by Ranae Rose
John resisted the urge to ball his hands into fists as he glanced about, hoping for the sudden, miraculous return of the physician. “I really must see him.”
She shrugged again. “He’s at the Van Dycks’. If it’s about the bruises though, I could whip up a poultice easily enough.” She tipped her head in his direction, her gaze lingering on his cheeks, then traveling slowly below, where the ghost of a handprint was still on his neck.
“It’s not about me,” he said hastily. “Katrina – Brom’s wife – she’s fevered.” He cast a look toward Torben. “I’ll ride to the Van Dycks’. Perhaps your husband is finishing up there as we speak.” He hoped so – had to hope so, because the idea of waiting around while the physician tended to a birthing that could take hours more wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate unless it came to that. He was back in the saddle in a heartbeat, refusing the physician’s wife’s second offer for a treatment to soothe his bruises. “No, no thank you,” he called, heeling Torben in the direction of the Van Dyck farm. “They’re not as bad as they look – I hardly feel them anymore.” He didn’t, but only because his mind was too troubled with other matters to process the pain.
When he knocked at the Van Dycks’ door, he was greeted by several moments of silence. Hopefully it was a good sign – it was more heartening than screams, at any rate. Eventually the door swung open, revealing a portly, slightly harassed looking man. “Thank God,” John breathed, apparently not quite as under his breath as he’d thought.
The other man eyed him somewhat warily, his eyes surrounded by dark circles. “Have you come to fetch me, then?”
John nodded.
“If it’s about the bruises, my wife—”
“It’s not,” John assured him, frowning and silently cursing the marks on his face. “It’s Katrina Van Brunt; she’s taken with a fever, and growing worse by the hour.”
“Oh? Well, I’ve just finished here. Let me fetch my horse…”
They rode at a pace that wasn’t quite brisk, and was much too slow for John’s liking. He let Torben hurry ahead, pretending it was a struggle to keep the horse from bursting into a full-blown run. The physician reluctantly urged his stout little sorrel mare into a canter, traveling a few paces behind John. Finally, they reached the house.
Katrina was in bed, and Brom sitting over her protectively like a large, brooding guardian angel. The book of poetry was on the bedside table, the pages open near the halfway point. Had Brom been reading from it to her? Brom wasn’t particularly fond of poetry, but John had no doubt he’d do it for Katrina. If only he’d been there – he would have liked to see Brom reading a verse for her, his deep voice rising and falling with the cadence of one of her favorite poems.
Brom informed the physician that he thought her fever had worsened since John had left, and it was easy to believe. Despite the courteous smile she tried to show the doctor, she looked frail, as if nothing but the stacked pillows was supporting her. “She’s taken to alternating between cold chills and sweats,” Brom said, his voice rumbling with obvious worry and an edge of anger; usually that was the only sign Brom gave of fear.
The doctor conducted an examination, beginning with listening to Katrina’s heart and breathing with some sort of metal tube. When it was finally over, he reached into his bag. “An ague,” he declared. “But I’ve got just the thing…” He pulled out a small pouch. “Willow bark tea. Works wonders on fevers. I’ll need a cup of hot water.”
“I’ll fetch it.”
The physician turned, a startled expression flitting across his face when he saw John standing in the doorway.
For the first time, John realized how odd it must seem that he was there, watching and hanging on the doctor’s every word. He should have gone away, should have asked Brom afterward what the prognosis was…but he knew, even as he cursed himself, that he couldn’t have brought himself to do so. His heart beat in time with Katrina’s breathing, growing heavier as her illness grew worse. Trying to look as if his concern was simply that of a friend, he turned on his heel and went down the stairs, to the kitchen.
After heating water over the fire, he climbed the staircase again, cradling the warm cup in his palms. When he reached the bedroom doorway, he nearly dropped it.
Katrina’s sleeve was rolled up, exposing the milky underside of her arm. The physician was holding a cup, collecting the blood that streamed from the crook of her elbow. John’s stomach lurched at the sight of the wicked looking blade that lay on the bedside table, the tip gleaming red.
