Authors: Rachel L. Demeter
The doctor dipped an index finger into the milky concoction. He stirred it briefly, then smoothed the salve over the wound, filling the black crater with liquid. A cry wrenched from the soldier’s throat. Ariah’s heart banged against her rib cage while she and the soldier briefly locked gazes.
Doctor Mongeau hesitated for a moment, his hand frozen midair. Salve dripped from his finger like water from an icicle. Then he continued applying the concoction with increased pressure. Once more, the soldier flinched at the contact, battling the ministrations and muttering jumbled words. Ariah clutched her shawl in horror, feeling the man’s agony as if it were her own.
“He is in great pain?”
“Why, most surely, yes. Very great pain indeed,” he answered with a light chuckle. “But not from my touch nor this salve.”
Ariah crouched beside the bed as Doctor Mongeau retrieved a glass bottle from his bag.
LAUDANUM
was printed across the faded label in bold lettering. And directly beneath:
POISON!
“For the pain. Maximum dosage, already pre-mixed. Fifty parts opium tincture, five parts benzoic acid, five parts camphor, two parts anise oil, and 940 parts alcohol. An addict’s dream, to say the least. But it’s quite safe, I assure you – and only poisonous when taken in excess.”
A sloshing noise permeated the air as he shook the bottle from side to side. Bubbles rose to the surface while the amber liquid swirled within the glass confines. He uncorked the bottle and placed a hand beneath the soldier’s scalp. Tipping the bottle against the man’s lips, he poured the liquid into his mouth. The soldier sputtered and jerked, causing excess medicine to trickle from his chin.
“Once he’s conscious, no more than a tablespoon every few hours – though, I promise you, he shall beg for more. For now, two tablespoons shall suffice. However, such a high dosage will cause his delirium to worsen quite a bit.” Doctor Mongeau set the bottle on the end table, placing it beside a stack of linen and fresh water.
“I’ll monitor it well.” She cautiously reached out and spread her hand across the soldier’s head. His dark strands were heavy with sweat, water, and grime and he shifted in response to her touch. Then spasms tremored through his body and vibrated against her fingertips. Ariah’s heart pounded and her nerves violently stirred in despair. “Who would do such a thing?”
Doctor Mongeau turned to Ariah with a weak smile and troubled eyes. It was an intensely haunted gaze – one that harbored a dark past and even darker secrets. Ariah drew her hand away, met those jaded depths, and waited for him to continue with bated breath.
He sighed deeply, as if preparing to unburden himself. “I was in the military before I found medicine. Did you know that, madame?” Her attention riveted, Ariah mutely shook her head. “Once upon a time, I was not so different than your beloved Jacques. One of Napoleon’s heroes, through and through. I have seen more bloodshed than you could ever imagine. Men do terrible, ungodly things …” Doctor Mongeau hesitated for a moment and absently traced the gun wound. “Things they often live to regret.”
Pregnant silence pressed between them. Ariah cleared her throat and adjusted her posture. “You regret fighting for your country, you mean?”
“
Non
, madame. Not at all.” A strange emotion crossed the doctor’s face. He continued to examine the gun injury …
really
examine it. “I mean to say, I’ve seen enough wounds, on and off the battlefield, to recognize this one for what it is.”
Realization dawned. Ariah felt the remaining color drain from her cheeks. She swallowed, peered down at her golden wedding band, and read the engraved inscription with an aching heart:
the only journey worth traveling starts from within.
“The satchel that I spotted in the drawing room,” Doctor Mongeau said, jerking Ariah from her thoughts. “The man’s belongings, I reckon?”
“Yes.” Her throat strangled the word.
“So he was not robbed of his things …” He appeared to be speaking more to himself. Regardless, Ariah shook her head and nervously toyed with her ring. “If I were a betting man, I’d say he did this to himself.”
“But there was no gun at the Seine. No weapon of any kind.”
“Perhaps the gun met its watery grave at the bottom of the Seine.” Doctor Mongeau shrugged his thin shoulders. Then he inhaled and shook his head. “I know it shall distress you to hear – but I’m afraid the exit wound does not lie.”
