The night succeeding Adam's break in silence, Ben didn't dream about Kane.
That wasn't to say he didn't dream. He dreamed a lot. He dreamed of Adam and the way he once was, and the nights they had spent sitting together, staring up at the stars, first when he was a young boy during their travels West and then later when Adam was grown and they would quietly sneak away to gaze up at those same stars during cattle drives and the yearly round up. They were peaceful images, welcome gifts in comparison to what his dreams had recently become. And flanked between these dreams, Ben dreamed a new dream. One which was decidedly different than any he had experienced before; it felt real, so much like a memory he should have been allowed to experience in real time. There was no cliff, no dark night sky, no taunting statements, no Peter Kane, and no Adam.
There was only Elizabeth.
Her long dark hair was unpinned, cascading curls which hung loosely, well past her bosom and down the middle of her back. Dressed in what Ben immediately recognized as what had been her favorite summer dress, she wore no shoes or socks upon her feet. With her dimpled smile and kind eyes, she was as beautiful as she had always been and old as she would ever be. She was over a decade younger than their son was now, a painfully odd thing to consider. She hadn't lived long enough to see her twenty-third birthday or Adam's first. She had died too young—as all his wives had— leaving him to grow old without her.
Standing before her, he found he had become old, and she had remained young, as luminous, and radiant as she had been on their wedding day.
"My Benjamin," she beamed. Grasping his hands in her own, she stood on her tiptoes and placed a kiss upon his cheek.
"My God," Ben said, his voice quiet and full of awe. "You're a child."
"And you are an old man," she quipped warmly. "You're older than my father was when we were married. What is to be thought about such a thing?"
"I'd rather not think of it at all."
She smiled. "The years have served you well, Ben. They may have aged you, but you are no less handsome than you were when we were young. You're distinguished, wisened by the weight of all those years."
"I may be distinguished but I don't feel very wise," Ben said. "At least not as of late"
"Ah," she said knowingly. "And what exactly is to be done about our Adam?"
"Our Adam," Ben repeated. He was saddened by the statement. How many times had she fondly said it when she was alive, lovingly caressing her burgeoning stomach with her fingertips? Far too many to count. She had seemed to know their baby then, loving him fiercely and deeply long before the day he was born. "He worries me."
"You're not wrong to be worried," she said. "After all, he is in a state. His behavior is startling, even he is aware of that, but he is not as changed by his time in that desert as you may think. His experiences, his perceptions are genuine even if they do not appear tangible to you. He is neither mad nor confused."
"He's afraid," Ben said. It was a simple explanation he was certain she was already privy to.
"And what is to be done about his fear? How can you help him fight the power of something unseen?"
Ben shook his head. The question weighed too heavily on him for there to be an easily distinguished answer.
"Your voice is like a lighthouse horn, deep and reassuring," she said. "Use it wisely to guide him through this storm."
"What shall I say?"
"Nothing that hasn't already been said at one time or another. Talk to him, with him. Do not allow him to lose his voice now that he's finally summoned the courage to find it again. You always had such powerful instincts as a man, great intuition as a father. Trust yourself. Have faith that this is a fight that can be won."
Attention shifting to the fireplace, she smiled, took his hand, and led him to it.
"Out of all the many things you've built, this is my favorite," she said. "Build me a fire, Ben. Let us sit ourselves in front of it and allow the heat to warm our hearts and souls."
Resting upon the short wooden table, she sat cross-legged, pulling her feet up beneath her, enveloping her legs beneath the hem of her dress. Elbows placed on her knees, hands pressed up against her cheeks, she leaned forward, watching him with great interest as he did what was asked. It was an unseemly pose for a respectable woman, too cavalier, too ingenious to be displayed by most. It only served to remind him of her age and that of his eldest son, a boy who had all-too-quickly become a man but who still mirrored his mother's quiet thoughtfulness and very occasional uninhibited pose.
"I used to visit Adam in his dreams," she said, her tone shifting with regret.
"Used to?"
Ben didn't know Adam had dreamed of Elizabeth. He didn't conceive such a thing was possible as Adam had no memory of his mother. He hadn't been allotted time with her; she had died less than an hour after he had been born.
"Before the desert," she said. "Before that devilish Kane. Our Adam used to call out to me, and I'd come, and we'd talk and talk about his life; we'd talk about the way things were and how he could go about making them different if he wanted them to be."
