Eden Rising (The Eden Saga Book 5)

by Marilyn Harris

  Dear God, how it still hurt, that single image, Elizabeth led forward...

  Again he closed his eyes and knew that while he could never successfully obliterate that image, that sound, he must learn first to accommodate it and then to resist it, though at the moment that possibility seemed so remote. He lacked even the strength to lift his head.

  Slowly he slipped one hand out of sight beside the low coffin bed and touched the wicker case in which he carried the fragmented remains of his soul.

  So! They didn't know who he was. Neither did he. Oh, he knew his name, knew what had happened, did not know how he had journeyed from Paris to London without funds or papers, did not know what direction he would choose now, did not know what he would place into the new vacuum of his personality, did not know... anything. Until he did, it occurred to him it might be best to remain silent and anonymous. His name had become like a piece of unnecessary and heavy baggage. Everyone labored mightily under his own preconceptions of who John Murrey Eden was.

  Then be someone else for a while — or better, be no one.

  Suddenly to his right at the far end of the long aisle of beds he heard voices raised in ugly dispute, one voice in particular — male, belligerent — shouting obscenities at the pleasant young nurse, who appeared to be trying to quiet him with no success.

  All the way down the long aisle, John saw his fellow patients, all very old men, glance up apprehensively. As the male voice grew more offensive, threatening the nurse now with physical assault, John saw the old man in the bed directly next to him start to weep very quietly, all the time pleading, “Don't, please!” as though the outline of this argument taking place in the infirmary bore a certain resemblance to one he'd endured in the distant past.

  His attention was drawn back to the ruckus at the end of the aisle, which was ugly and growing uglier. The man — possibly just drunk — was out of bed now, threatening the nurse with one powerful hand.

  After several minutes when he heard no one approaching, he knew someone had to intervene before it was too late. The young nurse was weeping openly, her strength no match for the man, who at that moment delivered a stunning blow across her face.

  Effort must be made, even if he fell flat on his face, which was a distinct possibility. With renewed determination he fought his way up to a sitting position, suddenly grasping the high wooden edges of the coffin bed to hold on while the rest of the large room swirled about him.

  A woman's muted moan steadied the room for him, and he swung his legs out and over, aware the young nurse had recovered from that first stunning blow and was now struggling again for her freedom.

  Then he was on his feet, moving down the long center aisle, grasping one bed after another for continuous support, at last getting the rhythm of it, as pleased with himself as though he were newly bom and taking his first tentative steps.

  “No, please!” came the terrified female voice.

  John did not approach the man in violence for the simple reason he lacked the energy. With a kind of insistent gentleness he merely reached over a bed and touched the man on his shoulder, more to get his attention than anything else — which he did admirably, for suddenly the man struggled up, arms flailing, the anger which recently had been focused on the terrified nurse now aimed at John.

  Though the distance between them was limited, it was momentarily enough. Before the man could move, John extended a hand to the sobbing nurse and helped her up with a one-word instruction. “Go,” he said.

  Instead, she covered her face with her hands and wept openly, at the same time trying to straighten her long skirt, which had been pushed up by the man's straying hands.

  The man was moving like an angry bull around the end of the bed, his face flushed with fury, his hands two ready fists, both inching slowly upward, gathering speed and strength.

  “Please, my friend,” John said quietly, not necessarily afraid of those fists — he'd dealt with fists all his life — nor did he display any inclination to run. First of all, he had no energy for running, and as long as the young nurse was still in harm's way, he would have to remain.

  Suddenly the man stopped just as he rounded the foot of the bed, as though he had collided with an invisible wall. Apparently John's reaction had taken him off guard. For a moment the impasse held, the large man weaving drunkenly on his feet, perspiration running down his face.

  Without thinking what he was doing or of the consequences, John again extended a hand, and with wary, distrustful eyes the man watched the hand, his breathing still labored, his mouth open and slack.

  “Take it.” John smiled, seeing the man wobble anew and reach out for support that did not exist. “Take it,” he repeated, his voice a kind command, though he added with a smile, “Take it before we both fall.”

  For several long moments he heard nothing. Even the young nurse's sobs had grown quiet in the tension of waiting. Like a receding storm, he heard the man's labored breathing, saw the painful confusion on his face confronted suddenly with terms of peace just at the pitch of battle.

  “Oh, come on,” John repeated, daring to step closer. “We've nothing to gain by this, neither one of us. Years from now you must not wake up, as I did, and remember you have caused pain. Let me spare you that, if I can. Take my hand...”

  For an instant the look of confusion on the man's face seemed to increase. A middle-aged face, John noted, which bore the scars of several other altercations. Suddenly he shook his head roughly, stepped back, and in his inebriation, misjudged his footing, tottered for a moment on unsteady legs. Reflexively he lifted his face to the ceiling, and his hands shot out searching for support. One, his left, found it in John's offer, their hands grappling for a moment as though the sensation was new to both but intriguing enough not to be abandoned.

