Calling the Wind
Part Two
The Journey Begins
More than five hours later, the plane was on the ground, Amy and Edge had gone through customs, and they were in a rental car, headed for the small village where Angela was born more than ninety years earlier. Edge continued to cradle the urn holding his friend's ashes against his chest. He wondered briefly at Amy, and how she still refused to tell him how she knew so much about the brothers.
He realized early in Angela's tale that she was Neda's unborn child. The way she spoke of Neda, telling him that she would have made a good mother. But Edge couldn't figure out what Amy's involvement was in the family. She told him that she was, in a manner of speaking, Angela's great-niece. He stopped and thought about that. Then he looked at his companion as they drove the roads of Macedonia.
Blonde haired and blue eyed. She had Luke's coloring, he realized for the first time, and she knew stories that Angela never told him. It was possible, of course, that she wasn't telling him the truth. But he didn't think so. She told him of journals and letters, and Edge asked slowly, "You're a member of Luke's family, aren't you? That's how you know so much about him?"
Amy smiled, as if to say, 'I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out.' She nodded, keeping her eyes on the road, and replied, "He was my great-grandfather. My parents died when I was fourteen. . .the same age Luke was when he lost his mother. . .and I was raised by my grandmother, Luke's middle daughter. Gramma Faye used to tell me that she saw her father every time she looked into my eyes. I guess I grew up, feeling like I had a connection to Luke."
"No shit? Your gramma was Luke's daughter?" Edge questioned in amazement. Amy nodded once more, her grin widening, and Edge sat back. He said after a moment, "Daaaaaaaamn! Guess that explains a lot. Including your comment that Angela was your great-aunt, in a manner of speaking. So, did you know Angela while you were growin' up, since she was your gramma's sister?"
"No, not really," Amy said a bit reluctantly, "the truth is, Gramma Faye and Angela had a terrible falling out in the 1920's. Actually, Angela fell out with the rest of the family. Most of the family eventually forgave her. . .Gramma Faye was the only hold out." She flashed him a rueful smile, adding, "Gramma Faye was her father's daughter in more ways than one."
Edge decided not to ask about that. Instead, as they drove along, he chose to ask about the events of nearly a century ago. He wondered how different it was then, for a still weak mercenary and a brittle widow traveling with a small child, and asked, "So, you were gonna tell me more about Luke and Juliet. . .him harassing her for entertainment purposes, once he could stay awake for any length of time."
Amy sighed, blowing her hair out of her eyes, and answered, "Yeah, he did. None of us really know why he did it. The prevailing theory is, he didn't remember what he was told when he first woke up. He could be mean, but tended not to be deliberately cruel. Tended. And as protective of her as he became later, it makes more sense. Plus, he lost a lot of blood. . .he was lucky to focus on one thing for any amount of time."
"People don't always make sense," Edge murmured, thinking of his own life. Amy nodded her agreement, and the young man continued, "But that still don't answer my question. Even if your family's theory is right. . .why would he hassle her for entertainment? I mean, that's like poking a rattler, ain't it?" That was the best way he could put it, and seemed to fit the general theme of the story.
"Not exactly. Juliet was very quiet, remember? She had no trouble getting under his skin. He was returning the favor. Luke made the same mistake a lot of people make when they're dealing with a quiet person. . .they think they're dealing with someone who will give into a minor eruption, then move on. That's not the way it works. When Luke finally pushed Juliet too far, he got a Mount St Helens eruption," Amy replied. Edge frowned. He knew what Mount St Helens was. . .barely. He was pretty little when it erupted back in the early '80's.
Amy was nice enough to elaborate, saying, "When Luke finally pushed Juliet too far, it wasn't just her frustration with his remarks that came to the surface. It was everything she held in during the last three years. Phaedra and others commented that Juliet surrounded herself with a wall of ice. She suppressed her anger. . .her anger with the mercenaries who killed her husband and child, her anger with her husband, for taking them to Macedonia in the first place, anger with herself. . ."
Edge could not let that pass. He blurted out, "Whoa! What do you mean, anger with herself? She didn't do nothing wrong! She was just an innocent victim, she didn't deserve none of that shit that happened to her!" Amy smiled sadly, glancing in her rear view ever so often. Just to be safe, he guessed. This was Edge's first time out of the country. He didn't know what to expect.
"She blamed herself, though. She blamed herself for not stopping the mercenaries from raping her. She blamed herself for not telling her husband more emphatically that she didn't want to go to Macedonia. She blamed herself for not protecting her little girl. She named her daughter in her heart, did I mention that? She did. Her daughter would have been named after Juliet's mother, Abigail. Was any of it her fault? Of course not. But she blamed herself anyhow. . ." Amy explained.
. . .
Macedonia, 1903. . .two months after Neda's deathHe was bored.
He was beyond bored.
For the last seven weeks. . .Luke kept track of them in his head. . .he did little but eat and sleep. That wouldn't have been so bad, if it weren't for the dreams. Every damn night over the last two months, he had the same goddamn dream. The day he came to free Neda and killed her instead. Except this time, the baby died, too. Too many mornings, he awoke with tears on his cheeks.
Phaedra and Sophronia seemed to sense when these mornings would be the worst, because they always swept into the sickroom, bearing Angela in their arms. Not that this helped in the beginning. Luke couldn't stop shaking the first time he held the baby. She was so tiny, and his arms were still so weak. He was terrified he would drop her on her head, or worse. Luke grimaced when that thought crossed his mind, as it inevitably brought back memories of his father, or rather, of his step-father.
