Forbidden

by Susan Johnson

  "Tell me what happened," she said, hushed and low, wanting to know, wanting an accounting after the awful hours of waiting. "How?" she asked, and then quickly, "Where?" As if knowing the details would bring some relief, as if the knowledge would allow her to reach out to him one last time.

  Daisy was very like the first time he'd seen her after her mother's death, Hazard thought. Composed, too quiet, grave… all her feelings held in check.

  And when Trey fully explained the sequence of events, she only quietly said at the last, "Can Etienne's body be recovered?"

  Hazard shook his head, the movement minimal. "We don't know," he said, his voice subdued. "So much depends on how long it takes to pump out the mine… or if we can pump it out. We don't know where the water's coming from or the extent of the reservoir behind it. Come back to town with us," her father suggested, "until we…" He fell silent, knowing the recovery of the body might take days or weeks. The state of the corpse would be gruesome by then.

  "I'd rather go home." She felt empty suddenly, and alone, in the midst of her family. Clear River Valley was home… hers and Etienne's.

  "I'll drive you. We'll come with you. You shouldn't be alone."

  She couldn't bring herself to rudely tell her father she wished to be by herself, so she allowed her family to accompany her to the ranch. But after suffering through what seemed an interminably agonizing period of restrained and solemn conversation, she finally said, "I'm going to sleep. Please…" She hesitated, understanding her family meant well but unable any longer to abide company. "I'd like to be alone."

  "Of course," Blaze said, taking Hazard's hand, her eyes filled with tears at Daisy's suffering. "We'll come back later in the day to see if you need anything."

  And after their good-byes, Daisy had Louis turn the phones off. She wasn't capable of receiving condolence calls; she didn't want to have to politely accept well-meant sympathy. How could she possibly respond with the required courtesy when she didn't know at this moment whether she cared to live herself. After some rest, after some time to grieve alone, she'd handle all the required duties. Etienne's children would have to be notified… and Bourges.

  Although Louis appeared collected, he was hushedly somber, his eyes red-rimmed. But he didn't speak of Etienne again, once he'd asked for the details of his death. Reserved as he'd always been in his master's presence, he quietly carried out Daisy's wishes.

  "I hope you stay with me, Louis," Daisy said before she went upstairs to her bedroom. "I'd be most grateful." In her grief she couldn't fully express how much his staying would mean to her, but somehow the house would seem normal with Louis there. With Louis in residence, Etienne's presence would be more vivid as if he were just around the corner or upstairs or out with his horses. Louis could talk to her about Etienne… he knew infinitely more about him than she did; he knew a lifetime of detail and anecdotes. She'd have a link to Etienne and his past.

  "Yes, Miss Daisy," Louis answered in French, although she and Etienne had spoken English to him since they'd come to America. He was a man of tradition and protocol, but his eyes were warm when he said, "I'd be pleased to stay."

  Daisy had the maid close the drapes in the bedroom, shutting out the afternoon sun. It didn't seem right that the sun should still be shining brilliantly or the autumn leaves continue in their dazzling splendor when her world had died. And she turned Etienne's chair away from the windows before she sat in it, curling deep in the soft leather redolent with his scent.

  Only last night he'd sprawled in his chair, holding her in his lap, and they'd gazed at the starry night, deciding with silliness and laughter on baby names.

  Her tears began then in a slow seeping at the poignant memory, as if her grieving heart was free at last to mourn in the solitude of their room. The trickle gave way slowly to great gulping sobs and then a flood of uncontrollable weeping. How would she survive, she despondently thought, when she'd never see him again… never hear him laugh or have him tease her, never feel his arms hold her close, never see his face at the first sight of their baby? Clutching the soft leather of the chair arms with tears streaming down her face, she lay back against the warm scented contour, wanting to dissolve into the chair and feel Etienne envelop her in his arms as he had last night.