“The exit wound? Why? What does it tell you?” Doctor Mongeau hesitated and speared her with a pointed look. “Whatever you have to say, I assure you I can handle it. Now tell me, Doctor. Please. I’ve a right to know.”
“Very well. See how the flesh is flayed outward?” He directed Ariah’s eye with an extended pointer finger. It shook midair as he traced a telling path along the wound. “The bullet tore through the wall of his cheek, causing the flesh to pucker like so. I’m afraid this indicates one thing and one alone: at the moment of impact, the barrel was positioned inside his mouth.”
“I … I don’t understand.” Bile rose inside Ariah’s throat while tears stung the back of her eyes. Turning to Doctor Mongeau, she fought to harness them back. “I mean – how … how could he possibly survive such a thing?”
“Flintlock pistols don’t play well with damp weather. Humidity and a few drops of water would easily subdue the blow.” Thoughtful silence deepened Doctor Mongeau’s brows. His gaze settled upon the soldier’s convulsing limbs for several moments. Then he exhaled a dejected sigh and smoothed a palm over his bald patch. The whale lamp’s illumination reflected off the skin with blinding intensity. “Should he make it through the night, I believe he’ll live. But I fear it shall be a very long night.”
•
Ariah escorted Doctor Mongeau to the front door nearly an hour later. After tending to the soldier’s wounds, he’d inspected Emmaline and found that her fever was quite better, though the illness still present. This assessment brought a flush of color back to Ariah’s cheeks.
She and Doctor Mongeau stood in tense silence for several minutes. Only the puttering rain and crackling fireplace alleviated the quiet. Ariah stared at the weathered floorboards below her heels, observing the cracked panels with a haunting intensity. Doctor Mongeau’s words echoed in her mind until she went dizzy from the refrain.
“
Should he make it through the night, I believe he’ll live. But I fear it shall be a very long night.”
Her efforts would not be in vain. She would see the soldier through the night.
Doctor Mongeau spoke first. “A bit of advice, if I may, madame?”
Ariah’s eyes jerked from the floorboards and settled upon the doctor’s weary face. He was strangely expressionless – all emotion swept behind an apathetic mask. She gave a subtle nod, urging him to speak.
“Forget him. Forget this stranger. You’ve done a noble thing indeed, bringing him into your home – but now you must consider yourself and little Emmaline.”
“But if the fever breaks, he shall live through the night! You said so yourself. I – ”
“Yes …” Doctor Mongeau hesitated. He draped a hand over Ariah’s shoulder and forced an unconvincing smile. “I care for your family greatly. Perhaps even more than my own. People will speak of it … of this strange man beneath your roof.”
Burgeoning resentment formed inside Ariah’s chest. Chin raised, she returned Doctor Mongeau’s leveled stare. “Then let them speak.”
“Travel isn’t safe at present, and the infirmary is a good distance from here – but you could return him to the Seine tonight. Apart from your sister, no one would ever know.”
“
I
would know.” A profound silence consumed the air as red-hot anger simmered inside Ariah’s belly. She could hardly comprehend Doctor Mongeau’s suggestion. It seemed so out of character – though, perhaps she hadn’t really known him after all.
Indeed, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d failed to see through her own projections.
“He could be dangerous. Mad. I dare say even criminal. I’ve witnessed many battlefields and wounded souls, madame. The war consumes us soldiers, tears us apart – sometimes weeks, months, or even years later, in the darkness of the night … when the fighting is hundreds of kilometers away. A soldier can never truly rest. Not without the nightmares.” For the first time, Ariah saw the memories of war buried within his eyes. Gunshots. Screams. Rolling cannon fire and the faded cries of despair. She remained silent, waiting for him to continue. “As I showed you, he made an attempt on his own life! God’s teeth, your daughter – ”
“If he dares to lay so much as a hand on my daughter, I assure you, he’ll lose much more than that wretched hand.”
