Echoes from the Mist

by Advocate

  Soon she was softly crooning a lullaby to her son, smiling at his sleepy face. Then she was laughing with Bridget on the shore as a large, unexpected wave washed over them as they dug for clams. In the blink of an eye, the surf at Cobb Island was replaced by the rocky beach of the mainland. "Just a little further. God, won’t this rain ever stop? Wait. A farm?" Squinting through the pouring rain. "Yes, that’s smoke from the house’s chimney. Keep walking. Move!"

  "Bridget," she muttered fuzzily as the spare room that had been built onto the Beynon’s barn faded into another room... a secret place hidden deep within the walls of the house on Cobb Island.

  Cyril jerked open the door and stared dazedly at his bride, who, after several years’ marriage, was still just shy of twenty. "My son is dead," he garbled, his sword clanking against the furniture as he staggered around the room.

  "How nice of you to finally notice," Faylinn shot back coldly. She couldn’t stand the sight of him and turned away in disgust.

  Cyril laughed without a hint of humor as he drew his blade, the sound of ripping fabric mixing with his words as he wildly slashed apart the bed’s expensive canopy. "No longer resigned to your fate, I see. What a pity. I rather preferred you with your mouth closed."

  He quickly grew bored and let his sword fall from his hand onto the bed.

  "You’re drunk."

  "How nice of you to finally notice. Now come here," he commanded, his voice dripping with anger.

  Faylinn stood her ground, not moving an inch, leveling such a brutally cold stare on the man she’d come to despise that he actually took a step backwards. He cocked his head to the side and regarded her in utter silence, seeing something he hadn’t thought the girl capable of–a hatred so pristine in its form that his drunken mind could only marvel at its perfection.

  Then the room exploded into shouting.

  Cyril’s face contorted in rage. His eyes bored into Faylinn’s and she could see, even beneath the drink, he’d already gone mad. "Shut your mouth, bitch!" He nearly fell when he lunged for her, but she managed to evade his grasp. With effort, he straightened, flinging his long black curls over his shoulder. "I will have a male heir," Cyril slurred harshly.

  Faylinn began to laugh. Then she couldn’t stop. Bridget was dead. Her son was dead. She had nothing to lose. Everything she cared about was gone. Everything….

  Cyril took another step towards her and she suddenly quieted. An icy rage filled her, sweeping away her anguish and cutting through her hysterics. "I will die before I sleep with you, you murdering pig! I would sooner lay with Lucifer himself. You can go straight to—" Her words were cut off when a large, cold hand wrapped around her throat and her head was slammed back against the wall. Bright stars invaded her vision and her knees buckled.

  Cyril thrust himself against her, pinned her slumping body to the wall with his hips and grabbed her by her wrists. "I thought I told you to shut up!"

  Faylinn closed her eyes and jerked her face away from his harsh breath. Fuzzily, she could feel his excitement growing; pressing into her lower abdomen. She began to fight frantically as her stomach churned.

  "Did you fight my sister like this, slut? Did she enjoy it?" Cyril grunted against her neck. His voice dropped to the quietest of whispers and he pressed his mouth to her ear so that his thin mustache tickled her. "The way I’ve always enjoyed it." Then, on impulse, he dragged his tongue from her ear to the base of her throat, where he placed a sloppy, vicious kiss.

  Her vision instantly cleared and she hissed in pure revulsion, her entire body convulsing. "Get... get off me." She brought her knee up hard, slamming it into Cyril’s swollen groin and sending him down on one knee, his eyes bulging in agony.

  Spittle flew from his mouth and his chest heaved as he fought to stay conscious. A low groan that began in his chest spilled out, making him sound like a wounded beast. He choked back his own vomit.

  Faylinn made for the door but a hand shot out and grabbed her skirts as she tried to bolt past him. The sudden stop tore the material grasped in his fist and sent her sprawling to the ground. Then she was back in his arms as he yanked her up by her hair and pulled her close. She struggled wildly, pawing and kicking. Faylinn could smell the rancid odor of liquor mixed with stomach acid on his breath and he forced his mouth onto hers, ramming his hot tongue between her lips and making her gag.

  The door flew open and the world stopped as Cyril whirled around to see who had interrupted his pleasure. For several seconds no one dared even breathe.

