Distant Fires (22 page)

Despite the long convalescence, he was bone weary and beset by intermittent pain throughout his body. He felt the presence of someone coming towards him. He opened his eyes a crack but having no wish to startle her with his sudden awakening, feigned sleep. He felt her bony hands examine his upper body, prodding his skin, but as she turned her attention to his leg, an excruciating pain tore through his midsection, causing him to twist and barely contain a yelp.  
 

Removing something, she cleansed, and then reapplied a vile smelling concoction of unknown origin, which he took to be a poultice, and having renewed his discomfort, she left.
 

He lay there, listening to the breathing, groans and gas that intermittently broke the silence.. It began to rain and the hole in the roof was closed. The rain gained momentum; a steady rhythm pummelling the rooftop like a feral heartbeat.
 

After a time he began to feel a bit better, but any attempt to move his legs brought an immediate gasp.           
 

He began to hear something a whispering that grew louder. It was a low monotone of a female voices close by his ear. So many questions he wished to ask...where was he? There was so much he needed to understand.
 

He realised now they spoke a familiar dialect. He felt compelled to communicate, to let them know that he was aware and grateful for all they had done.
 

The pains started up again, and they were saying...something about loss of blood....infection? Another said, “We must continue to watch, feed...invoke the Spirits on his behalf...”
 

“Why must we do that?” argued another. “After all, he is a Huron lover...”
 

The sentence stopped him dead and fear seized his insides. At first, he thought he had misheard it, but the more he listened, the more certain he became. They were Iroquois...the most ruthless and detested of all!           
 

He’d known a few Iroquois prisoners—the child Shanata; the turncoat Iroquois trader Tehane, from whom he had learned some of the language. But this was his first contact with the community. A memory stirred...a story he had once heard of a captive, healed by the Iroquois, only to succumb to their fiendish brand of brutality. It seemed the unfortunate victim, having been tortured and unspeakably defiled, was then burned at the stake, his entrails gorged upon by his tormentors.  
 

Nicholas could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand. Was he to become fodder for their peculiar appetites and terrifying brand of amusement?  
 

No one would be the wiser. Had they found Benoit’s body, he too, would be presumed dead, or possibly drowned.  He had to face the truth. They had likely given up hope of finding him alive. With what he now suspected, they were soon to be right!  
 

He was miserably tired, the pain momentarily abated, but it was all but impossible to relax, though he reasoned, he must. He wouldn’t make a mile in a week with only one good leg.  He needed all of his strength to make a break. If their intention were to fatten him for slaughter, there would be time enough for planning...
 

When next he opened his eyes, in this windowless abode, smoke rising to the roof, the women had left him, all, that is, save one.  
 

She bent over him now, dampening his face with a clump of moss. He hadn’t seen as much of her in his previous semi-wakefulness, but something in her quiet demeanour and careful ministrations made her seem more compassionate than the others.
 

Seeing her in the dying firelight, she appeared fair of feature, very beautiful in fact, though not much younger than he, with her long, black hair pulled into severe plaits. She never looked directly, immersed as she was in the task, but he, partly out of need to assuage the pain, focused on her sensitive expression, allowing himself a moment to withdraw his defence and be comforted by her lissom touch.
 

Hampered in her ministrations, she was forced to lean over him. He felt the soft pressure of her breasts through the skin robe, the erect nipples grazing innocently against his belly as she redressed the wound, her faintly sweet aroma, brushing past his nostrils with each sweep of movement. Despite his condition, he felt himself responding to her womanliness, to the point of distracting his mind from her, lest his body betray the arousal.  
 

He had been close to many women over the years, but none had so immediately moved him to attraction and he was at a loss to explain it.
 

She lifted her hand to wipe a stray hair from her forehead. He caught sight of something that had previously not been felt. The skin on both her arms and hands were badly scarred—worse, the first, three fingers on her right hand, were rigidly melded into a grotesque claw. The shock was palpable; his immediate revulsion raised to a pitiable gnawing at his insides, not only for the incongruent ugliness on a woman of such beauty, but in her ability to adapt to it, to the point he had been fooled by her deft sense of touch.   
 

Despite the throbbing pain, and his initial scepticism regarding his captors, a wave of pity overtook him, charging his mind with the obvious question. What disaster could have resulted in such disfigurement? Was it accidental? Had she been deliberately set upon?  He somehow wished he had been there to comfort her, as she had for him…  
 

Completing her task, she tucked the deerskin cover around his naked shoulders, and stared down at him for some seconds, unaware of his wakefulness.
 

He waited for her to move. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for his uniform, draped over one of the wooden supports. To his amazement, she began to run her damaged hand the length of the material, tracing the buttons, sleeves, over the cuffs; her expression, like one intent upon reviving a memory.
 

A tear glistened on her cheek, then another, and another, spilling out in mute eruption from the darkness of her eyes.  
 

She was an enigma. What did it all mean? Was she merely fascinated by the clothing or did it hold a deeper meaning?
 

He wanted to give some consolation, but she left his sight. A shooting pain put a temporary halt to further thought. He closed his eyes, waiting for it to subside. When he reopened, she had returned and knelt on the floor before him, uniform on her lap...something shiny in her good hand.  
 

Her tears were drying, but a silent fury simmered behind the swollen eyes. Before he had time to identify the item and register a reaction, he witnessed a most bizarre event. Laying the garment upon the earthen floor, and bending over it on all fours, without uttering a sound save the
laboured breath of her effort, she began to slash and tear at the item, venting her passion upon it like the wearer were still within, obliterating its appearance until it was rendered nothing more than a pile of blue shreds.
 

