She Returns From War

by Lee Collins

  Something bumped against her outstretched hand, and she clutched at it. Wet cloth slid between her fingers. It was an arm. She shook it, hoping to feel a twitch or flex in response. Nothing. Frantic, she began pulling it toward the opening. The arm came easily enough at first, but it stopped short before she could pull it through. No matter how she pulled, it refused to come any closer.

  Her chest heaved. She needed air. A flurry of bubbles escaped her mouth as she released the arm and swam to the surface. Making a desperate grab for a wheel, she climbed on top of the ruined cab. Victoria beat on it with her fist twice, then paused to listen for a response. Nothing. She tried again. Only the quiet gurgling of the water around the submerged buggy answered her.

  A fit of despair swept through her. Lifting her head, she screamed at the night sky. The echoes rolled back to her from the trees. She screamed again, pounding her fist against the metal husk that had become a coffin. The cold steel shifted beneath her as she rolled onto her back. Her third scream broke down into sobs. Warm tears trickled out from beneath her eyelids and traced new tracks of wetness across her face. If only she could have brought the horses under control. If only she'd learned how to drive and swim instead of spending her time reading those silly novels, her parents would still be alive. The knowledge that the evening drive came about as a result of her refusal to marry twisted her insides with guilt until she felt like vomiting.

  She didn't know how long she lay on top of her parents' tomb. When at last the storm subsided, she shivered and lifted her head.

  Yellow eyes peered at her from the riverbank.

  Victoria's despair vanished beneath a white-hot flame of rage. The creature stood at the water's edge, lantern eyes fixed on her. It knew exactly what it and its kin had done to her. She pulled herself into a crouching position, waiting for the monster to leap across the water. It might kill her, too, but she refused to be easy prey.

  "Come, you coward!" she called, beckoning to the shadow.

  The hound made no reply. Its eyes glowed large and grotesque in its dark face. Beneath them, black jaws worked in silence. Victoria returned its gaze, hands curled into fists, ready for anything. Another shadow joined the first on the riverbank, but neither one made a move toward her.

  "Filthy beasts!" She rose to her full height, balancing on the wreck. "I'm right here!"

  The creatures turned their heads, their eyes looking downstream. Victoria glanced in the same direction but only saw the moonlit water. Turning back to the creatures, she beckoned to them again, but whatever they saw downriver held their attention. She yelled and waved her arms. They ignored her. After a few moments, they turned and ran into the night, vanishing into the shadows along the river.

  Victoria watched them go, her defiant posture deflating. Exhaustion flooded her body, and she collapsed into a sitting position atop the wreck. Her parents were dead. Those creatures had driven their buggy into the river and drowned them. The realization left her numb, as cold and unfeeling as the river beneath her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized what a sight she must be, sitting on a ruined buggy in the middle of a river in naught but her wet underthings. It would certainly be the talk of Oxford if someone found her.

  She put her hand against the cold metal, intending to push herself back on her feet. Her palm slipped, and she found herself lying on her side. A breath of wind made her shiver. She needed to get up, to go back into town for help, and she would. Just not yet.

  "Hallo! Are you all right up there?"

  Victoria's eyes snapped open. Where was she?

  "Miss? Can you hear me?"

  Maybe they were talking to her. It would be polite to answer. She opened her mouth to speak, but she could only produce a hoarse croak. Stiff with cold, her arms creaked in protest as she forced herself upright. Blinking away the haze of sleep, she looked around for the speaker.

  There, on the riverbank: a shadow was holding a lantern in one hand. The yellow light sent a thrill of fear through her body, and her eyes snapped wide open. Her legs were under her in an instant, ready to fight, ready to run.

  "You're awake," the shadow said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

  Victoria swallowed. The monsters hadn't talked to her before. "Um..." she managed, her voice thin.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "There was an accident," she said.

  "I can bloody well see that," the man said. "Are you all right?"