Even now, fifteen years after learning the truth, it was hard to remember that the man who raised him for his first five years wasn't really his father. Then he would think about seeing the bruises on his mother's face, and the tears running down her cheeks when she took him and Elijah away for good, and it wasn't so hard to forget after all. Luke could have forgiven him for smacking him around, and telling him that he thought his mother must have dropped him on his head when he was a baby.
But he couldn't forgive him for hurting his mother. Any more than he could forgive his birth father for abandoning him and his mother. For most of his life, Luke only loved two people. . .his mother and his brother. His mother left him (why he didn't hate her for that never even crossed his mind) and his brother. . . Elijah. Luke closed his eyes, sinking back against his pillows.
Elijah. Lilith. Elijah's question about the baby Lilith carried when she drowned herself. Sarah. Stop it, he thought, stop, stop, stop! But the questions just wouldn't leave him be. It was like this for the last seven weeks. His body didn't finish recovering the last time, before his departure, and now he was paying for it. He barely remembered being taken to Neda's grave, to say good-bye.
And he would have denied it with his dying breath, if someone told him that he wept like a child over the new grave. He didn't remember it. He didn't want to remember it. It was so much easier, before. Before he almost died, before Neda saved his life, and there were times when he hated Juliet Walker with a passion for taking up that rifle. That emptiness in his chest got worse, and he had no idea how to fill it.
Most of the time, he hadn't the energy to fight with people. Besides, the villagers didn't want to fight with him. He was still recovering, and for some godforsaken reason, they seemed to see him as a hero. Him, a hero? That was a bunch of bullshit. He didn't do it for them, why didn't they understand that? He came back for Neda, and only Neda. And he couldn't even do that right!
Juliet Walker was the only one who seemed to see Luke as he really was, and the only one who would probably have fought with him. And she seemed to think he wasn't worth her time. Oh, she came into the house sometimes, quiet as a ghost, her skirt sweeping the floor. But she barely even looked at him. She didn't need to. He could feel her anger and resentment. He wasn't particularly sensitive, but it wasn't necessary. Her hatred of him was so strong, it was almost a living thing.
Over the last few days, as his body grew stronger, he began needling her whenever she entered the house. Not with Angela, though. The baby seemed to know what was going on, and she would start crying. Luke couldn't handle it when she cried. Her sobs sounded too much like her mother after. . . He just couldn't. . . If Angela cried, Luke held on until they left the house, then wept into his pillow where no one could see him. Where no one would think less of him, because they didn't see how weak he was.
In Luke's world, weakness meant death. He wasn't sure he wanted to live, but he also wasn't ready to die. He wasn't ready for this new world and its new technology. But his fever dreams after Neda found him reminded him that he didn't know what would happen to him after he died. The memory of his little brother, now an old man, passing right through him caused a chill in his soul.
Just as the words of the woman caused a chill in his soul. The woman, Elijah's daughter. Lilith told him that he knew her as a baby. 'Luke's been dead for forty years.' That was enough of a shock. . .but when Elijah passed through him, then collapsed. . . It scared Luke. When he was a little boy, his mother read to him from a story called 'A Christmas Carol.' One of the things that stayed with Luke, even after he reached adulthood, was the Ghost of Christmas Future. A warning to Ebenezer Scrooge of what might be, in the future.
Luke was still a young man, but even so, that Ghost of Christmas Future haunted him. Trouble was, he didn't know how or what he was supposed to do. He was thirty years old, and he knew no other way of life. While he was with the mercenaries, trying to track down the Teacher, he felt like he belonged somewhere. Now, he belonged to no one, he belonged nowhere, and dammit, it made him angry!
Seven weeks of doing nothing but thinking, seven weeks of being utterly helpless, seven weeks of seeing the evidence of his worst failure, can take its toll on the most patient and gentle of men. Luke was not patient, and he did not think of himself of having any gentleness. He was growing more and more frustrated, and he longed for someone, anyone, to give him a reason to let go.
He wasn't strong enough to hold a gun (something else that frustrated him to no end), so shooting someone was out of the question. However, Luke always had a formidable temper, even when he was very young. And as Juliet Walker entered the house, her arms blessedly empty of Angela, she cast him a disdainful glance. Luke welcomed the rush of fury that such glances always brought him.
"What the hell do ya think yer lookin' at!" he barked, annoyed that his voice wasn't as harsh as it should have been. Juliet just favored him with another disgusted glance and turned away as she went into one of the other rooms. It happened every single time. She looked at him as though he was the lowest form of life on the planet, he called her on it, and she would walk away as if he weren't worth her time.
Not this time, dammit! Luke cringed as he called, "Dammit, turn around and look at me! You think you're so much better than me, well, time for you to prove it!" Oh, that hurt. He wasn't used to straining his voice like that. He received a second disgusted look as she came back through, which further infuriated him. Was it the disgust in her eyes, or the fact that he didn't seem to scare her?
Are you in any condition to frighten her, the reasonable part of him asked, when you can barely lift your hand, much less shoot? She has no reason to be afraid of you, and she knows it. Luke, however, didn't want to be reasonable. He wanted to lash out, he wanted to fill the empty space in his chest, he wanted someone else to hurt the way he was hurting right now.