  And she lay distrait and mournful for an endless time, tormented by her loss. An embittered fury, too, dwelt just beneath her sorrow and pain as she berated herself for her own folly at wasting precious months in separation because she'd been constrained by righteous principles. Because she wanted blameless perfection in an imperfect world. She should have stayed with Etienne in Paris and allowed someone else to handle the court case; she should have taken advantage of every minute of their time together.

  But she'd been less perceptive than he about the rarity of love, thinking instead that one could negotiate for a style of love and marriage convenient and suitable to one's cherished beliefs. Etienne had been more willing to make the necessary adjustments. His divorce, she realized now, was the ultimate sacrifice of his entire way of life. And she'd quibbled at the time about his sincerity and fidelity or the degree of his commitment to her.

  Now when it was too late, she realized how senseless and trivial her censure. Did others think with regret as she did—if only she were given another chance, she'd know better, she'd promise to treasure every moment of time together, every word, every kiss, the smallest breath, the lightest touch.

  And she prayed to her benevolent spirits, asking like a child would in utter earnestness for a second chance—a wishful pathetic prayer, sent across to the spirit world.

  Her sobs fell into the dark silence of the room, her heartache so intense her breath was stifled in her throat. Laying her cheek against the warm leather where Etienne's head had rested only short hours ago, she cried, wishing for a return to yesterday.

  She fell asleep after some time in the softness of Etienne's chair, exhausted from crying, weary in spirit, devastated by the staggering realization she'd lost him this time—forever.

  Etienne felt the air on his face first, a tenuous sensation not immediately recognizable. And then some moments later, his consciousness sent the proper signals to his brain and he realized he was still breathing. Lying in water up to his chin, his sluggish senses slowly registered that circumstance, lagging moments behind his initial observations, and panic overwhelmed him. Struggling to escape the water, he disregarded the intense pain in his lungs and in his battered body as he shoved himself in lurching, erratic terror into a half-seated sprawl.

  The effort left him gasping while white flashes burst before his eyes in the total darkness of his entombment.

  But he was gloriously alive!

  Understanding finally clarified what his reflexive responses had already surmised.

  And he smiled in the black dampness, thousands of feet underground in a labyrinth of tunnels that could swallow a man for life.

  He smiled because there was infinite pleasure in the simple act of breathing and in the knowledge he could contemplate a first wedding anniversary with the woman he loved.

  His shaman gods would receive a generous offering for their fateful rescue.

  Or perhaps Daisy's benevolent spirits had wanted their union to last longer than two weeks.

  He thanked in turn the full panoply of possible deities.

  He'd been propelled by the flood up a raise into the exploration areas of the Alaska Shaft, he surmised sometime later when he'd regained his strength and faculties enough to inspect the walls and low ceiling of his entombing space. He had only to climb the ladder in the raise, he knew, up to the surface… and freedom.

  He rested a brief time after his investigation, to give the agony in his lungs time to subside to more manageable levels. Then he began ascending the ladder inside the ventilation shaft, moving slowly in his weakened state, his body bloodied and raw where he'd been flung against the jagged rocks. Resting often, light-headed and unstable from the blow to his head, his upward journey too
k considerable time.

  At the 1400 level, the raise ended and he found himself up against solid rock. A sudden rush of panic assailed him in a mindless fear of burial. Stay calm, he cautioned himself, gripping the ladder rungs tightly while his heartbeat slowed. There's a way out… you only have to find it. Backtracking, he descended to the 1800 level where he hoped it was possible to enter the mine, and crawling several hundred yards through a low working, not yet cut out to standing height, he prayed the rough channel merged with a larger one.

  With the lamps flooded out at the lower levels, the darkness was complete, the absence of light so absolute, a suffocating denseness smothered his senses. Would he find his way out, he fearfully speculated, reconnoitering with his hands before moving the next few inches forward, feeling at times as though the low ceiling and walls were crushing down on him. Progress was torturously slow, each movement painful; he was bleeding from his wounds, the oozing blood cool on his skin.

