Seed- Part One

by D B Nielsen

  Surprisingly, though I didn’t mean to eavesdrop this time but due to the emptiness of the gallery, snatches of their conversation could be heard, caught as fragments and echoes. I caught hold of enough of their discussion to put it together.

  St. John was arranging his leave with the museum to head home to Paris for Christmas, giving him enough time to spend with his family before returning for the New Year’s celebrations.

  The buoyant mood I’d been in rapidly deflated as I recalled Dad telling me more than a week ago that St. John was going home for the holidays. I’d just conveniently forgotten the information as I’d been so angry with him back then. Now it hit me, a full blow that was almost physically painful, making it hard to breathe.

  I wandered in a daze over to the Assyrian palace friezes, staring blindly at a depiction of the lion hunts. I was struggling to fight back the wave of emotion that threatened me, my eyes fixed with mock-concentration on the blurred, swimming frieze.

  ‘What do you think – the lion hunts or the Assyrian siege of Lachish?’

  I hadn’t noticed that St. John had joined me. I turned away and took several steps along the gallery, feigning interest in the inscription hailing a victorious Sennacherib as king of the universe.

  Well, good for him! I thought, irritably.

  ‘Archaeologists have found evidence of the siege engine and the ramps depicted on the frieze, though I’m sure your father’s already told you that,’ St. John informed me, keeping astride my smaller steps. ‘It certainly would make an arresting display on the evening.’

  I was too despondent to apprise him of the fact that I’d read that particular detail in a history book when I was twelve. Instead, I said perversely, ‘I prefer the lion hunts.’

  I’d chosen them simply because they suited my savage mood but St. John didn’t need to know that.

  I looked over my shoulder back up the gallery in the direction from which I came to where my father stood amongst some of the workmen as they carefully negotiated strapping cables to a large relief with the intent to move it onto a waiting trolley.

  ‘Sage?’ St. John asked; his voice had lost its earlier deep smoothness and was now tight, controlled.

  ‘Yes?’ My response came out sharper than I intended, sounding a little highly strung.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  I refused to look at him as I heard the note of concern in his voice now and it almost unmanned me.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied, knowing that he wasn’t deceived.

  ‘There’s something I wanted to discuss with you,’ he said, gravely.

  ‘Can it wait?’ I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear but I couldn’t think of a better response and I so desperately wanted to be alone right now instead of making a fool of myself in front of him by crying; all this simply because he was leaving for Paris for a fortnight.

  I didn’t give him an opportunity to respond – just as he’d walked away from me earlier to talk to Dad, I did the same now. I looked down at my boots, watching each step that I took very carefully, my hair screening me from St. John’s gaze, and tried hard not to think.

  Because if I did that then I’d have to face an unbearable thought – that his trip to Paris was more than just to visit his family for Christmas; that instead he was using it as an excuse – it was a deliberate and hasty retreat to put distance between himself and me.

  GUARDIANS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘SAGE!’ St. John’s voice held a note of terror as he shouted a warning.

  Hard on the heels of his shout were other shouts of distress and horror.

  I’d been so preoccupied by my own abject misery I hadn’t noticed the struggles of the workmen as they’d hoisted onto thick steel cables the heavy solid sculpted relief and began to swing it with some force towards their co-workers at the opposite end of the gallery who were waiting to place the relief on a large metal trolley for transport to another part of the museum.

  But the trolley was positioned behind me now and I’d blindly walked into the relief’s path as I’d made my way back up the gallery towards Dad. And now it was too late to move. And far too late to stop the momentum of solid stone swinging towards me, ready to crush me.

  My head had snapped up with St. John’s cry and, in a glance, I’d taken in my predicament. But as in sleep when you find you can’t move your limbs, can’t run, can’t cry out, even when threatened by some unnameable horror, I found myself similarly frozen.

