by Kristy Tate
“Absorbing sermon, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Baron?” Garret stood between her and the retreating friar as solid and immovable as Mount Sinai.
Petra nodded and tried to snake by, but he followed so close she worried he’d step on her dress.
Outside on the steps of the chapel, the late morning sun streamed through the shade of a maple tree and cast a dappled sunlight on Anne’s face as she chatted with the friar and the priest.
Petra stopped beside the priest and laid her hand on Garret’s arm. “Good morning.” She gave Anne a brief unfriendly nod that she hoped conveyed a small bit of her dislike and then turned to the priest. “Father Knightly, I so enjoyed your sermon.”
The priest had an unfortunate resemblance to Abraham Lincoln, the same build and craggy facial features, but with more hair. His eyebrows, dark, thick and long, poked from his forehead like a thorn bush and the front of his hairline had a cowlick that made his hair stand on end.
“Good morning, Miss Carl,” Garret sputtered out a greeting to Anne.
Anne lowered her eyes and bobbed a curtsey, looking humble, and yet somehow not.
Petra watched, curious. Did Anne hate Garret, when he so obviously felt differently? Petra’s attention flicked from Garret’s flushed cheeks and eager eyes to Anne’s shuttered face and ramrod-straight back, but then she saw the friar moving down the path toward the church’s gates and lost interest in Garret and Anne.
She’d seen historical movies of women running in skirts and decided that they must have been computer animated. Trying to move quickly while wearing a hundred pounds of clothing wasn’t going to happen for her. She moved past Muffin Face, navigated through a herd of children, and nearly tripped over an aged woman draped in a shawl.
Spinning around, she didn’t see the friar but she caught sight of a plaque nailed on the wooden gate.
“In loving memory of those who fell to Black Shuck, May 1557.
All down the church in midst of fire, the hellish monster flew,
and, passing onward to the quire, he many people slew. ”
Beneath the plaque, scorch marks scarred the gate.
“Tis the devil’s own fingerprints, that,” the woman said, noting Petra’s interest.
Chapter Thirteen
Legends as old as the Vikings claim a doom dog known as Black Shuck roams England. It’s said that seeing him means certain death within twenty-four hours. He haunts graveyards, side roads, lakes and dark forests. In other tales, he’s a protector of lone women. He’s also big, ugly and has breath that smells of rotting meat.
—Petra’s notes
Petra turned to the woman who came barely to her elbow. Wrapped in the shawl, she must have been warm in the early morning sun, but she looked cold and wizened. Her black eyes stared into Petra’s face.
“Black Shuck…is he the devil then?” Petra licked her lips, feeling foolish yet scared.
The woman bent her head. “Not the devil, a hound of hell.”
This woman was clearly a relic from the Dark Ages, steeped in what Grammy would have called hoo-hah. Petra tried not to think of her practical Grammy rolling her eyes when she asked, “Black Shuck came here? Others have seen him?”
The woman cackled, exposing a mouth without teeth. “No one lives more than a day after catching sight of Black Shuck.”
Petra fought back the shiver that crawled down her spine as she remembered her conversation with Emory. “I’m just so relieved you are alive,” she’d said. “As I am you,” he’d replied. She’d wondered what he’d meant. He couldn’t believe in hell hounds, could he? He had whispered about the legend of the chained oak. Shivering, “No one? Were you here then?”
The woman sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her filthy sleeve. “I was but a bairn on that terrible day.”
“Black Shuck came here and everyone who saw him died?” Sarcasm laced Petra’s voice as she studied the old woman. She looked as old as a mummy, but according to the plaque, Black Shuck had visited the church only 40 some years ago.
Death comes early, Emory had said, and looking at the woman she supposed that old age came almost as quickly. Petra put her hand to her cheek, wondering if she’d be old in ten or twenty years. She felt a flutter of panic and a renewed sense of urgency to find her way home.
“This black dog, or the devil in such a likeness,” the woman said. “God, only He knows how the devil works.”
