Hey there! So, here´s the very last piece of the puzzle. This prologue goes to all of you who have been following and commenting this story. THANK YOU!
Prologue
The feet of the other man paced up and down the wooden boards, making them squeak and sigh with every step. They had become increasingly restless with the passing hours and were now stepping in rhythm to the ticks and tacks of the old grandfather clock in the opposite corner of the room.
He watched them move across the floor for a while, his eyes forgetting to blink. Perhaps, there wasn't even a man in those leather boots anymore, they were just stomping away all by themselves… The ridiculous absurdity of the thought struck him, and he averted his eyes from the moving boots with a grunt, seeking out the legs, then the rest of the man. Through the blur of his gaze, his elder brother looked dark and out of focus, a nearly inhuman shape floating through the room with only his close-cropped black hair and artfully twisted moustache distinguishing him from the shades in the corners. He was wearing a dark grey pinstriped suit, and the golden chain of a pocket watch was dangling on the front of his vest. No, he seemed definitely human with his sloping shoulders and the beginning of a small beer belly, he decided after a closer inspection.
The man with the moustache stopped in his tracks and turned abruptly towards him.
"Huh?" he said nervously, lifting his bushy black eyebrows, "You said somethin'?"
He shook his head in a silent response. He must have looked unusually contemplative to provoke his brother's question. In reality, he was just downright drunk.
A lightning split the darkness outside the window, and the deep sound of the ensuing thunder rolled across the troubled air. Grains of sand were thrust against the windows by the savagely whirling wind, and the rafters of the house were complaining loudly under the pressure of the desert storm. The weather had been the same for two days now, making it impossible for the inhabitants of the ranch to leave the house, even for the short walk to the stables to feed the horses.
The room was a study equipped with only the most necessary pieces of furniture: a writing desk, some chairs and a large book case with volumes of accountant's notes. The carpets were still rolled up along one of the recently finished walls, and the only light came from a couple of gas flames flickering slightly in the draft from the window. As the kitchen and the hall were occupied by two anxiously scurrying maids and a stern old cooking wife, the two men had confined themselves to this room in order not to be underfoot.
The blast of the thunder was followed immediately by a shrill shriek from the woman upstairs. It came sharply and suddenly, echoing through the house and competing with the howling wind overhead. Like the storm, the noisy labor of the woman had continued for two days, her moaning rising and falling with the flow of her contractions.
The two brothers looked into each other's eyes, the one man's pupils bright and dilated with the wild fear of a caged animal; the other's clouded by the veil of drunken indifference. For a moment, they both looked at the other without recognition. Then, they looked away, confused and ashamed.
The shriek of the woman died away as suddenly as it had come. A few minutes later, hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the glimpse of a flushed maid with a large bundle of bloodied sheets in her arms flashed past the door of the room where the two men were waiting. He just lifted his head lazily to look after her, but his brother paced quickly to the door.
"Is she…? Will she be…?" the man called after the maid, his voice filled with anxiety, "D'you think she'll make it?"
"I don't know, sir," the maid panted, running up the stairs again with a load of clean sheets in her arms, "I'm sorry, sir."
The father-to-be pulled a curled-up and heavily used handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and wiped his shiny forehead with a shaking hand. Then, he resumed his march around the room to the rhythm of the clock.
His little brother rubbed his eyes with two fingers and tried to conceal a yawn. For 48 hours, none of them had had a proper sleep. He would have taken a walk, too, to keep himself awake, but he wasn't sure he could stand on his feet anymore. Instead, he bent forward, and after some rummaging under his chair, he managed to find the one of the three bottles that still had an inch of rum on the bottom.
"Don't you think you've had your fill already?!" the other man snapped in an audibly annoyed tone, turning on him with contracted eyebrows.
He sent him a sideway glance and uncorked the bottle with his teeth. Then, he spat out the cork, put the bottle to his mouth and took a long, slow drag, letting the liquid run down his stubbly chin.
"I'll quit drinkin' when you quit pacin' up'n'down," he slurred finally, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his Union Army jacket, "Them damn squeakin' boards get on a man's nerves."
