7 comments/ 22576 views/ 3 favorites Softly, She Treads Ch. 01 By: XyJonah I. 29th September. Beswick House. Dearest Richard, I trust that my letter finds you in good grace and spirits; indeed, I hope that it finds you at all. I have been instructed to send it to Master George Hathaway, from whence it may be delivered to your last known location. As I do not reckon well on the chances of many such correspondences successfully completing their journey, I shall write infrequently; I know how the trivialities of daily life here bore you while you are at sea. The Hove-Meyers attended dinner last night; Sir Latham H-M has fallen in good favour of the King; his mathematical theories (or theorem, as he continually persisted - rather boorishly - to correct me last night), while a mystery to us mere mortals, have been well-received by the Academy. Hence he has been invited to attend a position in London. Mary, naturally, could not resist making mention of this throughout the meal; I was quite exhausted by the time they left. Richard, even they recognise that a man of your status need not spend quite so much time away from home; can you not make voyages of a shorter duration? I, myself, have received correspondence from Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal, who has requested that I attend her at the Christmas Ball; I can see no reason to refuse. Especially as Elizabeth prepares for her presentation to the King; a Royal connection - no mater how tenuous - will serve her chances of finding a favourable suitor most positively. The house is looking splendid; I have taken into our employ a new gardener, Mister Stevens, who came with recommendations from Lord and Lady Asquith. However, I do despise this new fashion of square gardens and planting that is said to be "architectural" in its nature; I have directed Stevens to follow the scheme of older, more traditional houses, and damn what is said to be popular in London. This shall remain my stance until the merits of the alternative are proved beyond doubt. These new Mediterranean plants, with their brutish odours cannot be good for the sensibilities; and I shall refuse to allow them into my kitchen as well as the grounds. The preparations for the ball are going well, though Elizabeth's status has understandably suffered as a result of having a father who is absent for so many months of the year. I know you say your work demands it, but what of your family? You have a duty to us. Also; how is Elizabeth ever to marry suitably if an appropriate interview with her father is forever impossible to arrange? Anyway. The girls flourish, though young Aimee is said to be struggling with her dancing lessons. I believe she will never make a proper Lady; always gallivanting about upon that mare you bought for her (whatever were you thinking?), and writing tales of nonsense and fancy. The Hove-Meyers had the audacity to suggest that her wayward behaviour came as a result of her sea-faring father; I was quick to remedy their misconceptions by explaining that, even had you been in attendance, the education of your daughters would still not have been of interest to you. This seemed to satisfy their querulousness for the evening; they remained perfectly civilised henceforth. Finally, some bad news. I fear that I may soon have to dismiss Mrs Courtner, the Housekeeper that you hired when we married. She does insist upon addressing me directly in front of her staff. I cannot abide such insubordination, no matter how well she keeps the house. I have spoken to her of this, and reminded her that our weekly meetings to discuss issues concerning the house should be more than adequate for communication. I trust the sea riles not too much beneath your ship, Darling, and that you will be returned to us safe and sound. Know that we miss you terribly, but are coping admirably, considering the enormous social pressures that we must face daily. Your loving Wife, Amelia. The ship rolled heavily, causing the empty shallow bowl, charts and half-full mug of rum to clatter to the floor. Above, sounds of creaking wood, lashing waves and shouting seamen trampling back and forth could plainly be heard. Richard Hester, ship's doctor aboard "La Bella", fumbled at his notebook, saving it from the inkwell that threatened to tip and spill its contents over the pages. He gave a heavy sigh and shuffled in his chair; forbidden to leave his quarters lest he suffer injury at the hands of the storm, his duties as the ship's doctor required him to wait for the men to be dragged down to him for attention. It was going to be a long night. Like many other ship-board physicians, Hester took the opportunity of a long (and normally peaceful) voyage to study and consider other disciplines. He had met several of his contemporaries, one of whom had dared to brave the voyage to Australia, who studied botany, alchemy or invention during their long hours of confinement. Hester preferred to study plants and the properties thereof, collecting seeds and samples each time the ship made land, and writing copious notes in his journal which, he hoped, would eventually offer new routes of study to his medical colleagues in Oxford. The Mediterranean had long since become a passion of his, and he had accepted every opportunity that had crossed his path to visit there. In an average year, he would make perhaps two or three voyages, leaving from Plymouth and sailing over the summer months. Only once had he had to return to England over land, when his ship, ironically named The Stalwart, had run aground during a summer squall off the rocky coast of Corsica. The ship heaved again, and a loud crash could be heard, followed by a chorus of shouts. At a guess, Hester reckoned on the mainmast having blown loose or, worse, the rigging snapping in the wind, sending the great beam crashing to the deck. He prayed that no-one had been injured; the ship was sailing with a light crew as it was, but Hester cleared his table in preparation just in case. A moment later, a loud, hurried thumping sounded at his door. "Enter," he commanded, expecting a group of men bearing an injured colleague. Instead, when the door opened, the second-mate appeared and spoke rapidly, without any due attention for rank or status. "We're abandoning ship, sir. The mast came down heavy, cracked the deck. Cap'n says she's tilting port-ways and won't make the storm. Gather what you need; dingys're launching as we speak." Hester frowned and nodded at the news, hastily assessing what he needed from his modest accommodation. The second-mate vanished from the doorway, and suddenly Hester was alone with his fears. Sinking. Storm. Night. It was exactly what he feared the most. No time for prayers; he'd make those in the life-boat. He hastily snatched up his satchel, opened it and stuffed what he could lay hands on inside it. His precious notebook, wrapped in a strip of leather, a stoppered jar of ink and a handful of quills were the last in before he made for the door. Above deck, chaos reigned. The darkness splintered with lightning, his ears instantly deafened by the thunder of the storm and roar of the sea. There was an epic battle between air and water raging before his eyes, and this tiny wooden vessel was caught in the middle. A cold grip fastened about his heart and rooted him to the spot as men careered about him, fighting the gale, hanging on while great crests of water flooded over the edge of the ship, cursing the rigging that had failed and damaged the ship. As Hester watched, helpless, a young lad who hung bravely on to the tiller fell prey to a wave that caught him unaware. It loomed behind him, like a crouching cat ready to pounce, sinister and dark. It struck, swallowing the lad whole, and then vanished with him its jaws. The tiller, now out of control, heaved the ship yet harder from side to side, and Hester lost his footing. "She's comin' apart!" came a cry, "Abandon ship!" A bell was tolling in dull, endless peals as Hester fought to stay afloat, one hand reaching blindly for anything to grip onto, while the other fought to keep hold of his case; unconscious medical imperative demanding that he remain the ship's doctor and not merely another victim of this raging storm. The Captain, a fine man who Hester had briefly become friends with, proved his mettle and captaincy as he fought the wind, leaned into the piercing, stabbing rain and plunged through the endless torrent of waves. Slowly, he made his way to the tiller, taking hold of it firmly and securing it with a coil of rope that had fallen wetly at the side. His hands were numb, bleeding, yet they did not fail him. Knots learned in boyhood and practised ever since secured the tiller and bought the ship precious moments. Hester's last sight of that noble man as the doctor washed over the side of the foundering ship was one of a man who was watching his world end; there was no doubt in Hester's mind that the captain would perish that night, defying the wind and rain and thunder until his very last breath aboard his ship. The captain watched, the rain and the seawater failing to hide the tears streaming over his cheeks as his men fought the elements and died in failure. The sea, impossibly, was yet colder. Hester drew a breath of shock before he found himself dragged under. Great bubbles of air rose all around him as the ship slowly began her descent to the bottom. No longer able to feel his legs, Hester somehow kicked and kicked again until he found himself once more at the boiling surface of the traitorous sea. He heaved a breath, fighting to swim toward some floating debris to buoy himself up with. A wave lifted him high and, for a moment, he looked down upon the ship that was rapidly sinking - her captain still clinging to the tiller, sobbing for his men. And then Hester was falling; the wave that had taken his up high now released him with stomach-churning cruelty. Hester felt a scream rip from his throat, but did not hear it. He was halfway through his desperate prayer when darkness took him. Oblivion welcomed him with relish. II. A line split the horizon; a slash of gold between two heavy sides of black-blue. Sunrise? Sunset? Glimmering sparkles danced upon the water; to stare at them was to be blinded. He closed his eyes; tiny flecks of light marked the darkness behind his eyelids; the light haunted him. Which way is East? He opened his eyes again, looking for a guide star or, perhaps, Mercury or Venus. Save the narrow band of light, the sky and the sea were equally opaque; time would show him soon enough. Cold, slippery stone grazed his cheek when he tried to lift his head; a shock of pain shot down his spine. Suddenly nervous, he gently shifted one leg then the other, listening