Eye of the Wind

by Jane Jackson

  The sun had set in a glory of gold and crimson. The vivid splendour had paled to shades of rose, then turquoise, and now dusk was falling. The breeze had dropped and the air was sweetly perfumed. In the stillness she could hear distant shouts and laughter. She turned, grasping the handles of the French windows, and stood with her head bent. After a long moment, she took a deep breath and closed them quietly.

  Then, crossing the terrace, she walked down through the park and took the lower path that led to the beach near the mouth of the creek.

  The tide was beginning to ebb, and where the beach was widest near the yard, an enormous bonfire sent showers of sparks and orange tongues of flame leaping into the air. Beyond it, lighted tar barrels mounted on poles illuminated the laughing faces of the gathered men, women, and children.

  Melissa sensed the rising excitement as the fire, which had clearly been burning for some time, began to subside. Standing in the shadows out of sight, she watched men and boys begin to dance around the fire.

  Then one young man, boosting his courage with a yell, leapt through the flames. The watching crowd gasped, then roared encouragement. A man jumped the fire, followed by another youth.

  Movement a few yards away at the water’s edge caught Melissa’s attention. Someone climbed out of a boat and started dragging it up the beach, unrecognisable in the shadows cast by the bright flames and dancing figures. But once he reached high water mark and straightened up, her heart gave a painful lurch.

  Leaning into the boat, Gabriel Ennis lifted out several fish strung on a length of cord.

  She heard a shout, and saw Billy break from the circle of dancers. He ran toward Gabriel, beckoning him to join in. He shook his head, but Billy pleaded, gesticulating as he urged Gabriel toward the fire. Fending him off, Gabriel turned away and froze, looking directly at her.

  Catching her breath, she stepped back. He surely could not recognise her. She was too far away, and in shadow.

  Billy caught his arm. A new circle had formed. Now women had joined the men, holding hands as they wove like a snake jumping through the dying flames. A buxom young woman in a low-cut dress raced down, grabbed Gabriel’s hand, and tugged him back to the circle.

  Unable to watch, Melissa turned her back on the merriment. She stumbled over the rough stones and tangled seaweed toward the welcome darkness of the wood. There no one would see her stupid tears, or mock her foolish, aching envy to be part of the circle, to dance with her hand in Gabriel’s, to leap the flames and trust the ancient gods to protect her for the coming year.

  Reaching the low cliff, she seized exposed roots to pull herself up into the trees. Straightening her dress and wiping her eyes, she started up the path. But a few moments later she heard the crack of a twig and stopped. The footsteps came on, a man’s footsteps, not running but moving fast.

  Had he heard her? Should she call out or remain silent? She had every right to be here. But she was alone, it was very dark beneath the trees, and no well brought-up young woman with a care for her reputation went wandering in woods at night. She pressed a hand to her stomach, her heart beating so hard and fast she felt sick.

  ‘Miss Tregonning?’ The breath she had been holding exploded in a soft gasp and she reached blindly for a tree as her legs threatened to give way. Relief was followed by anger.

  ‘Gabriel! You frightened me!’ She drew a shaky breath as he loomed out of the blackness.

  ‘Indeed.’ He bit the word off. His anger, matching her own, was disconcerting. What right had he to be angry? ‘You will permit me to see you safely home.’

  ‘You forget yourself,’ she shot back. ‘I am perfectly able to walk home without assistance. Nor am I used to being addressed with such …’ Authority. It was the only word to describe his tone, not that she would tell him so. What authority could a man like Gabriel claim?

  ‘I most humbly beg your pardon.’ The strange, hard note had gone. ‘It was wrong of me –’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘The thing is, I don’t doubt your courage, miss; but the wisdom of walking alone in the woods on a night when spirits are high and beer flowing freely, that I might question. With respect. However,’ he added, as she caught her breath, fighting the knowledge that his criticism was justified even as she struggled to frame a suitably crushing retort, ‘you are not alone now.’

  ‘True.’ But the confusion she experienced in his presence was anything but a comfort. ‘Why did you not stay on the beach?’