Unfortunately, he never stopped to consider the consequences, not when a barely-remembered piece of information floated through his brain. He spat, "Ya ain't any better than me. Hell, at least I'm honest about what I am and what I ain't! Yer husband musta been glad to get away from ya, even if it did take dyin.' And. . ." He got no further, because Juliet spun around and slapped him so hard, Luke was sure she would leave a bruise. He had no time to think about that, however.
Because only a second later, Juliet was pointing his own gun in his face. She drew back the hammer and hissed, "If you ever mention my husband again, so help me God, I will blow your brains out, what few you have! You aren't fit to mention his name. Whatever else Bruce did wrong, he would have never shot a pregnant woman. . .much less a woman who put herself, and her people, at risk, to save him!"
Luke went cold at the mention of Neda. Juliet whispered, her eyes flashing with fury, "She should have left you to die on that mountain, because God knows, her life was worth a helluva lot more than yours! She took care of people, and you take lives! I knew. . .I knew, the day she brought you here that you would be trouble. And I was right. You got her killed! You and your stupidity, you and your carelessness!"
She was trembling, her hand shaking so badly, Luke was worried that she would shoot him anyhow. The trouble was, she was right. She was saying nothing he hadn't said to himself many times over the last seven weeks. She was saying the same words which lingered, unspoken, between them in that time. Luke swallowed hard, not even trying for a cocky smirk, as he replied hoarsely, "Well now, Missus Walker. . .looks like you and I actually agree on somethin.' Ya ain't tellin' me nothin' I don't already know."
She stared at him for a long time, then put the safety back on his gun, and put it back on the table where she found it. She stared at him a moment longer, then walked out of the house, still shaking. Luke sank back against his pillows once more, discovering much to his chagrin that Juliet wasn't the only one shaking. So was he. He pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes, trying to regain control.
. . .
He wasn't the only one trying to regain control of runaway emotions. What just happened to her? Juliet stumbled from the house, trembling from head to toe. For weeks, as the mercenary gained in strength, he began needling her. She ignored him in the beginning, because if she reacted, she would just give him what he wanted. And above all else, she didn't want to do that. So what changed?
He brought up Bruce. He never did that before. Always in the past, he made his smart-ass remarks, but he never brought up her husband. Never before did he hit that vulnerable spot. She knew that Phaedra and Sophronia mentioned her husband and child to him, but until today, she thought he forgot about it. She remembered her own recovery, how she had blank spaces in her memory while she was healing.
God, what was she thinking. . .finding even a little common ground with him! Oh, but you do have common ground, whispered that annoying voice that made her utterly insane with frustration, you have both killed. You're both strangers in this land. And he said himself that he blames himself for Neda's death. . .just as you do. You blame yourself just as much as you blame him.
That wasn't true. However, she couldn't fool herself, not for long. She could trick the mercenary into thinking she held only him responsible for her friend's death. But she knew better. He fired the shot that ultimately claimed Neda's life, but he wasn't the only one responsible. She blamed herself for not being braver, she blamed the mercenary, she blamed the damned Major, she blamed the soldiers, and if she was truly honest, she would admit that she also blamed the Teacher.
It was just. . .so much easier to blame the mercenary. He was trying to save Neda, the rational part of Juliet knew that. He was trying to save her and the baby. But that bastard separated them. Why didn't he just let Neda go? Because she was the Teacher's wife? Because she was young and beautiful? Because it stuck in his craw that an American got the better of him?
She was so lost in her thoughts, she never realized where she was walking until she found herself in front of the fresh grave that marked Neda's body. Juliet gave an anguished little whimper, falling to her knees beside her friend's grave. She ran her hand over the cross bearing Neda's name and whispered, "Help me, Neda. He brings out the worst in me without even trying. I only have to look at him, and. . ."
And her mind filled with carnal images that no well-bred lady was supposed to entertain. Carnal images that never crossed her mind while she was married to Bruce, much less when he was exercising his conjugal rights. Juliet rested her head on the cross, trying to block out those images. She told her friend's grave, "Sophronia and Phaedra tell me that I'm not committing a sin, by desiring him. That I'm not betraying you or my husband, or my Abigail. I'm not so sure, Neda."
She wiped at her tears half-heartedly, sighing, "And I am angry with him. He should have taken you with him. He. . .I know it wasn't practical. You were heavily pregnant, due any day, and. . . I KNOW! But I can't help the way I feel. You. . .you should be here with us, not lying in the ground. You should be nursing Angela, and watching her grow. You were my best friend, Neda, and I shouldn't be attracted to the man who killed you!"
"You were attracted to him long before I left this world, sister. . .why should that change now?" a soft voice asked. Juliet froze. She knew that voice. It was silent for two months now, but she was hearing it now. Slowly, oh so slowly, she raised her eyes. . .to find Neda smiling at her almost impishly. The smile widened, and Neda continued, "Did you truly think I would abandon those whom I love most?"
Juliet couldn't speak. Couldn't seem to find her voice, and Neda went on, "I have watched you, all this time. I have felt your grief and guilt, just as I have felt Luke's. I have watched you struggle between fury and logic. Your mind tells you that I would not have survived my daughter's birth for much longer, no matter what happened. If Luke took me with him, as my husband's father requested, I would have died on the journey. If he did not come back for me, the soldiers would have killed me. And even if his shot did not strike me, I would have died. It was my fate, dearest Juliet."
