Black Noon

by Andrew J. Fenady

  Against the azure sky the drifting cloud that had obscured the moon curled slowly into a patternless mist, then vanished into the night so that the outline of the shed was more clearly defined against the darkness of the yard.

  Inside, Bethia stood with a clement smile on her face, watching.

  The cat on the candlelit table purred as Deliverance’s fingers withdrew from the wax figure.

  It was the image of Lorna . . . but less recognizable.

  CHAPTER 48

  Instead of the night’s rest and sleep helping, it seemed to have cast Lorna adrift in a sea of listlessness and apathy . . . indifferent to everything and everyone.

  Keyes stayed at her bedside and did his best to induce a reaction, touching her shoulder, her face, asking a question or speaking of anything he thought might spark a response.

  But her response more often than not was to turn her face away and murmur something unintelligible.

  “Lorna, let me get you something to eat, something to drink.”

  “Don’t . . . bother,” she finally groaned.

  “Lorna . . .”

  “Go away!”

  “All right.”

  “No, it’s not all right, but go away.”

  “How’s the missus this morning, Reverend?”

  “Not as well as expected, I’m afraid, Bethia.”

  “Oh, so sorry to hear that. I’ll go upstairs presently and see if there’s anything I can do to be of help.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but Bethia . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If she seems, well, a little . . . abrupt, please be patient. Last night she had a . . . well, a sort of spell, and this morning she’s just not herself.”

  “I understand, sir, I understand completely, and would you like me to fix you some breakfast? Eggs and . . .”

  “No thanks, Bethia, I’ll just have some coffee at the church site. That’s where they all are, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed, sir.”

  It was as if they had all been working through the night. That’s how much further along the construction had advanced.

  After the usual salutations as Keyes passed by the congregation, he reached Caleb Hobbs sitting in his usual shady spot. Just as he arrived so did Deliverance carrying a tray with a mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits.

  “Morning, m’boy.”

  “Morning, Caleb, Deliverance.”

  “Hot biscuits and hotter coffee, Jonathon.”

  “Just coffee for now.”

  “Very good. Let me know if you want anything else later.” She turned and glided away toward the serving table.

  “Any improvement in Lorna’s condition, Reverend?”

  “Not much, if any at all, I’m sorry to say,” Keyes looked toward the construction. “But there’s quite a bit of improvement around here.”

  “Dedication, m’boy. Dedication, and stalwart shepherding of the flock.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll just finish this coffee and . . . join the flock.”

  The desert sun, though not yet nearing its daily high point in the sky, still generated heat enough so that about half of the men working had already removed their shirts and were toiling in their undershirts or no shirts at all.

  This included Keyes, who wanted to keep his nice fresh shirt nice and fresh. He threw the shirt over a chair and moved toward the building activity.

  As he walked past the serving table, Deliverance paused at what she was doing, and took an obviously admiring look at the passerby. Keyes couldn’t help but notice; however, he did his best to just look straight ahead and keep on walking.

  “Morning, Reverend.”

  “Good morning, Joseph.”

  “‘Thou shalt exalt in the labor of thy hands.’”

  “I am ready to start exalting,” Keyes smiled.

  Joseph held out a pair of tools.

  “Would you prefer exalting with a saw or hammer?”

  “A saw will do nicely, Brother Joseph.”

  “Saw it shall be.”

  And so it was as Keyes proceeded to take part in the construction of a church in which he would serve only once, then leave behind.

  But his mind, his thoughts were not on his work as he sawed, hammered, carried, and fitted beams and wedges into place.

  In the mirror of his mind he was sawing through the forlorn image of his peaked wife—and as the saw ripped through the board it was tearing into Lorna’s tortured brain—and as he looked up he couldn’t help but gaze at the smiling, beguiling, inviting face and figure of Deliverance, who, in spite of the blistering midday heat of the sun, seemed fluent and sangfroid.

  Standing, walking, and serving in the sultry desert day among the sweating workers, she seemed fresh as an autumn night wind.

  Keyes recalled the conversation with Lorna and Lorna’s words about Deliverance.

  “Even in the desert she always seems so . . . cool, calm, and composed, so . . . decorous.”

  Lorna’s descriptive words were themselves gracious and flattering, but the tone in her voice, mordant and spiteful, a tone so unlike Lorna.

  And yet whenever she spoke of these people of San Melas there seemed to be an underlying tone of uncertainty, even suspicion, in her aspect . . . particularly when it came to Deliverance.

  Once again Keyes paused to reach into his pocket, retract a handkerchief, and wipe the perspiration from his face, but in fact the pause was to allow him a better look at the graceful flow of body and beautiful features of Deliverance as she moved toward him.

  “Jon, is there anything you’d like now? Lemonade? Tea? Water?”

  “No, thanks, Deliverance. I’m fine for now.”

  “All right, Jon. Well, I’ll try again . . . later.”

  She smiled, turned smoothly, and walked away.

  Keyes took a moment to glance around at the other citizens who were working with such enthusiasm and dedication. His glance paused just a little longer at those he had gotten to know better than the rest.