  I took in Dad’s stricken expression and the shock in the workmen’s eyes as they futilely attempted to arrest the pendulum swing of the cabled sculpted block, but I didn’t need a degree in physics to tell them that it wasn’t going to work. Instead I just stood there, mutely, my face mirroring theirs but my expression filled also with resignation.

  A montage of images flickered before me in the brevity of seconds. Images that seemed impossible and unreal.

  And then there was excruciating pain as I was hit by a block of solid stone, the impact made my jaw crunch, forcing my teeth together as I bit through the soft tissue of my inner lip. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

  But the collision had not come from the direction I was expecting, and now I was being hurled forward towards the swinging relief which was headed in my direction. I wanted to shout out that I had no intention of playing chicken, but everything was happening too fast, spinning out of control. I felt myself falling forward, a vice strapped to my back and, as I did so, the sculpted stone block sliced past the side of my face, less than a hair’s breadth away.

  I hit the marble floor with such momentum that it carried me forward, sliding on my belly like a rugby player till my head hit the wall with a resounding crack. The effect was jarring. Every bone absorbed the shock. And I saw a kaleidoscope of colour dance in front of my eyes before I blacked out.

  I don’t know how long I was unconscious for, but I slowly became aware of the sound of waves crashing on the rocks, a distant roaring of the sea, and a distress beacon bleeping a steady rhythm as I struggled to regain consciousness, fighting my way upright. When I opened my eyes I realised that what I had thought I heard was just the rush of blood to my head as I tried to sit up accompanied by the steady rhythm of my heartbeat on the ECG which now became erratic as, distressed, I realised I was in hospital.

  ‘Sage! Thank God!’ Dad exclaimed as he rushed to my side, standing next to the nurse who had me hooked up to an IV drip.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked weakly. My throat felt dry and parched and my voice came out croaky.

  ‘You had an accident, but you’re okay,’ Dad said, his voice laced with relief.

  I tried to lift my hand to touch my head which felt heavy and woozy but the nurse held my arm down, telling me to lie still as I was recovering from the anaesthetic they’d given me.

  I finally became aware that my vision was partly obscured by a gauze bandage.

  ‘You needed stitches from the corner of your right eyebrow up to your hairline. You’re going to feel tender there for a while, but it should heal nicely.’ The nurse, whom I suspected was Irish due to her accent, informed me in a clinical manner of my plight. ‘In a couple of months, you’ll barely be able to see the scar.’

  Great! A scar! That’s all I needed!

  ‘You were so lucky, Sage.’ Dad agreed, ‘If it weren’t for St. John you wouldn’t be here with us now.’

  It took me a moment to digest what he’d said. St. John. St. John had saved my life.

  So, that’s what rammed into me, I thought. His arms round my torso had felt like a vice.

  Dad continued, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, ‘When I heard your head crack against the wall, I thought you were dead. My heart stopped, I swear. And then St. John was placing you in the recovery position and checking your vitals. And I’d never seen so much blood, Sage. Not even when your mother gave birth to the two of you.’

  ‘Is St. John okay?’
I asked concerned, as the nurse exited the cubicle closing the dividing curtain behind her.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Dad dismissed. ‘Not a scratch on him. You’re the one who was bleeding like a stuck pig.’

  I winced at that charming image.

  ‘In fact, St. John’s been here the entire time you were having an MRI done and in theatre. He’s only just stepped out; he went to get us both a coffee while we waited for you to regain consciousness. When he gets back I’ll just duck out and call your mum to give her an update – she’s beside herself with worry.’ Dad looked slightly abashed, ‘She was going to drive in but I advised her against it – there was no one to take care of Jasmine and Alex and I didn’t think the hospital wanted a couple of rowdy children in Emergency. Maybe when they move you into a private room, your siblings can visit.’

  I briefly wondered where Fi had taken off to but was struck by something Dad had said.

  ‘What do you mean when I’m moved to a private room? Can’t I go home?’ I asked sharply, once again my heart monitor flaring wildly in response.