Doctor Mongeau couldn’t contain his chuckle. He removed his hand from Ariah’s shoulder and eased his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Spoken with the true audacity of a mother.”
Ariah sighed, brushed away a fallen curl, and awarded Doctor Mongeau with a sincere smile. “Really … I appreciate all you have done for my family and me – more than I can ever say. But I found that soldier. He’s my responsibility now. His life has been placed within my hands … and he’s been gifted a second chance. Who am I to deny him that mercy? And besides – ” Ariah stumbled mid-sentence as the words lodged inside her throat. “Jacques should be returning from the war soon. No one shall dare speak then.” She fought to keep the doubt and apprehension from her tone. But that persistent, ever-present voice whispered into her thoughts:
Jacques’s letters stopped months ago.
Doctor Mongeau nodded empathetically. “I hope so, madame. I truly hope so.”
Ariah turned away, fetching the blank hat and cloak from the rack. Doctor Mongeau extended both arms as she helped him shrug into the sweeping garment. Then she placed the hat atop his head and positioned it at a skewed angle. Eyes sparkling, he righted it with a shaky nudge.
“I am afraid I won’t be able to visit for a week or so,” he explained, his voice shallow, “thanks to the wretched storm and old leg pains acting up. But after that, should you need anything – anything at all – I shall be here.” Doctor Mongeau stared out the window as a shaft of light streaked across his weathered face. “I know you’ve taken it upon yourself to save this man. But as I said – it is quite likely that he shall die.”
“No,” she breathlessly vowed. “I won’t allow it.”
“Just be prepared.” And without another word, Doctor Mongeau stepped into Paris’s storming streets.
•
Gabriel found himself trapped within a lucid nightmare of coldness and pain. He felt dizzy, almost drunk with the agony and fatigue. His head threatened to explode. His brain throbbed against his skull, pulsating with the force of a war drum. And the left side of his face felt unbearably raw … as if a demon were trapped inside and scraping to claw free.
He fought to decipher his foreign surroundings. The entire world had been reduced to blinding anguish and white noise.
And then an angelic voice settled upon his consciousness. At first, the words were a mere whisper, a sigh carried by the wind’s breath. Gabriel was certain he’d imagined them.
“
Papa … Papa … why did you leave us …”
That voice, so full of innocence and heartache, escalated in power until it was a scream.
“
Papa, help me … please, Papa … I am frightened …”
“Lisette …” he breathlessly replied. “I am here, my Lisette. And I shan’t ever leave you. Not again …”
A storm of unshed tears stung Gabriel’s eyes. That voice was piercing now – a violent cry within the darkness.
Gabriel clutched both sides of his head in an attempt to muffle those screams. He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save either of them. Because of him, it was too late.
My own fault. My doing.
He battled unseen hands as he made a final effort to free himself. He thrashed, fought to stand, to move, to reach his family –
to do anything
– but he remained powerless. He was a prisoner of himself. Exhaustion triumphed over mind and body, sending his spirit into complete submission.
“Lisette … I am sorry … so sorry … forgive me …”
His heart hammered faster and faster as he battled those invisible hands. They were everywhere at once – clenched around his throat, his legs, his gut, his mind.
Then the darkness swallowed him again. And within that black void, all was lost and mercifully silent.
Nighttime fell upon the home, and with it came the darkness of uncertainty. Beyond the walls, the wind grew powerful and sent rivulets of rain pounding against the windows. Ariah had tucked Emmaline into bed minutes earlier, successfully keeping the soldier hidden away from her daughter’s curious nature. This couldn’t have been accomplished without Miriam’s assistance, of course – something she’d ever be grateful for. They’d decided it best to keep the stranger in Ariah’s chamber for the time being. Within the isolation of her room, he would be free of disturbances and worlds easier to hide away.
Ariah wrung excess water from the rag and laid it over the soldier’s brow. Miriam’s words, from only an hour before, disturbed her thoughts: “
I can see it in y-y-our eyes. By saving this poor s-soul, you mean to make amends for that n-night.”
