The Devil’s Due

by Boucher, Rita

  “And you were thinking to help yourself? Well, why don’t you check it again, Fred,” Duncan said, knowing full well that he was being foolish. Most likely it had been the bird that he had noticed, but if the child was climbing up in the towers, it would have to be stopped. Whether the deterioration was due to climate, careless workmanship, or Charlie’s curse, none could say. But Kate had the right of it. In this newer wing of the castle particularly, the rotting flooring was weak as cat’s ice, unable to bear much more than the weight of a small animal.

  Fred climbed down the new ladder, grumbling as he went. Duncan went on working until his man returned.

  “Bang on the mark, you was, Sir,” Fred called from the ground. “Must ‘ave seen me comin’ and just run out before I got there. Lock was open on the door. Poor Daisy is beside ‘erself, she is.”

  “I think Anne’s mother and I are due for a talk,” Duncan said, checking the ground below for signs of the child, but she was nowhere in sight although he heard the faint bark of a dog in the distance.

  “Air ye lookin’ for the wee one?” Tam asked, his eyes watering at the smoking pitch. “Saw her and the hound puttin’ out toward the garden. Up to some devilment your lassie, from the look on her face and the way she were titterin’”

  Duncan was about to tell him that Anne was no child of his, but for some reason he did not wish to disabuse Tam of his ill-founded notion.

  “Perhaps the little lass needs a dose of her own medicine?” Duncan speculated, climbing down to stand beside Fred.

  “Fair play, it is, to turn the game about,” the Cockney agreed.

  “Especially when it is a very dangerous game,” Duncan said, rinsing off his hands under the pump. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Fred. This cannot wait.”

  “Go easy on her, Major,” Fred advised, starting back up toward the roof

  “‘Going easy,’ seems to be the problem,” Duncan said, taking up his shirt. “The child has been pulling pranks on a daily basis, yet those women dinna do a thing. She manipulates them like puppets.”

  “She’s a clever one she is,” Fred said, with a doting smile.

  “You too?” Duncan asked in disgust. “Do you account the eel in my boot clever? You had the cleaning of it, I recall.”

  “Cleaned worse things,” Fred said, shrugging his skinny shoulders. “Almost worth it, it was, seein’ you ‘oppin about, fit to burst with tryin’ to keep the curses twixt your teeth.”

  “You are dismissed, Fred. Pack your bags.” Duncan slipped his shirt over his head only to find that his fingers were caught in the sleeve. “Damn!” he exploded.

  “Need ‘elp, Major?” Fred asked diffidently. “I’d be glad, but seein’ as ‘ow I ain’t no longer in your employ. A pity, to ruin your shirt, considerin’ as ‘ow you ain’t got many to spare.”

  “Fred. . .”

  Although the drawn-out syllable was muffled by the linen, Fred knew that his former employer had reached the end of his tether. He helped his master untangle himself. “Aye, ‘tis the little one alright,” he said, eyeing the crude stitches used to sew the sleeve shut.

  “You take care that the tower stays closed,” Duncan commanded, his lips setting in a straight tight line. “Ramshackle though the door may be, it suffices to keep the little one out.

  “You ain’t ‘ired me back yet, Major,” Fred informed him. But the look that his master gave him was enough to send him scuttling back towards the roof. In the distance, he could see the child, running through the heather and over the hill. She had stayed to watch her handiwork, the little minx.

  . . .

  Duncan moved swiftly, years of skill combining with boyhood knowledge to make his passage silent. The small marks of Anne’s erratic course were as vivid as signposts to him. Prints of paws and tiny bare feet marched side by side showing clearly where girl and dog had passed, stopped to look under a rock or pluck a wildflower. She was roaming far afield indeed, nearly the full length of the island. Abruptly, the trail veered, disturbed stones and foliage pointing their path up the steep hillside and a smile played on Duncan’s lips. So, Anne had discovered the fairy grotto.

  Carefully, Duncan edged his way to the lip of the overhang, testing the wind’s direction to make sure that the dog would not scent him, before peering out over the ledge, almost fearful to see if time had altered this special place.