The American woman was already shaking her head. No, she couldn't accept that! She would never accept that, she didn't believe in fate. Neda continued, ignoring Juliet's fierce denial, "Meanwhile, your heart refuses to forgive. You cannot forgive yourself, and so, you cannot forgive Luke. You cannot allow yourself to see. . .cannot allow yourself to lower your defenses, because if you do. . ."
"It will destroy me. I will not allow him to hurt me, Neda. He won't hurt me, he won't let me down, he won't disappoint me, because I won't let him!" Juliet hissed. Neda just looked at her, almost sadly. And that made a queer sort of sense. Neda had faith in him. Juliet didn't. Juliet couldn't. Trust was earned, as was loyalty, as was respect, and he had no interest in any of those three.
"He is not your husband, Juliet. He has more honor than your husband did, though he fought for gold. What is his, he protects, with his dying breath if necessary. You did not see him claim me before the soldiers, before the Major, but he did. He will claim you, if you give him the chance. . .or is that what frightens you? Being claimed? Your husband never claimed you. He didn't fight for you," Neda replied.
Juliet looked away, trying desperately to shut out her friend's words. She didn't want to hear this. She was a woman of the enlightened twentieth century. She didn't believe in this idea of claiming or being claimed! It was something out of the Dark Ages! Unfortunately, Neda wasn't finished. She went on calmly, inexorably, "He will claim you, when he is certain he can trust you. And you have already claimed him."
Juliet's head jerked back around at this comment, and Neda smiled faintly. She continued, "You have already claimed him. You claimed him the moment you picked up that rifle and fired it to save his life. You can fool him, and yourself, into thinking you did it for me. But you cannot fool me. You cannot lie to the dead, Juliet, because we see what the living deny to themselves."
She wasn't listening to this, she wasn't hearing this! Juliet resolutely closed her eyes, whispering, "This isn't happening to me, I am not attracted to the mercenary, the very sight of him fills me with loathing. . .he is the same kind of man who killed my husband and my child." It was becoming a mantra. Juliet looked up, tears rolling down her face, to see Neda staring at her compassionately. She whispered, "I miss you."
"Juliet, you will never be without me! I will always be there, whenever you need me! Take care of Luke for me. . .take care of Angela. I always admired you, because I did not know how I would have survived if I lost my husband and child. You are stronger and braver than I, Juliet. . . do not let fear defeat you now, my friend. You have too much to give," Neda's ghost replied. She smiled and leaned forward, as if to kiss Juliet's forehead, then faded away. Exhausted and unable to face anyone right now, Juliet lowered her head and began to weep softly.
. . .
Foolish children! Why they did this to themselves and each other, Sophronia didn't know. Yes, she did. They were both lost in their own grief and guilt. . .and in the case of the young mercenary, despair. They needed each other, as much as Angela needed them both. On the other hand, now that they had things out in the open, perhaps Luke would heal faster, and another part of the battle would be won.
Juliet began healing during that confrontation. For three years, she buried her grief, anger, guilt and despair. Buried it deep within her soul. In just seven weeks, Luke managed to shatter the walls she built around herself. He challenged her, angered her. Something no one else accomplished in the time she lived among them. The reminder was enough to make Sophronia laugh aloud.
Of course, how silly of her! The confrontation, as exhausting as it was for them both, was also necessary. It was lancing a boil, draining a sore. Releasing some of the poison which slowly killed Juliet from the inside out. Sophronia knew that Juliet still held some of that poison in her soul. But some of it was released. The midwife and healer gazed out the window at the weeping young woman, and despite what she came to understand during the last few minutes, still found a lump in her throat.
Juliet was weeping at Neda's grave. Luke did the same when they brought him out here. He was gently lowered to the ground by the women who guided him out. He reached out a trembling hand to the cross, then began weeping quietly. Phaedra, who in some ways had the tenderest heart of all, knelt beside him and stroked his hair while he mourned. There was a connection between the pair, between Luke and Neda. Sophronia saw in the moments right after Angela's birth.
Neda had looked over at the mercenary and smiled. He returned her smile, and in a way, it was a smile between two parents. Luke was not the baby's father, the Teacher was. . .but he kept the soldiers away from Neda while she gave birth. He had a hand in her life, in her survival, though not her creation. And he would shape the rest of her life. Sophronia hoped Luke learned some wisdom in the time ahead.
He was not a bad man, and in some ways, he was not a man at all, but a boy in a man's body. He was impulsive, hot-tempered, stubborn, sometimes callous. His trigger finger usually moved more rapidly than his mind did. But he was not a bad man. He could learn from his mistakes. They knew that. . .they learned that when he returned. Two problems remained. . .convincing Luke and convincing Juliet.
It would be a long time before she forgave him for mentioning her dead husband. Sophronia frowned thoughtfully, then went into check on Luke, who was calmer now. He was lying back against his pillows, a puzzled frown on his face. He looked up as she entered, and asked in Greek, "Where did I hear that Missus Walker's husband was dead? I. . .remember it, but I don't remember how I remember."
