Thank you, Mr. Bigg. You are a mighty rock, one that tethers me and sets me free simultaneously.
Please be aware that this story contains violence toward a woman. Like violence in real life, it's not right; it just is.
Bluebells
Rain and thunder took the daylight from me, but gave perfect cover for my husband's escape.
"I'm going into town," he bellowed, already half out the door. "Clean this pigsty up before I get home, which will be late. You'll have plenty of time to get your lazy arse in gear." The door slammed with such unwarranted force, I ran to the kitchen to protect the plates lining the walls, as one dropped to the sideboard with a clatter. I picked up the plate and sighed. I had no idea why he was angry, but then, this was not new. He was often angry; the fewer the reasons, the stronger the rage.
I made a quick assessment of my work, counting what could be achieved in such weather. Clearly, laundry was out; it would never dry. I peered out the kitchen window at the blackish grey clouds that continued to pour.
The woods seem to beckon me, standing green, dark, and wet. I let my gaze linger there, remembering the silken voice and the kind words spoken. My mind wandered through the bluebells, the memory of their rich, heady scent filling me with sensuous images of dappled sunlight, bracken beneath my back, and a deep, resonant chuckle that vibrated within me.
I woke from my reverie with a start, my hand smarting from the grip of the plate in my hold. Slowly, I unfurled my stiff fingers from my iron fist and placed it in the sink. I had no idea how long I'd stood here, building castles in the air over a moment that existed only in my mind. Looking to the skies, I wondered if something happened only to me, was it real? The clouds gave no answers. It was no longer raining, though the storm lingered higher, threatening to break through and crash at any moment.
I knew I should take advantage of the momentary reprieve from the rain to gather the supper greens. I grabbed my basket from the table and whirled to the door, flinging my arm wide and incautiously. The small tumbler holding the bluebell faltered and spilled, crushing the flowers and soaking the floor. Gloom seized me as I beheld the mess. I stared at the disorder I caused, and could not move to right it. I turned back to the door, heading for the garden.
Heather, dirt, and moisture hung in the air, giving the breeze a pleasant earthy aroma. Pulling the door shut behind me, I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Sanctity. Peace. I felt safe and comforted beneath the clouds, alone with the day before me.
I walked the stone path down the small slope from the house, to the tiny patch of land where my garden grew. The rabbits had been at the lettuce again; the red pepper flakes I had sprinkled about had been washed away in the rain. I knelt to pull what was left of the head into my basket.
"Forgive me," a disembodied, velvet voice sounded softly behind me. I fell to the ground, my hand at my throat, my face frozen in fear and surprise. "Oh! Forgive me, please!"
I twisted, looking up. The honey voice fell from a man, now the epitome of apology and chagrin. He leaned forward, his hand outstretched. I stared at him in shock; where had he come from?
"Please, let me help you up," he leaned closer, offering his hand as his voice offered reassurance. I shrank away, still frightened, suspicious of the man's kindness. He straightened, raising his chin in mild offense. "I would not hurt you, you have my word on that."
All manners left me as I sat, petrified, staring at the man. Though I was stunned by surprise, I was silenced by his beauty. His fair hair and skin glowed faintly, painting a halo about his crown. I hadn't ever imagined such kindness, nor dreamt of such beauty. It was confusing as my heart and head warred. What little of my wits remained commanded me to be afraid, but my heart spoke louder, winning the argument. An angel.
"Can you stand?" he asked gently, and I felt myself melt into his words. My body relaxed, slumping to the ground as if to answer. His smile was gentle, his words now teasing. "Shall I carry you?" Once again, his gentle laugh vibrated within me, ringing the dead hope I carried to life.
"No, I'm…" I shook my head, turning my back to him and scrambling to my knees, to my feet awkwardly. "You just surprised me."
"Again, please forgive me," he replied, all lightness and teasing gone.
"No forgiveness is necessary," I said, stooping to retrieve my basket. His hand shot out in a blur, lifting the basket to my outstretched arm. I turned my bewildered gaze back to his now smiling face, as he offered the burden to me. I took the basket, slung it over my arm, and set about swiping at my skirts. "What manner of business brings you here?"
"No business at all," he grinned. "I brought a gift."
"A gift? For whom?" Confusion painted my expression.
"For you, dear lady," he cooed.
"Sir, I am a married woman," I said, summoning as much indignation as I could. Propriety dictated my scorn, but I found this difficult to summon standing in the presence of one so earnest and beautiful.
"Again, I beg your pardon, but this gift is small, one that you would have gotten yourself, weather permitting." His eyes lifted to the skies, as if his very gaze would conjure the rain.
I did not follow his gaze, I watched his face. He was utterly without guile or artifice, his expression open and straightforward. My curiosity piqued, a nervous excitement grew deep in my belly. The electric tension from the forest returned, and the words tumbled from my lips in a whisper without thought.
"What do you have for me?"