"And now?"
"And now," she sighed, "such a thing isn't allowed. That man won't allow it." She gazed upon him, her eyes sparking with seriousness. "Trust your dreams, your instincts and your heart. Trust in what Adam was able to tell you. Kane is a devil, Ben. He has his fingers embedded into our Adam and he isn't going to let go without a fight. You dreamed of cliffs long before Adam left for Eastgate, but what you don't know is that Adam dreamed of Kane long before he met him. He went into that desert knowing what he would find but not how it would affect him."
Though the idea seemed ludicrous, Ben knew it did nothing to affect its truth. He thought about his son's determination to leave on the drive to Eastgate and the hug he had gifted him before he left—an apology, of sorts, for a decision yet to be made.
"He didn't expect to come back," Ben said.
"I tried to convince him not to go," she said regretfully. "I tried to tell him there was nothing of value to find out there. He wouldn't listen." She shook her head. "Our stubborn, stubborn boy."
"A trait he inherited from you."
"And you."
"Mind your grip on our son, Ben. Be careful it isn't too light or loose. If it is too loose you will lose him completely. If it's too tight, you'll hold him in place forever, but he'll find other ways of leaving you. He's always found other ways."
"I know."
"Things always get worse before they get better. Adam spoke today which you can take as a good sign. But what's on the horizon? Is Adam finally speaking a sign of something better or worse?"
Ben wasn't sure. He had waited so long for Adam to speak but the things he had to say were worrisome at best. He still wasn't eating as much as he should have been. He spent the nights in his own bed, but he didn't seem to obtain any actual rest. Was Adam finally talking amongst all these other lingering bothersome behaviors a good sign or bad? Ben was hard pressed to produce satisfying suppositions to support either conjecture.
"I don't know," he said. His uncertainty was the only thing he was certain of. "I don't know how to help him."
"That's okay," Elizabeth said, "when the time is right, you will."
Extending her hand, she invited him to sit next to her, and together they remained, their hands intertwined as they gazed at the roaring fire.
In the middle of the still night, Ben woke, still feeling warmed by the flames of the fire of his dream. Laying lax against his chest, the hand he had used to hold Elizabeth's was still gently clenched. For a moment it felt as though he was still holding her. He could feel the smoothness of her skin, the weight of her delicate hand in his own. Then in an instant it was gone. With nothing to impede them, his fingers moved, shifting his hand into a tight fist. Mild but unconscious, the quick movement was enough to startle him, prompting him to sit up, lift his hand in front of his face and look upon it in awe.
This was a feeling and dream that quickly faded and was forgotten by sunrise.
Xx
Adam was not in his bedroom when morning came. Sometime during the night, he had made the decision to, once again, seek respite in Hoss's bed. It was a disappointing development though not a completely unexpected one after having finally spoken the day before, sharing with his father the truth of who and what he saw. Kane didn't like for him to talk—Adam had made that abundantly clear. It was obvious he had been anticipating repercussions—real or imagined—associated with using his voice. What those were or could be, Ben wasn't sure. But he was not surprised to find his eldest son in the company of his middle one as Hoss's physical size and strength provided a very specific comfort to calm fear and frayed nerves.
Adam rose when Hoss did. Gaze averted to the floor, he retired wordlessly to his bedroom where he remained. He made no indication—with words or otherwise—that being asked to leave the seemingly protective confines was something he would take kindly to. Much to the discontent of his other two sons, Ben didn't try to emancipate Adam from the bedroom. It was a decision made silently which was more accepted by Hoss than Joe.
"I don't understand, Pa," Joe said, his eyes shiningly indignantly as stood on the opposite side of the desk. "Adam ain't going get better if all we do is leave him alone."
"I thought we had decided not to place expectations upon Adam with regards to his behavior and recovery," Ben reminded.
"Ah, that was before," Joe scoffed.
"Before what?"
"Before he talked," Joe said emphatically. "Before we knew what was bothering him. Before we knew nothing, Pa, and now..." he paused, swiping his hands through the air as though he was struggling to grasp the right words.
"We know more than we did then," Hoss quietly said. Leaning on the wall near the grandfather clock, he looked between his father and little brother. "Which still ain't a lot."
"We know who think he sees," Joe said.