In the same language, Sophronia replied, "We told you while you were recovering. You have blank spaces in your mind, which is why you remember little. We told you that Juliet's husband was murdered by mercenaries working against the Teacher. He was beheaded while she watched." As she spoke, she was watching Luke's face. He was frowning, and Sophronia went on, "After they murdered him, they used her as their plaything. She was pregnant at the time."
Now Luke was ashen as her words sank in. A plaything, just as Neda would have been. He closed his eyes, but not before Sophronia saw the horror in them. His face turned a greenish tint, and reacting quickly, Sophronia pulled out a basin for him. Luke threw up what little he ate that day, his body shuddering. Sophronia wanted to comfort him, but both hands were required to hold the basin. At last, he finished and collapsed back against his bed, moaning a little. Sophronia patted his arm, then walked outside to empty the basin. She put it in a safe place, away from the dogs, and would wash it later.
Back inside, she sat down beside the still-shaken man. Putting a gentle, wrinkled hand on his bare forearm, she murmured, "You must not blame yourself. That was three years ago, and before you arrived in Macedonia. It was even a different group of mercenaries. Shhhh." Luke made no answer, aside from an occasional moan or gasp. It took her a few moments to realize he was weeping.
The mother in Sophronia longed to comfort, but sensed that that was the last thing he needed right now. Instead, she stroked his hair, saying softly, "That is the first time in three years I have seen Juliet become angry. For three years, she has been a quiet ghost, a shadow with a gentle, sad smile. We have feared for her. But you. . .you have set her free. You have done two very good things here, Luke."
The blue eyes focused on her, reflecting confusion, and Sophronia continued, "It will be a long road back for you both. You have many hurts, the two of you. But now I know why Neda fought so hard to save your soul. . .because she knew you could set Juliet free. Sometimes, she goes to her daughter's grave and merely sits there. Today is the first time I have seen her angry. . .the first time I have seen her weep."
"Why do you keep sayin' that? I ain't a good man, why don't any of you understand that? I kill for gold and money, I use prostitutes, I run out on people who need me. . .I ain't a good man, I ain't a hero!" Luke cried out. There was no self-pity in his voice, only truth as he understood it. That was whom Luke was, and he was making no apology for it. . .but he didn't have the entire picture, as Juliet would say.
"I see things you do not, child. I saw the gentleness when you placed your hand on Neda's belly. I saw your horror when you realized your bullet pierced her body as well as that bastard's. I saw your smile when Angela was born. I saw the true man. I have seen your true face, Luke, and I know what you are. You say that you are no hero, and perhaps not a hero as you understand it. But because of you, my village fought back. That is a third good thing you have done," Sophronia replied.
She brushed away a stray tear trickling down his face, and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Without really thinking about it, he burrowed against her, resting his head against her shoulder and Sophronia smiled to herself. Yes, a lost child seeking his mother. She whispered into the wheat-colored hair, "You can be so much more than you are, Luke. You can be the man whom Neda believed you could be."
"Why?" came the broken cry, "Why should I?" Sophronia didn't question what he meant. Why should he become more? Why should he try? Unfortunately, she didn't have the answer, not one that would set him on the same path he placed Juliet upon, however unwittingly. Because she didn't know what was worth the risk to him, and he understood, however dimly, that becoming that man required a risk.
"Because the man who raises Angela will need to be strong," Sophronia answered softly, once she thought of something that would make sense to him, "because you owe it to Neda to raise her daughter like that. Not because she saved your life, but because you cared for her. Because you cannot go back to what you were, Luke, no matter how hard you try. Because if you do this, that awful, gaping emptiness in your heart will be filled."
She felt him stiffen in her arms, but he didn't pull away. Already, the boy was learning. Instead, he replied, "I'm afraid. I don't like being afraid. I hate feelin' like this. I hate bein' weak. I hate bein' afraid. I hate bein' unsure." His words were muffled, but they struck at Sophronia's very heart. She gently released him, allowing to lay back against his pillow.
He looked so tired. Setting someone free was not an easy job. And Juliet would not thank him, in all likelihood, not for a long time. Sophronia said softly, "I know, little one." She ignored his indignant stare, continuing, "But you are not weak. You are merely finding a new strength, a new courage. You do not need to change, Luke, do not need to change yourself. Only. . .become more. It is not impossible. Difficult? Yes. But not impossible. You can do it. You do care for others. I know this."
She touched his face again, smiling tenderly, and said, "Sleep now. I must see to Juliet. In another three weeks time, I believe you will be ready to leave. Now that you have both spoken of that which troubles you, you will heal much faster. And you are a little one to me. . .you are but a child in my eyes. Now rest." Obediently, the blue eyes closed, and within moments, he was asleep. Sophronia watched him for several moments, thinking about how deceptive appearances could be. The man could look like a deadly gunman or an innocent angel. Which was true?
. . .
Over the next three weeks, the villagers watched as both Americans continued their respective recoveries. It was a known fact that Juliet never allowed herself to mourn for her husband and daughter. . .not until the day the mercenary angered her. That day, she struck back at him with all of her strength. That day, she wept at Neda's grave, three years of anguish finally given an outlet.
It was also known that the Americans avoided each other. Luke, in particular, was careful about leaving Juliet alone. No one mentioned it to him. No one even thought less of him. Indeed, he was well regarded because of it. There was certainly no shame in leaving a woman alone, after saying cruel things to her. On the contrary. . .much to his surprise, Luke found himself being placed higher in the regard of the villagers.