  But it had not changed. Silver water spilling into a misty pool while ferns waved their feathery tails in the breeze. This was the childhood kingdom where his dreams had held reign, where dragons had kept watch with their fiery breath, searing strangers who would have dared disturb his peace. The dryads dwelt here in the trees, whispering in the summer storms, telling secrets that no human could decipher. His mother had promised him that if he closed his eyes and believed with all his might, he could hear the fairies singing in this place.

  “Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,

  In the forests of the night

  What himmortal hand or eye. . .”

  The voice was high and reedy, the melody like none that Duncan had ever heard. Who had met Anne in the grotto?

  “In what distant deeps an’ skies

  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

  On what wings dare he perspire?

  What the hand dare seize the fire?”

  Duncan smiled at the substitution of “perspire” for “aspire.” From the pitch of the voice it was clear that Anne’s companion was another child. The tune changed to one he recognized, a snatch of an old lullaby that his mother used to sing. But two verses later, the melody changed once again.

  “When the stars frew down their spears,

  And watered heaven with their tears . . .”

  Blake’s meter did not fit to the tune of “Cherry Ripe,” but the voice cut and sliced the words to fit, elongating syllables here, garbling words there until the very end, soaring high to a rousing finish

  “What himmortal hand or eye

  Dare frame thy fearful sinnet-treeeee!”

  It was only as the last echo faded that the thought dawned. It could be no crofter’s child who mangled Blake below, but the obvious answer was an impossible one.

  The little girl who never uttered a word scrambled on to a rock, followed by her dog. She picked up a stick and heaved it into the pool. “Bring it, Cur,” she called. “Fetch it to me.”

  It was obviously a familiar game, for no sooner did it splash then the dog was in the water, paddling toward it eagerly and then returning to the rock and shaking dry to Anne’s delighted squeals. “You bad dog,” she said, wagging a scolding finger with a voice that was a perfect mimicry of Daisy. “You’ve gotten me very wet an’ Mamma will be mad if I come home soaking.”

  She was speaking. The silent child was not just talking, but chattering and singing with words spewing from her mouth like a dam that had just burst. Duncan listened in puzzlement as she prattled to her canine audience, seemingly repeating everything she had heard that day.

  He was hard put not to chortle when he saw Fred, Daisy and Kate herself through the mirror of a child’s eyes. But it was Anne’s impression of himself that hit him like a well-aimed blow. She threw her chest out, arranging her face in a sneering scowl. “I can’t smile,” she bellowed, pantomiming his struggles with his shirt. “It hurts when I smile. Anne can do funny things, but I won’t laugh.” Her voice dropped back to normal, but the words carried clear. “D’you think it was the Frenchies that hurt him like that, Cur?” she asked. “Or maybe The MacLean is really a truly prince, under a spell.”

  The thought of himself as an enchanted prince nearly made him laugh out loud.

  “He’s a lord, just like Papa was, an honest truly lord,” Anne explained earnestly. “Even though they call him ‘The,’ instead of ‘Lord’ MacLean, Mamma said so.”

  Cur barked in canine concurrence.

  So, Papa was a lord, but that confirmation of Fred’s suspicions was the smallest of Duncan’s concerns at present. He drew back, his t
houghts in a jumble as he wondered what to do. If he challenged Anne, he might very well deprive her of the only place where she felt safe enough to use her voice. Confrontation might be the worst possible tactic.

  “Did you see the castle, Cur? So many people.” Her tone was disapproving. “But Mamma was happy. She hasn’t been happy in so long. Remember how she used to laugh all the time before He came? Do you think He used to hurt her too? I saw Him pinching her once, when He thought nobody was looking. He promised not to, if I . . .”

  He waited for her to complete that sentence, but she swallowed and blinked rapidly, as if trying not to cry. There was something in her voice that capitalized that “He,” making it the verbal equivalent of personified evil. What was that hurt that the child spoke of; that unspoken terror that kept her deliberately dumb?

  “But He can’t find us here, can he?”

  There was a tremulous bravado in that small voice that reverberated deep within. How often had he himself come to this place, staying in this hidden sanctuary as long as he dared, sheltering from his father’s rages or his mother’s unhappiness?

