him more harm than good."

  "No,” the vicar argued, “he needs me. He has no one else—no one but me."

  "And whose fault is that, eh?"

  "You've no right to judge him—or any man."

  The doctor threw up his hands in defeat. “All right, Elliot, I'll bargain with you,” he growled. “If you can get to that door there on your own—on steady legs, I won't hold you back. Go on! You want to go? Go!"

  The vicar squared his posture and moved toward the door. He hadn't taken two steps when vertigo threatened his vision. Fighting it, he struggled on, but his trembling legs, unused in so many days, betrayed him and he sagged against the woodwork. “Blast!” he groaned.

  The doctor's firm hand turned him back toward the bed and he sat down on the edge of it, his head in his hands.

  "This has been a bad jolt for you, Elliot,” said Howard softly, “and you've come through it far better than I expected. Don't tempt fate. That's a luxury you can ill afford under the circumstances. If he needs you so badly he'll need you alive. Now are you going to see reason?"

  The vicar didn't answer. The muscles in his broad back were so expanded that he feared the seams in his jacket would give as he sat holding his pounding head.

  The doctor scowled down at him. “Now you get out of those clothes, get into your nightshirt, and get back in this bed,” he charged. “I have to go to the village. I do have a practice you know. I'll be back ‘round before tea, and you'd best be right here under that quilt when I get here. Am I making myself plain to you, Elliot?"

  The vicar nodded the head in his hands, and Howard gripped his shoulder. “He's going to be all right,” he assured him, “and so are you if I've got anything to say about it. Now, for Christ's sake, give me a rest will you? I'm not getting any younger you know, in case you haven't noticed, and you're going to give me a seizure—the pair of you, more than likely, before it's done! Now see if you can behave."

  After giving his shoulder another firm squeeze, he strode out into the corridor and disappeared in the cool shadows collecting about the landing. But the vicar was scarcely aware that he'd gone. His head was throbbing and his heart seemed to be trying to leap from his breast. A dry sob escaped him. “Ahhhh, Colin,” he moaned, “why couldn't it have been my arm? It's useless! Why couldn't I have died with that seizure? God, why do you keep me here? What good am I doing? What good?” His posture collapsed in defeat. “His arm. He cut off his arm!"

  Slumped there, he wiped his eyes, for they smarted, and drew a spastic breath. “No!” he murmured, shaking his head. “George is wrong! He doesn't know. Colin needs me now—right now. I can't leave him maimed, helpless—alone in that house with the demon who's caused this."

  Getti
ng to his feet, he filled his lungs and moved unsteadily into the corridor toward Ted's chamber across the way. Rapping lightly, he didn't wait for an answer, but opened the door, speaking as he entered, “Ted, I'm going to Crag... Ted!” he cried, frozen in the doorway.

  The boy stood sobbing beside his dressing chest stripped to the waist, holding a straight razor over his wrist in a trembling hand.

  "Ted! Oh, my God, what are you doing?” Elliot thundered.

  Springing, he arrested the blade, but the anguished boy was determined. He fought for possession, and the razor sliced him as they grappled for what seemed an endless moment before the vicar finally snatched it from him and flung it across the room.

  Elliot reached for the boy's arm, but he pulled it away. “No! Leave me alone, Father,” he sobbed bitterly. “My God, I want to die. I want to die!"

  The vicar grabbed Ted's gouged wrist and examined it. He ripped out his handkerchief. “You've missed the vein, thank God,” he said, binding it tightly. Horror-struck, he stared toward the boy's stricken face. “Ted, explain yourself! What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, shaking him. “Answer me!"

  "I just want to die,” groaned Ted. “It's all my fault, sir. It is!"

  "What's your fault, Ted—what?” cried the vicar, out of patience.

  "I love him so much,” moaned the boy, “oh, Father, I do! I wouldn't hurt him for the world, and I have! Oh, I have! He's lost his arm because of me. Don't you understand? It's my fault, Father. I can't live with that, Not with that!"