Brom was holding Katrina’s hand, grimacing fiercely as she bled. “Isn’t that enough?” he demanded.
“Just a bit more,” the doctor said. “Here, hold this while I prepare the tea.” He forced the cup into Brom’s hand, and Brom was forced to cooperate in order to keep Katrina from bleeding onto the linens.
John surrendered his cup of water and finally left, shooting one last apologetic glance at Katrina as he retreated through the door and across the hall to the spare bedroom he hadn’t spent even a single hour in. He didn’t want to arouse the doctor’s suspicions any more than he wanted to watch her bleed, because after she recovered – and she would recover – he intended to go on loving her and Brom, to keep the peace they’d found between the three of them.
After the physician left, John returned to the bedroom where Katrina was lying in bed, apparently asleep, and Brom was half-naked, quickly undoing the front fall of his breeches.
“What on earth are you doing?” John asked, staring perplexedly at Brom’s bare torso, then at the pile of clothing on the floor.
“Keeping her warm,” Brom said, nodding toward Katrina.
She was shivering, causing the layers of blankets Brom had placed over her to tremble.
Brom kicked off the rest of his clothes and slipped beneath the blankets, settling close beside her and urging her to curl against his body. “What did you think I meant to do?” Brom asked, shooting John a wry look of amusement.
John said nothing, though his cheeks warmed slightly.
“Help me,” Brom said, nodding toward the empty space at Katrina’s other side. “She’s freezing.”
After a half moment’s hesitation, John stripped, throwing his clothing into the pile with Brom’s, and slipped into bed, wrapping an arm around Katrina’s waist. Something dug into his shoulder – the little wooden cross that hung from Katrina’s neck. He lifted it from the pillow, but it slipped from between his fingers a moment later when Katrina was seized by a particularly vicious bout of trembling. He picked it back up, and it lay in his palm, as warm as a rock that had sat all day beneath the summer sun.
He pressed his fingertips against Katrina’s chest and found it cooler than the cross. His own chest seemed to burn for a moment as he remembered the way his own crucifix had heated, searing the imprint of a cross into his skin as it had defended him from the headless horseman. He laid Katrina’s gently between her breasts. Surprisingly, her tremors all but ceased just as suddenly as they had begun. He eyed the crucifix, a homely, impossibly effective charm that seemed crude against her smooth, creamy skin.
After a few moments spent tucked between the two men, Katrina’s tremors faded completely, and eventually she was still. That they’d been able to help her, even if only in this small way, quelled John’s fear a little, and he silently vowed to do everything within his power to see that she became well again. His determination was a small comfort against the sense of dark suspicion that had settled into his bones, forcing him to think of the frightful thing he’d witnessed the night before. It was the last thing he wanted to contemplate at the moment, but the phantom haunted his memory, rattling his confidence as surely as it had rattled the bedroom window.
CHAPTER 11
By evening, John’s fingertips were dusted with a fine powder of willow bark, held there by sticky layers of honey. He’d added that to the prescribed tea in order to make it more palatable – Katrina hadn’t complained, but he could tell by her facial e
xpressions and the way she’d swallowed the first cup quickly while holding her breath that it tasted awful. He’d spent the better part of the day carefully brewing the tea to the physician’s specifications, but it hadn’t been enough. As the sun sank below the horizon, Katrina’s health was worse than ever.
She was asleep against the pillows, the quilt pulled up to her chin as a precaution against the cold chills that beset her at random intervals. “I thought she should have a last cup before nightfall,” John said, nodding toward the sunset that was visible beyond the bedroom window.
Brom looked up at John as he entered the room; they’d both spent the majority of the day caring for Katrina, or at least keeping her company. “I’ll see if I can wake her.”
Katrina did wake, her normally clear cornflower-blue eyes red-rimmed and hazy with sleep. She sipped the tea John offered, finishing half the cup before a violent bout of chills made it impossible for her to drink. As hot liquid sloshed over the side and onto the quilt, John took the cup from her hand and set it on the bedside table, eyeing the rest of its contents with regret. Clearly, the tea wasn’t very effective, but making it for her at least made him feel as if he were helping, doing something rather than simply watching as her health took a downward spiral.
