“You are working too hard. You should rest your knee.”
“I keep trying to tell you that I’m not as dainty as all that.” But her knee was throbbing. She retreated to the kitchen, trying to mask her limp. Everyone was in the dining room listening to Amir, leaving Dori all alone. Putting her foot on a kitchen chair, she lifted the hem of her dress, revealing the angry scar. She rubbed at her injured knee trying to banish the ache with her bare hands.
“A little bit of ice would work wonders.”
“Oh!” she gasped and pulled her foot from the chair. She watched Michael pull a towel from the oven handle and make an ice pack. He approached and gestured for her to put her foot back on the chair.
“Michael, I -”
“Trust me.” He repeated the gesture and this time she complied. Dori’s heart raced; she was sure it would pound right out of her chest and give her away. She reached to pull her dress out of the way, to expose her knee, but he beat her to it. Her hands fell to her sides. Slowly he used his right hand to draw her dress up her thigh. She looked away, but after a moment she met his penetrating gaze. Her face flushed. He gingerly laid the ice pack on her injury and kept his free hand on her leg.
She wasn’t sure how long the two of them stood like that without speaking, but eventually the flush left Dori’s face. Her heart held its frenzied pace and her skin became hypersensitive to his touch. She found herself wishing his arms were wrapped around her instead of just on her leg. She wondered what his lips tasted like and what it felt like to run her fingers through his hair. Michael raised a questioning eyebrow. She hoped he couldn’t read her thoughts. She licked her lips and looked at the floor.
“Michael -” but she never got to finish.
“Dori, could you make us some coffee?” Amir called out to her.
“Sure thing,” she said. She dropped her foot to the floor and turned toward the coffee pot. Michael set the ice pack in the sink and returned to the party.
After the evening had wound down and the girls were in bed, Dori and Amir were cleaning up. She was washing the never ending stream of dishes Amir kept bringing her.
“I think everyone enjoyed themselves.” Amir set down another stack of plates.
“I agree,” she said to his back. She washed in silence for another minute.
“Especially Michael. I will have to watch out for him.” He set down a handful of silverware. Dori’s breath caught in her throat and she coughed.
“What do you mean?” but he was gone again. Returning with some coffee mugs he said,
“This is the last of it. I’m going to keep my eye on him because he apparently has a taste for your cooking. He’ll be over here every night if we aren’t careful.” The mug Dori was washing slipped out of her hands and back into the soapy water. Amir grabbed a dish towel. He planted a light kiss on her cheek.
“You work too hard. I’ll dry tonight.”
* * *
Only a few days had passed when Michael and Latif had their major breakthrough. All the farmhands stopped to watch what was about to happen. For the first time in his life, Latif had a leadline snapped to his halter. The stallion was about to achieve another first. He walked out of the stallion barn, led by a beaming Michael. The pair continued past the gelding pastures and into the show arena to where Amir waited. At that point Amir pretended he was judging a show and put the horse and handler to the test.
There was a fine line between outstanding showmanship and disaster. Latif was required to look the part of the wild stallion while behaving like a house pet. Michael demanded a pompous posture while the horse stood motionless. Latif had to remain still while a judge circled and perhaps ran a hand down his flank. Then Michael jogged alongside the animal, forcing him to trot both away from and back toward the ‘judge’. This allowed the judge to look for correct confirmation while displaying the animal’s ability to be both regal and safe to handle. Michael used a long crop to goad Latif into stretching out his neck. This was a pose that all good Arabian breeders looked for. The neck, crest and top-line of a horse were directly linked to its beauty.
The final aspect of the test was by far the most difficult. It was time for the stallion parade. Everyone on the farm knew how dangerous it was to stand stallions next to each other; they would fight until one gave up and relinquished superiority. It normally resulted in a lot of injuries and torn horseflesh. The hoof-beats of approaching horses could be heard on the gravel path. Joe and Ralph were bringing up the other stallions. Dori doubted that anyone was breathing.
The three animals stood in magnificent contrast to each other. On one side of Latif stood Harik, a deep chestnut stallion who stood stamping and with flaring nostrils. On the other side was Bourkahn; his dappled gray coat was lathered with sweat despite the chilly fall air. All three horses were making straining grunts, a sound that echoed off the surrounding barns. Every now and then Harik or Bourkahn would strike out with their front hooves. Latif stood like a gentleman; his only sign of stress was his rapid breathing. His restraint was visibly taxing. The test concluded when Amir broke into applause, signaling the results to the sizeable audience. The three stallions were quickly returned to their stalls.
The farm buzzed with excitement as news of Michael’s victory spread. That evening the phone rang continuously. Lesson students, neighbors and business connections were all offering their congratulations. Amir happily took the calls, assuring everyone that he had always known the horse was destined for greatness. While he was chatting with the feed store owner, Dori packed up a sizeable piece of apple pie. When Amir hung up she donned her coat.
“I’m going to run some dessert down to Michael to celebrate.”
“After today, you should bring him the whole pie!” The phone rang again and he nodded at Dori as he launched into the tale once more.