  “This place is magic, Cur, magic,” she said, with a vehemence that was based in fear.

  Magic. Duncan recalled dozens of boyish spells, calling upon earth and air, wind and fire, but he had been rather a poor sorcerer. When he had emerged from his solitary spellcasting, nothing had changed. His father was still the wicked Beelzebub MacLean. His mother had still wept in her misery. He only hoped that Anne’s childish enchantments were of far better quality than his.

  Duncan was about to creep away, ceding the place that had once been his haven to the child, when his foot hit a loose pile of rock, sending a shower of dirt and pebbles down the hillside. Cur began to bark furiously and Anne cowered behind the hound, her only exit blocked by an unknown intruder.

  “Tis just myself, Anne,” Duncan said as he rose from hiding, trying to calm the terror that he had inadvertently caused. “I did not mean to startle you, nor spy upon you. Long ago this used to be my special place too, but I ought not to have intruded. Please tell me that you forgive me.” He climbed down the cliff wall and stood in the mist by the small waterfall, waiting for her answer.

  The child regarded him, her eyes wide and eloquent as her mother’s. Duncan could almost read her thoughts. How long were you there? She was likely wondering. Did you hear me? Duncan decided upon the truth.

  “I know that you can talk, Anne,” he said softly, ending her uncertainty. “You sound just as your Mamma must have when she was a girl. I hear her in your voice. She will be so happy, Anne, that you can speak again.”

  Anne shook her head in denial, patent terror in her expression.

  Duncan knelt down, looking at level into those horrified eyes. “Is it Him that you are afraid of?” he guessed. “Is that why you are silent, Anne?”

  The child’s breath came in shallow gasps and Cur whined, nuzzling her hand in silent comfort. She looked about wildly, like a trapped animal, unwilling to affirm or deny anything.

  “You do not have to tell me,” Duncan soothed. “I just want to help you, help your mother. But how can I protect you, if I do not know the nature of the enemy from whom I must shield you?”

  “I can’t tell. I can’t.” She backed toward the edge of the pool.

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Anne, I swear.”

  “Not me,” Anne said her little body shaking. “Mamma, he will hurt Mamma again, if I tell. He said so.”

  Duncan felt the rage rising in him, but knew that he had to control it. If he frightened her now, all was lost. Although he felt as if an inferno was building inside him, he forced himself to speak calmly as he walked to stand beside her

  “Do I really look so silly, Anne?” He puffed out his chest and exaggerated, deepened his voice as she had. “Do you really think that I am under a spell?”

  The abrupt change of subject took the child by surprise and she looked at Duncan with puzzled eyes.

  “Perhaps I really was under some wicked enchantment, Anne,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Something very terrible happened to me, something so awful that I thought that I would never smile ever again.”

  “The Frenchies?” she asked, her hands twisting nervously in Cur’s fur. “Colin?”

  “Aye,” he said, laying his demons bare before her. “Though I don’t know how much you heard of my nightmares. Some of those bad dreams were true, unfortunately, the Frenchies, Colin and the ruin of my face.”

  “You can hardly see it now,” Anne observed artlessly. “It’s all bushy where the cut was.”

  His disbelief was obvious enough to irritate the child and make her forget some of her skittishness. “Silly man,” she said. “If you don’t believe me, come an’ look in the pool.”

  Slowly he rose and walked to the still part of the water. A bronzed face stared back at him. The image’s fingers lifted with incredulous hesitancy to touch the beard and sideburns that hugged chin and cheek. Beneath, barely visible, was the lighter skin of his scars. But there were worse scars to deal with, Duncan reminded himself as he saw Anne’s wavering figure appear beside his reflection. “A rather scruffy looking prince, I make,” Duncan said, “all rags and tatters with a castle as moldering as myself.”

  “But you are in disguise, you see,” Anne told him earnestly. “In Mamma’s stories all the bestest princes are running about in disguise.”

  “As do princesses, if I recall,” Duncan said gently, addressing that childish image in the water. Speaking to his reflection seemed to put her at ease, her posture was less guarded, her expression less fearful. “In my mother’s tales, they were always under terrible enchantments or captured by loathsome dragons until those wandering princes came to their rescue.”

