The woman washed my back while I shut my eyes against her ministrations, letting the scented oils consume my senses, wanting and needing the rot I felt inside my soul to abandon me, to vanish into the ether.
She moved on to washing my arms and legs, then she washed my hair.
She didn’t speak, nor did I. Her compassion was in the softness of her touch. My mother used to take delight in washing my hair, and for a minute, I let myself remember her…
“You have such beautiful hair, Elin. Thick and lovely.”
I scoffed and peered over my shoulder, though not truly annoyed. “I think you have to say nice things like that, Mother. I am your daughter. You are obligated to be kind.” I bit my lower lip and smiled, knowing how she hated it when I didn’t accept her compliments well.
“I only have to feed and clothe you. Compliments are a bonus. Now…” she tugged on my hair teasingly, “say thank you and be polite when someone offers a kind word. Understood?”
“Yes, Mother. Understood.”
Water trickled down my spine while tears tracked down my cheeks. Little by little the pain kept working its way in deeper and deeper until I thought the pain would replace bone and flesh.
Breathing took effort. Standing on two limbs absorbed all my energy. I wanted to live outside of my body more than I wanted to live in it. Everything hurt and I wanted to retreat into a place so dark I couldn’t find my way out.
I wanted to hide from it all.
Although I don’t remember stepping out of the tub or how I made it back to the room I’d been in since arriving at the monastery, I do recall seeing new dresses hanging where none had hung before and a chest placed at the foot of the bed with more clothes spilling out. I recall the woman choosing a nightdress from a neat pile and helping me into it, and then helping me back to bed.
It wasn’t until she was leaving that I thought to ask her name.
“Francesca,” she said.
“Why have you come?”
“To see to yer needs. I heard what happened. I thought perhaps ye would need some tendin’ to.”
“Do I know you?”
She smiled. “It is quite possible ye do.”
She opened the door. “I hope ye feel better soon.” Her eyes drifted to the floor and then back up. “Ye need to be vigilant, child. Hold trust close and choose wisely who to give it to. Do not make hash of it.”
With that, she stepped out of the room and closed the door.
I stared at the two mounds of fresh dirt, marked with two crosses bearing my parents’ names.
Cian Ó Scannláin and Camellia Ó Scannláin.
Monk Searly had assumed the responsibility of burying my parents, assuring me he had given them their last rites, wrapped them in shrouds, and laid them to rest inside the churchyard where the grounds had been consecrated. He and the other monks walked in solemn procession round its boundaries, expelling special prayers to deflect anything evil from disturbing them.
I was deeply moved by the gesture, and incredibly grateful, for it felt like a gift. I wanted to thank them all properly, but I felt wooden, and no matter how many times I tried to speak, I could not make a sound.
The fog rolled in, its silent footsteps tiptoeing around each marker until it covered the fresh graves. A howling wind stirred my skirts and the hair around my face. The baleful sound of a wolf’s cry echoed in the distance. The first pearls of rain fell, listless and clear on the leaves, a soft cadence of tinkling, a musical chime that played quietly, and then gradually escalated into a phut-phut-phut sound of ripened nuts hitting the ground.
I did not move, watching the fat drops color the Earth in a patchwork of dark circles, releasing a fragrant scent of earthy musk.
I knew he was there, at my back, and then he was at my side, a few paces over, dressed as he always was, in all black, head covered by his cloak. Even in the outdoors his presence dominated, consumed, like a monolithic column rising above the ground. His essence was as tangible as the man himself. Even the air around him hummed in reverence.
He said nothing, only stood quietly beside me while the rain fell on us in heavy sheets.
My hair hung in long, wet clumps. My dress clung to my body, too heavy now for the wind to move. I was too heavy to move. Grief held me within its clutches and I hadn’t the strength nor the energy to find purchase indoors.
Unbridled sorrow, heavy as a stone, pressed against my ribs and I shuddered against the ache.