  ‘Hunger.’ He held up the fish. ‘ My d – evening meal.’

  ‘How many did you catch?’

  ‘Six. Too many even for me. Would you – it would give me great pleasure if you would accept half.’

  ‘You are very kind, but I cannot. Mackerel are best eaten fresh. With all the staff, including Mrs Betts, at the celebrations –’ She shrugged.

  ‘There is no one at home to cook them?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Her eyes had grown used to the darkness now and she could see him more clearly: a tall, solid presence that unnerved as much as it reassured.

  ‘Then allow me.’

  ‘What?’ Wary, not sure what he meant, she gazed up at the pale blur of his face.

  ‘Billy told me how important St Peter’s Tide is to the village. You wouldn’t have wanted to miss it even if you couldn’t take part.’

  ‘Even so, perhaps I shouldn’t – But I thought if I was careful –’

  He shook her head. ‘You were not seen.’ He sounded so sure.

  ‘Except by you.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Miss Tregonning, would you do me the honour of dining with me?’

  Now she was silent, biting her tongue hard. She wanted to. She mustn’t. Yet was she not beholden to him? Without his practical help and advice she would be in straits far more desperate than those she currently faced, and with no hope of retrieving the situation, or keeping it secret.

  ‘It must be several hours since you last ate. You have just told me there is no one at home to prepare your supper.’

  ‘You make me sound helpless,’ she objected, starting to tremble and uncertain why. ‘Anyway, Mrs Betts will have left me something cold on a tray.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Gabriel murmured dryly. ‘That does indeed sound more appetising than freshly caught fish.’

  ‘No it doesn’t, and so you know.’ She swallowed nervously. ‘I really –’ Ought, shouId, must. She drew a deep, shaky breath and, as loneliness defied the clamour of good sense, blurted, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Perhaps you have changed your mind.’

  ‘No. It was just – I hardly dared hope. This way, miss. I know a short cut.’

  When they reached the shack he asked her politely to wait while he went inside. She heard him strike flint against stone, saw the glow of lamplight, and a moment later he re-emerged carrying the lantern. Hanging it from a stick wedged high up on one side of the door, he went back into the shack, fetched the chair, set it down against the wall and, after covering it with a blanket, he indicated with a gesture and a smile that she should sit.

  Meanwhile, bombarded by doubts, but aware that to leave now would be the height of rudeness, Melissa was determined to behave exactly as she would have had he been the cream of Truro society. A guest had certain obligations, and having accepted his invitation she would honour them.

  Swiftly, she reviewed possible topics of conversation. But though he did not seem ill at ease, nor was he inclined to talk as he moved about. So, taking her cue from him, she lapsed into silence, watching as he quickly kindled a fire within a low semi-circle of blackened stones. With no demands being made of her, no expectations to meet, she began slowly to relax.

  Neatly gutting the fish, he wiped them dry with a clean piece of muslin and threaded each one through the gills on to a peeled oak twig.

  ‘How did it get hot so fast?’ Melissa asked, gazing into the heart of the fire where the burning wood was a brilliant golden-orange with almost clear flam
es. ‘There’s hardly any smoke at all.’

  ‘Dry wood doesn’t make smoke. Hard woods such as oak or maple – that’s oak – burn much hotter than soft wood like pine or poplar.’ Gabriel laid the twig across the fire, supporting it on two notched sticks driven into the earth. ‘Won’t be long now.’ He glanced up with a quick smile of such sweetness that she jumped, her heart turning over. Instinctively attempting to disguise her reaction, she adjusted her shawl. It was hunger, nothing more. ‘I’ll turn them in five minutes. They’ll be ready in ten.’

  ‘Where did you learn all this?’

  Turning away, he shrugged. ‘It’s woodcraft. For example, if you are lost a tree can tell you where north is.’

  ‘Really?’ He hadn’t answered her question but it would be impolite to press. ‘How?’