  When the man regained his balance, the link continued to hold. They gazed at each other with a degree of surprise. Neither spoke, but continued in silence to read the miracle of the other's face until from some source of agony soul-deep, the man commenced to weep. The tears hid in the perspiration until John looked more closely and saw their source and sensed the tears of a lifetime, long repressed, at last set free by one human hand extended in need to need.

  “Don't,” John murmured. Still using the link of hands, he drew himself close to the sorrow and gently enclosed it.

  “Do.” He smiled, and felt the man's arms tighten around him in what conceivably was the first human embrace in approximately fifty years of loneliness and living.

  By noon that same day, though everyone had lovingly consigned him to it, John knew being an invalid no longer suited him. For one thing, it was unnecessary. There was nothing wrong with him that two bowls of Cassie's hot oatmeal with burnt-sugar topping hadn't cured.

  Then, too, he'd not created one of the largest and most flourishing construction firms in the British Empire without a keen eye for organization. And this organization — whatever its nature and however noble its intentions — was in sad need of overhaul.

  Last and most important, he ached to duplicate that rare feeling, a combination of peace and warmth mixed with an almost unbearable surge of new life that had visited him as he'd taken the drunken man in his arms and comforted him.

  Now wanting to be useful, he sat up with astonishing energy to ask a young male worker who was just passing by under a staggering weight of soiled linen, “Do you do those yourself?”

  “Indeed I do, sir.”

  “Do you have another set of those clothes you're wearing?”

  Baffled, the young man stepped close and looked down on John as though he hadn't heard correctly. “I... beg your pardon?”

  “Those clothes,” John repeated. “Do you have extras?”

  “Wh-why?”

  “So you can lend them to me,” John exclaimed. He stood up from the low bed to reveal the comic nightshirt that stopped just above his knees. “I can't very well help you with the laundry dressed like this.”

  The slowly dawning l
ook of understanding on the young man's face was gratifying, though in the next moment he was shaking his head as though good sense had intervened. “Oh, I'm not certain General Booth will permit that, sir.”

  “Why not? I want to help. You need help.”

  “Still, I think I should check with General Booth.”

  “Where is General Booth?”

  “I'm... not certain, sir. I think he's preparing for the afternoon meeting.”

  “And in the meantime, we're losing valuable time.”

  “Are you sure you feel...?”

  John took a step closer, wanting very much to convince the young man he was capable of helping. “Let me try it,” he requested softly.

  “If the pins go unsteady, I can always return here.” He gestured behind him to the low bed.

  The young man looked over his shoulder, as though wishing someone with greater authority would appear. But they were alone in the large room except for the dozen or so patients confined to beds.

  “Well,” he began hesitantly, “General Booth always says a desire to serve is a sure sign of health, mental and physical.”

  “Good man, your General Booth.”

  “Oh, he's not mine, sir. He belongs to God, who has lent him to all of us, including you.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Oh, all right. I'll be right back.” Briefly a very wide, extremely pleasant grin passed between them. There was something about the young man that reminded John of Aslam. They were about the same age, and both were exceedingly sober in the execution of their duties. He watched the young man hurry through the infirmary doors after dropping the enormous bundle of soiled linen at the foot of John's bed.

  He stared down at the soiled sheets for several minutes, then looked farther down the aisle, where the drunken man was still sleeping soundly. Curious, the bond he felt for this stranger.

  He padded barefoot down the aisle, aware of shifting watery eyes upon him as the old men on both sides charted his passage.

  The man was on his stomach, his face turned to the left. John drew up the low three legged stool on which he'd passed most of the early morning, continuously soothing the man.

  “I'm glad to see you're feeling better, John.” The voice, so near and so sudden, startled him, causing him to whirl about on the low stool.

  For a moment he lost his balance and the room spun about. He half-expected, half-hoped to see the black-bearded visage of General Booth.

  “Who...?” he asked, squinting behind into a direct ray of noon sun and finding the face blurred, only the silhouette of a man standing about ten feet from the bed.

  In answer to the question came another question. “Arc you John Murrey Eden?”

  Someone knew who he was or had been. “Yes.” He nodded. “Who...?”

  “My name is Laurence Simmons. I live in London now with General Booth, but my family is from Shropshire.”

  A tall man, fifties, graying hair and beard, simply dressed like all of General Booth's mission workers. There was an amiable expression of calm and self-possession on his lined face.

  “I'm sorry. I don't... John faltered, continuing to struggle for recognition.

  “No, please. I didn't expect you to know me, though I was at your beloved Eden some years ago for the Festivities, to see the lovely painting The Women of Eden. Alma-Tadema, I believe, wasn't it?”

  As the series of names and events from the past bombarded him, John felt momentarily disoriented. Everything was vaguely familiar, yet all seemed dreamlike as well.

  “Come, sit,” the man invited kindly, taking John's arm to lead him across the aisle to an empty bed.

  John looked more closely at the remarkable face of the man who knew so much about him. Still he did not recognize him.

  Simmons must have seen the look. “Please, as I said, I didn't expect you to.”

  “Do you work here?”

  “Oh, yes. I've been here for some time.”

  “Were you...?”

  “Dead? Yes, almost. I lived very well on inheritances, but... He looked at the floor through clasped hands. “...but there was... no... core.”