  ‘Calm down, honey.’ Dad appeased, ‘They’re just keeping you overnight for observations. That was a pretty big blow to the head you took. They’re concerned whether you might have concussion or worse.’

  ‘I feel fine.’ I didn’t need to lie as the painkillers were still doing their job, but I knew that later when they wore off, I’d be in a lot of pain. But I wasn’t about to concede the point to Dad.

  ‘Dr Mukherjee felt that it would be best if you stayed here for at least one night, given the fact that you’ve had quite a few episodes lately.’

  Great! I thought. So that was the real reason!

  I looked down at the shapeless blue hospital gown I was wearing, wondering what had happened to my clothes. I had a feeling my pretty little lace camisole top and cardigan were ruined – there was no way to get blood stains out from angora and silk easily. Funnily enough, it was the thought of this that made me want to cry the most.

  The curtain partition was suddenly pushed aside and the strong smell of espresso hit me, making me want to retch as St. John entered my cubicle. My first impression was that he seemed to fill the entire cubicle with his impressive height, making it feel claustrophobic, but then I noticed that he looked as bad as I probably did – his hair was dishevelled, his beige cargo pants had a large black dirt stain and dried blood splattered on them and his shirt collar looked like he’d been tugging at it one too many times in frustration or annoyance.

  When he saw that I was awake, he gave a grim smile, ‘So, you’re back in the land of the living. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ I replied, noting the tightening of his lips.

  ‘You still look too pale and your eyes are all red.’

  How romantic of him to point that out! Well, at least I now had an excuse for my bloodshot eyes, I thought.

  It wasn’t the state I’d wanted him to see me in but, at least, it was heart-warming that he was showing concern for my wellbeing.

  ‘You saved my life. Thank you.’ I whispered gratefully.

  His jade green eyes narrowed as he said, gruffly, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It was nothing.’

  I wanted to tell St. John that it wasn’t “nothing”; that what he’d done meant so much to me but I felt that I’d only embarrass him with my gratitude, which was something he didn’t seem to want.

  Thankfully Dad responded with effusive thanks, praising St. John’s quick thinking and equally quick action. I got the feeling that this conversation was being reprised as I could tell St. John was quite uncomfortable by all the fuss over his heroism. He probably thought we were being melodramatic. Finally he halted Dad’s sense of indebtedness with a reminder to make his phone call.

  ‘Right, yes, I’ll do that,’ Dad replied, slightly flustered, setting his coffee cup down on the tray table at the end of my hospital bed. ‘Do you mind staying with Sage till I get back?’

  ‘Go right ahead, I’ll stick around till you return,’ St. John promised.

  As soon as Dad left the room, St. John’s intense gaze pinned me to the bed. ‘So tell me the truth, how are you really feeling?’

  I found it difficult to invent a lie.

  ‘Okay at the moment, I guess,’ I replied, ‘I’ve got enough drugs in me to have my own rave party. But I’m pretty upset that my clothes got blood all over them.’

  St. John shook his head in exasperation, laughing at my bitter expression.

  ‘What about you? Are you okay?’ I asked, ‘And what about the relief?’

  This seemed to entertain him. ‘The relief is still in one piece, it didn’t feel anything, I assure you. And I’m fine except, like you, my clothes got blood all over them.’

  Immediately I felt contrite and began spluttering an apology, but he only held up a hand and laughed. ‘I was only teasing. As a guy I don’t feel the same attachment to the items of clothing I own, except maybe my Italian leather jacket which I bought in Milan. You should see it – it has the softest kid leather and stitching so fine it’d make you weep.’

  I smiled wryly at his joke.

  ‘I must admit though, that your top and cardigan set did look very nice on you before it was splattered with your blood.’

  His eyes were smouldering as he uttered this last statement and I felt myself blush hotly as my heart rate dipped and sped up in embarrassment. It wasn’t fair that he had confirmation of how affected by him I was with this heart monitor recording every fluctuation in my emotions!