Yes, that was certainly part of her motivation – but as Ariah observed the soldier’s distress, she knew it accounted for only a fraction.
His head twisted from side to side. The muscular chamber of his throat pumped like a furnace. As if fighting off unseen demons, his hands blindly waved and shoved at the blackness. Ariah felt helpless. She was beyond exhausted and at a loss for what to do … of how to ease his pain. If he continued in this way, he’d surely wake Emmaline. Even worse, he’d exhaust his remaining life. Doctor Mongeau had made that much pristinely clear; both his mind and body were aching for rest and fighting for survival. And the next few hours would determine his fate.
“No …” Ariah leaned forward as she struggled to make out the words. His voice was breathy, hoarse, and little more than a whisper. It was also strangely muffled – each syllable strung together in a clumsy legato.
Shivering, he flinched, mumbled a curse, and tossed onto his side. His body trembled, victim to fever and something else. Something that cut far deeper than the wounds on his face. As Doctor Mongeau had warned, the laudanum seemed to make his dreams much more vivid and intense.
“Please, monsieur – ” Ariah seized hold of his thrashing limbs and lowered them onto the mattress. “I know you’re in great pain. I only wish to help you.” Without conscious thought, she tentatively ran her fingertips up and down his shoulders, arms, and torso. Thick muscles corded every centimeter of his body, reminding her of his sheer strength and size. Being so close to a man – even though he was unconscious – sent tremors of fear racing down her spine. Indeed, had he not been incapacitated, she would have been paralyzed at the very thought of being so near to him.
She brushed the forelock from his brow and murmured words of comfort – just like when her daughter had been deathly ill all those nights. “Shh. All shall soon be well. Just rest now.”
Her voice seemed to effectively cut through the hazy delusions. The words died on his tongue, and she felt the tension ease from his muscles. Exhaling a relieved breath, she placed a hand over the middle of his chest. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat gradually slowed, resuming a normal pace. She examined his slackened limbs and undulating torso. The greatcoat was drenched through with sweat. No wonder he was suffocating, fighting to break free of unseen barriers. He desperately needed to breathe.
With shaking hands, she slowly undid the row of golden clasps. Each snap sounded unnaturally loud within the silent din. Past memories surfaced and sliced through her consciousness with the force of a blade.
Ariah shoved the images away and focused on the task at hand. She peeled the material aside, exposing the soldier’s strong, nude chest. A fine sheen of sweat covered his skin. It glistened beneath the wavering light and shone like unshed tears. His chest was paler than the rest of him, though every bit as muscular and well formed. A thick mass of hair blanketed his skin, equipping him with a primitive quality and ruggedness. Healed knife and bullet wounds twisted his flesh, causing the hair to grow uneven in places. Ariah drank in the vision with an unblinking stare. She was fascinated. Fascinated and thoroughly intimidated by the man’s massive body. Transfixed by the sight, she unconsciously reached forward and traced one of the raised scars. The flesh twisted along his beating heart, coarse and ragged, like some eternal, windswept mountain range.
Swallowing, she unfastened the last several clasps and loosened the bloodstained greatcoat. Now that he had room to breathe, a mutual sense of relief surged through her own body.
She reached for the end table and seized hold of a rag. Then she dipped it into the basin and wiped away the sweat. His heartbeat thundered beneath her fingertips as he fought for life.
“Stay with me, monsieur.”
“Lisette …”
There was that name again.
Lisette.
Who was she? His wife? His lover? A beloved mistress?
And what would Lisette think of him now?
Her heart ached at that last inquiry. Exhaling a weary sigh, she laid the rag across his forehead and absorbed some of the sweltering heat. His expression softened while a choked groan tore from chapped, blistered lips.
“I’m here with you. And I refuse to leave your side.”
As she watched the soldier gradually sink into sleep, Doctor Mongeau’s words from only hours before echoed in her mind:
I’m afraid the exit wound does not lie.
•
Gabriel was neither awake nor asleep.