  "Oh, my God!" Faylinn’s eyes went as wide as saucers and she staggered forward several steps. She blinked rapidly, part of her wanting to clear away the beautiful, ghastly vision before her, the other part deathly afraid that if she did, her heart would shatter all over again.

  Standing in doorway, the outline of her tall, imposing form unmistakable even in the dim light, was Bridget Redding. Her thick, drenched hair was matted with mud and blood and hung wildly about her shoulders, several tangles sticking to her blood-streaked cheeks and neck. Her filthy clothes hung from her tall frame in tatters and skin that normally radiated a healthy glow was an eerie, chalky white.

  Cyril gaped as his mind reeled. This couldn’t be happening. She was already dead! "Die, bitch!" he howled insanely, his voice unnaturally high as he dove for his sword.

  In a wide arc, Cyril’s blade slashed towards Bridget. He was drunk enough to be uncoordinated, but still had the wherewithal to be deadly. His strike missed her by a hairsbreadth when she flung her body sideways. He cried out in frustration, swinging erratically and striking the walls and furniture in his attempts to obliterate his sister.

  Bridget ducked the next blow, feeling the quick whoosh of air against her head as the sword whizzed over it. Her jump from the cliff and the days of beatings she’d endured before it had left her body shattered and weak. Every movement caused a fiery bolt of pain in her belly as her guts twisted sharply. Her left arm hung crookedly at her side, useless. And blood still sluggishly leaked from the cuts that peppered her broken body, its salty warmth soaking into her stinking clothes.

  It was only a matter of time before Cyril got lucky.

  Then several things happened at once.

  Bridget slipped on the spot where Cyril had spat earlier. She hit the floor with a solid thump, too tired to even cry out.

  Her brother smiled wickedly and raised the sword high overhead for the killing blow.

  Faylinn howled, "Nooo!" and without thought, bolted across the room to put herself between the blade and Bridget.

  As the sword sped towards Bridget’s head, the tall woman pulled the dagger Faylinn had given her on the cliff from the folds of her cloak. She lunged upward with the last of her energy, thrusting with all her might just as Faylinn’s body collided with Cyril’s and knocked the blade from his hand, sending it clattering to the floor.

  His gray eyes went impossibly wide and he groaned piteously at the sight of his own knife, protruding from his chest, a dark stain blossoming on his white shirt. Then he looked down at Bridget and smiled. He opened his mouth to say something… but instead of words came a thin trickle of crimson blood.

  He crumbled to the floor.

  Bridget shakily stood, falling backwards several steps as spots swam before her eyes. She looked up into Faylinn’s fear-filled eyes and slowly extended a trembling hand.

  Faylinn felt her heart clench painfully in her chest. She put her hand over her quivering lips as she choked back a sob. But it was no use. There was no stopping the outburst of raw emotion that sprang from her – grief mixed with overwhelming joy and relief. The blonde woman rushed across the room, flying into Bridget’s waiting embrace. "You’re not a ghost," she cried softly, her words muffled by Bridget’s damp cloak. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks as she wept. "You’re alive." She clutched at the taller woman helplessly, still unwilling to believe what was before her eyes – in her arms.

  "I’m here," Bridget pressed her cheek against Faylinn’s fair hair. Her
heart threatened to pound out of her chest and she was shaking. ‘I must think,’ she told herself desperately. ‘I cannot fall apart now or pass out. ’

  A wave of dizziness assaulted her and Bridget grabbed Faylinn’s hand. She took a moment to press it to her lips, then pulled her out of the room, stumbling a little. She consciously didn’t look back at the body lying in the center of the room, its lifeless, gray eyes glittering dully in the candlelight.

  There was no time to lose.

  They limped down the dark corridor and turned several corners before stopping. "We’ve got to hurry. Elizabeth…" Bridget paused, a stabbing pain in her belly robbing her of speech.

  "What is it?" Faylinn worriedly grabbed Bridget’s twisted arm, and the dark-haired woman bit her lip and moaned, her eyes widening. Faylinn yanked her hand away as though it had been burned and took just a second to examine Bridget’s arm, then her face. She felt compelled to state the obvious. "You’re hurt." ‘Badly hurt,’ her mind whispered.

