THE FARTHEST GATE
MORGAN BLAYDE
© Copyright Dec, 2014
Acknowledgments:
To those who helped along the way: Jane O’Riva, Sally Ann Barnes, Denny Grayson, Scott Smith, Caroline Williams, Chris Crowe, Betty Johnson, Dave Murray, Steve and Judy Prey, Jim Czajkowski, Penny Hill, Leo Little, Chris Smith, Jean Colegrove, Chris Reilly, Amy Rogers, Kathy L’Ecluse, Georgia Harbeck, and Tod Todd.
OFFICIAL WEBSITE:
www.morgan-blayde.com
1. THE HAND OF DARKNESS
Rising through crushing depths of sleep, I gasped for air. Damp with sweat, my nightgown clung as I thrashed in my covers, heart pounding, aching with premonition. Then the hand of darkness closed, and I sank once more into nightmare, having failed to escape after all. Without remorse, nightmare ran off with me once more…
My arms cross. I hug myself and hover, a ghost in icy winds that howl like damned souls. I am near my father’s cottage. My feet are just above the path which cuts through the snowy drifts along the ice-covered lake. Winds tug me to a scene I do not want to see.
Phillippe, approaches on horseback. His sapphire eyes are dark in the night, his sun-gold curls hidden by the hood of a heavy woolen cloak. A knitted cloth wraps his lower face. Here is my son, the treasure of my life. He slows, stops, and turns to stare across the ice. He claws the scarf from his face. His horse nickers, complaining, wanting to finish the journey and find a warm stall and food.
Phillippe’s breath is white as he sits entranced.
I turned my head, dreading what I will see.
A woman stands barefoot on the frozen lake, oblivious to winter, her young, voluptuous body immodestly veiled by sheer black fabric that does not hide her ripeness. Her hair spills down her back, black cascades tugged by wind. Languidly, she beckons. Her full lips separate. She calls him, an invitation to scandalous pleasures. She sings—a song of death. She is a spirit, wandered in from some dark fable.
Phillippe slides off his horse and stumbles toward her, hearing what I cannot, oblivious to danger.
“No,” I scream, “go back! The ice is too thin.”
I strain to reach him, wanting to hold him back from disaster, but an unseen wall keeps me at bay. I fight the barrier, tearing at
it like a mad woman.
Phillippe plods toward the spirit, showing her a bright smile she does not deserve.
She retreats further from the bank. Her face melts, sloughing off. A grinning skull glows in the soft haze of silver moonlight. I can no longer tell if she is singing her dirge. Her eyes are red, demon stars. She beckons with a wiggling finger.
Phillippe staggers slightly with his next step. The groaning ice cracks, threatening to splinter even more.
“No, Phillippe, go back. Go back!”
He cannot hear me. My heart is torn asunder, and he does not know.
The wraith gently fans fire-scorched wings, ribbed like a bat’s. The tissues of her hand mist away, showing white bones underneath.
“Phillippe!” I scream.
The ice breaks. He vanishes. The lake closes over his head, broken by bubbles that mark his passing.
Laughing silently, the spirit turns her fleshless grin my way, as if to say, “Look what I have done.”
Anguish crushes my heart. I cannot breathe. I no longer care.
She fades to nothing, leaving only a water grave.
The room’s cold air knifed my lungs. I brushed pale strands of damp hair from my face, willing my heart to relent its frantic pace. I was free of the dream, but not its residual terror. Fear had seeped deep into my marrow. The dream was something from one of my Grandmama’s bedtime stories. I longed to have her alive and with me. Her arms had always been a comfort.
In the distance, the church’s full-throated bells pealed, though not for any reason I knew. The slow, spaced resonations echoed with melancholy, lending weight to this moment in time.
I slid to the edge of the bed and swung my feet down into my slippers, sitting up. My robe was draped at the foot of my bed. I gathered it in and wrapped it around me as I came to my feet, standing in the gap of the curtains that enclosed my bed. I took several steps down to the hand-woven rug that cushioned the hardwood floor.