“Never mind the tea,” Brom said, “you should rest.” He helped her out of her gown – weak as she was, it was a painstaking task. With some assistance from John, he soon had her stripped down to just her shift and the crucifix that hung around her neck, and was tucking the covers tightly around her body.
“Perhaps she’d be more comfortable if I slept on the floor tonight,” John said. She looked so delicate lying in the center of the bed that he didn’t like the idea of disturbing her rest. He couldn’t bring himself to abandon her by retreating to a spare bedroom though.
Katrina spoke before Brom could reply. “No,” she said, her tone surprisingly firm. “You’re so warm… And I want you both here with me.”
He couldn’t deny her. Stripping down to his shirt, he climbed into bed as Brom did the same. Katrina was asleep already, and Brom had settled beside her, his eyes closed. Soon, he’d be adrift in slumber too. Then, John would slip quietly away and do what had to be done.
Before snuffing out the candle, he took one last long look at Brom and Katrina, trying to burn the image into his mind. It wasn’t exactly how he wanted to remember them, with Katrina lying ill and Brom trying to shelter her from things he couldn’t defend against, but it would have to do. At least they were both wearing the crucifix necklaces he’d given them – the fact offered a little reassurance.
There was a certain feeling in the air, as the moon replaced the sun – one that settled into John’s bones, allowing him to hear soft whispers of tonight, tonight on the light wind that blew outside, rushing against the house and causing the window to rattle ever so slightly in its casement. He was sure that no one else could hear it, not even Brom as he fell asleep – the sound was meant for him. It had always been meant for him, and he’d be damned if he let Katrina take his place.
* * * * *
Torben seemed to sense the strangeness in the air, the sense of foreboding. John stroked the stallion’s neck, making soothing sounds as he stood by him in the dark stall, ready to place a saddle on his back. It was a shame that he’d have to subject Torben to this, but he’d need a fast mount. What would Brom think tomorrow morning when he discovered what John had done with his prized horse? For that matter, what he’d done with himself? He refused to think about it. Brom would be outraged, but there was no other way. So he saddled Torben, trying to keep his hands from trembling as he pulled the girth tight and adjusted the stirrups.
Torben nickered as John led him from the stable, and John shot a guilty glance at the farmhouse, praying fervently that the sound hadn’t woken anyone inside. If Brom knew what John was doing, he’d surely try to stop him. Attempting to explain the matter to Brom would be futile. Brom believed in the headless horseman – after all, what choice did he have? – but John knew that this matter would be beyond the other man’s threshold of acceptance. Especially since he’d decided not to tell Brom and Katrina that he’d seen the headless horseman ride by their bedroom window the night before. So he went alone, a whispered goodnight the only goodbye he dared to give.
Torben danced beneath John when he swung into the saddle, and John let him charge ahead at a brisk trot. He needed to leave the farmhouse behind as quickly as possible, before he succumbed to the urge to lay eyes on Brom and Katrina once again, to touch them, even if it was only as they slept. He also needed to escape before Torben made some sound and risked waking them. He didn’t look over his shoulder as Torben’s hooves ate up the dirt road, but at the moon. It was a full harvest moon, harbinger of October and, he couldn’t help but feel, of doom.
Some said that the full moon roused the inhabitants of the spirit world, and the harvest moon even more so. The headless horseman had already proven that he didn’t need a lunar invitation to appear and cause mayhem, but the reddish orb hanging low in the sky caused a shiver to race down John’s spine anyway. In this light, he’d be able to see the horseman easily, to watch Hell bearing down on him in perfect clarity. He would have preferred a moonless night and the embrace of darkness.
Torben snorted loudly when they approached the edge of the woods, but that was all right; they’d left Brom’s property behind, and no one would hear them here. He breathed a sigh as they entered the wood, where the shadows blocked out most of the moonlight. His heart beat in double-time, and Torben quickened his pace, trying to break into a canter. John held him back – wasting Torben’s energy would be a terrible mistake. So they trotted on, and John scanned his surroundings for any sign of a ghostly rider.