His eyes returned to mine, then dipped as he brought his hand from behind his back. He held seven blooms of wild hyacinth in his fist, which he extended to me. My eyes dropped to his hand. Each flower was perfect and unique, the shades of blue brilliant against the ever-darkening sky. Mesmerized by the beauty of the flowers and the simplicity of the offer, my hand moved forward gingerly to take the bouquet. "Thank you," I breathed, awestruck.
"It is my pleasure," he breathed. His scent lingered in the air, wafting to me. Suddenly, I felt lifted, dizzy, overwhelmed. I took the bright blooms, hypnotically watching him. My hand brushed his. I gasped; he was cold as ice. I opened my mouth to speak, and a rain drop fell, rolling down his cheek like a heavenly tear. "The rain is coming. You have time to return to the house, if you go now."
I looked past him to the house, considering. "But what about you –" I started, but the words fell on the empty air. He was gone.
He came in the front door, quiet animosity spinning around him like a foul wind. His afternoon absences to the bar had become more frequent and lengthy, slowly changing his homeward return to an atmosphere of drunken tension and recoil. I did not speak or greet him with my gaze; the table was set for supper and I went about serving.
The night closed in around us as we ate in silence. The chip and plink of our spoons as they dipped into the cockle soup were the only intruders in the quiet sullenness that sank about our supper. I let my gaze travel briefly to touch the bluebells standing at the table's end, then returned to my meal, as a small, wistful smile lifted the corners of my mouth. Even in my woodland fright, I had felt oddly lifted and happy as I'd run to market. Preparing the cockles and baking bread had been minor tasks, ones that left me free to dream about the strange encounter. I reached forward, breaking off a hunk of the soda bread.
"Haven't you had enough?" I jumped, startled by the acid voice judging me across the table.
"I ate no dinner, husband, and have not met the amount of food before you." I spoke softly, not lifting my eyes. I didn't wish to argue. I pulled a small morsel into my mouth with exaggerated daintiness, acting the part of graciousness he did not see in me.
The table jerked and jumped, thrown into the air, soup, bread and silverware spilling and splashing to the walls and floor. His right hand was around my throat in one fell swoop, the other knotting and twisting into my hair. "You fat cow! You call this swill food?" He yanked my head backward, pulling me off my chair and forcing my face towards his. The smell of whiskey and tobacco oozed from him, fanned by his sudden and explosive anger. "You really are worthless," he spat, pushing me away. The chair skittered out from beneath me, and I fell to the hard, earthen floor, sprawling out with my skirts around my waist. His violence was not unknown to me, but it had been a slow, building blaze – not a unexpected torrent of fury like tonight. He stood glowering over me, his face beet red with anger and drink. "Get up."
I pulled my skirts and struggled to my feet, moving as far away from him as I could without notice. My brow ached with tension, and I cringed as he moved toward me.
"Bend over," he growled, shoving me toward the overturned table. I stumbled, my knees skinning against the wood, scrambling to comply and abate his rage. He pulled up my skirts and ripped away my undergarments. "Don't say a word, you fucking pig, and I'd better hear no cries." He slapped my naked ass, presented to him as I bent. I swallowed a gulp and bit my lip, willing myself quiet, wishing the world away.
He pushed his crotch to my ass, lifting his penis between my cheeks. It flopped uselessly against my skin, and he grunted, pumping it against me, again and again. A groan of frustration roiled out of his chest, and his fingers dug into me.
"What man could expect to stay hard with this?" The smack against my skin stung and blistered, my scream nearly escaping. There would be no mercy, no gentleness afforded me tonight. I braced myself for pain.
The wind howled and screeched and growled, shaking the walls of the house and stilling his violence. He pulled away, blundering, drunken steps hailing his retreat. "Banshees…" he breathed, awe and fear mixing in his voice. His whisper grew urgent. "Siobhan, get up. Get dressed."
I stood, allowing my skirts to drop over my nakedness, wiping my tears before turning to face him. His expression was a mask of stark in terror, mouth hanging open as he struggled with his pants.
"'Tis the wind, husband," I said flatly, the howling softening to stillness as I brushed my skirts. I could not bear to raise my gaze to him, to see him for the murderous bastard he was. My skirts flattened, I stooped to retrieve the ruined meal from the floor.
"No, there is no wind tonight," he breathed, still in the grip of terror. "'Tis the banshee, come to take one of us to the grave." He stumbled backward, turning toward the fire and chair.
Anger flared within me as I sought to still my tongue, lest he explode again. His own fear would quiet him, save me from punishment, but my torment was nothing. I scraped the silver and crockery from the floor, idly noticing only one bowl had chipped, though still usable. I pushed to standing, turning to peer out the window above the sink. A flickering paleness shimmered away, retreating in the moonlight, and silence returned for a soft moment, until the snores of the drunk filled the house.
A/N: I hope you liked Chapter 2, and will let me know by leaving a review. I love hearing your reactions and thoughts; it keeps me going. I'm doing something a little different this time, posting all the chapters at once, but I hope you'll take a moment and review the story if you liked it.