intently for the sound of his shoes scraping over the rock. Satisfied that, at least, his legs were still in reasonable working order, he repeated the exercise with his arms. Left... fingers... wrist... elbow... Another bolt of pain shuddered through his shoulder; his physician's guess was that it was dislocated. His right arm he could barely feel at all; his fingers felt tingly and warm, and he could not explain the sensation. It was time to move; the bolt of light across the horizon was narrowing; sunset. At the least, he had been lying here at least a full day, for the ship had sunk at night, and night approached once more. He shifted his hips beneath him, biting back an unseemly roar of pain, and dared a glance at his right hand, expecting the worst. A large black dog licked amicably at his fingers. It spied him looking at it and paused in its ministrations. After a single blink and a relaxed yawn, the dog returned to its duty. He twitched his fingers, making the dog jump. At least he had sensation, no matter the void of revulsion he would normally feel.. He shifted again, trying to get his left arm over his side, intending to push himself to sitting with his right hand. The pain of this apparently simple motion made him retch. Gritting his teeth, he eventually found himself lying upon his right side. A push with his right arm had him sitting. A shift to his right brought his legs, bent at the knees, beneath him and then, awkwardly, he climbed to his feet. The dog barked again, excited, threatened, surprised - Hester ignored it, choosing instead to glance up at the skies. Pregnant and heavy with rain; the clouds loomed like executioners awaiting the nod to begin. Tension in the air heralded thunder. A rocky beach was no place for an injured man to sit out another storm. Yet where was he to go? In the darkness, a man could easily break a leg on such treacherous rocks, and he lacked the guidance of the stars or familiarity of the terrain to guide him. He glanced at the dog, tentatively reaching out to offer his hand in polite greeting. The dog sniffed at his fingers, gave them a courteous lick and barked a single time. An agreement had been struck; Hester petted the dog and took a step closer; the failing light already making deceitful shadows upon the ground. The dog bounded away a few yards, then turned to watch its charge. It barked again, waited for Hester to stand abreast of it, and bounded off once more. Hester winced in pain but found the challenge of keeping up with dog while not falling prey of the rocks was quickly enough to distract him from his injuries. They made slow progress, the man and the dog, slipping like thieves along the rocks until the dog found a familiar passageway and waited, tail wagging, eyes pinpricks of dull light in the gloom. Hester, sweating heavily at the effort, dizzy from pain and hunger, leaned against the rocks. They were at the foot of a low cliff; overhead, a shelf of rock loomed against the swelling storm clouds. The dog barked again - and this time was answered. Hester fought his panic, forced his eyes to find the black dog once more and followed it into its den. Within, the darkness was total. Hester used his hands to feel blindly in front of him; after catching his head on a low bar of rock, he took to his knees and shuffled uncertainly forward. The pain in his shoulder had numbed to a pulsing, constant ache, and Hester longed for reprieve; if only he still had his satchel - and morphine kit. The hound barked twice in staccato ahead of him, and the scent of dog grew heavily in the back of Hester's nostrils, filling his throat and making him sneeze, sending another shudder of agony through his battered body. A moment later, his shuffling was interrupted by a cold nose thrusting into his face and a whine. Hester sat down and leaned against the wall, his dislocated arm hanging limply at his side, his breath coming in ragged, hard pants. The dog settled on his left side and was quickly joined by another - its mate? Too exhausted to even lift his hand, Hester let this new dog sniff as it pleased while he caught his breath. His head felt heavy with the need for food and sleep, yet he realised that he could not yet rest while his shoulder was still out of its socket; the swelling would soon prove to be too much to return the joint. Remembering his brief forays into anatomy, he shifted forward and turned his damaged arm behind his back, struggling to remember the exact angle the joint was set at. After two attempts of slamming himself back and downwards against the wall, a sickening click rang in his ears, and a feeling of warm and immediate comfort ran down his arm. He moaned with relief, and was answered by a shift of the dog at his side, which lifted its head into Hester's lap. There was no more to be done; Hester let go of consciousness and fell heavily asleep. When he awoke, the cave was empty. He knew this even before he opened his eyes, for the immediate stench of dog had lessened. His instinct was confirmed when he dared a glance around his surroundings. Dim light had found its way into the small cave and revealed it vacant, save for himself. It was surprisingly clean; no piles of bones or faeces, and was largely dome-shaped, perhaps twelve feet in diameter. Save for the entrance that ran like a fissure, for some six feet or so, the cave was circular and sealed. Content that he was safe for the time being, and feeling somewhat stronger in himself, Hester stretched out upon the cave floor and slept again. The next time he woke, the light was stronger, and one of the dogs had returned. This dog was smaller, shaped like a terrier and was a light brindle colour. Hester gave a cough of amusement; Amelia would adore the dog; its ilk were currently popular among the fashionable in London. At the thought of his wife, he felt a stab of guilt; she had asked him not to attend this voyage - something to do with Elizabeth's coming out. He had shuddered at the thought of all these mindless interviews and presentations, claiming that he had never seen this part of the Mediterranean in Autumn. His poor wife, always craving the status he could never offer her... He was snatched back to reality at the sound of footsteps. At first he thought he was imagining them; so soft and halting were they. But soon a shadow could be seen growing into the cave from the entrance. His first instinct was to hide; to press himself against the wall of the cave and pray the entrance would be passed by. He reflected rapidly upon this, unable to explain his urge for solitude; he was injured, hungry, thirsty and shipwrecked. "Hello?" he called in a cracked voice that startled him for not sounding like his own. the shadow paused, the brindle terrier in the cave with him barked. Hester gathered himself to call again. "He- Hello!" "Who's in there?" A woman's voice returned. Hester took a moment to absorb this shock of femininity. "My name is Richard Hester," he managed, his voice dry and painful, rasping out of his throat and drawing a bout of coughing with it. "Richard Hester... How came you to be living in a cave with dogs?" She sounded wryly amused. "I was shipwrecked," he replied, a wave of emotion washing over him. "Two nights since. At least, I think it was two nights." The shadows in the cave mouth grew; the figure of a woman was drawn in an explicit silhouette; Hester could not say whether she was naked or not. A bundle of hair seemed to flow over one shoulder to her waist. One arm was extended toward him and seemed to be carrying a blade. "Three. A ship was lost three nights ago. You didn't answer my question. How cames't you here?" "The ship foundered; I was washed overboard... I awoke on the rocks. Another storm... the dog brought me here." The brief speech exhausted his voice; his larynx froze and he feel into another fit of coughing. "All right," said the women, stepping into the cave. The brindle terrier sniffed and lay down with its back to the woman. "Three nights on a beach... here." She replaced her blade into its sheathe; Hester could see that she wore tight black leggings and tunic, both inexpertly made and held in place by a leather belt. Her hair was dark and long, and hung to her waist in lazy partial curls. Her expression was sardonic, yet bemused as she leant closer to peer uncertainly at him. After a moment, she gave a nod. From somewhere behind her, she produced a leather skin. He accepted it, removed the stopper from the mouth and tested the liquid. Water; sweet, cool water. He drank deeply, uncaring for his shaking, clumsy hand that sent trickles of water out the sides of his mouth and down his shirt. The woman laughed and crouched next to him, accepting the water skin when he had finished with it. She secured it at her back to her belt and leant over him. She smelled heavily of strange herbs and salt. "Let's have a look at you, Richard Hester." Though he doubted she had any formal training, her hands were certain and steady as they moved over him; bones were checked, bruises were tested, the swelling in his shoulder drew a slight intake of breath. Finally she gave her verdict. "You'll recover. Especially if you leave this cave. Come on." With that she straightened, stroked the dog and turned to leave the cave. Softly, She Treads Ch. 01 Hester, in mute astonishment at her most unwomanly behaviour, climbed heavily to his feet, feeling suddenly clumsy and uncouth beside her, and, leaning against the wall, slowly followed her out. Though she glanced back frequently, she offered him no assistance as they made their way slowly along the beach, and for this Hester was grateful. His head had started to pound, and he was unaware of his surroundings as he tried to stay upright and close behind her. His eyes remained fixed upon her bare feet in front of him, while his legs shook weakly beneath him. When he paused to vomit dryly, she turned back and stood at his arm, wetting her sleeve with more of her water and wiping it over his face when he had finished emptying himself. "Not far now - a bit of a climb, then it's easy. Flat and grassy." Hester nodded silently and suppressed a moan of despair as she started up a natural set of wide, uneven steps carved naturally into the rock. There were only a dozen or so of them, but it took Hester an age to summon his legs to lift, his arms to grasp handholds as he heaved himself up. As he reached the top, she appeared before him, seizing his shirt and pulling him toward her. Steadied by her firm grip under his arms, biting back exhaustion and pain, he made the last few and fell heavily onto the grass at the top. "I'll be back," she said quietly before rising to her feet. He saw her feet dancing over the grass as she left