“I’m dying inside,” I said through the tightness in my throat. I don’t know what made me confess it. It was unintentional, but something about his being there drew it out of me.
“I know,” he said, whisper-soft.
“I don’t know how to go on without them.” The thought made my body tremble. Because bloody monsters, murdering thieves that robbed me of my family, my home, had left me behind to pick up the pieces. Only there were no pieces to pick up. What remained was now buried in the ground before me.
“I know,” he said again, just as softly. I shivered against the chill and realized for the first time that I was cold. “How long were you planning to stand here?” he asked.
I closed my eyes and let the rain cascade over me, wishing it could wash away the pain. “Until I figure out how to say goodbye.” He didn’t reply and after a minute I said, “You don’t have to stay.”
“I would like to, if that’s all right with you.” Lord Lochlan turned his head, his face only a shadow, though his unnatural pale eyes beseeched me, asking for approval.
I nodded. “All right.”
We both turned our eyes back to the muddy graves of my parents. Rain continued to pour and I continued to shiver, though I was still too wooden to move, and too weak to care.
“Take my cloak,” he said with an outstretched hand. “Carefully,” he added.
As instructed, I took the cloak, careful not to touch him, and wrapped it around me, drawing the hood over my head to keep the rain off my face. Even though it was wet it was warm on the inside. I closed my eyes and breathed in his scent, knowing this would be the closest I would ever get to him.
“Thank you,” I said.
His black hair clung to his forehead. Silver drops of rain trailed down his face and held fast at the base of his chin. “You’re welcome,” he said, his expression tight, though tenderness colored his words.
For a long time we stood like that, unspeaking. Every once in a while I would hear his boot chuff against the ground, but Lord Lochlan remained there with me until the rain subsided, the fog tiptoed away, and the sun peeked through the fragile clouds, never once leaving my side.
That small act of kindness repaired the tiniest fissure in my heart. The cracks would take longer to heal of course, but all healing has to begin somewhere. For me, that somewhere began when the loneliest soul I’d ever known offered to give company to the saddest.
The day after the funeral, I was awakened sometime late afternoon by a light rapping on the door.
Rubbing my eyes, I called, “Yes?” When no one answered, I called out again, “Yes? Who is it?” I quieted my breathing and concentrated solely on whoever was on the other side.
I heard a gentle exhale and then Lord Lochlan said, “I was wondering if you might be hungry.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. I think Monk Searly tried to coerce me into eating bread at some point, though I couldn’t be certain.
I answered, “Yes. I think maybe I am.”
“Get dressed and I’ll walk you to the refectory.”
I glanced around the room, at the new dresses of silk and fine linens. I don’t even remember picking one out to wear the day before, though I must have. I also had not even thought to ask who was responsible for the garments, although I suspected he was standing outside my door.
“All right. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be right out.”
“Take your time. I will wait.”
I climbed out of bed, quick to choose a dress in green and silve
r silk. The neckline was lower than anything I was used to, and the sleeves were longer than my arms, fitted above the elbow and adorned with a silver band. The bodice was also fitted through the torso and hips, gradually flowing away from my body, easily reaching the floor. I tied a silver rope belt at the waist, slipped on a pair of black leather boots, and made quick work with braiding my hair, not wanting to keep Lord Lochlan waiting any longer than necessary.
He was leaning against the opposite wall when I opened the door. His eyes found mine instantly and a ghost of a smile whispered across his lips.
“You look…” he swallowed, his eyes taking a lazy stroll over the green silk, “…you look well. How did you sleep?”
It was the first night (and day) to be sure that I hadn’t awoken in a fret of fear and unshakable loss.
“Better,” I said upon recognition of that fact. “Thank you for asking.”