Part of me wanted to throw winter clothing on and go racing into the night. My heart demanded to follow the lake path, and to see if the ice was broken. Awake, and mostly rational, I knew this for folly. Phillippe was away, serving an apprenticeship in Paris, with his uncle, a silversmith of great reputation. My son would not be out in the bitter cold this time of night ... unless he was trying to surprise me with his presence for the holidays...
This was 1633—not darker centuries past. There was no need to let myself be driven into thoughtless panic by ill omens. Murdering ghosts were the invention of idle men, trying to earn coin in the commons of some inn. At least, I told myself that.
I drifted to the small, moon-bathed window, brushing aside lace curtains made by my grandmother. In such small ways, she was ever around me, a guiding force. Thinking of her, I offered up a small prayer, asking for her blessing that this dream might be just that, and not a dark promise.
Outside, snow covered the yard. The road beyond was tracked by horses’ hooves and wagon wheels. The trees in view were bare of leaf with ice sheathing the drooping branches. Blue shadows made the familiar landscape fey and strange. I was about to return to bed when I saw my son’s horse arrive, wearing bridle and saddle, lacking a rider.
The world lurched under my feet.
“God, no!”
I darted to my armoire, but bypassed my usual dresses, needing sturdier wear. There were clothes here belonging to Phillippe, freshly mended by my needle. Hurriedly, I donned them, and threw my heavy, wool cloak over my shoulders, securing it. My shoes went on. Running steps took me to the door. I wrenched it open and burst along the darkened hall to the cottage’s common room where I stalled, seeing my father at the fireplace, prodding a dying fire with an ash-coated poker.
He spun, clutching the iron like a sword. Perhaps he, too, had been plagued by nightmares.
“Celeste? Where are you going at such an hour?”
I pointed toward the front door. “Phillippe’s horse has come home without him.” I scarcely recognized the distressed tones of my voice. “I must find him!”
Not waiting for further word, I hastened to the door and thrust it open. I heard the clatter of father replacing the poker in the stand as I ran out. Cold air misted my breath. The horse murmured seeing me, hopeful of a warm stall and bag of oats. He plodded to meet me. I gathered up his reins tied them to a railing. I could not let him rest. My son would need his horse when found.
I went on to the barn and entered. Wearing boots and a black cloak, father was there already, having come through the entrance from the house. Though the war with the Spanish had not yet reached our village, he had buckled his sword on. I was not surprised, knowing the weapon was his craft, as the finest sword master ever to instruct a king. Retired from service, the blade was too much a part of him not to be kept close.
He stopped me, gripping my arms, peering into my face with dead-calm eyes. “Stay here. I will do all that is needful and bring Phillippe swiftly home.”
“I am going with you.”
“You will only slow me down.”
“I am going.”
I jerked away, entering the stall of the horse father let me use. He no longer argued, but made no effort to help either, letting me struggle with the weight of my saddle. My dear father had a habit of spooning out spite when he didn’t get his way. Object lessons had always been an article of faith with him. In my own
way, I served a more intimate and friendlier God. My convictions centered on the impulses of my heart. They demanded I find my son.
My horse stared at me as if I were crazy, going out on a night like this, never-the-less, he allowed me to roughly toss the saddle to his blanketed back. I strapped it down, checked the cinching, and approached his head with the bridle. He nudged me with his head, begging for a treat.
I stroked his head and whispered, “Later, I promise.”
His bridle in place, I took the reins in hand and led him out of the stall to where my father waited. We went into the yard, secured the barn door behind us, and mounted.
Father flicked his reins, “Eeeyah!”
I copied his gesture. We rode as fast as the snow allowed. Since we lived at the edge of town, there were few close neighbors to disturb with our passing. If my dream were accurate, I knew where Phillippe would be. “He’s on the lake path,” I yelled, drawing up to my father.
“How do you know?” he called back.
“I just do. Trust me.”