"Yeah, but how do we help him with that?" Hoss asked. "We don't know anything of value about that man Kane. And we still don't know what happened between him and Adam."
"But Adam is talking," Joe said as though the development alone was enough to solve their problems.
"He talkin' to you?" Hoss challenged.
Joe frowned. "Well... no..."
"He ain't talkin' to me," Hoss said, a mixture of conflict and disappointment etched on his face. Although he had previously voiced concern about Adam spending the night alone and in his own bedroom, something about having his older brother return to his bed in the middle of the night had been deflating, robbing him of any hope the knowledge of Adam speaking had instilled. "Not last night or this morning, he didn't say so much as a word to me and I gave him plenty of chances."
"Give it time, Hoss," Ben said.
Hoss snorted sadly and shook his head. It was clear what he left unsaid. He was growing weary of allotting Adam time—they all were—of waiting for things to change or remain the same. The improvement of his behavior felt circular, encouraging, and productive at first, then detrimental and regressive. For every step Adam took in the right direction, it immediately felt like he took five steps backwards. Yes, he had spoken, but it didn't seem likely he would continue doing such a thing. Yes, he had told Ben what he was afraid of, but it didn't seem probable he would allow himself to be liberated from his fear. It was deep-rooted, connected to something indiscernible.
"He's afraid," Joe said. "I can understand that. If I was haunted by the ghost of some asshole, I'd be scared too."
"Joe," Ben chastised with a frown. "Remain respectful with your words."
"Ghosts ain't real," Hoss snorted, ignoring both Joe's slip of the tongue and his father's reprimand. His discontent was building, stifled frustration over Adam's worrisome behavior that couldn't be discussed with his older brother. Given the current situation, he couldn't hold Adam responsible for anything; he couldn't expect a long conversation to glean answers or even a tense fight to clear the air. He couldn't expect anything from Adam because he had become unpredictable. But Joe remained as reliable as he had ever been. If it was a fight Hoss wanted, then it would be obliged.
"How do you know?" Joe scoffed, his brows furrowing in annoyance. "They could be."
"They ain't," Hoss maintained.
"What if they are?" Joe countered.
"Come on, Joe," Hoss said. "How old are you, anyhow?"
Old enough not to feel properly scandalized when curse words slipped from his mouth in front of his father, Ben thought. It didn't seem right for any of his boys to ever reach such an age.
"Adam believes it," Joe said stubbornly. "And he's way older than me!"
"That don't mean nothing," Hoss said firmly.
"How can it not mean anything, when it's always meant something before? Adam is the smartest out of the three of us. He's always been the smartest."
"That don't have nothing to do with this!"
"How can it not? He ain't dumb. He's still the same person he always was. If you can't see that then maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do."
Hoss flinched, absorbing the statement like a punch. "Quit Joe," he warned, his voice dangerously low. "I don't want to talk about this no more."
"Why?" Joe spat. "Because you know you're wrong about him?"
"Because I said drop it," Hoss growled.
"Both of you drop it," Ben directed, looking warily between his sons.
"Adam is the hardest person in the world to convince of anything that doesn't make sense," Joe continued angrily, ignoring his father for the second time. "If he says he sees a ghost then I believe him. It has to be real."
"Boy have you not been listening to a word I've been saying?" Hoss demanded. "Do you not have eyes and a brain in your head to understand what's going on here?" Pulling himself off the wall, he stood tall, his face reddened with frustration. "Adam's mind is sick! Don't you dare go using him as an example of anything right now!"
"He's my brother and I'll use him as an example however I want!"
"Be quiet!"
"No!"
"You both be quiet!" Ben growled, the deepness of his voice a clear warning to calm down. "Hoss, Joe, do we not have enough facing us already that we have to make it worse by fighting amongst ourselves about things that can't be solved?"
He wasn't certain if it was the threat of Hoss's tone or his own that caused Joe to abandon the conversation. Either way, it didn't matter because mouth snapping shut, Joe pressed his lips firmly together.
Oddly, it was Hoss who remained intent on not heeding his father's warning. He looked at Ben, sadness glistening in his blue eyes. "How come I always got to be the one to say the hard things? Why do I have to be the one to convince the two of you about anything havin' to do with Adam? Do you think I like sayin' these things? You think I like knowing that Adam is the way that he is? Do you think I don't want to believe the things he says? Because I do. But I can't because he's sick. Yesterday we all knew that, and now, after one conversation with Pa we're gonna just ignore all the ways in which he's not acting right and declare him fit as a fiddle."