  First Caleb Hobbs, their leader and his predominant benefactor, who besides saving his life, had extended hospitality and who obviously wanted them to stay, yet had done everything he could to make it possible for them to continue their journey.

  And Joseph, who quoted and practiced the Bible as well as any person Keyes had ever met. A man his age who worked as hard as any man half his years.

  The Bryants, William, Pricilla, and of course Ethan, as carefree and brave a lad as Keyes had ever met. Keyes himself would be pleased to have a son like him.

  Sam Hawkins, who worked ceaselessly to repair the Conestoga without which they would be marooned in San Melas.

  And all the rest.

  Hardworking, clean-living, decent, ordinary, God-fearing folk.

  And still, there was Lorna, who Keyes in all those years he’d known her, had never heard her express a negative opinion about any man or woman. If she had nothing good to say, she said nothing.

  And yet, even in the short time they had been in San Melas, a certain undercurrent of incertitude, doubt, yes, even more than suspicion, surfaced in her spoken, and even unspoken, reaction to this place and people.

  Was it the desert sun?

  The isolation?

  The open idolatry they heaped on him?

  Their costumes and customs?

  Or was it only one other reason that accounted for Lorna’s attitude?

  Was that reason Deliverance?

  And was she in any way justified?

  Keyes hoped not.

  He had done nothing and wanted to do nothing that would justify any doubt in Lorna’s mind.

  Keyes had never loved, or even as much as thought about, any other woman since he first espied the teenage Lorna Benton.

  It was a toss-up as to who was the more beautiful young lady in Monroe, Lorna Benton or Libbie Bacon.

  Lorna was the more reserved, Libbie the saucier.

  Even when she was a pert, dimpled, and beautiful eight-year-old gi
rl swinging on the front gate, as the blond curly haired lad dashed along, it was Libbie who made the first signal—“Hey you, Custer Boy,” she blurted and ran into the house leaving him dead in his tracks, but intrigued.

  Lorna, at that, or any age, would never be so saucy—or bold.

  There was always a certain reserve and dignity about her, although a flash of humor did sparkle through, especially when she and Keyes were together by themselves.

  Those occasions were less, much less frequent since San Melas . . . since Deliverance.

  Keyes took one more stolen look at Deliverance, then went back to work.

  Deliverance made no effort to conceal the fact that she was looking at him.

  CHAPTER 49

  This time Lorna was not at the window as Keyes and Deliverance walked across the yard toward the shed.

  She did not see their elbows touch, nor the smile on their faces, nor hear what was being said.

  Lorna was in bed, more comatose than conscious.

  She did not see the two of them once again pause at the open door, this time linger a little longer, as Keyes’s hand started to move up toward Deliverance’s face but stopped in midair as he turned and walked away.

  When he entered the room Keyes went directly to the bedside, looked at the untouched tray of food on the bed stand, then at Lorna, whose eyes were closed.

  “Lorna . . . Lorna . . . it’s . . .”

  “I know who it is,” she muttered without opening her eyes.

  “You haven’t eaten . . .”

  “I’ll eat . . . later.”

  “I’ll bring something up and we’ll have supper together.”

  “NO! You go eat with your friends.”

  He did.

  Of course Caleb asked about Lorna’s condition, and Keyes did not want to appear too negative but it was difficult for him to appear in the least bit positive, so he was as equivocal as possible.

  “She’s resting now.”

  “Has she eaten any of what I brought up to her?”

  “Not yet, Bethia, but she’s promised to later.”

  Bethia nodded and went on serving at the table.

  “There’s nothing that stimulates a person’s appetite,” Caleb said, “quite like a hard day’s work.”

  The others at the table did their best not to react to the irony of Caleb’s comment since he had seldom, if ever, moved from his shaded seat during the entire day.

  Joseph started to say something but thought it better not to.

  “Would you please pass the butter, Jon?” Deliverance reached out as Keyes complied and their fingers just happened to converge and stay suspended for a beat more than necessary to make the exchange.

  This did not go unnoticed by Bethia, who smiled faintly as she repaired toward the kitchen.

  Not much later Keyes rose from the table.

  “Well, I’d better go upstairs and see about Lorna.”

  “And I’d better go out and see about my candles.”

  “Well, get a good night’s sleep both of you,” Caleb lit his pipe, “we’ve got another hard day’s work ahead of us tomorrow.”

  The tray was still on the bedside table and still untouched as Keyes knew it would be. And when he tried to talk to her, she was just as unresponsive as before, with a voice that hardly seemed to be her own.

  “Lorna . . .”

  “Yes, my husband . . . did you enjoy supper with your . . . friends?”

  “I’d enjoy it a lot more with you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, Lorna, that’s so. I wish you’d believe that.”

  “I wish I . . . could.”

  Keyes realized that it was hopeless to try and reason with Lorna in her state of mind. He would have to wait . . . but for how long?

  Hours? Days? Weeks?

  Or...

  Was it not a matter of time?

  Was it this place?

  San Melas?

  Or was it forever?

  Had the Lorna he knew and married been lost in some other realm?

  What force was tugging at her, wracking her mind and body?