For her own part, Juliet was avoided Luke out of shame. She couldn't believe she slapped him, much less threatened him with his own gun! All right, he deserved it. . . definitely deserved the slap. But she was raised better than that! Raised better than to wave a gun in someone's face, particularly the person's own gun. . .raised better than a lot of the things she had done over the last three years.
Her father would have never approved of her picking up a rifle, for any reason. She was a civilized woman, the daughter of privilege. She was better than that. And he would have never understood her drive to save the life of a mercenary. On this, Juliet could no longer lie to herself. . .Neda saw to that. She didn't save Luke because of Neda, or any other such altruistic reason.
She didn't know why. She didn't know why she couldn't let him die. That still left her confused, and she didn't know how to figure out the answers. Was she taking revenge for the deaths of her husband and child? It wasn't soldiers who murdered Bruce and violated Juliet. It was mercenaries, and yet she saved the life of a mercenary. One from a different gang, but a mercenary nonetheless.
Was she taking revenge for Neda, for the Teacher, and other villagers who had been kind to her, who died at the hands of the soldiers? It was possible. She didn't know. For three years, she brutally suppressed any rage or hatred. She needed that strength to put herself back together again. She didn't allow herself to be angry. . .but she also didn't allow herself to grieve.
Did she save him because of her own attraction to him? Because even as she loathed everything he stood for, she was enchanted by his beauty? How many times did she watch him during his recovery and long to see his smile? He smiled almost never, not a real smile, and one time while she watched him, Juliet was horrified to see a single tear trickle down his face.
Juliet closed her eyes, remembering the first time she saw the mercenary. He was carried into the village, unconscious, in the back of a wagon. The Teacher's father and a few other men went with Neda when she told them about what she found. When they returned to the village, the mercenary was cradled against Neda's body and Juliet immediately ran to the wagon to see if she could help.
His shirt was covered with blood, his face ashen under the scruff. He was the exact opposite of Bruce in every way imaginable. His hair was the color of wheat, but a closer look told Juliet that it was once red. Bruce had dark hair, like her own. Bruce was clean-shaven, always impeccably dressed, as befitted a gentleman. He was polite and generous, and twenty year old Juliet Patterson thought he was what she was supposed to love, and so she did.
But the twenty-eight year old widow who helped to carry the unconscious mercenary saw that this man was the polar opposite of her late husband. He was rough, a gunfighter, a mercenary. But he took Juliet's breath away. She would often find ways to sneak into the sickroom while Sophronia was away or Neda was washing out bandages, and sit beside him. . .just stare at his still face.
They said that a person's true face was revealed an hour after their death, and Juliet wondered sometimes if the same was true of sleep. In the first few days after he was brought to the village, his face was often tight with pain and distress, and it was difficult to soothe him. He was frightened and in pain, and tended to call out in English, rather than Greek. Juliet was often asked to interpret. Neda knew English, but it wasn't her first language.
Most of what he cried out were names. She knew now that Elijah was his younger brother. She saw him right after the last gunfight against the Major and his men. Saw him and didn't like him. He wanted to take Angela back with him to the United States, but Juliet quickly disabused him of that notion. Especially after she heard that he shot his own brother.
Strange, wasn't it? That she held onto her hatred and rage toward the mercenary for his accidental shooting of Neda during his rescue attempt. . .and held almost as much hatred toward his brother Elijah, for his quite intentional shooting. Was it because she couldn't comprehend that kind of hatred between siblings? She and Drusilla held onto each other through the years after the loss of their mother.
Or was it because Elijah admitted that he wanted revenge on his brother Luke because his wife Lilith killed herself while carrying a child? He didn't know if the child was his or Luke's, because she wanted both brothers and both brothers wanted her. She didn't make that decision before she got married? And for that matter, why was it Luke's fault that Lilith killed herself? Did she kill herself because she was pregnant and didn't know whose child she carried? Did she kill herself because Luke wasn't there?
Juliet couldn't understand Lilith, no matter how hard she tried. And she didn't like Elijah, either. . .he swung back and forth between begging his brother's forgiveness and blaming Luke for making him shoot him. 'He was supposed to be my keeper.' Again, this wasn't something that Juliet could understand. Yes, she was protective of her younger sister. . .she was several years older than Drusilla, after all.
But Drusilla was known to be just as protective of Juliet. They took care of each other, they looked out for each other. That was what sisters did. Drusilla took Bruce aside after it was announced that Juliet would accompany Bruce to Macedonia, and Juliet didn't see her sister or her husband for a good two hours. After they finally emerged, Drusilla looked rather triumphant and Bruce looked just as pale.
When Juliet asked her little sister what they talked about, Drusilla merely answered airily, 'just making sure we understand each other. I told him that I wouldn't be in Macedonia to look after you, so he had to do it for me. And if anything happened to you while you were there, I would kill him. Slowly. I'm planning to study medicine. . .I know ways of doing that."
So. . .no. She didn't understand Elijah either. During her confrontation with Luke, Juliet thought a great deal about Elijah and Luke. She came to the painful conclusion that while Luke was a mercenary and she couldn't forget that, he was also honest about himself and what he was, what he wasn't. Elijah hid behind excuses. The day she found common ground or sympathy for a mercenary was one she didn't believe would ever happen.