  “And you found it here?”

  The man nodded. “And I continue to find it every day, at the most unexpected moments.”

  John knew what he was talking about, like this morning.

  “I thought it was you, you know,” Simmons went on, “when they first brought you in, but you've... changed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ill?”

  “Once, though not of late.”

  “No matter,” Simmons reassured him, apparently sensing the difficult nature of the conversation. “Well,” he exclaimed, and stood to leave, “I wanted to welcome you and to - ”

  “How long did you say you have been here?”

  “Several months.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “Whatever is needed to be done.” He stepped away, then turned back smiling. “I'm not certain who I was before I came here. I know I must have responded to a name. Unfortunately, there wasn't even the substance of a man behind it.”

  Dear God, he'd just described perfectly the vacuum in which John now found himself. “When... will it pass, this feeling?”

  The man smiled and shook his head. “Can't say. Different for everyone.”

  John nodded as though he understood, though in truth he understood nothing.

  For a moment the silence held. “Would you like for me to help you back to your...?”

  “No, no,” John said quickly. “I'm waiting for clothes. I... feel like moving about.”

  “Good sign,” Simmons exclaimed warmly. For a moment he seemed on the verge of departing. When he was only a few steps down the aisle, he looked back, a curious expression on his face. “You must forgive me...” he began.

  “For what?”

  “For prying.”

  “I... don't understand.”

  “You had no identification when you were brought in, only a small wicker...”

  Don't speak on that, not yet.

  “I thought I recognized you, but I wasn't certain.”

  “I've changed.”

  “Yes, oh, yes. But in order to confirm my suspicions, I called on your house in Grosvenor Square and asked simply for a brief audience with Mr. Eden.”

  Intrigued, John listened closely. That other life, that other man, kept surfacing.

  “And...?” he prompted, seeing a new hesitancy in Simmons' face.

  “To my surprise — for I fully expected to be told there was no one there by that name — I was ushered up to the top-floor chamber, where a dark young man greeted me and informed me that you were... dead.”

  For several moments the two men gazed at each other, obviously pondering all the implications of this premature judgment.

  “Dead?” John repeated.

  “That's what I was told, yes.”

  Bates. Then John remembered. Bates must have searched for him and, unable to find him, had pronounced him dead. No matter. In a very real way he wished that man could die. He was partially dead already. If only the remembering part of him would follow suit.

  “What is your wish?” Simmons asked.

  Confused, John looked at him. “My... wish?” Then he understood. Did he want to stay dead, or should they announce his resurrection?

  “I beg you, do nothing, for now,” he requested. “I need time to...” Not certain what he needed time for, he broke off and looked up.

  The young man was hurrying down the center aisle carrying a pair of plain dark trousers and a dark smocklike shirt. As he caught sight of Simmons, he stopped, a stricken look on his face, as though he'd been caught in some guilty act.

  “It's all right,” John called out, urging him forward. “Hand them to me, then both of you leave. I'll join you in a moment.”

  Simmons and the young man exchanged a glance. Still doubtful, the young man asked, “Shouldn't Dr. Mercer see him first?”

  But Simmons shook h
is head no and looked back at John for confirmation.

  “Thank you,” John said, grateful. He took the clothes, thinking: He informed me that you were dead.

  Perhaps he was.

  Then dress and go find out. Dead men did not, as a general rule, do laundry.

  The laundry room was in the subbasement of the Whitechapel Infirmary, a low-ceilinged, damp, steamy, Satanic place of open fires, billowing vapors, and the burning sting of harsh lye soap. By six o'clock that night John's hands were chafed and bleeding, his face raw from repeated exposure to the vats of steam, and his eyes aflame from lack of fresh air. But on the table before him was row after row of clean, neatly folded linen.

  “A half-day's supply,” Rob commented wearily.

  John gaped, unable to believe this inhuman, back-breaking chore would have to be repeated tomorrow.

  “Are you all right, John?” Rob inquired with admirable cheerfulness.

  John nodded and noticed that only he seemed to be suffering. Rob's hands were well callused and hardened, surviving the lye soap very well. And he'd survived very well in all other respects.

  “Are you sure you're all right?” Rob asked again thoughtfully. “It's very hard, I know, if you're not used to it.”

  “How... long does it take to get used to it?”

  “Depends.” Rob smiled. “My hands bled for about a month before...”

  John nodded broadly, not wanting to hear more.

  “I do thank you,” Rob added. “Usually I'm here until much later. With your help I can now assist General Booth.”

  “With what?”

  “Evening services. You'll come, of course.”

  John wasn't so certain. He had never cared for preachers, nor had he fully understood the concept of a beneficent, all-powerful God.

  “John, are you — ?”

  “Fine,” he cut in, and reached behind to untie the heavy black full-length apron which had done nothing to keep his borrowed garments dry.

  “Thank you again,” Rob called out, and took the stairs two at a time.

  John waited a moment, then followed wearily after, heading toward the narrow stone steps which led up to the kitchen, filled with women cooking large vats of vegetable stew, all of which bore a startling resemblance to the vats of boiling clothes which he had recently presided over in the laundry room.