  She felt along her own body, hands burning with the cold. "I think so. A bit chilly, though." She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly remembering that she had left her dress on the riverbank.

  "What's your name?"

  "Victoria." Was that all of it? "Victoria Dawes."

  "Henry's girl?" The shadow lifted its lantern higher, letting her see the outline of its face. "It's me, Edward Brown. Do you remember me?"

  "I can't see you," she replied, "and anyway, my father's dead."

  The lantern twitched to one side. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Yes, he and my mother both," Victoria heard herself say the words, but she couldn't understand what they meant. "They drowned."

  "Here?" The shadow named Edward pointed toward the half-sunken buggy. "Are they still inside?"

  "Yes. I tried to pull them out, but I couldn't. I never was a very good swimmer, and it's so cold."

  "Good heavens," Edward said. "Did this just happen?"

  Victoria's forehead wrinkled. "Not too long ago. I've been here for a little while." Her voice sounded dull and leaden in her ears.

  "Can you come down? You must be frozen half to death."

  "I'll try." She stood up. The buggy shifted beneath her, and she nearly fell.

  "For God's sake, do be careful," Edward said. "Here, let me help you." The shadow's feet splashed into the shallow water. It came on until the water rose to its waist, then held out a hand. "Climb on down, my dear. I'll help you back home."

  "That would be nice," Victoria said, grabbing ahold of a wheel and lowering herself down. "I think I'd like to sit by the fire for a moment."

  "You can do just that, I promise. We'll make one nice and big for you."

  Victoria gasped as she lowered a leg into the water. The touch of the icy river jolted her out of her stupor. Sud denly, she could feel her parents' hands reaching out for her from inside the buggy. They needed her help, and she was just going to leave them behind.

  "Oh my God! They're still in there!" She pounded on the side of the buggy and heard a knock in reply. "Did you hear that?"

  "That was just the echo, love."

  She stared at him. Had there been an echo before? She couldn't remember. But if there hadn't been one, her parents must really be dead. Now she was alone in the world: no parents, no husband, no siblings. Only a few family friends who certainly couldn't take her in. How would she make her way?

  What strength she had left abandoned her, and her legs threatened to drop her down into the inky water. Maybe it would be better that way. She could join her parents in Heaven. The good Lord must have meant for them all to perish in the crash tonight, but somehow she had avoided that fate. It wasn't too late, though. All she had to do was drop into the river and let it carry her away. She felt halfdead from cold and damp already; the end wouldn't be long.

  "Victoria," Edward's voice cut through her confusion, "take my hand. We'll see about sending someone for your parents when we get back to Oxford. Let's get you home, dear."

  After a moment's hesitation, she wrapped her shaking fingers around his outstretched hand.

  The lacy black veil offered little protection from the pastor's kind glances, nor could it block out the murmurings of the other mourners. Victoria could hear them whispering the same words her neighbors, friends, and own mind had been hammering into her for the past five days. If it had been proper, she would have stuffed black handkerchiefs into her ears to drown out their endless condolences and apologies. Most of them were strangers, acquaintances of her parents who came to pay their respects
. Victoria suspected that some of the tears falling were not quite sincere, those shedding them secretly wishing to be elsewhere. She stole a glance over her shoulder. Near the rear of the chapel, she spied a cluster of men in expensive suits. Business associates of her father's, no doubt. Henry Dawes had had the sense to invest in electric power when it first came to England, and his business had quickly expanded into a small empire. Men such as these envied him his success even as they worked with him. Had they the choice, they would surely be toasting her father's death in their offices and studies. Still, etiquette demanded their presence in the cemetery chapel, bidding farewell to a man they had thought was beneath them.

  Victoria herself felt only a great emptiness. At times, the void seemed cold and lifeless, a great dead thing lodged inside her ribs. She looked at the wooden boxes lying side by side on the bier and felt nothing. No wails tore themselves from her lungs; tears lingered in her eyes but did not fall. Had they seen her behavior, her parents surely would have found it improper. It wasn't the way a young woman grieved for her parents. They wouldn't expect her to carry on like a drunken wench in the gutter, but she ought to have the decency to weep. She could almost hear her mother's voice scolding her while her father looked on in his solemn way. Her blue eyes grew defiant behind her veil as she mouthed her rebuttal and watched their faces crease with frustration.

