P N Elrod - Barrett 3 - Death Masque

by Death Masque(Lit)

  "I'd hardly planned on saying anything at all, but the time had come. Besides, one of you is formidable enough, but both at once..." He shook his head as though my sister and I could have overwhelmed him in some way, as we had done in play as children when trying to wheedle a special favor from him. But then as now, we knew when he could be persuaded and when he could not. Father had made up his mind, and it was not for me to question his judgment, though I yet had questions on other things.

  "Sir, you had me look at the others through the parlor window, but I still do not quite have the purpose of it clear in my mind."

  "So you could see how things are for us when compared to the rest of the world. There is a kind of peace here, but it's so damnably fragile. Any banditti claiming to be part of Washington's army can come day or night and shatter it forever. This is your home, but would you rather say good-bye to it now of your own volition and remember it as it is or wait, and live with the possibility that someone will come along to take it all away? If that were to happen, then nothing would ever be the same. This sanctuary and any others replacing it would ever and always be tainted by such an invasion."

  And in that I could hear echoes of what his mistress, Mrs. Montagu, had frequently said to him on the subject. Last December her house had been broken into by rebels and thoroughly looted. Despite the repairs made and support he had given her over the months, she was still subject to vast distress in her own home and, though better prepared than before, was ever in fear of another attack. I asked after her.

  "She's well enough."

  "What I mean is, if you're planning a return to England, what will happen to her? Have you told her?"

  "Laddie," he said, sounding amused, "it was her suggestion."

  Well-a-day. Mrs. Montagu was a kind woman, for whom 1 had a great fondness. As I had lacked a mother for the greater part of my life, she had filled that need in me to some goodly degree. "Then she's preparing to leave as well? When?"

  "Soon. That's all I can say. There's much that must be done first... like dealing with your mother."

  Good God. My face fell at the very thought of her. She almost surely promised to be as fell an obstacle as any in Father's path. "What will you do?"

  "I... haven't quite worked that out," he confessed. "I'm of a divided mind on whether to present it to her as a concluded arrangement, or to find a way for her to come up with the idea herself. The latter is more appealing to me as it is bound to be quieter."

  "It would certainly appeal to Mother's nature, especially if she thought you might-" I cut off what was to come next, realizing how it would sound, but Father only smiled.

  "Thought I might not like it? I know you meant no disrespect for me, only that you understand how her mind works. Then so be it. That shall be my strategy, though I doubt it will take much to put her onto the business. She has family in England she hasn't seen for decades, like that harpy of a sister who runs things."

  And people. Aunt Fonteyn, as she chose to call herself. Horrible woman. At least I wouldn't have to be dependent upon her as were so many of her other relatives. I could thank my inheritance from Grandfather Fonteyn for that blessing.

  "What about Dr. Beldon?" I asked. If Father intended to take Mother on a long voyage, Beldon and certainly Mrs. Hardinbrook would be necessary to help maintain his treasured peace.

  "Gotten fond of him, have you?" His eyes twinkled.

  "When he's not playing the toady, he's witty enough company," I conceded.

  "First I'll see about persuading your mother, then I'll worry about the others."

  I did not ask him if he had not thought of simply leaving on his own, for that would have been an unforgivable insult to his honor. He was a good and decent man, laboring to keep firm to the vow he'd made on his wedding day. No matter that their love had died, his promise to care for and protect his wife was still to be observed. To ignore that promise for his own convenience would violate all that he held sacred. He would sooner hang himself in church during Sunday services than forget it.

  Many another man would not have put up with such a wife, but my Father was of a different heart than they. I was glad of him and proud of him and sorry for all the pain he'd endured and hopeful that the future might somehow be easier for him. For us all.

  All. Thus was I reminded to speak on another's behalf.

  "I must ask one thing of you, sir. Please don't wait until the morrow to tell Elizabeth. It wouldn't be fair to her. She needs... the time."

  "Time?"

  "So she can say good-bye."

  He saw my point, nodding. We'd already made our partings with our friends, but not with the land itself. We might never see our beautiful house again, or the fields around it, or the thousand treasured places we'd explored while growing up. Certainly I'd said farewell before when I'd been packed off to Cambridge, but my home had ever been secure in mind and memory, waiting to welcome me back again upon my return.

  No more. And that was a heavy sadness to carry along when, after quite a lot more talk and questions, I took my leave from Father and began walking. Aimless at first, I'd intended to wander the estate and simply stroll the night away. It seemed the best manner in which to bid farewell to my favorite haunts, but I found myself going instead to a place I'd been avoiding for far too long. Just over a year had passed since I'd last been there, and throughout that time the mere thought of it had never failed to make me physically ill.

  Not without excellent reason.

  As children, Elizabeth, Jericho, and I had played here. We were pirates hunting treasure or scouts and Indians; we gamed and quarreled and laughed and sang as our mood dictated; we called it the Captain's Kettle, this deep arena gouged out by an ancient and long-vanished glacier. A special place, a magical place, once protected by the innocence of young memory from all the harsh assaults of living.