The horrifying brutality finally spent, scarcely able to stand from the exhaustion of her effort, she brought the tangible remnants of his past, to the fire. With the ritual of a high priestess making an offering to the gods, she slowly fed the flames, He winced as the last of the threads twisted into charred nothingness, carrying with it a private meaning and the knowledge that the violation of his identity was made complete.
 

His fear and disgust were matched by feelings of self-approbation at having initially allowed himself to become emotionally affected by this woman, to feel truly sorry for her physical malady and mental suffering. She had given every indication of gentleness and consideration in her dealings with him. Now he was left with the truth of her unstable and violent nature.  
 

Were these people mad? Had he merely witnessed a ritualistic destruction of items commonly carried out captives? The fact that she had perpetrated the act alone, caused him to believe it had a more direct, personal bearing, but of what, he could not say...
 

Whatever the reason, he did not want this woman to touch him, but he was powerless and in their control. His mind coursed with danger and expectancy.
 

If they intended to heal him for the sacrifice, he would feign sleep, listen and plan. When the time was right, he would find the opportunity to break free. But try as he might, he knew he would be forever haunted by the strange enactment of a scarred and tragic woman.
 

Chapter 15
 

Shanata gestured to her mother in childlike delight, staring out the coach window, as the vehicle jostled along the broad promenade leading to the impressive estate.  
 

The gates were arrow straight, flanked by shrubbery, extensive gardens and Folly’s, no less beautiful, but much more elaborate than the de Béarnais grounds.
 

To the fore, stood the chateau, austere and very grand, built in the older style, with ancient stone works, turrets, and fortifications, in place of large windows, gargoyles and flourishes of the present age.
 

Drawing near to the coach house, the ladies were shockingly amused to find the Duc, having taken the unprecedented step, of awaiting them on the drive, resplendent in a silver thread brocade frock coat and trousers with powdered white wig, lending him an air of distinguished statesman, or at very least, a wealthy aristocrat. Judging from the night of the ball, Louise knew it was not his usual comport, and privately applauded his sartorial efforts, knowing there was discomfort in the bearing.
 

Smiling warmly, he offered his hand as they alit the carriage, wearing an expression, which betrayed a hint of nervousness, though obviously more at ease in his own surroundings.
 

“My sincere welcome, Madame and Mademoiselle,” he said, adding with humour, “I am pleased to see you survived the journey.  If you would be so kind as to step this way, I shall reacquaint you with my humble abode, and see to your comfort.”
 

With that, the heavy oak doors were noisily drawn into a cavernous vestibule, stretching skyward to ceilings ribbed in wooden beams and down a hallway upon flagstone floors, smooth with the weight of countless footsteps. Shanata stared at the illuminated walls along the corridor, aglow with relics, shields, and swords, where ancient tapestries hung alongside contemporary portraits, and a series of small, stained glass windows of biblical reference blazed patterns of colour across them.          
 

“I trust you will find your stay most accommodating,” he said, uneasily, mistaking the quiet of his guests for disenchantment.
 

 “...Perhaps, you are tired from your travels...One of my maids will escort you to your rooms...Or would you like...wine...brandy?  Something else you may prefer?”  
 

He seemed eager to please, unused to the advent of guests into his insular world.
 

“I’m certain we shall find our stay, more than agreeable, Monsieur. At present, we require nothing more than your charming company.”  Louise responded, in an effort to allay him.  
 

Surrounded by finery for much of her life, Louise was jaded by ornamentation, but what she found exceeded previous recall, and astonished even her.        
 

Priceless engravings, hand-painted Chinese porcelain, gold chalices studded with emeralds and rubies, graced expensive furniture of different periods, alongside medieval weaponry, armour, bookshelves piled high with nameless editions and an enormous desk of black oak upon which lay, a number of natural specimens.  
 

Toward the back wall, she spied an alcove, which housed a small shrine, where a plain marble statue of the holy mother stood upon a pedestal. Nearby, tables held religious curiosities including icons, wooden carvings of intricately inlaid ivory and jewels.  
 

The whole was an incongruous mix that Louise could not recall having previously seen, a luxuriant blend of masculine and feminine elements, as intriguing as it was strange. Shanata was more impressed with the interesting array of items than in their extensive value.
 

“I apologize for the arrangement of the furniture. This is my refuge, where I spend much of my time in private...reflection. Of course, there is the chapel in the far wing where I attend daily mass, but...”
 

He paused, his words in measured tones, laden with remembrance, and gestured to the alcove, and said simply,
 

“This was my mother’s shrine.”
 

A dolorous pain etched across his face, and quickly passed.
 

“She loved this room very much, and I have kept it, just as it was when she was alive... As you will recall, Duchesse, my parents were deeply religious, and although it was some time before I found God, I have since...”
 

“Your home is very beautiful, Monsieur... Even lovelier than I remembered!” Louise interjected, guiltily, not wishing to hear the ramblings of the devout—a now-confirmed fact, nearly as disappointing as his dissipated reputation. Belief in the beneficence of a supreme being had long since faded from her. Whatever goodness had befallen her had been attributed to fate or circumstance; divine intervention having floundered into nothingness on the death of her beloved Armand. Shanata had not been baptized in the church, nor to her knowledge, set foot in one, despite the presence of the private chapel on their estate; closed and overgrown with vines, long reduced to neglect. Even the estate workers attended service in the village.  
 

To call upon a God who would not listen; what purpose did it serve?  Had this ‘heathen’ child, with her kindly gestures and warm ways, not shown more “Christian” acts, than any of her churchgoing accusers?