him alone. He no longer cared; his eyes closed and he started to doze again. "Come on, up," her voice roused him, her hand tugged at his good arm. He stubbornly refused to move for a moment before, in a softer tone, she spoke again. "There's food, a fire, a bed and as much water as you can fill your belly with. It'll be better soon. Lean on me; it's not far now." Her quiet sympathy brought a prickle of tears to his eyes as he relented and, with her assistance, struggled once more to his feet. A hundred or so yards away he could see a moss-covered wooden hut, stoutly made, squat and inviting. He nodded, wrapped his good arm around her shoulders and together they made the distance. She placed him upon the bed, bade him to remain sitting and set about her assumed duties as nurse while he glanced around her home. It was tidy and clean, though she owned nothing of consequence. A handful of blankets and animal pelts, some furniture made inexpertly out of - he guessed - wood from other wrecks, a few pots and jars and a large cauldron hung close over the fire. But it was warm, and he could no longer smell the stink of dogs, stinging his throat. "Here. Drink this. When you're done, chew these." She knelt on the floor before him and handed him a cup of steaming tea and a handful of flat, pale seeds that had a dark stripe along their centres. "What is it?" he asked as she began to undress him. He was too tired to resist her. "That's a brew of marjoram, chamomile and comfrey. Make you sleepy and stop you vomiting. Might help you avoid a fever, too. The seeds are dill; to ease the pain and induce you to rest." "A Hedge witch?" He laughed uncertainly and sipped at the brew. It was bitter and tasted nothing like its odour. She had sweetened it with something - honey, perhaps. "If that's what you wish to call it, then yes. A hedge witch. Straighten your arm." Her tone was even, amused, perhaps. He heard no argument in her tone. He did as he was bade, and she eased the remnants of his shirt over his injured shoulder and down his arm. He gave a hiss of pain, which she ignored as she continued to strip him. "Drink and chew," she repeated, as if directing child. Her tone irritated him, yet he did as he was told. Moments later, he had imbibed her concoction and had slipped the seeds into his mouth. The moment he had bitten into them, a wave of warmth had spread through him. His head felt groggy, and the thought that he could be being seduced by Satan's advocate brought no rush of panic. When he was naked, she turned him sideways and lay him down. He felt himself slipping into sleep as soon as his head touched the low pillow, and vaguely wished he could remain awake to see what other strange remedies she would produce. But the urge to rest, to let go was too big to resist; he surrendered himself to the beckoning slumber as he did to the ministrations of the strange woman. When it came, moments later, sleep was heavy and deep. Softly, She Treads Ch. 02 III. It was dark again when he awoke, but the modest fire still held glowing embers that cast a soft light about the small hut. At first, he thought he was alone again, and set to mentally checking himself over; whatever she had done, she had done it well for he felt much better and the pain had lessened considerably. He moved his hand over his shoulder; it felt odd. His fingers soon discovered that a layer of loamy mud had been applied (some time since, for it had started to dry and form a crust around its edges), with a poultice of some description over the top. The swelling was not as bad as he had feared, and he did not feel much fire when he gently shrugged his shoulder to his neck. As he continued to explore his body and the treatments he had received, a small mound by the fire stirred. A pile of blankets and pelts tumbled to the floor, and the girl straightened up, rubbed her eyes and looked around. Hester's breath caught in his throat; this feral girl, with her hair unbound and her skin flickering and pale in the soft glow of the dying fire seemed suddenly like a vision. Hastily, he called images of his wife to his mind, ignoring the untamed, ethereal temptation before him. "You're awake," she observed quietly, rising to her feet and stabbing at the fire with a length of iron that served as a poker. With the fire before her, her outline was drawn with perfect clarity, lithe and muscular, pale and silken. She paused mid-stretch to look him over. She was entirely naked and seemed cast in porcelain, produced in glorious experiment by a renegade craftsman. His eyes lit upon her breasts; pert and softly rounded. He coughed and forced his wife into his mind in an effort to pry his attention away from her rose-bud nipples, sharp in the cold air. "A moment ago," replied Hester, his voice steadier than it had been the last time he had used it, yet this time threatening to shake for different reasons than injury and exhaustion. "How do you feel?" she asked, dropping a log onto the embers with a practised casualness and turning to look at him. The embers sparked around the new wood, and a moment later, flames were licking it hungrily, crackling with glee and throwing a generous light about the cabin. "Better," said Hester, unwilling to look at the girl in her nakedness, but unable to avert his eyes anywhere else. He finally forced his eyes from her as he noticed he could see the fingers of the fire seemingly licking between her legs. "Good." She nodded, as if this only confirmed what she expected, unaware of her nakedness and the erotic movement of the fire as she stood before it. She moved to a table to collect a small pot, and hung it over the fire. "Hungry?" Hester realised abruptly that he was ravenous, and nodded. "Will be a minute. Rabbit, potato and rosemary stew. Made it earlier." "Rabbit?" "Uh-huh," she replied with a wry smirk. "Small and furry, big ears, good at jumping." "I know what a rabbit is," replied Hester testily. "How did you come to catch it?" "With magic," she declared before cracking a generous grin. "The dogs helped. I set the traps, the dogs tell me when they're sprung; we normally share the spoils." "You cook for the dogs?" "No..." she replied patiently, crossing the room to perch on the edge of his bed, a mug of water in her hand. She offered it to him with a smile, apparently unaware of the discomfort her nakedness so close to him was causing. "I cook for me; the dogs get the scraps. There's plenty, and even with the herbs, it won't keep but a day. Someone may as well eat it." "Someone?" he said with scorn, sipping form the cup; the water was sweet and pure; he felt its cool touch slide down his throat. "They're dogs." "They saved your life," she said by means of reprimand. "You'd do best to remember that. They will." She tossed her river of hair over her shoulder, cocked her head to one side and examined him for a moment, a sad, wistful look in her eyes. After a long moment she roused herself from her thoughts and fetched him a bowl of stew. It was surprisingly tasty; a thick broth of sweet, pungent sauce with generous lumps of meat and potatoes hidden within. He ate hungrily; within moments, the bowl was empty. "You should eat slower; your stomach is empty, and won't appreciate being suddenly so full." "You should wear clothes," he replied, "I am married and don't appreciate your exposure." She laughed, but did not blush. "Why should you be embarrassed at my flesh? Foolish men, I give you my bed and my food, and you scorn me for seeking comfort where I can. I slept on the floor for you last night." She gave a melodramatic sigh and shook her head, but her eyes yet held humour. "Very well, Richard Hester. I will dress if you will chew more of those seeds I gave you before. You need to rest well, for tonight I reclaim my bed." He accepted the bargain silently, distracting his gaze from drifting further over her by examining the seeds she slipped into his hand and placing them, with great care, into his mouth one at a time. She returned to his bedside with a large, plain-dyed cloth draped clumsily over her. "Happy?" she asked as she reached forward to feel his brow. "You have yet escaped fever. One more day, and I'd say you'd be unlikely to catch one. You will yet recover, Mr Richard Hester, fear not." "What makes you so sure?" She gave a short laugh and shrugged. "Done this before?" "More castaways upon your shores?" At his question, that sad look returned to her eyes and she nodded, but remained silent. Her hand smoothed his brow, and she pressed gently upon his shoulder, bidding him to lie back and close his eyes. "You will understand, soon," she whispered as he settled into the crude bed. "How often do ships pass?" he asked as he relaxed. She shook her head. "Only when the wind brings them. It is the way things are drawn here," she replied. "Sleep now. Questions tomorrow." He did not resist her advice, feeling as he was already too sleepy to question her further. The last glance he saw of her was her rising from the bed, heedless of the cloth that dropped from her body as she curled up once more before the crackling fire. IV. The following morning, Hester woke from his soft slumber, stretched, yawned and had swung his legs out of the bed before he remembered anything of the last few days. When his memory returned to him, it did so with a sickening lurch of panic that rolled into a hard ball in his belly and remained there, quivering. He glanced around the hut; his strange companion was nowhere to be seen, but, judging by the plate of unleavened bread, berries and some sort of hard cheese, and mug of sparkling water in the centre of the small table, she had anticipated his awakening. He realised that he was as hungry as he could ever remember being. But, more pressing than that was the immediate need to urinate. He pulled one of the larger blankets from the bed, wound it loosely around him, and stepped outside. The view from the entrance of the hut was astonishing. Hester moved to the side of the hut and found a patch of tufted grass to empty himself over while he gazed out toward the sea. The sun was half-risen in the sky; he judged it to be mid-morning. The air was crisp and cool, warmed by the sun that shone brightly, though its warmth was weak. A brisk wind shuffled past him, scuffing over the long grass in great, weaving patterns, and whisking small waves into a froth as they approached the land to break. The sea was a great sapphire, and the island a speck of emerald upon it; Hester could barely believe that the same calm, blue water could have abused him so a few days before. To his left, the ground rose a little, and scrub and undergrowth grew thick until they met the scattered trees that marked the edge of a wood. Discarded