CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT Attic in the lodge at Widow's Retreat, outside Pine Bluff's,

Wyoming Territory, the 1870s

He lay back, only half awake at best, against the pillows piled behind him, at the end of his cot, supporting him now. He lay, listening to her wonderfulvoice, letting himself keep on floating in the warm, consoling, comforting sound. He gingerly touched the cot and found it carried him and a mattress! He thought this might even be the much softer, much cleaner bed he'd lain on before, whenever before was.

No, before… that was when he'd been hurled into a grave-sized cell, when he'd been bound up like a bird for roasting, when he'd been left lying helpless on a gleaming wooden floor, when he'd been confined to a palette as rough, lumpy and foul as a half empty coal sack. Not only that, without knowing how, he was wearing a clean, decently long soft cotton nightshirt, over a clean, warm set of longjohns!

And that floating feeling, it suddenly seemed, came from a half formed memory of someone gently but firmly giving him a bath! He didn't know when was the last time that happened, and didn't know who'd done it.

His memory didn't seem to have those details, which failure suddenly made him blush from his neck to the roots of his hair! Someone had changed everything around him, including the taste of warm, good soup, without a trace of drugs, lingering in his mouth that he couldn't remember swallowing a bit! And he'd slept through it!

These days he wasn't sure where he'd woken up, where he or either cot he seemed to spend his life on might be. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, wherever there was. But he'd been a good half way out of his head with fever, sick and sore in every inch and joint and muscle. And most of the time, despite the icy-voiced, icy-eyed prosecutor's angry insistence, the sick man was too confused and shaken to be sure who he was now, or who he'd been, however, whenever, wherever he'd been… before.

He wasn't just sick. That much he knew. He was weary past exhaustion and more often than not profoundly shocked by his own weakness now. He sometimes feared he might be dying, might be abandoned here, empty-headed, empty hearted, and crazed with only nightmares of terror, of pain and remorse. He sometimes heartily wished this whole whopper-jawed, bollixed up time would just get over. But what might come next, since that had so often proved worse, held him back fiercely from asking for an end to it all.

As for what might be real or unreal all around him, that was yet another unsettled mystery. It seemed he was wrapped in gossamer, more than he was in cotton batting, just lately. It seemed he could barely see above or around him through that blurry fiber. But it didn't merely hide the world he thought he almost saw. It held him down and held him back, as if the hazy stuff weighted each of his weary limbs with lead, now.

He couldn't keep hold of anything, and nothing seemed able to hold him, not

caring, not ease, not terror or even pain. Nothing was fixed, nothing was certain anywhere around him. Nothing and no one seemed entirely real. He thought he might remember the chilling voice, and the warm one. He thought there might have been a pair of dark, glinting, stormy eyes and a pair of wide, silvery blueones gazing at him.

He thought the owners of those voices, and those eyes, might have touched him, brutally and softly, with hands he almost remembered. He thought their hands might have wielded only blows, sometimes, and at others, brought him nothing but ease. He just wasn't certain sure. And being unsure, the thoughts whirling in his drug and pain ridden mind left him afraid to ask, afraid to challenge, afraid to know what his reality might be.

Are you real? Are you really here with me? Were you ever with me before or did I just dream all of that? Could there be someone as lovely and kind and as caring as you, who wanted to, but couldn't always stay beside me? Could there be someone who warmed and sheltered me with only her silver, silken voice? Could there be anyone ever I loved this much and couldn't dare so much as reach for?

Was there someone … like you, ever before that I knew.. that I loved? Was there someone else, who couldn't stay, stay with me, either? Was there someone … with big grey eyes, sweet, rich, warm scents, and bright smiles and a soft, warm voice like yours who … seemed to … mebbee love me? He wanted very much to ask her and couldn't face the answers

Was she really back beside him, caring, smiling and reading? Had she returned despite his many awful failings, his numerous horrific deeds, and his countless truly heinous crimes? Could he bring up a real or false memory of her hand on his arm, on his forehead, or on his face again? Would the doom he knew awaited allow him just a few instants' benign make-believe? Could he at least hold her voice in his imagination a little while now? Could he just pretend to squint up and see her vivid, handsome face, her sad smile, and her amazing wide, bright, silvery eyes?

"See… " He rasped out, hoping she'd answer, if only in a fine fever-dream. Shuddering, he hardly dared to whisper. The nightmare's voice had all but

choked off his own, demanding he only respond as it ordered. "See your …

pretty … eyes?"

"Why thank you, Kind Sir. I've always been a bit vain on that subject. But in all honesty, I find yours quite nice, as well. They're like you, fine, bright and truly gentle. " The lady, whether real or imagined he hardly cared now, answered him, smiling again.

"This… This is … a good … dream." He thought aloud, using up most of his strength. "I … I like… it. 'm real … glad … t' see… you… wasn't sure… if I … would."