The mottled moonlight that filtered through the thinning canopy made it difficult, playing tricks on his eyes that made his heart leap into his throat more than once. When the horseman finally appeared, John felt foolish for having jumped at mere shadows – there was no denying the identity of the being before him, and certainly no mistaking it for an illusion made of moonlight and darkness.
Perhaps the harvest moon really did lend spirits strength, for the horseman appeared as solid as flesh and bone. But the fact that his horse’s hooves hovered several inches above the ground evidenced his otherworldliness, along with the empty space where his head should have been and the feeling of stark, cold terror that struck John as he stared for several long moments. He could feel the horseman’s non-existent eyes on him, just as he had before. The fiend’s stare cut to the core of his being, making him feel as if he’d been doused in icy water. Then Torben neighed shrilly and reared, hooves lashing out at the night air. John squeezed the saddle tightly between his thighs and let the reins hang loose, giving Torben his head so that he was free to turn and bolt back in the direction they’d come from.
Torben’s hooves thundered against the earth, and a sheen of sweat appeared on his dark coat, gleaming in the moonlight despite the coldness of the early October night. John let him run and listened intently for the sound of racing hooves behind him. It was there, and he dared to look over his shoulder, where the horseman was in hot pursuit. It had worked – God, he was really galloping for his life with the headless horseman on his tail. It felt almost surreal, even though he’d planned for this and had felt the horseman’s touch once before.
The horseman bore down on John, his unearthly mount’s legs flying faster than Torben’s. When John felt the first breath of deathly cold on his neck, he pulled one rein with all his might, laying his right leg hard into Torben’s side. The horse turned in a spray of earth and sweat, and then they were riding for the edge of the woods, toward the bridge, just as John had planned. Hooves thundered behind them, and John thought a desperate prayer as he struck Torben across the hindquarters, urging him to give the run all he had: please, God, let this plan succeed, even if it costs me my soul.
Torben surged ahead and the cold kiss of death was gone from t
he back of John’s neck; the night air, which had seemed cool before, was warm in comparison. He began to perspire as he leaned forward, asking Torben for even more speed.
John’s heart leapt when the bridge came into view. The coldness was touching his neck again, and a cloud of frigid fog was swirling from behind, its tendrils curling around him, practically freezing his legs to the saddle. But the water was running beneath the bridge, silver in the moonlight. The horseman wouldn’t be able to cross it – hopefully.
John didn’t dare risk turning to look back, but he felt the deathly swipe of fingertips against his collar and leaned forward, pressing himself against Torben’s neck. He didn’t have to urge Torben forward; the horse was running for all he was worth, and if they’d been competing in any sort of earthly race, they would have won first prize. He breathed in the homely smells of horse, sweat and hay, savoring their ordinariness and the way they reminded him of Brom. He would probably die with those scents in his nostrils, and he found that he didn’t mind. With one last deep breath, he pulled in the reins, leaning backward and putting every last bit of his strength into the dual tasks of stopping his charging mount and managing to remain seated as Torben tossed his head and stumbled, screaming a horse’s high-pitched scream.
The fact that he’d surprised Torben probably had more to do with his success than his strength, but the stallion skidded to an awkward halt, stopping at the edge of the bridge. With his heart in his throat and his stomach keeping his toes company in the stirrups, John managed to get Torben to turn halfway around. He twisted in the saddle, facing the headless horseman.
Though he’d made every effort to steel himself mentally for the sight of the headless specter, there was no denying the sudden wave of terror that threatened to choke him, or the stiffness of his limbs. He forced himself to move, fumbling at his waistcoat, awkwardly reaching beneath it as the horseman reached for him with one large, gloved hand. It was just like last time; fingers that were as cold and hard as steel wrapped around his neck, cutting him off from precious, life-sustaining air. He tried not to think about the painful pressure around his throat or the burning in his lungs as he withdrew a small object from his waistcoat, fumbling and nearly dropping it as he fought to conceal it in his fist for just one more second. A moment was all he needed – that and a pinch of luck, or perhaps the hand of God… Random or divine, he’d take any help he could get.