  Anne nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “They sometimes do. But in Mamma’s stories, they sometimes have to rescue themselves.”

  “I want to help rescue you, Anne,” Duncan said earnestly to the face in the pool. “And your mother, but I have to know which dragon threatens you.”

  “No!” The word was ripped from her and she began to quiver like a leaf in the wind, as he turned to face her directly once again. “He’ll hurt her. He said so. He said He might even kill Mamma if I tell. And He can, because He killed my papa! He killed Papa!”

  “Your mother said that your father was killed on the battlefield, Anne,” Duncan bent to look at her directly. “Your father was a soldier.”

  “That’s what He wanted everyone to believe, He said. But He’s smart and sneaky. I know He got my papa killed. And He’ll kill Mamma too! And Daisy and maybe He’ll kill you if He finds out you know too! I cannot tell a soul, is what He said. Even though Becky was crying because He was hurting her. I tried to help her and He hit me.” Her voice rose to a frantic shriek of terror and grief.

  “I will not let him,” Duncan said, trying to reason with her and calm the frantic storm that he had unwittingly unleashed. “I swear Anne, I will not let him harm any of us.”

  “You can’t stop Him,” she whimpered. “He’s strong, stronger than Papa and if Papa couldn’t stop him, you can’t. He’s real smart about doing bad things so as nobody knows. He sneaks in the dark and hurts people. It was a secret . . . secret . . . if He finds out that I’ve talked about Becky, He’ll hurt her . . . He says that He’s her special friend, but I know it isn’t true, because when she came back to the nursery she cried every time. . . Nobody else knows but me.” Anne’s pitch rose to a keening wail.

  Duncan was utterly at a loss. There was desperation in the child’s unfocused expression that frightened him. Those evil threats were entirely real to her, immediate, putting her beyond the reach of reason. He himself had stood at that brink, seen the abyss that yawned wide and ominous in those terrified green eyes and so, he understood.

  This valiant child had kept herself silent out of love, out of fear. If she were to believe that she had placed her mother in jeopardy, there was no telling what Anne might
do to protect Kate. Perhaps, Duncan shuddered inwardly. She might even choose that final silence that nothing could penetrate.

  “He will not find out, Anne,” Duncan got on his knees. He reached out wanting to comfort her, but dropped his hand as she backed away. “I will not tell, I promise you. I will not tell. I will not tell.” He repeated those four words softly, over and over, until Anne’s breathing slowed and recognition dawned.

  “You won’t tell?” she dubiously echoed, choking back a sob.

  “No, cross my heart,” Duncan went through the motion solemnly. “It does not go beyond this valley, unless you tell me that I may reveal your secret. Do you want to shake hands on the bargain?”

  To his surprise, she nodded and laid her hand in his. He clasped it and shook lightly to seal their agreement before releasing her. He had thought that the child would step away, but instead she moved closer, laying her head trustingly on his shoulder. It was as if a butterfly had suddenly chosen to light upon him. Tentatively, he raised his fingers and stroked her hair comfortingly. As she nestled her head in the hollow of his neck, he ached for her even as he burned with anger at the man who had burdened her with terror and secrets.

  “And Mamma?” Anne asked in a hoarse whisper. “You mustn’t tell, Mamma. If she knows, He’ll see. Mamma’s no good at all about secrets. If you tell her, He’ll know that I told and then. . .”

  Duncan felt her shiver. She was so terribly fragile, the thread that kept her from plunging into hysteria was gossamer thin. Nonetheless, the thought of denying this news to Kate was almost beyond bearing. To let her continue to believe that Anne was doomed to silence was unconscionable. Yet, he knew that Anne was right. Even if he told Anne’s secret in confidence, Kate could not help but betray herself to the child. The woman was far too transparent to conceal her joy.

  There was no way of predicting how Anne would react if he refused to acquiesce to her terms. If he accepted this vow, Kate would have to remain in the dark. “No, Anne,” he agreed. “I will not tell your mother, though I think it wrong to keep it from her.”