He nodded and let me take the lead. We abandoned the main road, veering toward the lake. The path flanked the lake’s white ice. On our other side, ice and moonlight glazed the dark ranks of an apple orchard.
Watching the ice, I saw a fresh break in its expanse. My head went numb, as though someone had struck me viciously. My dream had proved true, and my son ... my son...
“There!” Father reined in. “We need to see if he—”
Father’s voice broke, unable to express the same fear that knotted my stomach. We slid to the ground. I grabbed the rope father had brought, and tied one end around my waist. I offered the coils back to father. I was lighter, and could go out further on the ice. His strength would be needed to pull me back ... with my son. I hadn’t been able to save him. My heart was darkening and would never again know joy. All I could do for Phillippe was to recover his body and put his spirit to rest.
Heaven had shown me a cruel face.
Father tied his end of the rope to his saddle, and mounted. He was right to do so; the horse’s strength was greater than our own.
After brushing away snow, I pried a rock loose from the frigid earth. Memories flashed through my head of having done this before, going ice fishing with my father. If I needed to break the ice like my shattered heart, the rock would prove useful. Carefully, I went onto the ice with my burden. The white surface creaked and groaned. Near the break, I went on my stomach, peering ahead, into the dark water. No one floated on the surface, but this was the site from my dream.
Oh, Phillippe ... where are you?
A startled shriek escaped me as he floated face-first up to me, trapped under three or four inches of ice. His expressionless eyes were empty, staring. I smashed the stone against the ice until it began to crack and splinter. The rock broke through, dragging my clawed hand into the icy water. The stone slipped from grasp like lost hope. I snarled a curse and began to worry the edge away until I could plunge my whole arm in and reach under the ice to gather Phillippe.
Once I had him surfaced, I locked both hands in a death-grip, calling to my father, “I have him. Pull us in!”
The horse took slow steps.
Several chunks of ice broke free. I balanced precariously, a breath away from toppling in, on top of Philippe.
The line running to my waist went taut. I was dragged toward shore, my son with me. He was dead weight, but I would not surrender his body. He deserved dignity in death and I would give it to him.
Once on the path, I tore at the rope that cinched my waist, finally untying the knot. Father ran to us, dropping to his knees. He stared, face tight with heartbreak. He lifted Phillippe and carried him to his horse. I followed, having nothing else to do but release the tears I had fought until now. They blurred my vision, trickling down my face as silent sobs shook me.
Like a bag of grain, my son was tossed across the saddle for the ride home. It was gracelessly done, but father lacked the strength he’d once commanded. I heard him wheezing in the cold and knew this was hard on him.
Hanging head down, chest compressed, water drained from Phillippe’s lungs.
I went and leaned against him, my hands curling in his sodden cloak. My legs trembled. Darkness crowded the edge of sight. I deepened my breathing, grimly holding on.
Phillippe coughed—a small sign of life that jolted my heart with hope. I stepped back in shock and saw his fingers twitch. “He is alive! Father, help me.”
We drew him off the horse, stripped off his icy clothes, and quickly bundled him in both our cloaks. Though alive, he was still in danger. He needed a warm fire and care, or a fever might claim yet him. I mounted and father lifted Phillippe, placing him before me. I would spend my strength willingly to keeping Phillippe warm and in the saddle for the short ride home. My son said nothing, oblivious to our presence. He stared into infinity. In the grip of shock, he did not know me.
“It will be all right,” I promised. “We will be home soon.”
Father took charge of the extra horse. We rode back slower than we first came, so I might not spill Phillippe to the earth, and time dragged her heels besides. At last, we reached home. Father helped me get Phillippe down, across the yard, and into the house. We spread Phillippe out by the fire, and threw more wood onto the embers to stir up a blaze.
“I am riding for Father Rousseau at the monastery,” Father said. “I have heard he has great skill in healing.”
“Hurry,” I urged.
Father fled the house as if ghouls pursued from one of my Grandmama’s tales.