  ‘You look for moss. It usually grows thicker on the north side of a tree. But you must choose a tree that is out in the open, not one in a damp, shady spot. Or you can chop into the trunk. The side that has the thickest bark will be north, though you should check several trees to be sure.’ He turned the fish over, the firelight casting his strong profile in bronze. ‘Folklore has it that if you want to make your dearest wish come true, you write it on a piece of beech wood and bury it.’

  Melissa sighed. ‘If only it were so easy.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he murmured.

  Straightening, he went into the shack and came back with two plates, chipped but clean; and a single fork that he used to push the fish off the stick and onto the plates.

  ‘No, please,’ Melissa cried as he was about to add a third. ‘No more. Two is plenty.’

  Handing her one plate and the fork, he paused to turn off the lantern before lowering himself to the ground beside her chair, resting his back against the wall.

  She glanced at the lantern then back at him, her uncertainty returning. ‘Why –?’

  He raised a finger to his lips, saying quietly, ‘You’ll see. Eat. Please,’ he added, but she sensed it was an afterthought added to soften the faint hint of command.

  Flaking easily from the bone, the mackerel tasted delicious. The first mouthful made Melissa realise how hungry she was. She had almost finished the second fish when a shuffling in the undergrowth brought her head up. Immediately wary, she glanced at Gabriel.

  With a reassuring smile he raised a finger to his lips again then pointed to the path. Melissa looked where he pointed, and for a moment saw nothing. Then a large badger trundled out of the shadows. He stopped, sniffed the air, then ambled forward, nose to the ground, to where Gabriel had left the fish guts. Fork poised, meal forgotten, Melissa watched, entranced, as his mate joined him. Two half-grown cubs rolled into view, tumbling over each other with soft grunts, then abandoned their game and pushed in beside their parents to share the feast.

  A few moments later, after a quick snuffle round to make sure no scrap had been missed, the cubs resumed chasing one another, playing hide and seek, while their parents ambled off along the path and out of sight.

  Turning to Gabriel, Melissa found him watching her. He smiled. She smiled back.

  ‘That was amazing. I’ve never seen … How often do they come?’

  ‘Most nights. But I don’t always feed them. It would not be wise.’

  ‘The wrong kind of food, you mean?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. If I fed them regularly they might become dependent. They might come to me for food instead of hunting for their own. Then if, for some reason, I could not feed them …’ He moved his shoulders, allowing her to work out for herself the possible result.

  What reason would prevent him feeding them? If he were no longer here … Melissa felt suddenly chilled. Setting down the plate, she stood up. She didn’t want to go. All the more reason to leave at once.

  ‘That really was delicious. I’m not simply being polite, as you can see.’ She indicated the plate now containing nothing but bones and skin.

  He grinned, uncoiling and rising to his feet. ‘You were hungry.’

  She nodded shyly. ‘Thank you. I’ve so enjoyed –’

  ‘Last year, did you jump through the flames?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘There is no ceremony in the circle. Everyone is equal when they honour the old traditions and seek protection from witchcraft and evil for the coming year.’

  ‘You need such protection?’

  She raised her brows. ‘You need to ask? Perhaps I am foolish, but in my current situation any help would be welcome.’

  ‘Then we must honour tradition.’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘You will risk evil?’ he enquired softly. ‘What of me?’ he added. ‘I too would welcome protection.’

  As he pulled the notched sticks from the ground and tossed them aside, Melissa’s glance fell on his bandages and she felt hot with shame. Absorbed in her difficulties it was all too easy to forget the suffering he – and others – had endured.

  Kicking the embers into flickering life, he held out both hands to her. The flames danced in his eyes and cast a glow across his lean, dark face. ‘Your servant, ma’am?’

  Her heart quickening, she tossed her shawl onto the chair, stepped forward, and placed her hands in his. With the fire between them, their hands clasped above it, they began to circle the flames, pulling against each other, gradually building up speed. Exhilaration vanquished shyness, and, as Gabriel smiled broadly, Melissa tossed her hair back and began to laugh. Faster and faster they whirled.