  He stopped once to calm an overwhelming sense of doom when he was struck with the thought that no one would come looking for him. No one would expect him to survive the deluge. How grotesque a fate to survive the flood only to die a lingering death in this black maze of tunnels, like a human mole a half mile under the ground, a half mile away from rescue. Forcing himself to breathe a slow count of ten, he suppressed the daunting image and then doggedly resumed his forward progress. He intended to continue crawling until he couldn't… or until he bled to death.

  After an uncounted pattern of exploration with his hands, then two feet of forward movement, after achingly slow progress, after another short rest before resuming his journey, he found himself at a juncture. He stood upright cautiously, heedful of his injured body, not certain in the utter blackness whether the ceiling would allow him to stand.

  It did and he gingerly stretched. A tunnel of this dimension indicated some proximity to the hoist. Now which way? he wondered. Mentally tossing a coin, he turned to the left, hoping his intrinsic compass was on target. The shaft they'd come down had been situated at the center of the north-south cut of tunnels, and they'd traveled south to dynamite, so presumably the water had swept him north.

  His talent as a cartographer served him well, for ten minutes later he abruptly walked onto the station turn-sheets. Cautioning himself against premature joy, he recognized the flooding may have curtailed operation of the cage. Feeling like a blind man for the signal lever in the dark, his fingers at last closed on the blessed metal lever.

  Swiftly signaling three bells to hoist up, he unconsciously held his breath, waiting apprehensively to hear the familiar hum of the running cable in operation.

  Long tense moments later, the cables stirred into life.

  Releasing his breath, he offered up a small prayer of gratitude.

  As the cage reached the surface, he found a full contingent of astonished miners crowded around the shaft, the skip signal having rung above-ground like a veritable voice from the grave.

  The Duc blinked in the sunlight, squinted against the dazzle of daylight, stood wet, cold, and battered, feeling mystically reborn… like Jonah discharged from the stomach of the whale. Colors gleamed with glaring brightness, the landscape took on a more three-dimensional quality, people's faces and forms developed a marvelously full-bodied volume, voices struck his ear with a distinct articulation, like the clarity of church bells. And the air was blessedly fresh in his lungs.

  A deafening cheer exploded and he smiled, gripping the hand Joe Sherman put out, and allowing his arm to be shaken more vigorously than his damaged body appreciated. But pain was a pleasant reminder he was alive, he decided, and he wouldn't begrudge the discomfort.

  As soon as congratulations diminished to less raucous levels, he explained how his miraculous survival had occurred, how he'd been propelled up a raise by the pressure of the flood waters, and been lucky enough to have been forced up the ventilation shaft while he was still alive.

  Impatient to talk to Daisy however, he excused himself from the milling crowd to make a call to Clear River Valley. Smiles and understanding looks of indulgence followed him as he walked toward the office. When he failed to get a response, he had the foreman try, assuming he must be overlooking some idiosyncrasy in local telephone connections.

  "Grounding must be down on the line. Happens a lot, Mr. De Vec," Joe Sherman said after his attempt failed as well, "once you're five miles out of town."

  Etienne tried the Braddock-Black home next in the event they'd returned to Helena with Daisy, but was told the Braddock-Blacks were still out at the mine.

  "Since they left to bring Miss Daisy back to Clear River Valley, sir," George Stuntz said, "they're probably all at the valley ranch."

  The Braddock-Blacks were, in fact, all in transit at the moment, Hazard and Trey on their way back to the mine, Blaze and Empress returning to Helena.

  The Duc's horse had been taken back to Clear River Valley, as well, when Daisy left, so Etienne borrowed a mount and one of Trey's coats to cover his wet clothes. The long travel-duster lined in wool would keep him warm on the ride home; he didn't want to take the time to change. He wasn't sure, in any event, if his battered body would appreciate the abrasion.