leaves lay drifted in piles of russet, gold and amber, their colour vivid in the sunshine. To his right and the front, the land yielded to rocks that scattered themselves over the top of the cliff he had scaled with the strange woman the day she had discovered him. The view was wild, dangerous and unknown. Yet Hester found a wave of passion surging through him as he eyes lingered upon the scene. And where was his odd saviour? A natural platform of rocks had been raised and left alone by the elements, and she sat cross-legged atop it. Grateful that she was, at least, clothed today, Hester was tempted to approach her but was stopped by a powerful spasm of hunger. He took another sweeping glance at the scape and returned inside to break his fast and prepare for the day. By the time he had eaten every scrap and morsel left for him, the woman had still not returned. Hester cast about for some better clothing but found none. So, securing his blanket more firmly about him, he wandered out to find the woman. She still sat atop her pile of rocks, her dark, long hair blowing lazily in the wind. Her eyes were closed, and she slumped a little so that her elbows rested upon her folded knees. Hester guessed that she was engaged in some primitive, heathen meditation and considered leaving her be for the moment. But the sun was already peaking in the sky, and he had things he needed to get started if he were to return to England and his family. "Are you praying?" he asked her when he was some three feet from her side. She cocked an eye, glanced at him and giggled. "To the gods of sunshine and fair weather, perhaps." "There is only one God, and he is Lord of all," replied Hester. "Perhaps," she replied without commitment. "Do you wish to pray?" "I should give thanks for my recovery, yes." She shot him a dry and suddenly angry look. "Perhaps you should thank him, also, for sending you a woman who knew how to look after you. Or, better yet, for sinking your vessel in the first place." She unfolded her legs and stood up, hands upon her hips. "Do as you please. I am glad you are better today." She strode past him, and he turned to walk alongside her. "If not praying, what were you doing?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. "It's the first sunshine I've seen in days. I was enjoying it," came the curt reply. "I am sorry to interrupt you." "No, you're not," she said, shaking her head. Hester sighed and struggled with his frustration at her. "I am trying to be civil-" "Maybe honest would be a more noble trait?" she cut in, her tone even. Hester found he was suddenly infuriated. "Honest? I'm barely awake an hour and you doubt my character already? I am a doctor of fine repute! I have done nothing save find myself cast upon this accursed island before being forced to prevail myself upon the mercies of a woman who barely knows how to clothe herself! Have I sought to take advantage of you? Have I taken anything of worth or value to you? I merely wished to ask some questions so that I can rid myself of you and this savage, Godless land!" She waited while he caught his temper and then said, quietly and patiently, "Are you finished?" He nodded mutely and she continued. "Mr Richard Hester, all I meant was that you had every intention of interrupting me, no matter what I was doing, and that you would have been better admitting it than veiling your intentions with the guise of civility. I do, however, apologise for the wind and the sea and the island that you found yourself washed up on. Just as I apologise for wishing to aid you when I discovered you sick and injured and living in a cave with dogs." She bowed deeply and continued walking with a chuckle. Hester hung back for a moment, trying to understand this obnoxious creature before following her into the hut some moments later. Inside the small dwelling, the woman was hanging herbs in bunches that had appeared upon the table. She tied sprigs carefully together with lengths of coarse grass and then secured them to hooks arranged above the fireplace. When Hester entered, she offered him a friendly smile and continued her work. "I mean to leave this island," said Hester, sitting upon the bed. "To do that, I need your help." "There's nothing I can do," she replied as she hung another two bunches. "This is where you're meant to be." "I have a family, a wife and two daughters. They need me." She glanced at him, that sadness back in her eyes. There was no criticism in her voice when she spoke, though her words were harsh. "Did they not need you when you stepped aboard your ship?" "A man must make a living." "Indeed, he must," she said sadly. "They'll be fine. but you can't leave the island. Not now, not ever." "Why not?" She gave a low, whispered laugh and shook her head. "You'll understand eventually. In the meantime, you have a choice to make." Hester looked at her, fearing some succubus invention; clearly she was a godless witch whose dealings in the supernatural had ensnared him here. "What choice is that?" he asked. She hung her final bunch and turned to look squarely at him. "To choose to be happy or to be sad. It's very simple. You are here, and you are staying here. You can let this destroy you with regret and thoughts of what you leave behind, or you can let this enrich you and explore the new place with an open mind and heart. It is up to you, Richard Hester; this is nothing I can help you with." Hester nodded and stared at his hands for a moment. Thoughts wheeled through his head; frustration; anger; helplessness. This godless she-bitch and her naked flesh was deliberately standing in his path to escaping this merciless, harsh place. Hester choked with fury; it was clear to him now -- this Devil-girl had wrought some witchery that had drawn the storm and wrecked his ship. She had known how to find him and had ensnared him while he lay sick and injured. Where was God now? Hester felt his heart reaching for his faith as a blind man feels along unfamiliar passageways. It was all her; this demon; this illusion of loveliness that cloak peril and temptation within. He choked back bile but was unable to stem the tide of ire that rose steadily within him. When he looked up at her, his eyes betrayed the fury that gripped him. "You witch," he said in a low voice that grew rapidly to a powerful, commanding shout, "You demon! You servant of Satan himself!" He shook, is voice growing rapidly to a powerful, booming cry. "You drew me here and now, like a siren, you intend to keep me! To be happy or sad? What choice is that when either way I shall be your slave? I will tarry no more with you, harridan!" He rose to his feet and rushed toward her. Caught now in his fury, days of fear and frustration manifest as he lost himself in another raging storm, he lunged toward her, seeking to mindlessly act upon the violence that careered senseless through his mind. She did not move or flinch as his hands closed about her throat. He lifted her inches above the ground and shook her violently before throwing her onto the bed where she lay panting, neither shaking nor struggling, that sad look of examination back in her eyes. "Fiend!" he shouted, pointing accusingly at her, "You are as the Damned! I do not doubt you are trapped forever in this desolation! But release me, for I am righteous with the Lord on my side! I do not fear you! I renounce you!" She sat up and maintained her melancholy, oddly knowing gaze upon him. Then, even while he was still shouting his accusations, she got up, pulled a shawl from the back of a chair and walked out of the door. Left alone with his fury, Hester shook with unspent rage. But as the rush of adrenaline left him, guilt consumed him, and even when he closed his eyes tightly, he could not erase the image of her, hanging by her throat as he gripped her in his hands, that sad, quiet look in her eyes as he raged and accused and blamed her. He gave a scream of frustration, unable to forget the power that surged through him as he threw her onto the bed, unable to move on from the guilt that came with knowing that the first violent act he had ever committed was against the woman who had saved his life. Succubus or saviour? Hester no longer knew the difference. He sat upon the bed, cradled his head in his hands and wept. Softly, She Treads Ch. 03 V. He saw no sign of her for days after his outburst; neither food nor drink was prepared or brought for him, the fire was not stoked and no outline of her appeared upon the pile of rocks, though the weather remained fine. Hester struggled to supply his own needs; a fact which added further shame to that which he already felt for his outburst. He took to the woods, collecting mushrooms and berries, clumsily digging up roots and struggling to cook them into anything barely edible that could fill his belly. He learned very quickly how to light a fire and how to draw clean water from the nearby stream. And, in the evenings, he discovered how to char the ends of twigs into charcoal so that he could spend his time writing an abbreviated journal before he slept. He found a bolt of seemingly ancient cloth tucked under the bed - no doubt spoils from another wreck, and tore it into rough pages which served as a make-do notebook. Writing gave him peace, and he forced his mind to recall the medicinal remedies she had applied to him, describing in detail the Dill seed, and drawing them as best as he could remember. On the fourth morning after she had vanished, Hester felt not only entirely free from pain or injury, but stronger, too. Bruises were fading, small cuts and grazes were all but healed, and his shoulder offered him little pain and only a slight stiffness. Thus recovered, he determined to pick his way back down to the beach and search for remnants of the shipwreck. He hoped that some debris may have washed ashore, things that could make his now solitary life easier. Or, at the very least, a barrel of rum to offer him escape from his continuing guilt that followed his attack upon the woman. He spent the day trailing up and down the shoreline, kicking through rocks and pebbles, searching in odd, shallow caves and inlets for any sign that there had ever been a ship at all. Nothing. Nothing at all. By the time the shadows began to lengthen and the wind grow hard and chill, Hester's previous optimism had been replaced by bitter disappointment that he had not even discovered a single shred of wood, let alone anything more substantial and significant. He picked his way back up the cliff and over the grass, rousing himself from his dejected reverie when he glanced up at the hut - light was flickering in its small window; she had returned. He hurried over the last few yards and threw open the door, shouting "You're back!" with glee before taking her up in his arms and crushing her to him. He had missed her, but had not realised how lonely he had become without her. She gave a surprised laugh, but then stayed quiet until he had released her, remembering his decorum and previous accusations and attack, and sat himself down upon the bed in mute embarrassment. "Wanted to see how you were faring," she said, her tone blank and her expression unreadable. He shrugged a little, his dejection lifting at the sight of her. "Fine. Really, it's a challenge, but I'm fine." She shook her head and sighed. "You make a bad liar," she said. "The fire's been burning too big; it's scorched the stones at the top. And your food... the dogs wouldn't even eat that. There's no meat... mushrooms and wild radish? You'd starve to death." He winced and nodded. "I don't know how you do it," he admitted, "I couldn't." "Well," she said, "Succubus or no succubus, you need me for some things." "About that-" he began, but she held her hand up to quieten him. "You're frustrated. A long way from home, hurt in a storm, and met by a woman who thinks you're silly for believing in gods. I don't blame you." She shook her head and took up a knife upon the table. "But do it again, and I'll kill you." She offered him a level look; he did not doubt her word, even though it was casually given. "Anyway," she said, putting the knife down. "Dogs helped me bring down a boar. I need help to bring it in - it's a big one. Thinking you could do with some solid, hot food. And I want to check your shoulder." "Oh, it's fine," he said, covering it with his hand. "No more pain or swelling." She nodded, smirking a little at his modesty but making no more of it. "Come on, then. Let's be about it, or it'll be too dark to find the pig." He nodded and rose to his feet, heading to the door which he held open for her. She laughed at his chivalry before dancing over the grass towards the trees. He followed, watching her, doubting his own judgement again. Would a servant of evil return to feed is victim? Would a servant of evil withstand violence against it without retaliation? Would a servant of evil sympathise with frustration and seek to keep it company? Hester watched the girl running light-footed over the grass and decided the worst thing he could accuse her of was godlessness. The sight of her reminded him of the Greek stories of satyrs and nymphs, frolicking and dancing in their dusky woodland demesnes. He struggled not to compare her with those fey creatures as he followed her into the trees and toward their destination - a large, long-tusked boar which she had hidden beneath some fallen branches. "Are you strong enough?" he asked her as he stared down at the beast; it was indeed immense. She laughed and shook her head. "But we don't have to carry it." "We don't?" "No..." She took up a long, straight branch, as thick as her wrist, and thrust it at him. "Strip this of leaves and twigs, and I'll show you." She took up another such branch and quickly began the task of removing the greenery that still clung to it before laying it upon the ground and fumbling at her waist for a thick of cord of string that she had wound about herself. Hester placed his branch next to hers and watched, fascinated, as she used the long string to form a kind of stretcher. The cord held the two branches evenly three feet apart along the centre, with a long space at either end of each pole. He smiled in appreciation of her plan as she knelt to grasp the hind legs of the pig, nodding for him to grasp the legs at the front. Shortly, the pig was upon the stretcher, and, with Hester hauling upon one branch and the woman hauling heavily upon the other, they dragged the boar behind them in silence back to the hut. They continued to work together as they gutted and butchered the beast, she leaving him alone with a wooden bowl for the innards while she slipped inside and prepared the meat for roasting, rubbing it with wild garlic and sticking it with sprigs of heavily-scented herbs before rubbing the skin with honey and oil pressed from seeds gathered in the summer. They finished at roughly the same time, both sighing with relief that their task was over. she appeared again, rubbing the top of her arms against the chill that had grown in the air, and was noticeable now that neither was working hard. She hung the meat high up on the outside wall and rubbed it with salt before turning to him and smiling. "You're filthy," she observed. "There's water over the fire and a cloth on the table. Else there's the stream, but I think it's a bit cold." He nodded and started inside before pausing. "Would you wait out here?" he asked meekly, grateful that the darkness hid his blush. She nodded and smiled, clearly struggling to bite her tongue and not laugh out loud. But wait she did, and moments later he appeared in the doorway, cleaned and dressed, once again, in a tightly-bound blanket. When she stood before the fire, she made no similar request for him to avert his eyes, though he was careful to do just that, filling his mind with thoughts of his wife - as much good as that could do now. "You live well," he observed when they had finished dining in amicable silence. "Not in a way that anyone could describe as... not in a way that I'm used to, but better than I could alone here." She nodded and considered this, his change of phrasing not drawing remark. "I do what I can. Here you surrender yourself to the weather and nature, and things come soon enough. There's no point trying to be any other way. Embrace it, or be killed by it." He nodded, his three days alone aiding his understanding of her sentiments. "Do you have a name?" he asked. "I did, once. It doesn't matter any more; there's no-one to use it. Call me whatever you like." Hester blinked for a moment, unable to imagine not knowing his own name. In spite of her invitation, he struggled to find a suitable epithet; that she had no name, in itself, suited her best. "How did you come here?" he asked her, warming to the enigma before him. "Same way as you. Only, I wasn't hurt that badly, and it was summer, so there was food enough that I had time to make mistakes." "Are there many shipwrecks?" "A fair amount, but you're the first to make it ashore." She glanced at him, quickly adding, "Apart from me." Hester glanced at her for a moment, thinking he had detected a note of guilt or deception in her voice. He nodded again, somehow doubting her and was about to ask another question when she asked one of her own. "Why did you get married?" He glanced at her in surprise, choking back a reflexive retort but understanding now that she did not intend to offend him. Instead of sniping at her, he considered his response before he gave it. "Because she was suitable." "Doesn't that make you sad?" "Not at all. I've seen many worse marriages than ours. Amelia is safe, suffers not for want nor violence, and has borne two lovely daughters. I have a wife who knows how to behave and manage a house, and whose father supports my career." "Ah," she said, leaving the table to fish around under the bed. She drew out a large bottle, half-full with dark liquid. "It's not what you're used to," she explained, "But as an occasional treat, it'll do." "What is it?" Hester asked, eyeing the liquid suspiciously. "Wine. My own making." She sighed, opened the bottle and took a long draught. As she handed the bottle to him, she gave a cough, a splutter and a low laugh. He sniffed at the top; the wine smelled fruity, sweet and seductive, and reminded him vaguely of the brandied cherries his mother used to serve at Christmas. He sipped; it was heady brew indeed, and set his gullet on fire as it slipped down him. He took a longer draught; while not instantly pleasant, there was a certain quality to it that he enjoyed. He nodded his appreciation and handed the bottle back. "So it would be fair to say," she said, guiding the conversation back on course, "That you married your wife because of her father?" "Naturally," Hester replied. "Isn't that why all men marry? And seek to marry well?" She stared at him, lost for words but clearly outraged, and Hester wondered if ever they would be able to converse without one or the other of them growing offended. But she remained silent, studying him with her big dark eyes and sipping occasionally at her wine. Finally, she placed her bottle upon the table and stood up. "Time to go," she announced. "Go where?" he asked in surprise. "Home," she answered, collecting her shawl and throwing it around her shoulders. "You've food enough for three or four days - especially if you return to the place we found the boar. There's potatoes and onions growing wild around the trees. Dig and you'll find them. I'll be back to check on you soon." "But..." Hester rose to his feet, suddenly reluctant to let her leave. "Home? This isn't home? Will you be all right?" She laughed loudly and opened the door. "I was fine before you arrived, and I'll be fine again. There's only one bed, and I prefer to sleep naked. Be comfortable, Richard Hester. I'll be back." Hester stared at the door long after it had closed behind her, before reaching for the bottle and nursing it in bed as he gazed into the flames and considered the strange woman and the conversation they had had. None of it made any sense. But, in some comforting way, that in itself made sense. No, she was no Satanic creature, he was certain of that now. In fact, he found her remarkably reassuring and had been fascinated by her company and their conversation. He admired the ways she had found to provide for herself, even if her directness made him somewhat uncomfortable. And the way she had forgiven his attack against her... Still, his stomach lurched at the thought of being without her for days more to come - which only served to inspire more guilt. He drained the last of the wine and turned in under the covers, forcing his wife's face to loom in his mind and willing it to stay there while he fell asleep. VI. The next day he followed her suggestion and returned to the woods. After struggling to dig with his hands, he found a thick branch that had splintered at one end, and used it as a shovel to dig into the ground. Within a couple of hours, he had found for himself a pile of potatoes and onions of which he felt unashamedly proud. He lifted up one corner of his blanket-dress in the way he remembered cooks back home doing, filed it with potatoes, grabbed the onions by their shoots and made his way back to the hut. But as he walked, he considered all the wood that had been blown from the trees in the recent storms; certainly a raft could be fashioned together. When he deposited his vegetables, he sat down at the table