His elder brother sighed and waved a dismissive hand at him. He tumbled down into a leather-padded chair at his writing desk with his back to his little brother, and his fingers started to tap the surface of the desk.
"If the storm would just settle a little," the elder man started, unable to contain his anxiety any longer, "we could send for a doctor."
He sent the father-to-be another short glance, but didn't comment. He had heard that sentence at least a dozen times in the past hours. Not that it made any difference to the savage winds howling outside and the woman wailing for her life in the upstairs chamber. He should have been on his way to the camp by now to fight along his army comrades, but instead fate and circumstance had trapped him in this nightmare. He had tried to drown his foul mood in the caramel-colored liquor, but now it washed over him again with full force.
"D'ya know what the Apache use to say?" he asked maliciously, turning to his elder brother, "That a child born durin' a desert storm is fathered by Death himself."
Instantly, the other man jumped to his feet, his face flushed with anger now. He paced quickly up to his little brother and pointed a trembling finger right between his greyish blue eyes.
"Shut up!" he hissed, his breath ragged in his throat, "You just shut the fuck up, or I'll…!"
Another agitated scream from the woman filled the house and was followed by a profound and somehow unnatural silence. For a moment, only the whining rafters and the grit against the windows could be heard. Then suddenly, the silence was broken by the cry of a baby, low and tentative at first, but rapidly gaining volume and intensity.
He looked up at the other man, whose expression turned from murderous rage to comical surprise, and his thin lips curled back in a smug smile revealing two flawless rows of yellowish teeth. He leaned back on the wooden chair and stretched his long legs in front of him, while his brother rushed up the stairs to the birthing chamber, taking two steps at a time.
"Here's to ya, little stranger," he slurred to himself, emptying the bottle with one last gulp, and rose awkwardly to follow suit.
As he swayed into the upstairs chamber, his brother had already laid the babe back onto its mother's chest. He blinked, trying to clear his rum-clouded sight.
The room was small and just as unfinished as the study below. It was almost filled up by a large bed in the middle and a small table next to it in one of the dark corners. A solitary oil lamp was hanging from the ceiling, filling the chamber with a dull light. In the corner closest to the door, a large heap of towels and sheets – once immaculately white, but now drenched with blood – bore evidence to the battle which had finally come to an end. The bed was occupied by the frail body of the woman, her smooth skin as pale as the linen of the bed. Her auburn hair lay floating in sweat-streaked locks around her face which was marked with fatigue after her long struggle. Only her half-closed dark eyes and soft breathing bore witness to the life still pulsing within.
The sight of the woman recalled his memory of bright lights, merry music and sparkling tears running down an otherwise hazy female face – a wedding feast he wished he could somehow forget. Now, it flashed through his mind, sharp and clear as if it had been yesterday though it had been nine months ago. He averted his eyes quickly form his brother's wife and looked around at the others. The two maids were standing silently along the walls, their sleeves pulled up to their elbows and their faces dirty and sweaty. His brother looked at him, an unmistakable sign of disappointment in his brown eyes.
"It's a girl," he said, his voice icy with resignation, "It's a girl…"
He sauntered closer to the bed on insecure legs and looked down at the mother and child. The baby was a silent lump of pink flesh with a bunch of soft wet hair on top of its tiny head. It was lying immobile, nestled at the chest of its exhausted mother – a human being in the making, small, exposed and insignificant. His brother watched silently from behind his mask of resignation, but the woman made a frail attempt to reach for the child as he took it into his arms. She uttered a whimper and a sound which might have been a 'no', her face contorting with her nearly imperceptible protest.
The baby moved slightly as he laid it to his chest. Its little body felt warm and soft to the rough skin of his hands. Its face was round and blushing with soft red lips and small curled ears. He had never held a babe before. Perhaps he was holding it too tightly? It blinked and looked at him, almost inquisitively. Unlike his own, the eyes of the child were warm, dark and trusting, and it seemed to him as if they were sucking in his gaze like two black tunnels.
"Hey, little stranger," he whispered, a broad smile spreading across his face, "Welcome."
Outside the house, the storm carried on its attack on the buildings with undiminished force. The maids shifted uneasily, looking down at their feet, and the woman on the bed started to cry softly.