  "Would you try reaching the Braddock-Blacks later," the Duc asked, slipping his wet shirtsleeves into the coat. "If the phones at my ranch are down, I won't be able to contact them."

  Shaking hands once again with all the smiling men in the office, he took his leave.

  "Good to see you alive, sir," Joe reiterated. "Made our day, sir."

  The men in the office, as well as the miners, were all friends of Daisy's for she'd grown up underfoot, tagging along with her father as a child, naturally assuming a role in the operations as she matured. Daisy talked to them all exactly like her father and brother would, her understanding of mining equal to theirs, and they teased her like they would a daughter or sister. While still a child she'd begun going underground with her father with an undaunted courage they'd all admired. She'd grown up, as it were, with copper dust in her teeth, and she was their darling.

  "Give our best to Miss Daisy," George said, echoing the feelings of all present.

  Standing in the doorway of the office, Etienne bore a startling resemblance to Hazard and Trey, dressed as he was in Trey's long leather coat, his harsh aquiline features and long black hair reminiscent of an Absarokee. Saluting with a briefly raised hand, he said with a smile, "I'll deliver your message personally."

  * * *

  Etienne arrived in Clear River Valley in record time, the sight of the rustic log house so beautiful it compared for that moment with the architectural wonders of the ages. Move over Rameses II temple at Abu Simbel, step aside the Taj Mahal, weep in envy the Parthenon, he jubilantly thought cantering up the drive.

  He wanted to shout with joy.

  But the house was silent as he approached—odd for this hour of the day, particularly if the Braddock-Blacks were here. More curiously, when he dismounted and ascended the stairs to the entrance, no one opened the door for him.

  The stillness was palpable as he stepped into the foyer, now denuded of its numerous mounted trophies. Glancing up the stairway to the darkened hallway above, he wondered:

  Had Daisy not come home?

  Sprinting up the stairs to see for himself, he strode swiftly down the carpeted hallway, his boots softly squishing at each step, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the burgundy carpet. At their bedroom he quickly pushed the door open and then abruptly stopped as he caught sight of Daisy.

  And he understood the Absarokee phrase—my heart sang.

  Across the deep shadows of the room, Daisy lay curled in his chair, sleeping.

  Closing the door softly behind him, he stood in the gray light, drinking in the precious sight of her, his heart and mind pervaded with the sheer beauty of his love, a sense of miracle so strong he silently promised all the gods who might have aided his escape some tangible recompense for their spectacular handiwork.

>   How deeply moving it was to simply stand in this plain and unadorned room, knowing he could take Daisy in his arms once more and hold her. He could be with her when their child was born. He could sleep with her at night and wake with her beside him in the morning.

  He could take her hand in his, feel her slender fingers lace companionably through his—a simple act—trivial and mundane.

  But almost lost to him. And he was so profoundly grateful he shut his eyes for a moment, standing like a dark shadow before the door, and whispered into the hushed room, "Thank you."

  Walking quietly over to the chair, he squatted down, his long coat trailing on the floor, and saw where the tears had dried on Daisy's cheeks, saw her small hand clutched into a fist under her chin, saw the soft curve of her cheek resting on the high padded arm of his chair. She'd tranfigured his restless, fickle existence, given him love and wondrous delight in their child. A gambling man by instinct, his stomach tightened transiently at the odds against his freakish escape. Even a rash and reckless gamester wouldn't have touched those odds, and his faint smile bespoke an acknowledgment of his phenomenal luck. Reaching out, he softly stroked the swell of silky black hair falling over her shoulder—a tactile surety of his revivification.

  Her eyes came open slowly at the gentle touch of his fingers.

  "I found my way out," he whispered. His words were meant to soften the shock. A declarative statement easily absorbed.

  And when her dark eyes opened in astonished awareness, he smiled.

  His face, she thought, was the most beautiful configuration of stark plane and modeled form ever contrived by man or god. And in her own spiritual awareness, she didn't question his presence with fear, she only accepted the bounty of his reincarnation.