  ‘Now!’ he cried, and swung her over the flames so she landed lightly by his side. Releasing one hand he leapt across the fire. Their hands rejoined, and after another circle, he swung her though again. Rockets fizzed skyward from the beach below, and Melissa heard the pop of firecrackers exploding.

  ‘Don’t let go!’ he warned, his eyes gleaming. ‘You know what they say: “bad luck to weak hands”.’

  ‘I’ll hold fast,’ she vowed.

  In turn they leapt to and fro, trampling out the fire. When the last flames had died, both were out of breath and the darkness shrouded them like a blanket.

  ‘Now you are safe for another year,’ he murmured softly.

  ‘You too,’ she replied. Her heart thudded so loudly she feared he would hear it. Her hand was still clasped in his. She knew she should withdraw it, for the ritual was over now, but it was warm and strong, and she felt safe, which was ridiculous. She was permitting a liberty beyond all that was proper. She cleared her throat.

  ‘I should – I really – Thank you. I don’t mean just for this: the fish and the badgers and – I mean for all your help. If you hadn’t –’ Her breath caught in a tiny gasp as he laid a calloused finger gently against her lips.

  ‘It was my privilege.’ His finger moved lightly across her cheek and freed a damp, clinging curl.

  Glad of the darkness that hid her fiery blush, she knew she should move away, berate him for his impertinence. But, trembling in the grip of something outside her experience and beyond her control, she did neither.

  She heard him swallow, could feel the heat emanating from his body so close, so very close, to hers. He drew her like iron is drawn to a lodestone: an attraction as elemental as that holding the moon to earth, and as impossible to break.

  He made a sound, too brief to be a groan, and stepped back, releasing her hand. She pressed it to her midriff, trying to retain the fading sensation of his touch, of his infusing strength.

  ‘I’ll see you home, miss.’ His voice was as harsh and strained as it had been the day they had first met here on this same path.

  Her eyes pricked and her throat was stiff with loss, and bewilderment at her reactions. ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Just to the park, miss. For your safety.’

  Not trusting herself to speak, she simply nodded.

  Night wrapped them in velvet darkness, and though stars could be glimpsed through the tree canopy, the moon had not yet risen. She was not afraid of the dark, but
nor could she easily see the ruts and dips in the path, and tripped twice. But instantly his hand was at her elbow to steady and reassure.

  They reached the edge of the woods and he stopped. She knew he could not see her face, but she forced a smile anyway. A smile would alter her voice and mask feelings she could not explain and feared would shame her. She did not want him thinking … What didn’t she want him to think? Why should it matter what he thought? Who was he anyway? All this raced through her mind as she turned toward him, clutching her shawl as she drew a deep, careful breath.

  ‘Thank you, Gabriel.’

  ‘No, miss.’ His voice was a gravelly rasp. ‘Thank you for the honour of your company.’

  On impulse, she offered her hand. It was what she would have done on taking leave of someone of her own class. But he wasn’t, and she shouldn’t have. Before she could withdraw, he took it. Instead of a brief, polite shake, her hand was raised and her heart stopped at the warm pressure of his lips on her knuckles. Then he was gone.

  Reaching the terrace she paused and looked back. In the distance she could hear shouting and laughter, drums and singing, punctuated by more firecrackers. A rocket, trailing brilliant sparks, shot high into the sky.

  The next day was feast day. While the men worked, women would be down on the quay setting up stalls to sell sweets, ribbons, trinkets, fruit, and pastries. When the men finished work and joined them, there would be games and singing, and fiddlers would play for those who enjoyed dancing.

  From late afternoon until dusk, sailing boats, rowing boats, and gigs would take groups of villagers aboard for short trips out of the creek and into the Carrick Roads. In the evening, there would be a ram roast, and drinking, and more fireworks.

  Picturing it all, drawing on memories of other years, still vivid, she stayed at home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Melissa arrived at the clearing on Monday morning the atmosphere was noticeably subdued. After offering a brief salute or mumbled greeting, the men went about their work in silence, the after-effects of two days of celebrations painfully obvious.