  The vicar stared wide-eyed toward his son. “What do you mean it's your fault?” he breathed. “How can it be your fault? Answer me, Ted.” He shook him again.

  "Oh, Father,” the boy moaned, “I opened his wound!"

  "You? How could you have?” cried Elliot, shaking him wildly. “How, Ted? You answer me!"

  "I . . . we struggled, sir, over Mr. Harris’ pistol."

  "My God! Tell me, Ted. Tell me!"

  "I . . . I overheard what he said to you the morning after your seizure. When I learned that Malcolm had tried to kill you, sir. I . . . I don't know what happened to me. I went mad, I think. I heard what you told him about Mr. Harris’ gun . . ."

  "Go on,” the vicar prodded, a deadly calm come again to his voice.

  "I . . . I took Uncle Colin's horse—"

  "You took Exchequer?"

  "Yes, sir, and I went to Cragmoor. I found the pistol right where Uncle Colin said it was. Malcolm was on the cliff and I confronted him there. I was going to kill him I think, and I would have done but for Uncle Colin. I . . . I fired and missed, and Malcolm came at me. We were fighting on the heath. Then Uncle Colin came upon Ely. He hit Malcolm and knocked him down, and I grabbed the gun again. I had dead aim that time, sir, but Uncle Colin sprang at me and we wrestled for the pistol. His arm. I . . . I tore it open struggling for that gun. He was in such pain. Malcolm ran off then, and I came back and sent Dr. Howard out there. He never stumbled, sir. He wasn't drunk. I caused him to lose that arm. It's all my fault, Father!"

  The vicar let him go. “Y-you . . .” he breathed, “y-you!” Pulling his powerful arm back, he swung it hard, rage driving all the strength it had lent his body behind it, and lowered the flat of his palm across the boy's wet cheek.

  Caught off balance, Ted staggered backwards, blood trickling from a split in his lip as he careened into the dressing chest behind and fell to the floor with the impact.

  But the vicar had over-extended himself, come so soon from his bed. Waves of dizziness sobered him after a moment, and his posture collapsed as they subsided lowering the pressure of his blood. Realizing what he he'd done, he lifted the boy in his arms and held him close. “Oh, son,” he sobbed.

  "It's all right, Father, I don't care what you do to me . . . or anyone. I just want to die."

  Elliot led him to the bed and sat him there, easing himself down alongside wearily with a firm arm wrapped around him. “I've never struck you before in all your life,” he despaired. “I've never once struck you. I'm so sorry, son!"

  "Why did you have to stop me, Father? All I want is to die!"

  "No—no, you don't, son."

  "I do!” cried Ted. “He didn't want me to tell you. He sat me down on the heath and told me how ill you are, sir. I . . . I had no idea. He . . . he was bleeding so badly, and he sat there talking to me . . . telling me. Oh, Father, I wanted to die then and there. He didn't want Dr. Howard. He was afraid you'd find out, and now you have and that's my fault, too. Oh, Father, I'll never, ever be able to face him again. Never!"

  He wiped his running nose on the bloody handkerchief binding his wrist, and took a ragged breath. “All week when he didn't come I was so afraid,” he went on, “I've been half out of my mind. I knew ‘twas bad. And then yesterday, sir, when Mr. Stanley came and you went into the church, Dr. Howard told me how bad it really was. I . . . I prayed. Oh, my God, how I prayed! I can't live with it, sir. I just can't!

  "You can, and you will,” said Elliot steadily, though his whole body trembled. “You don't think very much of me do you, son?"

  The boy gave a start and his handsome head snapped toward him. “I love you, Father,” he breathed, “you know I do. I never would have gone out there in the first place but for that. He tried to kill you, sir!"

  "And you would kill yourself and let me find you dead—my only son! What do you think that would have done to me, Ted? I've bloody near come down here as it is. What do you think would have happened to me if you'd done what you were about to do just now?"

  "You don't understand,” moaned Ted. “I cannot live with it, sir, I cannot!"

  "Yes, you can, Ted,” said his father shaking him again. “I have. I've lived with a guilt more horrible for twenty years now, son."

