Authors: Heather Bserani
Dorianna rose, one hand clutching the robe closed, the other cradling the box close to her. She stole to the living room and settled into the glow of a small lamp on a threadbare couch.
This corner of the living room was her favorite place in the house, her thinking spot. Clutching the box, her eyes swept the room that was cluttered with books and toys. It was no secret that there were two young girls living here. The doll house in the corner, a hand-me-down from a neighbor, normally claimed the center of the coffee table. In the weary predawn hours it was almost easy to see Layla and Dahlia perched in front of it, lost in imaginary play.
Dori sighed. She was only thirty-three, but tonight she felt old. Returning her attention to the box in her hands, she opened the lid once more. The smell of cedar comforted her as she looked over the contents of the box. These were the treasured pieces of her life and she was embarrassed that they fit in such a small container. She found the thin stack of photos she had been searching for after running her fingertips across a few dried flowers, two intertwined hospital bracelets and some dog-eared letters.
Three teenagers grinned at her from the photo on the top. They were dressed in costumes reminiscent of the 1950s and wore heavy stage makeup. The photo of her and her two best friends was taken moments after the dress rehearsal.
Dorianna cupped the image as if it were the first delicate flower of spring. Tilting her head, she allowed the memory to replay in her mind. She heard the cadence of an adagio and could smell the familiar scent of worn leather and sweat. They were performing that evening for representatives from some of the most reputable companies in the country. She could still hear the accent in Madame Petrovsky’s voice as she proclaimed, “This could be the night that determines the rest of your lives!”
Ironically, that evening did hold Dori’s defining moment. She led the company brilliantly, executing each move with magical precision. But in an instant of bad timing, or perhaps a case of jangling nerves, her partner’s hands failed to catch her as she transitioned from a
jeté entrelacé
into the
poisson
. She underwent three surgeries on her shattered knee before she was able to walk again. Dancing, however, was out of the question, and her helium balloon dreams began to pop, one by one, falling to the ground with leaden thuds.
The next few photos were of Dorianna in college and some random shots of the year she spent studying abroad. She skimmed through them quickly like slides in a projector: standing next to the Arc de Triomphe, visiting Monet’s garden at Giverny, posing at the entrance to the Place de la Bastille. It was heady and exotic. These memories made her feel rare and special.
Next were several black and white photos of Amir with his prized Arabian horses, Latif and Rema, surrounded by an admiring crowd. She had fancied him handsome back then, and adventurous like Harrison Ford playing Indiana Jones. Having emigrated from Lebanon, his speech still carried the guttural accent of his native tongue. Amir loved to tell her stories of his life with the Bedouin tribes. She spied a photo of him and his family in the old country. He had given her this when their relationship was still young; when she found even the most minute detail of his life intriguing. She remembered him pointing out all of the people and pausing when he got to his uncle. The story echoed in her mind as she stared at the grainy image.
“This is my Amo, Youseph.” His accent charged the story with mystery. “Shortly after this was taken, my aunt and cousin died in an accident. He took it very hard. Time passed, but he never began to heal. We found out later he went to live in a monastery.”
“He became a monk?”
“No. People who are grieving can go to a place called Sed Naya. The virgin appeared to a weary man there. She healed his old bones and nourished his muscles so he could continue his pilgrimage. The monks chose to erect a holy building there and open it to those who are searching for peace. Although we hoped spending time in such a Holy place could heal my Amo, he withdrew completely. We never heard from him again.”
Dori missed the days when they would sit together and tell stories. It seemed like a different lifetime when they would stay up late at night while he sang her Arabic songs. At the time she’d considered him mature. These days she just thought hiust thohim old.
A tear fell on her thumb, threatening to erase a fragment of the photo she still cradled in her hands. She glanced around the room, embarrassed, making sure she hadn’t been discovered. Amir stumbled into the room as she fought to regain control of her emotions. She realized too late that his snoring had ceased several minutes ago. She closed the box and wiped the tears from her cheeks, praying he hadn’t noticed. One look at his face and she knew he had.
“Come back to bed - it’s late,” he said. He stared at her expectantly, his eyes heavy with his own dreams. After an eternity without a response, he retreated to the bedroom shaking his head and mumbling in Arabic.
Dori exhaled slowly and waited for the telltale snores to begin again. She began to count her heartbeats. Long after she reached one hundred, she heard Amir stirring again from the bedroom.
“Coming,” she mumbled to herself. She placed each of the treasures inside the box and delivered it to its place in the hall closet. Before going back to bed, she decided to check in on the girls.
Dahlia was wedged into the corner of her crib. This was how she slept, her eyes shut tightly against the world, pudgy cheeks perfect in the dim glow of the nightlight. Normally busy, her hands rested in gentle repose and even her wild dark curls relaxed against the pillowcase. Dorianna pulled the blanket up, tucking her in again. One sleeping hand began searching for a favorite toy and Dori tucked Lovey Bear back under her arm. Dahlia relaxed immediately and began sucking on her pacifier. After a quick kiss, Dori headed to her older daughter’s room.
Layla’s cotton-candy-pink room was next. Pink was more than her favorite color; to her, it was the only color. She adored her pink carpeting, pink curtains and bedding, pink princess dresses to play make-believe. Dorianna sighed and approached her bed. She needn’t worry about waking this one up; she’d sleep through an earthquake. Dorianna hefted her three year old back up onto the pillow and brushed her curly blond locks from her face. As Dori leaned over to kiss her, Layla gave voice to the dream she was experiencing.