On the other hand, she was no longer the same Juliet Patterson Walker who arrived here nearly four years ago. No one could remain the same after seeing and experiencing what she did. No. No, she was no longer Bruce Walker's wife. . .nor was she Sydney Patterson's daughter. Of that last, she had no doubt. Her father was always disappointed that he had only daughters, and he would not like the changes in his eldest daughter, the changes brought about by necessity.
Necessity? Yes. She changed because it was necessary for her to survive. She changed because she saw more than she ever dreamed possible. Juliet closed her eyes, remembering the day Neda died. She never allowed herself to think about that before. She couldn't think about that. Not until now. Not until the fury was released. Now she could remember. . .now she relive it.
She was sitting not far from Phaedra when the figure appeared. Juliet closed her eyes, remembering, focusing. She wasn't looking at Phaedra, or even Neda, at the time. She was looking into the distance, trying to summon her courage. . .trying to decide on a plan of action. Then Phaedra reached over and touched her hand, whispering in Greek, "He has come!" Juliet had looked up, and her breath caught in her throat, seeing the blond mercenary. He was here. . .he came back.
The Major greeted him, telling him that they were discussing what to do when the baby came. Juliet shuddered, and Phaedra's grip on her hand tightened. The Macedonian woman leaned over and whispered, "Go. The soldiers and the Major are not paying attention to us. Only to the mercenary. We will make our stand." Phaedra's head jerked back at a sound coming from the table. A slow smile crossed her face and she murmured, "Very clever, mercenary. . . very clever indeed! Go now!"
Juliet rose to her feet, keeping a guarded eye on the table, but Phaedra was right. The mercenary was successful in diverting attention away from himself and Neda. Juliet whispered the message to the others, wary as always of getting a bullet in the back. And then. . . She turned around, to see the mercenary striding away with Neda. Ice zapped down her spine. The time had come.
From her angle, Juliet could see Neda behind a soldier, though she couldn't see which one. And there was no time to cry out a warning to the mercenary. . .if he shot the soldier, he would shoot Neda as well. The gun barked once and the soldier fell. As he crumpled to the ground, all could see Neda against the wall, sinking slowly to the ground. She began to scream, and Juliet's eyes cut to the mercenary.
He was staring at her in horrified silence, then his eyes narrowed and he began shooting every soldier he could see. One of the first soldiers to fall, Phaedra rolled to one side and picked up his rifle. She aimed it at the remaining soldiers and began pulling the trigger. Sophronia and her husband ran to Neda and Juliet was torn between seeing to her friend and dealing with the soldiers.
Her decision was made as more of the villagers picked up guns. She would stand with them. Juliet ran into the house which used to belong to the Teacher and found his rifle. She loaded it with an ease that would have horrified her five years earlier. The Teacher insisted that she know how to load, clean, and fire a weapon. He told her there might come a time when she would need to know such things.
As she bolted out of the house, a baby's cry reached her ears. The child was safely delivered. Juliet saw the mercenary's head turn toward the cry. . .he was swaying on his feet, obviously exhausted. He was paying attention to Neda. . .that much she could see, though she couldn't see his face. She couldn't see his face. . .but she could see the soldier pointing his rifle at the mercenary.
Even now, weeks later, Juliet still could not remember lifting the rifle up or settling it against her shoulder. Nor could she remember aiming at the soldier. One moment, she saw the soldier. . . and the next, the rifle was kicking against her shoulder. She pulled the trigger more than once. It wasn't necessary. But she kept firing until the man was down and the threat removed.
Was it true? In the moment she raised that rifle to defend the mercenary, did she claim him? Juliet didn't know. She remembered, vaguely, finding out before the soldiers came that the mercenary's name was 'Luke.' A name from the Bible. . .wasn't he a physician of some kind, or was she getting him confused with someone else? She supposed she could have asked Elijah while he was here. . .but she spent too much time controlling her desire to punch him.
Luke. It meant 'light.' Was there a time when he was innocent and kind? He didn't seem to be a man who took pleasure in the pain of others. He wasn't like the Major. Perhaps he wasn't good or good-hearted, but Juliet's time in Macedonia taught her that people were rarely pure light or pure dark. Rather, during his time in the village, Juliet observed the mercenary. He seemed to be a man ferociously protective of those whom he called his own.
Bruce was considered a kind man, but he considered himself above fighting. He would do nothing to defend that which was his. Juliet closed her eyes, reminding herself not to speak ill of the dead. Not even when it's true, a mocking voice asked, one that sounded suspiciously like the Teacher, he was still alive when the mercenaries first started talking about taking you. . .and he did nothing. Did that prevent them from killing him? Not at all. . .that is why they killed him, because he would not defend himself or you. They deemed him unworthy to live.
Juliet closed her eyes, fighting back sobs. She was angry with the Teacher for telling her that, after Abigail was buried. She hated him for saying that her husband could have prevented it all by defending her. And she hated having these thoughts. The mercenary would have protected her, would have defended her, Phaedra and Sophronia both told her. . .if she was his, he would have defended her.
Did I claim him? Did he claim Neda? Would he claim me? Juliet pushed herself off the wall where she spent the last fifteen minutes and headed determinedly for the house where the mercenary spent the last few months recovering. He was able to walk now, taking solid food for several weeks, and he started shooting once more to get back into practice. They needed to talk.