The darkness engulfed him. He was suffocating beneath its incalculable weight. And how tempting it was to succumb to that beckoning night … to allow the surrounding blackness to spirit him away forever. But within the abyss shone a faint ray of light.
No, not a light – a rather comforting warmth called out to him with equal reserve, beckoning him from the hands of a dark, eternal void.
It was an angel.
Gabriel had always laughed in the face of God – and yet he ached to believe.
Mesmerized and entranced, he focused on the divine spectacle that seemed to float above him. And what an immaculate spectacle it was. Appearing as no more than a halo within the limitless night, a crown of golden curls cushioned a porcelain complexion. A pale, oceanic gaze peered down at him. Curious emotion inflamed those enchanting eyes … an emotion he couldn’t begin to fathom. And lips, painted a devilish red, clashed against her china-doll face.
Gabriel withered in agony while the darkness fought for his soul. God’s teeth, how he ached for this night to end.
A gentle touch stroked his brow. “Shh, please … you mustn’t exert yourself, monsieur. All shall soon be well.” The words were soft and full of promise, each one spoken like a lullaby. And then she sang – and Gabriel swore he’d never heard a sweeter, more soothing sound.
“
The gentle breath of winter sings,
It cools my brow and furls my wings.
And when the dusk at last descends,
I shall keep my hope, steel my heart,
for never will thy love depart.
Now you are come all my grief has gone,
Let us forget those nights that never dawned.”
Warmth radiated around him, sheathing his body within a tender cocoon. His limbs relaxed of their own accord as he succumbed to the beckoning light.
His angel was much closer now. Heated exhales drifted across his battered features in fleeting caresses. Sweet scents flooded his nostrils and overwhelmed his senses … rosewater and nectar. A delicate hand rose into vision and rested across his forehead. The soft, supple flesh of her palm felt wondrously cool against his skin. He shuddered and leaned into the tentative caress.
“You are still very feverish.” The angel’s voice quavered with uncertainty. “Don’t worry, monsieur – and do not lose hope. I am here with you.”
He attempted to speak – but his voice emerged as nothing more than a choked groan. A moment later, a damp chill came over his forehead. A sigh of relief escaped him as the sweltering heat gradually faded away.
And then the darkness descended once more.
•
He was supposed to be dead.
Instead, he was very much alive. Very much alive and suffering from excruciating pain.
Gabriel’s consciousness had lapsed into a semi-aware state an hour earlier – something that was more of a curse than blessing.
Mon Dieu.
In all his life, he’d never experienced such pain. He craved a sturdy drink with nauseating intensity … anything to numb the reality of his fate. In a slow, deep burn, the pain blazed through his body with the force of a wildfire. The simple act of breathing burdened his lungs with unwelcome strain. His throat, chest, and face were plagued with mind-bending heat and discomfort. His joints screamed, his limbs were immobile, and each nerve trembled with agonizing pain. The horrors of the battlefield paled in comparison.
He could barely think. Could barely draw breath. Could barely bring anything to memory.
What
could
he last recall? What had brought him to this miserable fate? Had his mind left him entirely? That last thought intrigued him. Indeed, it held a twisted appeal. In a strange way, madness was a luxury. But he was far too lucid – too lucid and much too aware of himself to have succumbed to madness.
Unmerciful God, he wished for death.
With an irritated grunt, he lifted his face and battled to make sense of the foreign surroundings. Sweat trickled from his brow and blurred his vision as he struggled to sit up. It felt like sealing wax had fastened his eyes closed. He tried to concentrate on the room – on anything that might tell him where he was – but he saw duplicates of everything, and each object was superimposed over its counterpart.
How long had he been here? Hours? Days? Weeks?
Sunlight speared through the room’s sole window and slanted across his reclined form, caressing him with unwanted warmth. Vainly dodging the assault, Gabriel rolled onto his side and withered against the rock-hard mattress.