with several lengths of charred sticks and some rough parchment, and began to sketch a plan. The two obvious flaws of building a raft were the weather and the cliff which barred his way to the beach. It would take him several weeks to build a vessel that he could put his faith in, which would put his launch back to mid-winter. It would best, he decided, if he waited until Spring to make his attempt to leave; the tide would be fairer and he would have plenty of time to build his craft without having to hurry. The cliff was a far harder problem to overcome; he could either search about for an easier way to access the sea or build his raft upon the rocky shore. As he considered this problem, the dog cave came to his mind. The more he considered it, the better a plan it was. He would store the wood and other materials in the cave over the winter, and apply himself to building the raft upon the beach as soon as the weather cleared. Else he could hunt for a cave with a wider entrance that would allow him to build parts of his raft over the stormy months, before lashing it all together on the beach. It was a plan he could imagine working, and he felt inspired to begin immediately. However, the shadows were already growing long upon the ground, and the chill that heralded nightfall was heavy in the air. He stoked up the fire and absently cooked and a passable dinner, all the while considering his escape plan. The next morning, he rose from his slumber early, feeling the same powerful need to begin that had assailed him the previous evening. He warmed a little of the leftover stew before hurrying back to the woods. By that evening, a fine pile of wood had been stacked outside the hut, ready to be delivered to the cave the following day. He slept that night, physically exhausted, but content that a god plan was under way. Rain caused him to abort his plan the following day, though he tried to grip and move the logs from the hut to the cliff. But the rain made the branches slippery and hard to move, even as it lubricated the grass and teased him with how easy it would be if only he could find a way to carry the things. Instead of taking the wood he had to the beach, Hester busied himself in the woods, collecting yet more branches and hunting about for some kind of twine or rope that he could use to lash his wood together. By the time he returned to the hut, he was too exhausted to do much more than hang a side of boar over the fire and lie upon the bed until it was cooked. He fell deeply asleep as soon as he had eaten the meat, images of the strange woman filing his mind in an odd daydream before slumber took him. At dawn on the fourth day, he was woken by the sound of barking, and hurried out of bed, expecting to see his nameless companion. In a way, he was correct, but instead of the girl, he found the brindle terrier and the big black dog from the beach. They bounded cheerfully up to him, sniffing and licking his hand. He gave them some boar bones and leftovers, and sat next to them while they launched into the meat avariciously. His shoulders ached and his hands had great blisters upon them from heaving the wood, so he decided to abandon his plan for the day and rest instead. Deciding the day could be Sunday as easily as it could be any other day of the week, Hester decided to attend "church". When the dogs had finished their meal, he dressed as well as he could and walked to the natural rock platform where he had once seen the girl. He sang what hymns he could remember; he quoted from the bible and made his silent prayers before reciting the Lord's Prayer several times over. When he had finished, he felt greatly buoyed and renewed. The dogs had fallen asleep to one side of his dais and barked happily when Hester rose to his feet and made his way back to the hut. He expected the girl would be there by now, but when he opened the door and stepped within, he saw that he was still alone. The dogs made themselves comfortable in front of the fire as he prepared the last of the meat for dinner. Potatoes, onions and pork again. As his meal cooked, he sat at the table and considered what could have happened to his companion. Lost? Injured? Forgotten about him? He decided finally that she was just busy elsewhere and tried to eat his meal as if her absence didn't matter to him. But it did; he missed her company, having expected it today. Morose and subdued, he left the dogs by the fire and curled up in bed. It was usual now for him to imagine his wife as he fell asleep, for not to was to have images of the nameless woman tease and haunt him. But, though he had not been upon the island long, he was already finding it harder to conjure his wife's image. Amelia, with her white face and blue eyes. Amelia with her fair hair always tied up in the most complicated style. Amelia with her mouth pursed in constant disapproval. Amelia, with her sharp tongue and resentment of his profession. Feeling as if he had just fought with his wife, his mind filled with the traits he liked least about her, he allowed himself to release Amelia's image and allow the strange woman to fill his mind instead. Unpredictable but, somehow, far more capable, beauty without effort, nature personified. His thoughts embraced her and he slept. Softly, She Treads Ch. 04 VII. Hester awoke the next morning with the sounds of the rain drumming loudly upon the roof of his small hut. He sighed and rolled in his covers. But the veil of sleep had already been lifted and, after some minutes spent lying and listening to the rain, he got up and stretched. The dogs had gone, but the door was closed; she had been back. As he glanced about, other signs of her greeted his eyes. The fire had been built and sat, ready to light; a pile of green leaves had been placed upon the table and, causing his heart to leap when he saw them, a pair of trousers and a thick jumper sewn from inexpertly felted wool were placed over the back of a chair. He smiled and rushed to put the clothes on; the trousers were a little too big at the waist, but so tired of dressing in a blanket was he that he barely noticed. The jumper, though itchy upon his skin, was an enormous improvement, and he felt his body quickly warm beneath it. "They fit then?" came the woman's voice from the door. Hester swung about, grinning broadly and nodded. "Good." she stepped into the hut, drenched from head to foot but, unlike anyone else he had ever seen sopping from being caught in the rain, she looked elated, and not angry at all. She stroked her hands over her forehead and hair, her cheeks flushed and her skin covered in tiny droplets, before moving to light the fire. "You're all wet," he observed, his breath caught in his throat; she was beautiful; he had denied himself from seeing it until now. But here, as the fire blazed into life and she fixed him with those large, dark eyes of her, their lashes caught together by the rain, he found it undeniable. "It's why I'm a day late," she explained, seemingly unaware of the thoughts that ran like a torrent through her mind. "I see you've been busy." She straightened up and sat down upon a chair. "Busy?" "The wood outside. What's that about, then? It'll take days to dry out and there's far too much for tinder." "It's for a raft." "I see," she murmured, that melancholy marking her expression again. He did not see it, however. He rushed to the table, pulling out his parchment and explaining - with great enthusiasm - his now-detailed plan. She nodded and listened attentively, asking questions here and there, marvelling at how he planned to store the wood and build upon the beach, and nodding at his notion to wait until the spring to launch. Finally he straightened up, threw his arms wide and said, "We could be off this island within six months! What do you think?" "We?" she said, looking plainly disturbed. "I don't want to leave the island." "But I can't leave you here." "You'd have to - I'd not go." "But I've planned everything for you to come with me. The stores, the steering, everything. Don't you want to go back to civilisation and end your days with the dogs?" "No," she replied gently. "I love it here. It's more civilised than anywhere else I can imagine. Of course, there's no dancing or painting, there's no cities or money, but there's an honesty and a clean feeling to being here that can never be had in society." Hester sat down and took her hands. "I won't leave you." "You won't have to," she said quietly. "What do you mean to say?" he asked, feeling suddenly tense. "It won't work. Your plan." She looked up at him and pulled her hands away. "It's a good plan. But it won't work. Not here." "Why not?" he asked, swallowing anger. "Because you're not meant to leave," she said. "I don't believe you." "You don't have to. You'll see in time." He shook his head and stood up from the table, snatching his parchment up and pretending to examine it closely. But his mind reeled; again and again she had repeated this assertion, and yet, once again, she had neglected to explain further. The fact remained, however, he had to escape this island, and he was determined not to do it alone. He turned back to her to find her silently weeping at the table, watching him with large tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. "You're meant to be here," she said simply, making no effort to hide her tears. "And I'm meant to be with you. Here." "I don't understand," he said. "Why won't you explain what you mean?" "Because you wouldn't believe me. Because it doesn't make sense. Because you're not ready to listen to me yet." He shook his head and set his plans aside, forcing his attention onto the jumper she had made. "It's very well done," he said gently, looking at her form the corner of his eye. "Did it take long?" She wiped her tears with a hand that shook slightly and steadied herself before she spoke. "No. The trousers were harder; I didn't know how big to make them. There'll be shoes before long; I've patched up your own boots, but they're not quite finished." "Shoes? You are a marvel." She tipped her head modestly and rose to poke at the fire. "Where do you go?" He asked as he watched her move; her britches clinging to her legs and her tunic hanging wetly around her arms. She looked tiny, like a rag doll brought to life in some fanciful ballet. Her dark hair glistened and her skin glowed. "Go? When I'm not here?" "Yes. You said this wasn't your home." "No. This is just a tiny place that keeps me warm when I get caught at the beach. I've a bigger place in the woods. It's half underground, very warm. There's pasture and meadow the other side of the woods, you see, and wild sheep graze there. They let me milk them sometimes, and I trim their fleeces in the