“I like you, Mommy,” she mumbled. “I like you and I love you and I love you and I like you.”
Dori had loved that phrase from the first time Layla had uttered it and it had become a special part of their nightly ritual. Her heart warmed and she repeated the phrase to her sleeping daughter.
“Sleep now, my angel,” she added softly and left the room.
The warmth lingered only briefly as she climbed into bed. Amir did not stir. There was a time when the slightest movement on her part would cause him to turn over and throw a protective arm about her. She missed that. She began drawing a mental list of all the chores she needed to complete the following day while waiting for sleep to find her. Outside, a lonely howl pierced the silence of the night.
“Shut up and stay away from the horses,” Dori mumbled.
A second coyote responded, but this one was much nearer to the house. Dori hugged the blankets closer to her chin. She’d grown up in a predominately urban area and while this house was home to Amir, the forest lining the horsthaing thee paddocks had always left her unsettled. It was beautiful, to be sure, but frightening and wild. She had once promised Amir that she would live in a tent in the desert if that was what it took to make him happy. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Tomorrow will be better
, she promised herself. It just had to be! She longed for something that would make her feel confident and alive again. She didn’t know what that something might be but she wanted it badly. She wanted it like she wanted air. She lay awake long into the night, listening to the howls, only briefly finding the sleep she had been searching for.
Chapter Two
November 23, 1597
Great was the mysterie surrounding Mr. Barwicke
’
s disappearance
,
as there had been no sign of escape. We simply awoke to find the shakles emptie. One thing was known for certain, survival outside of the campe with winter closing in was most impossible. A small service was held in his memorie and his name was added to the growing list of the dead.
The morose atmosphere among the colonists has become even more sombre. We busy ourselves preparing the campe for winter and keeping watch on the natives surveying us. They haven
’
t made contact, preferring to sit astride wilde ponies and watch us scurrying about our tasks. The remaining children fantasize them to be great warriors; the women do not imagine them so heroic.
A fewe evenings ago they approached our settlement whilst everyone slept. I could hear the staccato rhythm of their ponies
’
hooves mixed with guttural syllables of a language I didn
’
t understand. They rode round our settlement crying out toward the heavens. Their voices rose and it seemed as if they were trying to invoke one of their pagan gods. At the crescendo of their ceremony a hollow scream pierced the aire and made the hair on my neck stand. Shouts rose anew and their horses raced around most frantically before galloping away. The silence that followed yielded its own terror and it were impossible to find sleepe again that eve. At dawn, I and four others went out to check the walls of the campe. We found them untouched but the ground were tore open as if the ponies were fleeing Satan himself. At the rear of the camp, closest to the sleeping quarters, we came upon a dried pool of bloode.
We have taken to a rotating watch after darke. I was beginning to think we would not have any more problems, for it seemed the natives had moved on, but this very morne something terrible came to passe.
When the nighte watchman failed to report, Isaac went to his poste. That
’
s when a scream was heard across the campe. They found the watchman sprawled on the floor with his throat ripped out. He was my brother.
* * *
Niccolo’s throat was tight. He’d been running for over a century noit yw, and he was tired of it. He’d fled into the night back then, only narrowly escaping execution, though his crime had been unintentional. He was bitterly alone: any family he’d ever had, gone long ago. He tempered loneliness by living in cities bursting with life: London, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, Johannesburg, Rio.
This place was temporary too. A few years here and then he planned to head south. He enjoyed the crisp temperatures and busy life of the north, but the south with its thick humidity and orange-blossom scented air were much closer to his native Italy.
In the meantime, he’d keep searching for an answer. How was he to stop creatures that made death look like a good meal and a warm bed?
Chapter Three
The sound of horses munching their morning hay was balm to Dori’s wounds. She turned out the last of the brood mares and set off toward the gelding barn, checking fence lines as she approached the lower building. She rubbed her chapped hands, trying to warm them.
The horses welcomed her with knickers as her footsteps crunched on the gravel path. A sliver of the sun appeared on the horizon reminding her that the day was fleeting and her list of chores was endless.
“Here you go, Merjan. Here’s yours, Dawar. Easy Sultan, yours is coming.” Dori went down the aisle dumping grain and smiling as each horse’s crunching was added to the chorus. By the time she finished the aisle, the first horses were ready to go out. Leading them four at a time, she soon had all of them grazing in the sunshine.
The morning routine was as rushed as always. Switching roles, Dori headed back toward the main house where she did her best to keep the children quiet and let her husband recoup some of his much needed rest. It didn’t take long to get them dressed, bundled and off to the sitter’s house. Before she knew it, she was kissing them goodbye for the day and heading back home.
Once back at the farm, Dori donned her boots again and joined the farm hands who were busy mucking the hundred plus stalls that made up Whispering Brook Farm. Eventually only one stall remained. The farmhands took off their gloves; they weren’t allowed in with Latif.
“Ralph, will you throw him a flake of hay?” The middle-aged man headed off toward the stallion run with an armful of hay. From the depth of the shadows Latif snorted his warning, followed with a sharp kick that left the stall door rattling in its track. He lunged at the metal bars of his stall with his ears pinned back and snapping his teeth.
“Knock it off, Latif,” she said firmly. “Joe, go around back and get ready to shut the turn-out door. Bring the whip with you.”
“On it.”
Latif’s ears pricked up in attention as he watched Joe leave and heard him circling the barn. With a groan, he erupted, flailing, kicking, bucking, throwing himself against the wall. He stopped as abruptly as he started, facing Dori, peering into her eyes, challenging. Dori held her breath.