She contemplated driving to his house, but it was only down the road a ways, and she decided the time it would take was a fair trade for the extra peace and quiet she would gain. She set off, her cane making a weird three-beat cadence as she drew in the cool, night air.
Passing Ralph and Barbara’s house, she could see lights and hear Ralph’s laughter. She whispered a hello as she passed. Next was Joe and Rita’s place with night lights glowing in the children’s rooms. It was only a little farther now to Michael’s house. Really, “house” was an overstatement. It was more like a bungalow. There were four of them on Whispering Brook. As part of their compensation, the farm hands were given housing on-site. It was also handy in case of emergency.
Arriving at Michael’s home, she took a deep breath and knocked. There was no answer, but there were lights on so she knocked again. Receiving no response, she tried the knob and was surprised that the door was unlocked. She called in, but her voice was drowned out by the loud music coming from within.
As she let herself in, she found the front room was empty. She hadn’t been here for a while, but she felt a sense of comfort within its art-covered walls. There were heavy oil canvases with thick brush strokes and dainty watercolors depicting sunsets and landscapers. The breadth of genre was amazing. There was a replica of Monet’s “Waterlillies”, there was Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”, she saw a cubist painting similar in style to Picasso. She stood in the entry trying to make sense of the way the pieces were displayed, but she ended up simply staring at their beauty.
She called to Michael again, but there was no answer. Maybe he hadn’t heard her over the concerto blaring from the living room. She set the pie down on the table in the entryway and continued around the corner. Her eyes widened in surprise at what she saw.
Michael had his back to her, working over an easel. He was standing on a large drop cloth and there was paint everywhere. He had let it splatter on the ground, on his apron, on his hands, as if he had been feverishly working on a masterpiece. His passion for painting was clear by the way he attacked the canvas with each brush stroke. As he chose a different color, he didn’t stop to clean the brush. He grabbed a
handful of his apron, wiped his brush and quickly dipped it in a mossy green. He was instantly at the canvas again, intense with each brush stroke. With the music in the background he resembled the mad conductor of an orchestra.
The painting itself stunned Dori. It was a replica of Monet’s “Woman with an Umbrella”; one of her favorite pieces. She remembered that the subject in this series of paintings was Monet’s wife, his true love. She had stood for hours looking at the original when she was in France. She was moved by Monet’s display of affection, his artwork a declaration of his love.
Looking at the replica in front of her, she noticed a few subtle differences. The woman in Michael’s painting wasn’t as tall as Monet’s wife. Michael had mistaken the scale. Dori furrowed her brow with the effort of the critique. The woman’s hair was too dark, her complexion too fair, her eyes too green. Dori’s eyes grew wide as she realized something else; the woman in the painting was her.
Dori didn’t see Michael watching her reaction. While she focused on the painting, he had noticed his guest and turned around to watch her discover the truth. She didn’t disappoint him. The passion he painted with was still fiery in his eyes and the music built to an intoxicating crescendo. Slowly Dori turned to him, shocked by her realization.
“That’s me,” Dori whispered.
“I’m working on a replica of Monet’s-”
“Woman with an Umbrella, but that’s me.”
“You inspire me.”
He stepped closer to her. Dori’s heart raced, her feet were frozen in place. She didn’t know which was more beautiful, the artist or his work. Dori rushed to make sense of everything. She attempted to recall that she had important loyalties she should remember. Try as she might, just then she couldn’t recall what those were. She was lost in the moment.
Michael continued to close the gap between them. He reached out, his eyes still burning. And then his arms were around her, crushing her. His body driving against hers, lips bruising hers. She knotted her hands in his hair. Growling, he pushed ever closer to her, forcing her backward. Gasping for breath she threw her head back. He made a guttural noise and attacked her exposed neck. She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling it over his head. Her hands raced across his muscular back. Wrapping his arms around her once more, he searched for the hem of her shirt. He set her on the counter as he tugged at her shirt.
The high-pitched keening of a horse sliced the dark and jolted them back to reality. It was echoed by a chorus of tense replies.
Her eyes sprang open and she pulled far enough away to gasp a single word.
“Amir!”
She began struggling against Michael, trying to untangle herself from his grasp. Stumbling backward, she raced toward the front door. Fire ripped through her knee and up her leg, but she didn’t slow down.
Michael glanced from back door to front. Dori didn’t get too far before he began to chase after her. He reached for her, but she shut the door. He threw it open again so forcefully that the panes of glass shattered. He pursued at full speed and slammed into the railing, splintering the wood with his force. He watched her flee in fear until she disappeared in the blinding curtains of snow. A storm had come up as quickly as his uncontrollable urge.
This time he had gone too far. His choice was simple. In a frenzy, he grabbed a handful of clothes, his wallet and an old journal and shoved them in a duffel bag. He was reaching for a small painting of Dori when the latch on his bedroom door clicked shut.
Michael whirled around and locked eyes with the one thing that made his skin crawl. He froze.
“Going somewhere, Niccolo? Oh wait, it’s Michael now isn’t it?”
“Get out!” Michael’s muscles tensed, ready for the fight that was about to ensue.