He pushed off from the wall and started down the long, expansive hallway. I followed. After a few steps, he stopped and allowed me to catch up. Keeping plentiful space between us, Lord Lochlan walked at my side, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his long black cloak shifting and gliding around his feet. My dress swished against my legs and I mimicked his demeanor, clasping my hands behind my back. The hallway opened up to two more and we took the one to our left. A statue of St. Joseph was at the very end, tucked away in an alcove. Candle sconces hung above our heads by chains on large wooden spheres, casting a soft yellow light to guide our path. At the end of that hallway we turned right and it opened up into a vast outdoor space, though the pathways on all four sides were covered from the elements, another statue of a saint placed at its center.
We strolled without conversation and I was rather relieved, for I was still seeking a place within myself to idle, to breathe without hurting. Though I had much I needed to say, questions I needed to ask, now was not the time. Not yet.
When we reached the refectory, several monks were quietly eating. At least twenty or so were seated at a long rectangular table with Monk Searly seated at the head. Three vacant chairs sat empty. One on his left, two on his right.
Monk Searly looked up when Lord Lochlan and I entered. He stood and sallied forth. A few of the other monks acknowledged us, smiled in greeting, and the others ignored us altogether.
“Elin,” he said, cupping my hands in his. “I am pleased to see you up and dressed. I have saved a place for you. Come,” he said, leading me to take a seat to his left.
Lord Lochlan sat on his right, the empty chair beside him. I stared at that empty chair, knowing it was purposefully empty to alleviate the chance of an accidental touch. I sighed inwardly, because even through my own suffering, my heart squeezed every time the realty of Lord Lochlan’s curse came to my thoughts. The precautions he had to take in his daily life were unnatural and I couldn’t help the swell of anger that bubbled up inside of me on his behalf.
Someone cleared their throat and my eyes darted from the empty chair to Lord Lochlan’s pale ones, his brows knitted in a crease. Do not pity me, his expression said.
Because I owed him that much, I took a collective breath and straightened in my chair, letting my eyes fall to the meal before me. Stew and bread.
“The blessing has already been said. You may eat, my child.” Monk Searly pointed to my place setting. “Go on,” he encouraged.
I tore off a piece of bread and used it to scoop up a bite of stew, a blend of fish and vegetables.
“Good?” Monk Searly asked.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. “Yes, very much so.”
“There is plenty, so if you are still hungry after you’ve finished there is more.” He filled a goblet with wine and set in front of me. “Made this myself,” he said with a certain amount of pride. “It is quite good if I do say so myself.”
Lord Lochlan chuffed under his breath before taking a bite of bread and stew.
Monk Searly shifted his eyes in the lord’s direction. “What? It is true.” His face was alight and his tone of humor, not the least bit offended.
“I didn’t say a word,” Lord Lochlan said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.
“Aye, but I know you, milord. I know what you were thinking. I haven’t been fuddled in quite a while. I’ve been on my best behavior, have I not?”
I raised an eyebrow, imagining the monk drunk on alcohol. The idea of it was completely absurd, but I actually hoped I might see the likes. A drunken monk. What might that look like? The corners of my mouth lifted into a grin, and the longer I contemplated a drunken Searly, the grin turned into a smile, then the smile turned into a laugh. Oh my, yes I would have to see the likes. I imagine it would be…
Just like that, a crippling deluge of guilt ran over me and my laughter faded into bone shaking sobs.
What was I doing? I had just buried my parents. What kind of daughter was I to sit at a table and laugh?
“Elin,” Monk Searly said quietly, “it is okay, child. You are allowed to feel things, laugh at things. It is okay to–”
“No, it is not,” I whimpered. “What kind of daughter laughs the day after…” I picked up the cloth napkin I had placed in my lap and covered my face. Everyone went still and the only sound I heard were my own sobs breaking through my gut.
“Brothers, please, give us minute if you will,” Monk Searly requested.
Monks all along the table got up from their chairs and excused themselves, which made me feel even worse, for I had ruined their meal. Gentle pats touched my shoulder as each one exited the room. I hid my face from them all.
“Talk to me, Elin,” Monk Searly said calmly, sounding so much like my father I thought my heart might actually burst.