Now she seemed to prove herself just a 'good dream'. First she took his hand, squeezing it warmly. Then she ruffled his hair, still damp from his latest bout of fever. Then she just barely brushed a kiss onto his forehead, in a wonderfully, somehow heartbreakingly motherly fashion. And now she spoke to him directly, her silvery voice kindly reassuring him, again.

"But you may set that fear aside now, dear lad. I shan't leave you again. That, I most solemnly promise. Nor shall you suffer any further harm. That is my wholehearted, unconditional pledge."

Suddenly, sure he had to be dreaming her, the man on the clean, soft bed grasped at her hand with what small force he could muster. Time and again, just when he'd thought he just might be safe, just might be warmed and welcomed again, all that had vanished, all that had left him again, sickened, ashamed, chilled to his core and terribly afraid of what always followed.

He wasn't sure he could withstand another such reversal. He wasn't sure he would survive, or do so with anything left of his mind, his spirit or his senses, afterwards. He wasn't sure if she was real, or if she was, that she could, much less she should, forgive his terrible crimes, ever. More than that, the fear springing up like a dark fountain inside him declared, he'd destroyed so many hearts he held dear, he might destroy hers, even now! Hanging his head, dream or not, he had to tell her the nightmare truth. Gathering all his strength, he held onto her hand, and made the longest speech he could ever recall making.

" you… y' shouldn't… stay. 'm … crazed… 'm purely …crazy… He… He'll likely come on back, any time, now an' tell you… But … I … I … know what … what I … done… an' … druther die… I'druther just … die, than ever … hurt you! An'… I always… hurt worst… folks that I …love… An' … I … love you… an' that's … that's wrong … real wrong… of me, too."

" But I albeit very respectfully, must disagree, my dear, young friend." She answered, lifting his spirits, and gently lifting his chin with her fingers. "You see, first of all, I've been well and truly lost to myself, and my senses, for quiet a long time. And I've never seen you in the 'parish' I've dwelled in, not even once.

Secondly, the person to whom you refer, the craven wretch who's been tormenting you, is very much occupied with his own troubles, and likely will be for some while, now. I would add to that the plain fact that I shall believe nothing the dastard may say as regards you, my lad. I know the corrupt workings of his mind and the depths his genuine madness, and the bleakness of all his bitter lies.

These fears you have, my boy, all spring from that coward's deceptions, I promise. He declares the rest of the world dangerously mad, when it is he who hates, envies and lays waste wherever, however and to whomsoever he can! His own violent darkness is what he would tar you with, my dear. But I have come to know you very well, in our time together. So I can tell you without the least question, you are the polar opposite of our master prosecutor. You need have no further worry on his account.

I have set a close, constant watch on him as well. I will know the moment he thinks to approach us, So, now, you can rest, and you can take your ease. I've come to make certain of your safety. I've come to put an end to all that's harmed you, all that's hurt you, and all that's been done against you. You needn't, ever be afraid, now.

I've come to stop this nightmare, once and for all. And so I shall. Try not to be afraid, now, my boy.'' She told him, or at least he recalled her telling him that, at some time. "It will all end now… very soon, now. And I shall keep my promise to you. You will be safe and well, and home again quite soon, I swear it.

And lastly, as I said once before, whether you recall it or not, my dear lad; I find nothing wrong, nothing in the least in your honest affection. You've lifted my own spirits far more than you know. You've become quite dear to me, truly. Please, do try to rest. I'll be here, I promise. I'll go back to our reading, shall I, as it always seemed to help you? We'll go back to that last, sad, glorious chapter of Mr Dicken's'Tale'…"

"Please." 'the lad' nodded, tired out again. He wanted to lay and just bask in the warmth of her voice. He wanted to do whatever she asked. More than anything he wanted to believe her, to believe she was back, sitting beside him. With a weary sigh, nine parts relief, and one part worry for when his tormentor would come storming back, he tried to relax and explore a remarkably painless, fear-free nap. The lady's warm, silken voice, that had been gone for longer than the sick man could say was back, reading to him, reading something quiet and melancholy. He couldn't catch every one of the words she read. He was too tired for that. And he wasn't wholly sure that mattered to him. Her wondrous, caring, welcoming voice was back!

And that meant, the feverish, badly shaken man on the cot desperately hoped, she might have come back again, herself! Not being able to be sure of that, or anything else was his main worry, now. At least, that was the main worry he recollected having. Nothing stayed the same, no one stayed beside him for any length of time he could measure. No one came close enough for him to reach for, to see clearly, or to be sure of.

But it surely seemed she was still here. She was still reading quietly to him. And he loved the sound of her silvery, silken voice. She was still here. She didn't mind if he admitted he loved her. She said he lifted her spirits. She insisted the man he feared would come back and accuse him, come back and harm her, was the crazed one. She said she meant for the nightmare to end. What more could he ever ask?

'' Chapter XV The Footsteps Die Out Forever.''

Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine.

All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind. "

[ Charles Dickens, Chapter 15, A Tale of Two Cities]