  Bridget nodded quickly. "I know. There’s something wrong…" she laid her good hand across her midsection, "inside…"

  Panic tinged Faylinn’s eyes. "Let’s go back. Afia—"

  "No," Bridget cut her off. "She can’t know what happened. Afia… she must know nothing or surely that evil brat Elizabeth will read her mind. The less the slaves know the better. For their own safety."

  "But—"

  "Come away with me…" Bridget pleaded, tears forming in her eyes. "Off the island. Away from this place forever… I… I— "

  Faylinn placed two fingers gently against Bridget’s cracked lips. "Anywhere. Anywhere as long as we’re together."

  Bridget swallowed hard. "We won’t have money or—"

  "I’ll have everything I need," Faylinn interrupted seriously. She wrapped Bridget’s arm around her shoulder for support again, needing to do something to help. "I can’t believe you’re here. I must be dreaming," she whispered.

  Bridget clenched her teeth at the shift in positions, but was instantly grateful to have something to lean against. She quickly assured Faylinn that her presence was very much real and then warned, "But we need to go. Not in a few days or hours, but now, before everyone awakens."

  "I’ll get my cloak." Faylinn made a quick inventory of the jewelry she could stuff in her pockets while in her room. They’d need to sell it.

  "Good idea. I’m afraid it’s raining." Her words were full of regret. "I’m sorry you’ll get wet." Bridget smiled weakly and Faylinn burst into tears again.

  "I don’t care about the weather, Bridget!" she sobbed. "You’re alive." But Faylinn knew Bridget’s injuries were serious. She could feel the heat pouring off the taller woman’s skin and was unerringly reminded of Henry and the fever that had so recently stolen his life. She closed her eyes tightly, increasing her hold on Bridget, refusing to let her go.

  "Faylinn."

  The younger woman’s grip grew desperately tight.

  "Faylinn," Bridget repeated patiently. "We have to go, dearest. And it must be now."

  Faylinn sniffed and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Yes. You need a physician."

  "We can’t—"

  The blonde’s tone was unyielding. "That wasn’t a question, Bridget. I won’t lose you again. We can pay for his silence."

  Bridget nodded, choosing not to argue with Faylinn at this moment. The nearest physician was a half-day by boat. They would never make that in this weather. She pressed her lips into Faylinn’s soft blonde hair. "I do love you."

  Faylinn looked up and gave Bridget a hopeful, watery smile. "And I you." But as confident as the words were, Bridget could hear the fear behind them.

  "It will be all right," she cooed, her fingers stroking the soft, damp skin of Faylinn’s cheeks.

  Faylinn’s throat closed tightly and her jaw worked several times before she could speak. She allowed her need to show in her voice. "It has to be," she whispered.

  "Let’s go."

  And the women disappeared into the darkness.

  * * *

  Faylinn began to stir as a faint noise that lingered just outside her consciousness grew louder and louder until finally it was a pounding. Dazedly, she sat up, and glanced at the shaking door. "Yes?" she called warily, not at all sure that she was ready for the news she would hear.

  "Faylinn, are you decent?" It was Will Beynon. The door began to open.

  "Wait." Her eyes darted to the pile of soaking, dirty clothes on the floor. "My clothes, they—"

  The door creaked open again, but only enough for a hand holding a pair of dark-gray trousers and soft, russet-colored cotton shirt to appear. "You won’t be wanting to put back on your wet skirts, I suspect."

  A gust of wind rattled the shutters.

  Sick with fear, Faylinn rushed across the floor and grabbed the clothes, holding them up to herself to cover her nearly naked body. The door closed and she spoke through it. "Thank you. Can I see her now? Please, Will!"

  "As soon as you’re dressed I’ll bring her in. I didn’t think a small thing like you could wear my Katie’s spare dress. So I brought these. They were our son’s." Will’s tone was nostalgic. "He was tall but slender as a reed. They should…."

  Faylinn didn’t even hear the rest of what he was saying. She discarded her shift and quickly tugged on the oft-mended cotton shirt; its long tails hung to her knees. Next were a pair of men’s woolen knee-britches that came to her ankles and had thick leather patches sewn on both knees. It took her a moment to push the long shirttail into the waist of the pants.