  Ted stared, and the vicar went on softly while he had the boy's attention. “When I first came here I fell very desperately in love with your Uncle Colin's sister, Mary,” he murmured. “You may not understand all this now, but one day soon you, too, will fall desperately in love, and then perhaps you will.

  "Mary was beautiful, Ted—as beautiful as your Uncle Colin is handsome, but she didn't love me in return. Your Uncle Colin was convinced that it was largely because she was ignorant of my feelings. She was very lonely, you see, and she courted pranks and devilments to amuse herself for need of just what I longed to give her. He, your Uncle Colin, begged me to tell her, but I was too proud. I feared she'd laugh at me."

  "Oh, Father,” murmured Ted.

  "Son, Mary often wandered about the ring of stones where you used to . . . play. Where your Uncle Colin saved your life. One night she didn't return. It was your Uncle Colin's sixteenth birthday. I'd planned a party. We went in search of her and found her at the ring. She had been raped, Ted. Savagely."

  The boy gasped.

  "She . . . never regained her reason, Ted. She was hopelessly mad, and she died giving birth to Malcolm as a result of that rape, to my mind because I hadn't the courage to take her in my arms and tell her I loved her. Oh, it mightn't have mattered, ‘tis true, but we will never know for certain now, will we?"

  The boy groaned, embracing him.

  "Years later I met and married your mother,” the vicar continued, “and I loved her very dearly, too. I tried my best to make her happy, Ted, but I found myself . . . incapable of offering her physical love. What I had seen. What happened with Mary. My despair. I don't know what it was exactly, son, but that you have come to me at all is a miracle because, you see, I was impotent . . . I couldn't. Ted, I treasure you so very dearly. If you were to take your life, if it didn't kill me outright, I believe I would be tempted to take my own—priest or no!"

  There were tears in his voice, but not in his eyes, and the boy clung to him. “Oh, Father, I had no idea, sir!"

  "You mustn't do this to me, Ted. I do not believe I can stand much more."

  "You've never talked to me like this before. Not like this, sir."

  "You're a man now, son, in all but that y
ou would turn to cowardice to ease your pain."

  "Sir?"

  "Ted, your pain and mine is caused by guilt. ‘Tis easy to kill one's self and stop the pain. ‘Tis not so easy to stand fast and face the thing that's caused it. No, ‘tis not easy at all to live with it like a man for the sake of those who have been hurt because of it, to say nothing of the responsibility to yourself, and God, who alone has absolution over life and death.

  "I'm not going to tell you that I've never thought of suicide, because I have. But God is very strong in me. I trust Him, and I will follow His direction in all things. You must trust him, also, lad. You are so very young, and you'll be faced with many burdens this life. ‘Tis through such things that we grow stronger. You must learn to lean upon your faith, Ted, it will sustain you."

  "But it hurts so, sir!"

  "Indeed it does, son, and others have been hurt. Your uncle Colin has lost his arm. I am devastated all the way ‘round now. I have no refuge anywhere anymore. And your mother, who hastened her death giving you to me will have died and suffered—for she did suffer greatly, Ted—for naught if you are the coward and not the man I've tried to raise you to be."

  "Can you ever forgive me, Father?"

  "God has already forgiven you? Can I do less? Ted, you didn't deliberately set out to hurt your Uncle Colin any more than I deliberately set out to cause Mary Chapin's death. The pain and the guilt are no less agonizing because of that, but we must go on from here, salvage what bits we can, and face our mistakes like men lest we always be children, or worse—cowards lost to God's mercy."

  The boy breathed a weary sigh. “I am so ashamed,” he murmured. “You are certainly no coward, sir. I believe you are the bravest man I've ever known. It's doubtless taken more courage telling me all this than I shall ever possess, and I . . . I will deal with what I've done. God help me, somehow I will live with it. I just wish with all my heart that I could go back and begin that dreadful day again."

  "We cannot go back,” murmured the vicar, a sad, faraway look come over him suddenly. “No, we can never go back, but we can go forward wiser."