I hurried for bedding to make my son comfortable, disturbed by his ice-white face and dead-man eyes. I made Philippe as comfortable as possible, wishing there was more I could do. As the flames caught and began to leap higher, I cradled his head in my lap. If only Phillippe’s father had not been a soldier, taken from me by duty and death, I too could be comforted; this present burden would not be entirely mine to carry.
Waiting, my thoughts went to grandmother. She had died ten years ago, and I missed her as well. She had raised me in mother’s absence, with kindness and a bold spirit I had always longed to emulate. We had a special bond, strong as that which I shared with Philippe.
I smiled, remembering the many stories she spun of magical worlds, some burning bright with mystery and beauty, others dark and grim, often blighted. Grandmama had spoken of the heroic battles in the Courts of Death, of the White Rose, whose flashing blade set right the tragedies of the universe. Oh! I wished there were such a heroine to repair my damaged heart, and strike back at the darkness that had all but destroyed Philippe.
At last, the door burst open. A gray-bearded man, bundled up against the winter night, entered, stomping snow off his boots. He closed the door behind him and peered into the common room, blinking behind thick glasses.
“Father Rousseau, over here,” I cried.
He hastened to join me, and I pulled back, giving him room to work. I wrung my hands, recounting our disaster though father must have said as much already. “Philippe fell through the ice. We rescued him and he’s breathing again by Heaven’s grace, but something is still wrong with him. He does not seem to know me or his surroundings.”
“Get a hold of yourself, Celeste,” the priest was firm but kind, “or you will drive yourself into exhaustion.”
I nodded, knowing he was right.
Father came in from the door to the barn. Doubtless, he had been tending the horses, giving them their long delayed comforts. He joined me, putting an arm around my shoulders. I wondered if he were comforting me, or bracing me against bad news. I turned into him, resting my head against his chest.
“How is Phillippe?” Father asked.
I pulled free, turning to receive the answer.
The priest faced us, his eyes wells of sadness. “Phillippe’s soul is gone. There is nothing left I can treat. In time, his body will realize he is dead and follow the departed soul.”
I shook my head fur
iously. “No, no, no! It cannot be.” Who could do such a vile thing? Why had they? Our family had no enemies I knew of. How could such a thing even happen? Reality was clearly deeper than I had ever believed, hiding forces I had not known to fear.
Father tightened his hold on me, but I broke free, fleeing the room, and a loss I could not face.
I stood in my room, drained by the night and the morning’s activity. Phillippe had been bathed in heated water to leech the chill from his bones, dressed warmly, and taken to his own bed. Through it all, he stared into nothingness. My aunt was with him. I could not stay while the priest performed Last Rites, as was proper. I was growing to hate all things proper.
Unable to just give up on Phillippe, I went to my mother’s jewelry box, passed on to me the day she vanished off the face of the earth. I lifted the lid, and pulled away the old, creased letter I kept, sent from a foreign battlefield, explaining that Phillippe’s father was dead, and would not be returning home. Under the letter was my grandmother’s rose-carved, pearl ring. He had once told me the band was a miraculous thing, capable of opening doors better left closed. If she was right ... and I prayed she was ... this band would serve as my passport to the realm of the dead.
My son’s soul had been taken before its time. I was going to bring it back no matter who objected. If I were indeed mad, that was preferable to a world where my son would never again laugh with me, delighted with life, grasping for his dreams.
I wore a pouch that held provisions, as I stuffed my feet into my son’s dried boots. Once more, I threw on my cloak, preparing to leave on a desperate mission. I took my sword from the armoire, buckling it on. The blade had been a gift the day I brought Phillippe into the world, continuing the family line. Few women knew how to handle a sword. Most didn’t care, or lacked the discipline needed to learn. My father had started me at five with a toy wooden sword, making a chore at what should have been play. I had served as his foil all my life. Phillippe had shown little interest. I think father hoped his grandson might yet change his mind. However, since age might claim father before then, he had entrusted to me all his secrets so they might not be lost.
The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1) Page 1