  All at once, the hard lump in her chest became brittle as glass. Her breath caught in her throat, and she held it for a moment, afraid to breathe too loudly lest she shatter. A single tear trickled downward, tracing a line through the powder on her cheek. Clutching at the handkerchief in her hand, she squeezed her eyes shut and willed away the gathering storm. Even if it was proper, she wouldn't start blubbing like some infant. She was now Ms. Victoria Dawes of Oxford, heiress to her father's estate and mistress of her house. The young girl who had let her parents die because she could not save them had died in the river. A new woman had emerged from the wreck of the buggy.

  "Now, let us commit the bodies of Henry and Abigail to their final resting places."

  The pastor's words brought her back to her present surroundings as mourners began leaving the chapel. They would proceed to the Dawes family crypt, where the bodies of her parents would be laid to rest. Wood creaked softly as the pallbearers lifted their burdens for one last journey. Keeping her eyes lowered, Victoria followed her aunts outside.

  The April air was chilly beneath grey clouds as the procession wound its way toward the crypt. Weathered headstones stood at attention to either side of them, their mossy crowns lifted in silent salute to the ones joining their ranks. Stone angels wept into crumbling hands, still grieving for men and women only they remembered. Victoria studied them with a detached fascination, wondering if angels really did weep for the passing of mortals. Were the lives of men so valued in the heavenly realms? It seemed absurd. Surely these statues, carved with such skill and care, represented nothing but the vanity of those buried beneath them.

  When the procession reached the tomb, the crowd parted to make room for the pallbearers. Victoria watched them pass, uncles and cousins she didn't know, but they didn't meet her eyes. They carried her parents into the cold shadows of the mausoleum. The stone walls of the structure were milky-grey, matching the hue of the clouds overhead. Moss wormed its way along the stone in fluid shapes, but it lacked the venerable serenity of the neighboring crypts. Her father had it built when she was a young girl to house himself and his descendants, but he had been too ambitious in its size. The sons he had envisioned lying next to him in eternal repose never arrived. Victoria's only sibling, a younger sister who had died in infancy, was the sole occupant of the family crypt.

  Until today.

  Tradition dictated that she should wait outside with the other women while the men followed the dead for the final interment. Had it been an aunt and uncle in the coffins, she would have gladly complied, but these were her parents. It was her failing that had brought them to this place. She owed it to them to see their bodies to rest herself.

  The air inside the crypt smelled musty, of stone and soil and water. Men holding lanterns had gone in ahead of the pallbearers and now stood by the corners of the waiting sarcophagi. Eerie shadows danced to the rhythm of the flickering light like fey spirits. The sound of dripping water echoed in the shadows.

  Victoria drew in a sharp breath. Her vision swam as a long-forgotten fear welled up inside her. She suddenly felt as though she was trapped inside a nightmare from her childhood. In them, she would always find herself lost in a maze of dark alleyways. Rain-slick cobblestones were cold on her feet as she ran, terrified, always just a step ahead of some unseen terror. Bleary gas lamps floated in the haze around her, but their light gave no comfort. Instead, they only served to confuse her, drawing her ever deeper into the labyrinth. Sobs filled her throat, choking off her cries for help. And still she would run; she knew that stopping meant certain death.

  A hand touched her shoulder. She whirled toward it, arms rising. The haze lifted from her eyes, and she saw the face of her father's brother looking down at her. Concern creased the skin around his eyes.

  "Are you still with us?" he asked, his voice quiet.

  Victoria felt a hot rush of blood burn her cheeks. She nodded, lowering her eyes to the dusty floor. Her hands trembled. She forced them to be still and turned back toward the lanterns. The shadows still frolicked in their mischievous dance, but they no longer hid the monsters that haunted her dreams.