  ‘About what happened back there,’ St. John began, never taking his eyes off me, ‘I was going to talk to you before you almost got yourself killed.’ I winced as he said this. He made it sound like I deliberately threw myself in the way of danger. ‘I was going to ask if–’

  He was abruptly cut off as Dr Mukherjee scraped back the dividing curtain and entered, asking, ‘So Miss Woods, how are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I answered, sounding more than ever like a broken record.

  ‘That was quite a knock you took to your head,’ she said, crossing to the side of the hospital bed. She withdrew the small pocket torchlight from her starched doctor’s coat and clicked it on. Flashing the light into one of my eyes then the other, she murmured something about how dilated and bloodshot they still were before picking up the electrocardiograph and examining it.

  ‘Still a little erratic but that should improve overnight. I’ll get the nurse to top up your meds,’ she said, giving a cursory glance at one of the IV bags attached to my drip stand. Picking up my chart and scribbling some notes down, she gave me a final once-over and left the cubicle with a curt, ‘Get some rest.’

  As soon as Dr Mukherjee had left, St. John started up again, ‘As I was saying, I was going to ask if you intended–’

  The scrape of the curtain rings against the metal rod, made him halt midstream. I could see the frustration etched in his eyes, the golden flecks more pronounced than ever. It occurred to me that this only happened when he was under some intense emotion. The last time I’d seen them quite this golden had been when he’d kissed me under the mistletoe.

  But he managed to mask his feelings as my Dad entered the room in a better mood than when he’d left, stating, ‘Well, your mum’s relieved that you’re awake and sends all her love. She’s going to come round later tonight during visiting hours while I take care of the kids.’

  St. John looked resigned. ‘Well, I’d best be going. I don’t want to tire you out.’

  I wanted to protest when he picked up his coat from the end of my hospital bed and headed towards the curtain, suddenly desperate to hear what he was going to say.

  But it was too late. Dad was already pumping his hand in a gesture that spoke volumes – of masculine honour and obligations, forged loyalties and pledges. If it had been the sixteenth century I think he would have arranged, if not my betrothal to St. John, then a purse full of gold coins to give to St. John in gratitude.

  As Dad dro
pped St. John’s hand and turned back towards me, I looked up to watch him depart and was startled by the expression on his face – he looked torn; certainly frustrated but also as if he was in physical pain. And yet he was so inhumanely beautiful that I ached to touch him, my emotions flaring as strong as before and my heartbeat again fluttering wildly, captured on the monitor.

  Dad uttered a note of concern but I barely heard him as any words of farewell stuck in my throat. He turned without another word and strode quickly away from me. Through a gap in the curtain I watched him disappear down the hospital corridor and out through the exit of the Emergency Ward, his coat briefly flapping in the wind before the doors slid closed, blocking him from my sight.

  Dad was still muttering when I refocused on him.

  ‘–such a fright,’ he was saying. ‘You must have a guardian angel looking after you, Sage.’

  I jerked upright and the machine spluttered in response to my accelerated heartbeat. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What?’ Dad asked confused, keeping his eye on the heart monitor, ‘I said that you’d given me such a fright today.’

  ‘No, not that,’ I contradicted, ‘The other thing.’

  ‘Ah ... that you must have a guardian angel?’ he asked uncertainly, pushing a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, clearly bewildered.

  ‘Yes, that,’ I agreed, ‘That’s what I thought you said.’

  I closed my eyes feigning tiredness and recalled with perfect clarity the moment before St. John slammed into me; a sight that at the time had seemed so impossible and unreal.

  I could have sworn, without any doubt in my mind, that I’d seen the two winged bull monumental sculptures move with a grace and agility that was beautiful to behold. I’d seen the muscles of their haunches flexing; their wings, normally tight against their bodies, spread open in readiness for flight. And they had turned their human eyes upon me, their expressions fiercely protective. I was sure that they would have acted to save my life if St. John had not been there to intervene, ready to charge to my defence. More than ever I realised that my life was bound up in the artefact. But I had no idea where it had disappeared to.