Petra wanted to get away from the witchy old woman; she reminded Petra of the one in the story who cursed the unlucky Earl. She didn’t want to hear about a killer canine on a rampage or the devil disguised as a doom dog, and she certainly didn’t want to be cursed. But maybe she already was. Was that why she was here? She moved away from the chapel doors, but no longer caring that she might be thought rude.
The woman trailed after her. “Running all along down the body of the church with great swiftness and incredible haste.”
Petra hastened toward the gate, but the woman managed to stay at her elbow, speaking and spraying spit.
“He came among the people in a visible form and shape. He passed between two persons as they were kneeling in prayer and wrung the necks off them both at one instant. Clean backward.”
Petra managed to reach the cemetery’s gate, a stone and wrought iron contraption, but she hadn’t been able to shake the old woman.
“Where they kneeled they died,” the woman said, leering up at Petra, revealing nostrils ringed with hair.
“That’s a terrible story.” Petra frowned at the woman. “That’s the second worst story I’ve heard since I’ve come here.”
“Tis not a story --”
“Yes it is!” Even in her own ears her voice sounded screechy. “None of it’s true. It’s all…” She fought to find the word, “hullabaloo, hoo-hah!” Frustrated that she’d been reduced to her grandmother’s terminology, she nearly shouted. “Superstition!”
The woman gaped, her mouth a terrible, smelly hole.
“There are no such things as curses, or hags, or devil dogs!” Petra put a hand on her forehead as if to stop all her wild thoughts. “Please excuse me.”
As she stumbled into the cemetery, she realized she’d returned to the spot where she’d first met Anne. Lifting her skirts, Petra walked briskly among the tombstones, as if she knew where she was headed, as if she had a destination to pin point on a map.
She heard a low chuckle. “Hoo-hah? Hullabaloo?”
With her hands on her hips, she turned, ready to defend her vocabulary.
The friar stood among the tombstones, amusement on his face. “Come, my dear, no need to resort to obscenities.”
“Hoo-hah and hullabaloo are hardly obscenities.” Petra’s face flushed with anger.
“But it is derogatory.”
“I can be much more derogatorial.”
The friar laughed till he had to wipe his eyes.
Despite her aggravation, Petra found herself warming to him. She sat on a tombstone and watched him laugh at her.
“I can do insulting, would you like to hear more?”
Scathing retorts, insulting barbs, the subtle diss—she had a repertory. Not that reducing others to tears was something to brag about, but in the jungle of high school halls, it was a useful tool. One that she intended to use on Emory if she got the chance.
“Will they all be as amusing?” the friar asked. “Perhaps we should first be introduced. I find it very useful to know whom I am insulting.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps that’s a lesson you might do well to learn. I am Friar Rohan.”
She cocked her head at him, debating on whether or not to remind him that they’d spent some time together last night. “Friar Rohan, I’m Petra, but you already know that. I think Emory told you about me.”
“My dear,” Rohan said. “I pray that you do not consider yourself the central topic of everyone’s conversation.”
Petra bit back a sharp remark, one that could perhaps hurt as badly as his, but she knew she needed Fr
iar Rohan, miracle man. She needed a miracle badly. “Has Emory mentioned me?” she asked more meekly.
He nodded, and his eyes twinkled as if he were having a wonderful time.
“I thought so.” Petra felt annoyance tingling up her back. “Did he also tell you about mangy Black Shuck, and how I’ve apparently bucked tradition?”
“Mangy?” Rohan’s eyebrows twitched. “Black Shuck is a magnificent beast. I’m sure it’d ruffle his fur to be described as mangy.”
“So you’ve seen him, too? Does Emory know?”
“Not everyone is susceptible to hell’s wiles.”
Petra snorted. “Or superstition.”
“Do not mock what you don’t understand,” he gently cautioned, not unkindly.
“I’m not mocking. I’m sad and scared.”