“The grief…it’s too much. I’m trying to be strong, but it’s too much. I c-can’t…”
It was moments later before he spoke again. He touched my hand and I let him take it, though I kept my face hidden, still holding the napkin firmly in place with my other hand.
“Grief is much too heavy to carry. Let it walk beside you instead, child. It will lead in the beginning because your pain is new and raw. Eventually it will fall behind. At times it will catch back up to you, and then it will fall behind again. And then one day you will look over your shoulder and will have to squint to see it.”
He patted my hand, and I removed the napkin from my face. He regarded me with kind eyes. “It will get better, my child. I promise.”
I tried for a smile. It felt too brittle so I said “Thank you,” instead.
My eyes caught Lord Lochlan’s, who still remained seated across from me. When Monk Searly had dismissed everyone, he’d stayed. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
Lord Lochlan’s eyes drifted down to where Monk Searly still held my hand. I noticed the way his countenance changed, how his lips frowned, his eyes narrowed. I saw the way his throat bobbed and how he looked away when Monk Searly’s thumb gently caressed mine. When he refused to meet my eyes again, a sharp pain stabbed underneath my breast.
Not having it in me to take on anymore hurt, I stood and bid them both goodnight.
Lochlan hadn’t known her for long, or been in her company often, but he had already seen her demonstrate an array of emotions. He had seen her scared, confused, angry, confident, and heartbroken. He had yet to see her laugh though, until this day. Her laugh was an instrument unto itself, unique in both sound and beauty, and bloody hell…it was priceless to him, because he knew her laugh was as rare as his.
When her laughter faded, died, cut off without warning, he wished he had never heard it, because now he knew to miss it. Then he had to watch her fall apart all over again. It had been unbearable the first time. It was even harder the second time.
Never. Never in his life had he hated himself, who he was, more than any other time, than in that fragile moment with her, when he had to watch her crumble and there was nothing he could do about it.
He wanted to howl at the moon, break things, carve a path straight to Hell and
wreak havoc over the demons who caused her suffering.
And he would. So help him God he would. Whoever was behind the attack would suffer at his hands and he would relish every bit of it.
It would be soon. Very soon.
Until then he would watch over her and keep her safe.
When Elin had stood from the table, he stood too, thinking he needed to walk her back to her room.
She had halted him when she lifted her palm. “Stay. I’m…I can find my way back.” She’d turned to Searly, her eyes misting, her chin quivering and said, “Thank you for supper and for your kindness.” Her gray orbs slid over to Lochlan, staring at him for a quiet moment, a conversation without words. He’d stilled, waiting to hear the words she longed to speak, but alas, she’d turned and walked away, leaving both men behind. Lochlan sat back down, his fist slamming hard on the table.
He hated what they’d done to her. Even more, he didn’t know why it was affecting him so profoundly. Perhaps because he still believed it was his fault, his punishment for being him, despite Searly believing otherwise.
“You’re angry,” Searly stated matter-of-factly.
He tilted his head, giving Searly a side-eye. “Of course I am angry.”
The monk simply studied him. “Why?”
He shot to his feet, flabbergasted he had to ask. “Why? Did you see her? She’s falling apart. She’s not eating, she barely comes out of her room, she stood out in the bloody rain for hours yesterday!” He picked up a wine goblet and threw it across the room. “Why aren’t you angry?”
Searly said nothing right away, only observed.
Lochlan paced like a wild animal, trapped in a cage. His steps were maddened, his eyes intent on doing damage to whoever dared to get close enough.
“I know why you’re angry,” Searly said, dismissing Lochlan’s answer. “You can’t touch her.” This time Searly was the one to tilt his head giving him the side-eye. “You want to be the one to comfort her and you can’t.”
Lochlan stopped pacing, his fists coiled tight at his sides. He did not deny it.
The Moon Shines Red (Heart of Darkness Book 1) Page 5