  The pallbearers lowered her father's coffin into the sarcophagus. Echoes filled the small space as they slid the stone lid into place. Two lions, standing on their hind legs and grasping a sword hilt between their forepaws, adorned the heavy slab. The Dawes family crest. It was supposed to be her heritage and her pride, but she'd never felt much like a lion. A fox, sometimes, when she had done something clever, but never a lion.

  The crypt grew colder as the men paid their final respects and left one by one. Soon, Victoria stood alone before the beautiful stone boxes. The lantern-bearers stood in the doorway, throwing shadows and light across the relief carvings in the walls. Victoria laid a hand on each sarcophagus, feeling their chill through her thin black gloves. Letting herself return to that night and its harrowing memories, she called to mind an image of the black dogs. She willed herself to stare into their glowing eyes. Rage flowed through her like liquid fire, and she let it spread, filling every fiber of her being. Her eyes glittered like distant stars.

  "Father." Her voice was dark and hard like the granite walls around her. "Mother." She drew herself to her full height. "I'm sorry I failed you. I know it can't help you now, but I vow to you that I will hunt down those beasts. I will hunt them to the ends of the earth and back, and I will kill them. I know I may not have been the daughter you wished for, but I will make you proud in this. No matter the cost, no matter the distance, I will give you justice."

  TWO

  Victoria felt the curious eyes of the fellows all around her as she stood beside the coach. Aspiring scholars in flowing robes strode along the paved avenues in groups of two and three, oblivious to the grandeur of the buildings around them. Their conversations gave way to mute stares when they caught sight of her. Although Oxford had just established their first women's college, she imagined it had been a good while since many of the students here had seen a young woman of marriageable age without an escort. Stray strands of hair peeked out from beneath her hat, gleaming like gilded steel in the sunlight and catching the golden thread woven into the bodice of her dress.

  She straightened her back and allowed her bosom to thrust forward a little. Might as well give these poor shutin schoolboys something to remember. Her mother had been a shapely woman, and Victoria had inherited her good fortune. Combined with her father's piercing blue eyes, she'd stolen many a young man's heart since growing into womanhood. She found it quite tiresome at times, waiting for a smitten messenger boy to deliver his message or seeing round, gawking eyes follow her from
doorways and carriage windows. Still, she couldn't resist the modest flaunting of her charms from time to time.

  Today, however, she couldn't linger to tease passing students. Pulling a slip of paper from a coin purse tucked in her bodice, she compared the name written on it to the building in front of her. Blackfriars Hall. This was where she was supposed to meet him.

  Victoria approached the front entrance with an air of caution. Unlike the other buildings that comprised the various colleges at Oxford University, Blackfriars Hall was a squat, simple construction that had fallen into some disrepair. Two rows of windows stared gloomily out across St. Giles, and a third above them was nearly lost in the sloping roof. It boasted no sweeping arches or towering spires, and even its front doors were plainly carved. It seemed a poor choice for the professional edifice of such a renowned scholar.

  Her hopes dampened, she pulled open the old oak door. Inside, the floor groaned beneath her, announcing her every step. A man ensconced behind a massive desk looked up at the sound, candlelight dancing in his spectacles.

  "Excuse me, miss," he said. "Are you lost?"

  "No," Victoria replied. "I'm here to visit a friend of my father's."

  The man smiled and rose to his feet. "You must be mistaken. You see, Blackfriars Hall has not been in use by the university for a very long time. We keep it open for historical purposes, but I'm afraid there are no offices here."

  "But I'm certain he told me to meet him here." The paper crackled in her hand as she held it out to the man. "Blackfriars Hall."

  The man took the paper from her and inspected it. "Yes, that is what it says. Perhaps you misunderstood?"

  "Perhaps not," Victoria replied. "I'm quite capable of reading, sir."

  He offered her a thin smile. "With whom were you exchanging letters?"