“Ah yes, so I can see.” He squinted at her. “Well, happy up.”
Petra inhaled sharply. “What did you say?”
Rohan blinked as he lowered his girth onto a headstone. The marker disappeared beneath the spread of his frock. “Happy up? It’s not, perhaps, as derogatorial --”
“Who are you?” Petra asked, studying his face. He looked like a clean-shaven Santa Claus. She’d expect him to say “ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas,” or even “happy Christmas,” but not “happy up.” That was her father’s expression. “Happy up,” her father would say right before he called her Peevish Petra. She didn’t know anyone else who used the saying and she doubted it was a common expression in 1610. Nothing about this man seemed common or ordinary.
He returned her gaze with kind, blue eyes. “I am your friend.”
Petra shook her head. “We’ve just met. Besides, I get the feeling you’re not very picky who is, or who isn’t, your friend.”
Rohan smiled at her. “Not true. For example, Black Shuck is not my friend.”
“Is there such a thing?”
Rohan lifted his eyebrows at her. “Any friend of Emory’s—”
“Emory is not my friend.”
“He most certainly is,” Rohan put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“And how would you know?”
“Heaven helps me.”
Heaven helps me or, heaven help me? An odd thing to say, Petra thought.
“Or, perhaps more fitting to say, I help heaven.” He winked. “We’re on the same team.”
“Whose team do you think I’m on?”
“Your own of course. ‘Tis true for most of us, I’m afraid.”
“But not you?”
Rohan raised his eyebrows. “He who’s not with me is against me.”
“You’re the easiest person to understand I’ve met since I’ve gotten here, and yet, it’s like you’re talking in riddles. I’m not against you and I’m not on a team.”
He chuckled. “Are we not sitting together? And if you are not here, where are you?
When she didn’t answer, he pressed, “Where would you like to be?”
“Home,” she said.
“And how will you get there?”
She frowned at him. “What has Emory told you about me?”
He laughed and it seemed to come from deep within his belly. She couldn’t help smiling.
“With his words, you mean?”
“Of course with his words! How else would he tell you anything?”
Rohan gave her a teasing smile. “Words are perhaps the least effectual form of communication, which our dear Father Knightly so aptly demonstrated in this morning’s sermon.” He gave a great sigh and looked at the church.
Father Knightly stood on the steps. The two men scowled at each other. Rohan looked sad for a moment and contemplated his hairy toes sticking out of his leather sandals. Then he looked up at her. “For example, the good father and I just enjoyed a little exchange. Did you notice?”
“Would ‘enjoy’ be the right word?”
“Much more fitting, I believe, than derogatorial.” Rohan gave her a small smile. “Forgive my demonstration. I just wanted to prove that there are more means of communication than words. So, do you want to know what Emory said of you with his words? Or otherwise?”
Words could be insulting, but the otherwise? She’d really like to know the otherwise.
“I thought so.” Rohan laughed again, looking a fraction wicked. “Last night he said you were…shall we say, derogatorial.”
“He was mean, not me.” I just wanted to see where he’d been hurt. I still want to see that.
“He said you said to him, ‘shuck you.’ He didn’t know what it meant, but he didn’t like it.”
“He wasn’t meant to.” She hated that she sounded contrite. Should she apologize? It did sound pretty offensive, even if it didn’t mean a thing. “Did Emory tell you I want to go home?”
“You’ve lost your way?”
“Yes!” Petra’s heart leapt. “Can you help me?”
“Maybe, but you may not like it.”
“I really want to go home. I’m desperate to go home.”
Rohan considered her and then asked, “Then why don’t you?”
“I don’t know how!” She would if she could. Of course, she would. Even if it meant never seeing Emory again. He meant nothing to her. She needed to tell him that he was rude and mean, she’d be doing the world a favor by teaching him to be polite.
“Last night I saw you heal the gypsy. He was writhing in pain, and then you did something, said something, and he...calmed down. Now he’s gone. He was so bloody and hurt. He couldn’t have just walked out. You did something.”