spring to make blankets and clothes. There are some horses, too - though they'll never let themselves be ridden or used for harness work. But their tails shed a lot of hair, and I use that to make thread and rope. It's very strong." He nodded, watching her relax and return to her more normal cheerful self as she spoke, relieved that her dark melancholy had passed. His mind mused idly over a name for her; still he could find none that are suitable. "Can I come up there?" he asked, adding when he saw the surprise and reluctance on her face, "Not to stay. Just to, you know, see." "Eventually, perhaps. When the weather gets colder, you'll have to. It'll be too cold to stay here before much longer. It's not ready yet, though." He smiled and nodded, pleased at the thought of their quiet winter hibernation together. But she seemed less comfortable with the notion. "I'm not used to sharing. I don't much like people," she said, "I like to have my space." "I understand," he said, "But don't you get lonely?" "I used to, at first. I used to find the quiet deafening, ringing in my ears and demanding I break it. But when you listen, you see that it's not really silent at all. Now, anything louder than a crashing wave I find deafening, except for the dogs barking." "Are they yours?" She laughed and shook her head, but then reflected for a moment. "Perhaps, in a way, we belong to each other, the dogs and I. Certainly we both benefit from the partnership. I saw they visited you last night." Hester smiled. "I fed them and let them sit by the fire." "It's only fair," she said, "After all, they let you sit by theirs when you washed ashore." She cocked her head, laughed and said, "Listen..." He listened but heard nothing save the rain that was easing up on its rooftop drumming. "What am I listening for?" he asked eventually. "The sun's come out," she whispered, "But it's still raining." Hester glanced out of the mall window; the sky was still black and gloomy. He shook his head, but she was already on her feet and heading for the door. "What are you doing?" he called after her. "Hunting rainbows," came the reply. "But you've only just dried off." "That's the point..." Bemused, Hester rose to his feet and followed her out of the door to where she danced in clumsy circles over the wet ground, her arms spread wide and her head thrown back in laughter. He noted dryly that she had, in fact, been correct, for on the side of the hut where there was no window, a patch of sky had cleared and the sunshine flooded through it. But he could see no rainbows, no matter how hard he peered at the rays. "Not that side!" she said, panting and laughing and taking hold of his sleeve. She wheeled him about to look at the sky opposite the sun. He gasped and joined in her laughter. There, standing proud in the sky, arching high over the sea, was a fine, bright rainbow. "I'll be damned..." he murmured. She laughed and sat down upon the grass, staring at the coloured spectacle. "Might even split," she murmured. "Split?" he said, joining her on the ground, feeling the cold water seep through the seat of his trousers. "Yep. The sun's bright enough, and there's enough rain. I think we'll get a rainbow within a rainbow. That happens rarely... keep watching!" It was dim at first, and Hester found he could only see it when he glanced to one side and tried to spy it from the corner of his eyes. But, within moments a fainter rainbow appeared, echoing the brighter first one. Two great arches of colour, leaping over the distant waves, their feet masked in the dark, quietly churning sea. He had never really looked at a rainbow before, and now he couldn't look away. "What could you ever want to leave that for?" she whispered, turning to glance at him. He shook his head in reply, staring at the pair of bows until they had vanished from view, obscured by the sunshine that grew behind him. The rain stopped, the air grew lightly warmer; the storm was over. "You're all wet," she said with a laugh. "Isn't that the point?" he replied with a smile. She laughed and, taking him by surprise, kissed him on the end of his nose. He blinked in surprise, expecting to feel outraged at her forwardness but actually reacting with a deep laugh that welled up from deep inside him. She laughed, oblivious to the effect her kiss had upon him, and ran back over the damp grass to the hut. VIII. He found her poking the fire, her wet hair hanging heavily over her shoulder; it was already drying into clumsy curls. He pulled a chair up at the table and sat, waiting for her to finish her task. "What's your wife like?" she asked as she joined him at the table. "Amelia?" he said, mildly surprised at the question, but not reluctant to answer her. "She's a good wife." She turned this over in her mind for a moment before shaking her head. "That's not enough. Everyone would be a good wife to someone. What's special about her? What's she like?" Hester nodded, thinking about his wife for a moment. "She's much younger than me - she had to be. She never would have married a man who wasn't already established in his field. And she wouldn't have waited for a man of the same age to mature in his profession before accepting a proposal. She's... " He shook his head, running a hand over his chin and leaning back in his chair while she watched him with her big dark eyes. "The first time I met Amelia was at her father's birthday party. It was, naturally, less about his birthday than it was about meeting his daughters - three, he had - Amelia was the youngest. I went only to discuss business with him; he owned a shipping company, and I wished to further my medical investigations by taking a position aboard a ship and collecting plant samples from overseas. He, naturally, examined my prospects quite closely, and, finally, offered me a position. After a year-" "No," she said, quietly interrupting. "What is your wife like? What does she look like? What does she wear? Is she tall or short? Fat or thin? Does she like to laugh?" Hester glanced at her, a vague sense of guilt washing over him that he couldn't truly accredit to anything in particular. "Her hair is auburn, and would be curly if she didn't bind it at the back of her neck all of the time. When she lets it out long in the evenings and the moonlight catches it, it takes my breath away. She has freckles over her cheeks, which she hates. She says they make her look girlish - she won't accept that it's why I like them so much. My eldest daughter, Elizabeth, looks just like her. Amelia is thin and delicate, every movement she makes and sounds she produces is elegant and graceful. She is beautiful, but in a way quite different to-" he cut off and glanced guiltily at his companion. "Different to?" "Different to you." She laughed and waved her hand dismissively. "She plays the piano, and Aimee, our youngest, plays the flute. They often duet together when we have guests. When we were first married, she played a piece she had written on our honeymoon night. It was special; she isn't normally romantic. She enjoys tradition, not spectacle; nature, not contrivance. And yet she forever covers herself in powder to hide how the sun catches her skin, and makes herself faint with tight corsets." "Why? Why would she bother with all of that?" "Because," said Hester in a quiet, sad voice, "It is what everyone else who isn't so blessed as she is has to do. You see... Amelia, being the youngest, was bred to marry. She was taught to be a wife and have children and serve her husband. She was taught to compete in Society to win the best contacts which would lead to the best marriage suitors for her own children." "That's disgraceful," said the woman, "What about what she wanted for herself?" "What she wanted?" laughed Hester, "What else could she want? The third daughter of a merchant mariner? A good marriage is the best she could aspire to." "And she got you," said the woman. Hester quirked a brow and shrugged. "I have tried to be the best husband I could, I have tried to maintain my respectability and status. I have given her everything she and our girls could reasonably hope for." "Except being there." Hester reddened at the accusation. "It was never meant to be for long!" His protesting tone grew quickly more subdued and reflective as he continued. "The money made on voyages is more than I could hope to earn, even in London, in a year. And while I am away, Amelia's father pays for most of the household expenses. What he doesn't provide, I cover with a pension far more generous than many other wives -- or doctors - receive. I was going to arrange my own practise shortly, and give up sailing overseas." "And what of your research?" "I have seeds and samples, drawings and descriptions. I have enough to keep me busy when my practise is quiet." She nodded thoughtfully. "Did you love her?" "Love? She was a good wife." "That isn't what I meant." "What did you mean?" "Did your heart stop when you saw her? Did you feel dizzy when she brushed past you? Can you imagine living without her?" Hester considered this for a long time, remembering his wife and the conversations they would have, the few occasions they would consummate their union, the small intimacies she would allow them to enjoy. The answer, when he gave it, struck him with a strong emotional wave. "No. I appreciate her; I don't love her." The woman stood up and kissed Hester's forehead. "I am sorry, Richard Hester, that love has never touched you. I am sorry that you find your life so acceptable." She looked at him with an expression of incredible sadness and sympathy as she silently drew her shawl over her shoulders and moved to the door. "I'll bring your shoes next time," she said, barely in a whisper, and then she slipped out to vanish again. Hester sat for a long time at the table, staring at his wedding ring. Love? Since when did love enter into the question of marriage? And yet, suddenly, he felt its absence with a powerful emptiness. But he and Amelia were perfectly suited, and everyone had commented upon that over the years. Their union had produced two beautiful daughters, and love had never been an issue - save the notion for Frenchmen and poets - respectable people did not guide their lives according to maps of emotion. Yet now, as he thought over the day he had spent, he somehow regretted his marriage for having been so clinical and cold. Surely there should be some feeling of attachment besides a staunch sense of duty? Long he stayed at the table, staring at his hands and pondering these questions, until the flames in the fire had grown low and the shadows grew long upon the ground. IX. The next day, the rain had paused, leaving the sky a brooding, mottled-grey. The air was heavy and chilled, and