  At one time I'd regarded it as a refuge. Safe. But that illusion, like many others as my view of the world expanded, was gone.

  Now I stood close by one edge, on the very spot where the musket ball had slammed into my chest, where interminable seconds later I'd gasped out the last of the life I'd known to fall helplessly into what would be the first of my daytime sleeps. If dreams had come to me during that period or if I'd been somehow aware of the goings-on about me, it was just as well no memories lingered to sear my mind. Those I did possess were sufficiently wretched, so much so that I had to cling hard to a tree to keep from collapsing beneath their sickening weight.

  My knees had begun quaking long before reaching this ground, though I told myself that anticipation was making the endeavor more difficult than the actuality. Only by this inner chiding was I able to goad myself into coming, to attempt to look upon the last place on earth where I'd felt the then welcome blaze of sunlight and had breathed the free air without conscious effort.

  Nothing had really changed here, nor had I expected it to, only my perception of it had suffered for the worse. A childhood playground had been corrupted into a vile pit of black dread, and since the possibility that I might never see it again had become a surety, I'd conceived the perverse necessity to come in the hope of ridding myself of the darkness by facing it. But as I held hard to the tree to keep steady, eyes squeezed tight against the view, the need was all but drowned by long-denied reaction. I hadn't anticipated it being this bad; I felt smothered, cold... my hands, my whole body, shaking, shivering.

  This was a fool's errand. An idiotic mistake. A disaster. A...

  No. God give me strength to fight this. And I started to mutter a prayer, but could not finish it. No matter. The mere intent to pray was a calming influence, reminding me that I was yet in God's hands.

  The experience of my death had been hideous, but it was past and done. Fool or no, idiot or no, I would not let myself be defeated by a mere memory. Back hunched as though bracing for a blow, I forced my eyes open.

  Grass, leaves, twigs, and rock sorted themselves into recognizable shapes, no different from those cloaking
the rest of our estate, to be walked over or kicked aside as needed. Trees emerged next, then a bit of sky. High above, the branches had laced themselves together. I stared at their canopy and felt my belly twisting in on itself. Not good. To look made me dizzy, not to look made me a coward. But a little illness was preferable now than to suffer lonely recriminations later; so I stared until my guts ceased to churn and the world left off lurching every time I swallowed back bile.

  Better. I straightened, discovering my legs were capable of supporting me unassisted. Releasing my grasp of the tree, I stepped unsteadily closer to the edge of the kettle and looked down. Looked across. Looked to the place where the Finch brothers had crouched, hiding from Hessian searchers. Looked to where I'd seen but not comprehended the meaning of a puff of smoke from a musket aimed at my heart.

  I looked and waited for the next wave of illness to pass. It did not seem as severe as the others. The shakiness gradually subsided.

  Much better. I sat on the once bloodied patch of earth where I'd fallen. Cautiously. It was impossible to rid myself of the notion that some trace of the agony I'd passed through might be lingering here to seize me once more.

  An abrupt twinge through my chest did make me wince, but that, as I well knew, originated in my mind. A memory of pain, but not pain itself. No need to fear. No need. Really.

  Father had taught us always to face our fears. Talk about them if need be, then look at them and decide if they're worth any further worry. That had ever and always worked in the past, and since my change I'd seen the need to face this one eventually. But I'd never once spoken of it; not even Jericho knew. Telling others meant I'd soon have to take action, and to come here was a labor I'd not yet been ready to assume, or so I told myself each time I put it off. But no longer. That luxury was no longer mine to have.

  Drawing my knees up enough that I might rest my arms across them, I waited to see if more illness might overtake me.

  Not exactly comfortable, I thought some little time later as a sharp stone ground against my backside. I shifted enough to allow a brief search for the offending rock, prying it free. I half expected it to be stained with old blood, but its rough surface proved to be as unblemished and innocuous as the rest of the area. Eventually I tossed it into the kettle, listening to it rattle through the trees and the faint thump when it struck the ground far below.

  I looked and waited, taking in the night sounds as I'd done the previous evening on the banks of the stream, but it wasn't the same. The peace I'd known then had been sweet; was it so far from me now?

  Yes, I grumbled, especially if I had to stay here much longer.

  The tedium of waiting for another adverse reaction now became my chief adversary, not the illness. I began to drum my fingers, whistle without mind to the tune, and by degrees 1 came to think that I had more interesting things to do than this. But if I left now, would that be giving in?

  Decidedly not.

  Instead, I gave in to something resembling a laugh. It was breathy and had more than a small share of unease and subsided too quickly, yet was an indication of barely realized triumph.

  It was absurd, of course. / was absurd.

  My great and horrible fear had turned into boredom.

  A second laugh, more certain than the first.

  Absurd, and like many absurdities, it craved expression.