Mon Dieu,
even his bedroll put this contraption to shame. The plank creaked in objection, bending under the massive weight of his body. The subtle noise seemed to slam against his brain and award him with a blinding migraine. Frustrated, far too sore to draw breath, he squeezed both eyes shut, clutched onto either side of his face, and sagged deeper into the pillow. Linen – some sort of bandage – swathed his head.
Suddenly he remembered everything in vivid detail.
Standing before the River Seine. Clasping his flintlock pistol – a pistol that had been in his family for countless generations. Swallowing its barrel. Uttering a meaningless prayer. Deftly pulling the trigger …
Mixed into those memories was the recollection of a gentle, comforting touch … a sweet, warm voice … a faint ray of hope within the darkness … the impossible face of an angel …
Willing himself not to tremble, Gabriel fondled the linen – already aware of the unseen horror that lurked beneath. Two fingertips pried beneath the bandage. Rekindled pain speared through his body as the tender, gaping hole met his fingertip. Defeated, he groaned and dropped his hand back onto the coverlet. His fingers fisted the coarse material, and sweat welled in the curve of his palm.
It only took one touch. The despairing truth confirmed itself, and the epiphany was almost poetic.
Laughter bubbled inside Gabriel’s throat. He laughed until his stomach ached. He laughed until tears poured down his cheeks and dampened the bandages. Nausea overcame him as his sides grew sore from the force of his laughter. Stopping only to retch on the floorboards, he continued to laugh until those tears held no more mirth.
Really – the turn of events was all too fitting.
Now his face would match the tattered depths of his soul.
•
Two mornings later, Gabriel woke to a pair of bright blue eyes staring at him. They were wider than dinnerplates and filled with naked curiosity. Groaning in pain, he strained against the mattress and met the child’s sapphire stare. The agony had eased somewhat, though his face still felt raw – as if it had been cleaved open by a beetle hammer. He was rather lightheaded, too. A distinct, comforting warmth flowed through his veins and helped ease the anguish.
And then he saw it: a slender bottle, so beautiful and full of promise, sitting on the end table like a holy grail. Shafts of light filtered through the glass prism and set the rich, mahogany liquid aglow. Gabriel battled the desire to empty its contents down his throat.
His meandering thoughts were cropped short by the child’s voice. “Hullo, monsieur,” she said, ever the little lady. Her chin was inclined at a comically high slant, both hands tucked behind her back. And beside her lurked the ugliest mutt Gabriel had ever seen. The dog was a monstrous thing, its clumsy height nearly reaching the child’s shoulders. Even through the mist, Gabriel acknowledged that it was all gangly limbs and mottled fur. Towering next to the little girl, the thing looked more like a horse than a dog. Gabriel struggled to assess its breed, but only one word sprang to mind:
hideous
.
The girl sniffled and coughed, then inched forward until her knees pressed against the mattress. “What is your name?” Placing a dainty hand atop the creature’s massive head, she continued, “I am Emmaline – and this is Monsieur Oliver. You talk an awful lot in your sleep.”
“Where … where the hell am I?” Gabriel cringed at the harsh sound of his voice. It resembled an open wound. Muffled, raspy, and hoarse from disuse, he scarcely recognized it as his own. Each word grated against his throat. And the left corner of his lips felt numb. Strangely immobile.
His despair heightened at the realization. Half his mouth was paralyzed.
Bile rose inside his throat as he settled against the pillow. His eyelids grew heavy with fatigue. He surrendered and squeezed them shut, as if he might escape reality that way.
But there was nowhere left to hide.
“I said, you're in my maman's bedchamber.”
Gabriel’s eyes snapped open and then squinted against the blaring light. “Your … maman?” Golden ringlets slid over the child’s shoulders as she nodded. If she was frightened by him, she did a good job concealing her fear. In an unconscious movement, she snatched one of her curls and twisted it between her fingers. Gabriel straightened against the headboard, struggling to sit up. His vision was a blurry mess, and pain shackled him in place. The freedom he’d so recently sought had been nothing more than an illusion. Now he was a prisoner in every sense of the word. “I … I don’t understand. Your maman brought me here? From the Seine?”