Hester was grateful for the clothes the woman had brought for him - he looked forward to receiving his shoes, especially when he peered over the edge of the cliff and down to the rocks he would have to navigate with his wood. As he gazed over the cliff, the back dog appeared again. It looked sharply up at where Hester peered over the cliff-face and barked, as if it had been expecting him. Hester, unsure how one would greet a feral hound, remained silent, examining the animal before retreating back to the grass and his pile of wood. It was mid-morning, and Hester was about to begin the task of dragging the wood from where he had left it by the hut to the edge of the steep descent, when he heard a loud stamping of hooves. He turned to see where the sound was coming from, and caught his breath in his throat; a brilliant shaft of light broke through the clouds and illuminated - as if lit by a spotlight - a large bay horse that stood in the middle of the grass, stamping its hooves and breathing heavily, as if it had just been running hard. All thought abandoned Hester; functioning on instinct alone, he extended his hand to the noble beast and approached it. The horse sniffed at Hester's hands and knelt down onto its knees next to him. Hester smoothed his fingers over the horse's muzzle and up its long, rich-coloured face. His fingers moulded themselves around the horse's ears and tangled in the top of its mane as the horse twisted its neck and pushed gently at Hester's hip. Hester took the mane firmly in his hand and slipped easily onto the crouching beast's back. The horse stood tall, bearing Hester easily up with it. It turned and, with the shaft of light following it, walked over the grass toward the woods. At the edge of the tree line, the black dog appeared, confusing Hester for a moment, for he had just seen it at the foot of the cliff. The dog and the horse eyed each other for a moment, each tense and alert, ready to turn and run. but then a silent agreement was made between them, and they continued into the trees together, the horse bearing Hester and the dog at its side. The strange shaft of light followed them, sending dappled light through the trees and over the ground. To Hester's surprise, the leaf-covered ground beneath them made no sound at all. They walked for, perhaps, an hour like this, man, dog and horse, until they reached the edge of a narrow, but deep and fast-flowing stream. Like the leaves upon the floor, the water made its passage in silence; the sounds of the animals breathing and Hester's heart pounding in his ears were the only noises to be heard. The horse crouched down again, and Hester slid from its back and stood between the two animals, watching the water, brilliant in the shaft of light. On the other side of the water, a large black bird - a raven, Hester supposed - and a black cat appeared. Hester watched as they eyed each other, much like the dog and the horse had done, reaching a similar compromise. They turned to eye Hester with uncanny intelligence, before the bird took to flight and the cat, in a single bound, cleared the water. The horse was still crouching; Hester remounted, and it stood up. Then, with the two newcomers, they continued through the trees. It didn't seem like much time had passed, and yet the shadows grew long upon the ground and the air grew cold around them, and still they continued through the woods, man, horse, dog, bird and cat. The shaft of light faded and, instead, the stars peeped through the leafless canopy, and the way ahead was lit by a brilliant moon - full before its time - that sat fat and low in the sky. The air around them grew misty, yet the damp did not affect Hester; he felt warm and safe upon the horse's back. Softly, She Treads Ch. 04 Then, at last, the bird gave a single caw and landed upon the ground. Hester could see that the trees thinned to form a small clearing, in the centre of which, a grassy mound rose sharply. Hester peered closely at the hillock, and, in the moonlight, was able to make out a hole in the centre, from which rose a thin plume of grey smoke. It was the woman's house, Hester was certain. As his conviction struck him, another rare sound pierced the otherwise silent atmosphere. He could hear the woman's rich voice singing, the words muffled by the distance and the fact that she was within her strange dwelling. Hester wished the horse would crouch again; he longed to slide from its back, yet it remained standing, waiting. None of the animals moved. A black Hanson cab appeared, incongruous in its natural surroundings. Hester's heart leapt as a familiar figure stepped from the cab. Amelia, dressed in black, appeared in the clearing, followed by their two daughters. Aimee was weeping, Elizabeth putting on a bravely stiff face, but still discreetly holding her younger sister's hand as they followed their mother. Hester felt a surge of pride for his children, a deep passion that had never truly been given voice swelled within him, and he silently wept. As the three women crossed the clearing, a building appeared in the mist on the other side. A simple church, its aisles filled with mourners in black, all of whom turned to see the three women enter, tipping their heads to murmur to each other as the three swept past them to the front of the church. Amelia paused to clasp hands briefly or nod a greeting to various women on her way; the girls seemed aware only of each other and the ominous box raised on the dais at the front. The three women each paused before it, crossed themselves, and took their seats. Only little Aimee paused to touch the casket, her hand shaking as she smoothed her glove over the polished wood. Moments later, the women stood again and, with equal silent dignity, filed back the way they had come, back into the centre of the clearing. As they went, the church behind them faded and, on the opposite side of the clearing, a churchyard appeared, in the same way the church had before it. The three women came to take their places at the graveside, Amelia with her father, the girls standing alone, both now sobbing quietly in each others' arms. White roses were tossed into a gaping hole, then Amelia stooped to take a handful of dirt in her black-gloved hand. She threw it into the grave before unconsciously scrubbing at the material that had been touched by the earth. The girls came next, Aimee unable to release her handful without her sister whispering in her ear. The three women stood there, Amelia and the two girls, next to each other, yet completely separated, as the scene around them changed a final time. Now Amelia was surrounded by mourners, each shaking her hands and offering silent words of comfort and strength. She excelled herself, replying to each guest in turn with quiet, graceful elegance, entirely immersed in her task. The two girls watched her for a while, together alone to one side, before slipping silently away. Their absence went unnoticed. Hester remained upon the horse's back and wept soundlessly as the scene faded, profound comprehension washing over him in deep, paralytic waves as the animals turned and bore him away from the clearing, the sound of the woman's singing returned to his ears and haunted their return passage through the trees. A sound, loud and brash, boomed in his ears and Hester sat up with a cry. He was in the hut, naked and in his bed. The animals were gone, and sound had returned. He screwed his eyes closed and cried out, helpless and afraid. Then she was there, and he was in her arms. She smoothed his hair with gently caring hands and eased him back onto his pillow. She whispered softly into his ear and held his hands. Hester was not alone; the woman was by him. He slept again, this time clutching her hand tightly as he succumbed, while outside thunder raged. X. "Are you awake?" "Yes." "Are you well?" "I don't know." "Take your time, there's no hurry." Hester opened his eyes. She was curled up on the floor next to him bed, her arms and head lying upon his chest, her hands still clutching his. Her face was beautiful; framed by her dark hair and examining him with caring concern. "I love you," he said. "I know," she replied, before her face contorted delicately, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks. He reached out a finger and caught one, wiping it away. "Don't cry. I won't leave. We'll be here, together." He had meant to comfort her, yet her weeping intensified. "No... no..." she moaned softly, her head dropping to her fingers which clutched one of his hands. "Something happened last night," said Hester, his tear-damp fingers now stroking her hair. "What happened?" she asked. "I saw something. Animals came and took me to a clearing. I saw your house and my wife and children..." Hester paused and frowned, unsure how to continue. She raised her head, her eyes were blazing. "I love you," she said again. "It's over, isn't it?" He asked, "This is the end." She nodded in reply, then leaned over him to kiss him upon the cheek. "When did I..?" "At sea, in the storm." "Then why am I here?" "Because you weren't ready to go." "Who are you?" "I am what you needed to become ready. I am the glimpse of what could have been; the drawing cast in the sand as the waves break over it. I am what you needed to accept what comes next." "Love," said Hester, without question. She nodded and began to weep again. He couldn't look at her, instead he pulled her onto the bed and held her tightly, kissing the top of her head. "Will you vanish, too?" "I don't know," she replied through her tears. "I should think so. What more will there be for me to do?" "Remember me?" "You have your wife for that." "Amelia," breathed Hester. "I love you," she said again. "I love you, Nameless One," he replied. They held each other for a long time, each of them silently preparing for the inevitable conclusion. Finally Hester spoke, kissing the top of her head and murmuring, "Come on. It's time." Together they rose from the bed, neither of them hesitating when their covers dropped away to reveal them to each other. Hand in hand they left that small hut and danced together over the grass that never existed towards the woods that never were. And there, on the edge of the trees, Hester paused. He looked at his death-companion, letting his eyes roam hungrily over her. "You are beautiful," he said. He pulled her into a deep, savage kiss. She returned his embrace, holding him tightly and rising to her tiptoes as he clung to her. When the kiss broke, Hester turned her head so that he could whisper into her ear. "Thank you," he said. The two of them held hands again, laughing and dancing together into the trees. Somewhere, a black dog barked and, slowly, they faded away from the world.