  I found another stone and tossed it high. It arced through the trees and crashed into the tangle of growth far below. I grabbed another and another until none were left, then got up and searched for more, eager as a child. Circling the kettle, I let fly dozens of similar missiles. As though in a game of chase, I darted through the trees, shouting greetings at them just to hear the echoes.

  Foolish, yes, but gloriously foolish. When one is suddenly liberated from a burden, one must celebrate. So I ran and jumped and called out bits of childish verse and song, careless and free.

  The last thing I did was to throw myself over the edge of the kettle at a flat run. The world surged for a mad instant as I suddenly hurtled down, then vanished altogether. I'd swiftly willed myself out of all danger, spinning into that state of joyful weightlessness, like a leaf floating upon the wind. I drifted high, leisurely contesting the gentle pressure of the air, invisible as thought, yet in some way just as substantial.

  I know not how long I played at this, but finally I tired and resumed solidity on the spot where I'd died. Whatever hurt I'd suffered, whatever anguish for that which I'd lost was no longer a part of this place. I laughed again, and this time the note of triumph was tempered only by a humble gratitude for that which remained: my life, changes and all, and my family.

  My misgivings about a permanent parting from these lands was gone. Perhaps the reluctance most people feel when leaving a home has more to do with the inability to resolve any unhappiness that's occurred there, rather than the loss of the happiness they've had. The memories of dying were with me but could no longer instill their fear and pain. They had diminished; I had grown.

  With a much lighter heart than before, I hiked back to the house.

  Much to Father's relief the cattle arrived at the ship and had been safely loaded along with the rest of the baggage we were taking to England. There was quite a lot of it, for at the last we'd applied ourselves to additional packing in light of Father's decision to soon follow. Not everything could come; Elizabeth was already mourning the loss of her spinet, but I'd promised to find her another, better one in London. My own major regret was having to leave behind my favorite hunter, Roily. From the very start of the conflict I'd dreaded losing him to the commissary men, and I hated the idea of his falling into careless and cruel hands. It was one of the many questions I'd posed for Father during our lengthy talk, and one for which he had no ready answer.

  I was held fast by my day sleep during the early morning rushing about as our things were piled into the carriage and wagon taking us to the ship. Though utterly oblivious to it all, I could count myself lucky to be well out of the maelstrom of activities attendant on our departure. That was the one positive aspect of my unconscious condition, and it stood alone against a legion of negatives, the chief of them being that I was forced to trust others to take proper care of me.

  Not that I held anything in my heart but confidence for those in my family, but I didn't know the captain or crew of the ship, and it was easy enough to imagine the worst. Even the smallest lapse of attention during the process of putting me aboard could end with me plunging disastrously into the cold waters of the Sound. I'd received many assurances from Father that all would be well, but reluctantly surrendered to the effects of that morning's dawn with a feeling of dread and murmuring a hasty prayer asking for the care and preservation of my helpless body.

  Elizabeth, with her talent for organization and the solving of problems, had early on determined the best means for me to travel while in this state. She had ordered the construction of a sturdy chest large enough for me to curl into like a badger in its dark winter burrow. As I was completely immobile while the sun was up, there was little need to consider the thing's lack of comfort. I'd tried out this peculiar bed and approved it, suffering no ill-effects from its confined space.

  No pillows or mattress layered the bottom; instead, it was cushioned by several tightly woven canvas bags, each filled with a goodly quantity of earth from our lands. The grave had rejected me-or perhaps I had rejected it-but it was still necessary for me to carry a portion of it with me whenever traveling. Not to do so meant having to spend the entire day in thrall to an endless series of frightful dreams. Why this had to be I did not know. I hoped Nora would enlighten me.

  I was later told that there were no mishaps of any kind in transporting my box to the ship. The only time a question was raised was when Elizabeth insisted that it be placed in the small cabin I'd be sharing with Jericho. For a servant to be in the same room as his master was irregular but not unheard of, but the quarters were very limited and it was logically thought that less baggage m
eant more space. But Elizabeth turned a deaf ear to any recommendations of stowing the box in the hold, and so I was finally, if obliviously, ensconced in my rightful place.

  By nightfall the ship was well on its way, a favorable wind and the tide having aided our progress. Too late now to turn back, or so I soon had to remind myself.

  Jericho had been hard at work, having thoughtfully freed me from the limits of the box with the intent of transferring me to the cabin's narrow bed. He'd placed my bags of earth over its straw mattress, concealed them with a coverlet, then eased me on top. The story we'd agreed upon to explain my daytime absences was to say that I was a poor sailor and having a bad attack of seasickness. It was a common enough occurrence and entirely reasonable; what we had not reckoned upon was it being so wretchedly true.

  At the risk of making a supreme understatement, this was the second most disagreeable awakening of my life. The first, of course, was when I'd come to myself in that damned coffin over a year ago. That had been awful in terms of straightforward shock; this one was nearly as bad in terms of sheer physical torment.