Right now, he was in bed, asleep. And he wasn't alone. . .Angela was asleep atop his chest, one large hand covering her tiny back protectively. Juliet stopped dead in her tracks at this unexpected sight. What shocked her more. . .the tenderness of the scene or how innocent and peaceful the mercenary looked while he was asleep? Juliet knew that Angela was somewhat fussy about who held her.
Juliet was one of the few whom Angela would allow to hold her, and the young woman tiptoed forward. She picked up the baby, careful not to wake her. She wasn't quite successful. . . Angela's eyes opened briefly, regarded Juliet sleepily, then closed once more, satisfied that all was well. Sophronia, who evidently heard Juliet's determined footsteps, appeared to take Angela.
She was smiling a mysterious sort of smile, one that Juliet pointedly ignored. Bossy old woman. However, there was only affection and gratitude in the smile Juliet gave the old woman. Sophronia swept out of the room and Juliet turned her attention to the mercenary. . .to Luke. 'Luke, child. . .his name is Luke,' Sophronia told her on more than one occasion.
Juliet cleared her throat, then reached out tentatively. Her hand didn't get far, though. She found her wrist imprisoned in a grip far stronger than it looked. Startled, not just at the response but at the sensations shooting through her body at the unexpected touch, her eyes flew to the mercenary's. He was awake. . .or at least, his eyes were open. And those blue eyes were regarding her with some confusion.
She said the first thing that popped into her head, "Sophronia has Angela." The mercenary nodded warily, and Juliet continued, "I. . .I came to apologize. I should have never pulled that gun on you a few weeks ago." She stopped, wondering if she should apologize for slapping him as well. She really wasn't sorry for doing that. . .she still thought he deserved it.
He agreed, saying in a hoarse voice, "Apology accepted. . .though not for slappin' me. I deserved that." Now it was Juliet's turn to stare at him in surprise. Unexpectedly, he flushed, saying, "What? You don't think I can be reasonable? Hell, I'll be the first to admit that I've got a temper. . .and that I'm a bastard. In more ways 'n one. But I ain't stupid. You had every right to slap me for sayin' that."
"Yes, well. . .apology accepted," Juliet replied. He didn't exactly apologize, but at the same time, he did. A silence fell between them. Neither could hold the other's eyes for more than a few moments. At last, frustrated, Juliet heaved a sigh and said, "I came to talk to you. I'm not entirely sure if we can hold a civilized conversation, but I'm willing to try. . .if you are."
At that, he gave a smirk and replied, "Civilized? Now where's the fun in that?" Against her will, Juliet laughed outright, and the mercenary smiled suddenly. She had never seen him smile, and it quite took her breath away. His blue eyes twinkled with laughter, and he continued, growing serious once more, "But you're right. We do need to talk. . .and I'm willin' to try."
"Yes," Juliet answered, nodding, "We do need to talk." The mercenary motioned for her to sit down, rolling his eyes when she pulled over a chair. Juliet said quietly, "I am not afraid of you, if that's what you're thinking. But I do think it's best if we both kept our distance. We'll be spending a great deal of time together once we leave with Angela, after all."
"You really ain't," he said in wonder, "you ain't afraid of me. Neda wasn't afraid of me, neither. Neither was Lilith." Now she heard the pain in his voice, and without wanting it to, her heart went out to him. He looked at her once more, his blue eyes very direct as he asked, "What is it that you're wantin' from me?" Well, he certainly didn't waste much time! Still, she could appreciate that.
"Just one thing. Your promise," Juliet replied quietly. The shoulders went up and back at that, the mercenary's eyes reflecting a physical pain at the movement. She smiled faintly, saying, "It's not a hard promise. You may do whatever you like once we reach the States. . .the only thing I ask is that you remain with Angela and me until our ship arrives in American waters."
"Agreed," he answered without hesitation, then requested, "But I got somethin' I want in return." Juliet nodded and he continued, "We travel under a different name. Elijah thinks I'm dead. . .that ain't gonna last. And a blond American is gonna be real obvious around here. If we travel under a different name, he has less of a chance of findin' us and finishin' what we start. The other thing. . .while we're on the road, you gotta do what I say."
"Agreed," Juliet answered. He relaxed a little, and Juliet was pained to see how much even this exhausted him. She lowered her eyes, then said, "If I give us a name under which to travel, will you tell me yours? Your real name, I mean." She was asking him to trust her. His eyes flickered away, and Juliet said softly, "Listen to me. Regardless of what I said earlier, I did save your life. I won't allow that to go to waste, and I won't betray you. I owe Neda, just as you do."
With half a smile, he turned his full attention back to her and said, "Looks like I was real wrong, 'bout your husband. If he had any sense, he woulda stayed alive. Lord knows, if I had a woman like you, I'd never let her go and thank God every day for putting you on this earth." What? Juliet stared in shock. He smiled sadly, adding, "Sorry. My ma told me that's something my real pa told her once."
I'm a bastard. . .in more ways than one. She released her breath, understanding. The mercenary continued, "I'll tell you my name. . .the one I was given at birth. But it ain't my true name. Don't know what my pa's name was. . .my real pa, at least. Ma never told me his name. Think she wanted to protect me. My name is Luke. Luke Richmond." Luke Richmond. Juliet nodded. If she hadn't claimed him before, she did now. So long as they traveled together, Luke was just as much under her protection as she and Angela were under his.
Their lives depended on it.