Rohan shook his head. “I can’t bring you peace, Petra.”
She flung out her hands. “But you worked some sort of magic.”
“It’s not magic, my dear.” He sighed. “You’re asking the wrong questions.”
“What do you mean?”
Rohan scratched the top of his head. “Perhaps instead of asking how, you should ask why.”
“Why do I want to go home?” Petra’s voice squeaked.
“No, my dear.” He studied her with patience. “Why are you here?”
Petra placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t know that either.”
“But have you asked?”
“And who would I ask? You?” She took a step closer and lowered her face even to his. “Do you know why I’m here?” she asked slowly and steadily, as if she was talking to someone who had difficulty understanding English.
“You’re here for the same reason I’m here. Indeed, wherever any of us may be.” He grinned at her, which made her even angrier. “To help.”
“To help? Help who? Help with what?”
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened.”
She balled her hands into fists and thought of knocking Rohan on the head. “Show me where to knock, because I’d really like to know.”
“Ask and receive not because ye ask amiss.”
Petra applauded herself for not knocking the man to the ground.
“Some questions just don’t have easy answers.”
A snapping twig interrupted their conversation. Petra looked up as a shadow fell across the bench.
“Ah, Miss Baron.” Garret took a deep breath and brushed the hair from his eyes. “I’ve found you.” He looked uncomfortable. “Good day, sir, I’d come to accompany Miss Petra to the manor.”
Petra didn’t consider her conversation with Rohan over; she still had plenty of questions for him, questions she didn’t want to ask in front of Garret.
“Shall we go?” Garret asked, his tone the same he’d use if he were asking if she’d like to witness a hanging.
Petra looked over her shoulder and saw Anne talking to Emory. Her heart pinged. He wore dark breeches, a white open shirt, a low-slung belt and despite his simple attire he looked like royalty. She couldn’t hear their conversation, but she managed to hear the words ‘rendezvous’ and ‘this afternoon.’ From the expression on Garret’s face, sh
e knew that he had also heard their plans.
Garret followed her gaze and his scowl deepened. “Come,” he urged her toward the waiting carriage. As he took her arm and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, he patted her hand as if to console her. “Good day, sir,” he said to Rohan, leading Petra away.
***
Garret looked worse than she felt. He sat in the carriage and stared out the window with lowered eyebrows. He had one leg crossed over the other and the top leg swung like a pendulum. Petra sat across from him, carefully avoiding his boot.
Carriages looked romantic with their velvet interiors and gold gilded paneling, but they smelled of horse poop and bumped and jostled over every rock and pothole. Petra and Garret bounced toward the manor in uneasy, teeth-rattling silence.
Until they stopped.
Garret reached forward and pounded on the dash. “I say, Fritz, how now?”
When Fritz didn’t respond, Garret pushed back the curtain that separated the cabin from the driver’s perch. No Fritz. Garret muttered a curse that she’d never heard before, but because it must have been bad, he gave her a sideways look and muttered an apology.
Seconds later Fritz appeared at the carriage door holding a large metal contraption in his hand. Garret asked what Petra was wondering. “What is that?”
A pink tinge stained Fritz’s neck. “I beg your pardon sir, this is an axle.” He cleared his throat. “A broken axle, to be more exact.”
“Well, by faith, fix it.”
The pink tinge moved to Fritz’s cheeks. “I haven’t the proper tools with me, sir.” He looked balefully at the contraption.
Garret pushed out of the carriage, and Petra watched through the window. “Then how will we get home?” Garret demanded.
“It’s not far,” Petra said, considering her satin shoes and wondering how they’d hold up in a cow pasture before she said, “We could walk.”
“Walk?” Garret’s expression said he wouldn’t have been more surprised if she had suggested they turned themselves into birds and fly across the field.
She saw the towers of Pennington Place on the other side of the hill. It wouldn’t take long. She’d walked much farther last night. “It’s right there.”