  Deliverance was in the shed, but not working on her candles. On the table directly in front of her were two wax figures, one plainly enough, that of Jonathon Keyes, the other, hardly recognizable except for the hair, Lorna.

  As Deliverance kneaded that figure it became even less identifiable.

  The nocturnal silence within the shed was rifted only by the pervasive purr of the cat.

  Keyes sat on the straight-back chair near the bed with the Bible in his hand, his head lowered, eyes closed, and lips in near silent supplication for the recovery of his wife.

  “‘And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.’”

  He rose, the Bible still in hand, walked across the room, placed the Bible on the dresser, and removed his shirt. He sponged, then dried himself before almost automatically looking in the mirror.

  He instantly wished he hadn’t, but it was too late.

  He stood benumbed by the reflection within:

  The bruised and bloodied man, with anguished face, deep, hollow eyes, twisted mouth, and tortured outstretched arms, straining, running, running, running—but not fast enough to catch Keyes racing just ahead, as the man reached out, desperately trying to grab him . . . words from the tormented mouth cried out soundlessly, racing as before, but this time even more intent.

  Once, twice, the man’s hand nearly touched Keyes, but instead, he stumbled, lost ground, then regained balance and resumed the chase.

  And as Keyes looked ahead, Deliverance was standing within the same doorway . . . beckoning, as a subtle wind pressed the sheer garment she wore against every curve and dip of her flawless form, her flaxen hair drifted gently against the smooth spread of her shoulders . . . a living monument to the mythical sea nymphs who lured sailors from their homeward odyssey.

  And Keyes was almost there.

  But suddenly . . .

  A figure stood between Keyes and Deliverance.

  A figure clothed in black.

  MOON...

  Stood laughing.

  A mirthless, noiseless laugh . . .

  Taunting Keyes.

  Keyes stood stone still . . .

  And the tormented man who had been chasing Keyes was suddenly frozen, unable to move. But Keyes continued toward Moon, who stopped his advance with a whirlwind backhand to the face that spun him to the ground.

  Moon turned and began to move toward Deliverance with Tarquin’s ravishing stride.

  In that instant there appeared a gun in Keyes’s hand. A gun with a gold handle. One of Moon’s guns was now missing from its black holster.

  Keyes fired the gun in the air. There was no sound, but smoke curled from the barrel.

  Moon turned and at the same time in a snakelike motion drew the gun from his right holster and aimed . . . but before he could squeeze, Keyes fired again, this time not in the air but at the black clad target.

  Moon fell with the grace of a ballet dancer . . . slowly, symphonically.

  Keyes, still holding the gun, ran past the fallen Moon . . . the tortured man now in pursuit.

  Keyes managed to make it through the door as Deliverance again shut out the man.

  But this time the narrative in the mirror continued to unfold.

  As Deliverance held out both arms with an invitational smile, and Keyes stepped closer . . . Moon . . . Moon was somehow alive again, standing inside the room, legs spread apart, gun in hand, ready to fire.

  Keyes, holding Deliverance in a protective embrace, fired first.

  Then . . .

  Fired again . . .

  And again . . .

  As the mirror cracked.

  Keyes stood in front of the mirror, sweating, trembling.

  Did the mirror crack, or, was that, too, a reflection of his imagination? He reached out, touched, then passed his fingers across the slivered surface.

  The mirror
had cracked.

  Keyes turned away even though now the mirror reflected only his own image.

  He found it hard to breath. He drew each breath with effort. He walked unsteadily to the bed. In truth he didn’t know why.

  Did he want to tell her what he had seen in the mirror?

  The answer was no.

  If he did, what could he expect from her? Particularly in her current condition. She had illusions or delusions of her own.

  Still, he whispered, then called out her name.

  “Lorna . . . Lorna . . .”

  As he expected . . . no response.

  He might as well have been in the room alone . . . except for the images in the mirror.

  He walked to the window and looked out.

  Darkness, except for the moonlight that filtered through branches of the trees and spread their shaky shadows on the ground.

  He looked toward the outline of the shed.

  It was only an outline. No candlelight from within.

  But there was a gust of refreshing night air through the bedroom’s open window.

  If nothing more, he needed the vivifying outdoor air. He needed to get out of this room.

  He did.

  Keyes, still shirtless, sat on the stump of the tree, his head bent into the palms of both hands in a vain effort to separate reality from illusion.

  Who was the man in the mirror? Why was the man trying to catch him? What was he trying to say, or do? Was he a ghost . . . like Moon, come back from the grave to haunt him? But why?

  And Deliverance.

  Beautiful, beguiling, bewitching Deliverance.

  A composition of empyrean elegance and earthy enticement.

  A vision out of every man’s dream.

  “Jon.”

  Keyes looked up.

  Deliverance stood before him, looking much as she did in the mirror. Adorned in a diaphanous white gown. Hair cascading onto her shoulders and breast. But this was no mirror image.

  She was real.

  “Jon, what are you doing out here?”

  “I’ll ask you the same question. There is no light in your workroom.”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  Keyes didn’t wait for a further answer.

  “Deliverance . . . I have to tell you something. I have to tell someone . . .”