“Come now, that’s no way to talk to a guest, especially one of my venerable status. I had imagined you would have learned some manners after all these years. I guess once a gutter rat, always a gutter rat.”
“I am not going to tell you again,” Michael spat through clenched teeth.
The intruder lunged, wrapped a skeletal hand around Michael’s throat and slammed him against the wall.
“I don’t think you realize that I give the orders around here. So you go ahead, run away again. I would love to have a go with your little tart there. I think I can succeed where you have not.”
“Leave her alone!” It was barely a croak.
A repugnant fog began to fill the room and it was difficult to see more than the outline of the barbarian choking him. As the fog grew thicker, the monster holding him became increasingly less corporeal.
“You know, Mother always told me never to play with my food. She was such an idiot. Killing her really was a service to the world!” As the death-grip on Michael’s neck loosened, the fetid mist was sucked out of the room, taking the intruder with it.
“This is all very far from over,” Michael said to no one at all.
Chapter Six
December 24, 1597
I have seen it. The disembodied spectre made himself known to me the nighte before last. Alas, all hope is loste!
I awoke with a starte to a strange murmur. I lay frozen in terror for I knew I was not alone. The unsettling hiss sounded again and I could feel breath on my ear. Surely my eyes deceived me for I saw nothing in the blackness, but the stench of fetid breath was undeniable. Gooseflesh pimpled my skin.
“Abraham. Your time is shorte.“
The whispered threat choked me with panic. A glimmer of lighte drew my attention and I dared glance to the side. Hovering mere inches from my face were eyes; eyes that will haunt me for the rest of my days. They bore down on me, filled with anger and greate power. There was a ruthless hunger that was too, too much to bear. Overcome with frighte, I succumbed to blackness.
I have since taken residence in the chapel as have the fewe remaining colonists. We have all been visited by Satan’s messenger. We remain here vigilantly praying for a miracle, but awaiting the worste. It won’t be long now.
Michael knew he was on the right track. He himself had stared into those eyes. They had haunted him for the better part of a century. It had to be one and the same. The demon terrorizing Abraham tended toward the theatrical much like the one torturing him. His only hope was that Abraham had found a weakness, some tiny flaw that would allow him to end this forever.
He was torn. With the means to freedom seemingly within reach, he felt giddy. The nomadic life would hopefully end soon. Having a chance at a happy ending and possibly someone to share it with seemed superfluous. If only he were certain about Dori’s feelings. He hoped his loss of composure hadn’t caused irreparable damage. One thing was certain, he had to protect her at all costs, despite what her feelings might be. There was a monster on the prowl.
Chapter Seven
Several days had passed since Michael had kissed her, but she was no closer to sorting out her feelings than she had been that crazy night. When she got home, Amir was already asleep. She had lain awake for a while trying to figure out what was going on and what to tell her husband before returning to her memory box. The comfort of her favorite possessions soothed her and she nodded off shortly before Amir awoke to start the day.
Over the next few days, she tried to have minimal contact with both men. She threw herself into her chores as best she could without reinjuring her knee, making sure to steer clear of the stallion barn. Every time she saw Amir, her guilt became tangible. On the rare occasions where she ran into Michael, her heart raced and her cheeks flushed. Even though she was disgusted with herself for her weakness, she couldn’t deny her growing desire. Something had to give.
By Wednesday, the meteorologists were predicting the constant lake effect snow would develop into a full-fledged blizzard. Everyone on the farm jumped into overdrive trying to ready the farm for the storm. Even Rita was enlisted to call and reschedule the rest of Amir’s lessons for the week. Dori still wasn’t up to the physical demands of the job, so she ended up running endles
s errands, stocking up on necessary supplies.
After a long day of running around, she was happy to get her girls and return home. The storm seemed to be settling in early and the plows were already having a hard time keeping up. If she was lucky, she would be able to finish the last of the errands tomorrow morning before they got snowed in.
After a slippery and stressful drive home, Dori arrived to an empty house. She figured Amir was also out preparing for the blizzard and thought nothing further of it. She looked hopefully for a note indicating when he would be home, or where he was. As usual, he left no information as to his plans. It was a repeat of numerous other nights, when he was out with no explanation.
After Dori had the children settled, she went to Amir’s desk looking for some hint as to his whereabouts. There, she found a paper with notes jotted in English and Arabic. She was able to decipher the name “Al Hadiyah” which was another of Amir’s stallions. He had carefully chosen the horse’s bloodlines and bred him to be phenomenal. The results were not disappointing.
Next to the name of the horse, Dori was able to discern some numbers in Arabic, although she didn’t know which ones. There were six figures, separated by a comma in the middle. Amir had written the name of a local bank where he held an account and a date with the word “transfer” next to it. Underneath this paper was Al Hadiya’s folder, his pedigree missing. All of this information could only mean one thing. Amir had finally sold the stallion for six figures and he had organized the sale before he left.
Dori was brimming with happiness. This had been the break they were waiting for. This horse had been bred and trained to sell. He was their ticket to a better life, one without so many financial woes. Based on the six figure sum next to the horse’s name, she ascertained that the horse had been worth all that Amir had predicted.
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