  She’d never worn men’s clothing before, except for a wide-brimmed hat that Bridget had loaned her for riding on sunny afternoons. But even then, she’d only dared wear it when she was well away from the house and Cyril’s judgmental eyes. She ran her hands down her thighs out of pure habit, the way she always did with her dresses. "Come," she called hastily, stepping away from the door.

  Faylinn heard a grunt and the shuffle of feet before the door swung open and in came Will, breathing heavily as he hefted Bridget’s limp form. She was naked save for a thick coarse, blanket that carried with it the scent of horseflesh.

  Faylinn stared at Bridget in shock and her hand froze on the shirtsleeve she was rolling up. The last time she’d seen Bridget she was conscious and cursing. "No, no, no." Faylinn shook head erratically. She can’t be! "She’s not," she stopped when her throat closed around the words and the blood drained from her face.

  "She’s only sleeping," Will assured her. He carefully laid Bridget on the bed, taking great care not to jostle the arm that was sporting a splint made from what looked like two sawed off floor boards.

  Correctly interpreting Faylinn’s pasty face he said, "Don’t throw up again. I’ll not clean it up twice in one night." The words were gruff and he was still a little angry that his wife had refused to help clean up that particular mess.

  Faylinn’s cheeks colored as she was reminded of exactly why she’d been banished to the back room despite her vehement protests. She’d plainly told Will to go to hell, that she was staying with Bridget. But when Will’s wife, Katie, had threatened to turn Bridget out into the rain unless Faylinn let her check her injuries in peace, she agreed to go quietly, though the separation, especially now, had torn at her soul. "I’m sorry about before." She couldn’t meet his soft, dark eyes. "I… well…."

  Will shrugged good-naturedly. "No harm done. If Katie didn’t call me a worthless bastard at least once a day I might think I’d come home to the wrong house." Now it was Will’s turn to be embarrassed. "I’m sorry for accusing Bridget of being a ghost. I saw her at an auction last spring and she’s not the sort of woman a man is likely to forget. Yesterday, some sailors in Their Majesties’ Royal Navy spoke of her trial for witchcraft and the sentence, and how before they could execute her she— " he stopped, sensing the young woman’s growing distress.

  Jumped, Faylinn’s mind supplied sullenly. She wouldn’t have believed it herself if she hadn’t
seen the nightmare come to life before her very eyes. But she couldn’t think of Bridget’s ‘death’. Not now. Not when that was still so close to being true. "It appears she’s not as easy to kill as they’d hoped," Faylinn said quietly. "When I first saw her I thought she was a ghost too." Come to haunt me.

  Will smiled sympathetically at Faylinn and found himself liking her, despite the fact that she’d been married to that slave-running son of a bitch, Cyril Redding. Or maybe it was just the way she looked in his son’s clothes.

  Glassy green eyes fixed on Bridget’s face. "She looks so pale." Will fetched the torch from the wall and brought it closer to the bed so Faylinn could examine her friend. The flickering glow from the flame cast distorted shadows across Bridget’s face, deepening the already angular planes and making her appear gaunt. The light highlighted in sickening detail the recent abuse she’d suffered.

  Swallowing hard, Faylinn dropped to her knees at the head of the bed and took Bridget’s hand in hers. She gently rubbed the small calluses at the base of long fingers. Her frown grew more severe when she noticed a jagged cut just below the dark-haired woman’s collarbone. The wound disappeared behind the roughhewn blanket.

  Curious, Faylinn peeled back Bridget’s blanket, deciding it was foolish to be modest in front of Will, who, with his wife, had cut away Bridget’s clothes and tried to treat her wounds.

  "Do you think it would hurt her if I take these off for a moment?" She gave a small tug to the linen bandages that were wrapped loosely around Bridget’s upper body. "Just so I can tighten them?"

  Will scratched his jaw. The bandages had come loose when he’d carried Bridget in. He wasn’t going to fiddle with them until they needed changing. But he found himself unwilling to deny Faylinn’s request. "I don’t suppose it will do any harm. The bleeding has mostly stopped." He visibly shivered. "But it’s not a pretty sight."

  "No. I don’t suppose it will be," Faylinn agreed grimly. Carefully she slid gentle hands under Bridget’s shoulders and undid a small knot.