"That's not what Joe is saying," Ben said.
"He ain't not saying it," Hoss said.
"I never said he was fit," Joe said. "I only said I believe in what he says he sees."
"Ghosts ain't real, Joe," Hoss said firmly. "Dead men do not talk and they certainly don't follow the livin' around, hauntin' them and such." He shook his head. "Don't you dare be tellin' Adam you believe in the nonsense neither. Lord only knows what kind of behavior you'll be encouraging if you do."
Though he couldn't have known it, Hoss's direction mirrored the advice Doc Martin had given when Ben confided his suspicions about Adam seeing things. Ben had rejected it at the time, but did it hold any more weight coming from his son rather than a friend? His own flesh and blood, someone whose love for Adam rivaled that of his own.
He had told Adam he would believe whatever he had to say; he was certain, it was one of the statements which had finally implored Adam to speak. How could he possibly go back on that now?
"It's real to Adam," Ben said. "It doesn't necessarily have to be real to us but that doesn't negate the fact that it's very real to him."
It was a truth that couldn't be denied. It existed either as a testament to the truth of a ghost or of Adam's mental decline. Briefly, Ben wasn't ashamed to admit—just to himself— that he was hopeful that the ghost of Peter Kane existed. If that was the case then it meant Adam wasn't truly sick, just impeded, held captive by a spirit that saw fit to torture him. But if that was the case, was it truly better than the alternative? Looking after a son whose mind was ill was one thing but fostering one who was being haunted by a dead man seemed arduous, formidable, and impossible.
Such a thing was impossible, wasn't it? What was the purpose of entertaining the notion? Dead was dead. Ghosts weren't real. The spirits of evil men didn't linger after vacating their bodies, and they surely had no interest in remaining behind after they had passed. Or did they?
Devil of a man, that Kane, the Eastgate Sheriff's statement rang in Ben's ears, awakening a trio of Kane's questions which never seemed to stray far from his thoughts.
What happened in the desert, Mister Cartwright? What did he do to me? What did I do to him?
Ben didn't know the answers to any of these questions. But he knew he had to find out.
Xx
"What happened in the desert, Adam?" Ben asked. "What did Kane do to you? What did you do to him? What are the decisions and events that led us all here?"
Sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, Adam ignored the questions; his attention remained fixed on the open book laying open in front of him. Elbows placed on his knees, one hand pressed up against his beard-covered cheek, while the fingers of his other idly fiddled with the carved amulet hung around his neck. Hop Sing had repainted the symbols on the backs of his hands that morning; the fresh black ink stood in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin.
For a moment, Ben wondered what they meant—what any of it meant. His dreams, the things he thought he knew and the others he didn't. The unshakable faith Hop Sing had in Adam's startling beliefs, and the comfort Adam took from Hop Sing's efforts to soothe the situation.
"Adam," Ben prompted gently. "I would like you to answer."
Adam neither looked uncomfortable nor at ease, nor did he seem inclined or willing to speak to his father about anything.
"You spoke yesterday," Ben reminded. "So, your extended silence is not likely to be tolerated today."
It was a mild allusion of consequences; a gentle reminder that bad behavior always came with the possibility of unfavorable results. Such a warning would have worked on the Adam of years past—as empty as it had become when he reached adulthood—but it did nothing to convince this Adam to utter a word.
"What happened last night?" Ben asked. "You were insistent to be allowed to remain in this room, alone with the door shut. Then morning came and found you with Hoss. It doesn't make sense, Adam. You alluded that Kane couldn't enter this room and that's why you've come to favor it so much. But you leaving it last night suggests that might not be the truth."
It was the first time Adam's nighttime travels had been commented on aloud—to Adam or anyone else. If it didn't invite a rush of embarrassment which would result in a response, then Ben didn't know what would. It wasn't becoming of man Adam's age to be seeking respite in his younger brother's bed. It wasn't seemingly for such a thing to be taking place at all.
"It doesn't make sense," Ben said. "Even you must see that."
He was no longer certain if he was talking about Adam sleeping in Hoss's bed or the situation as a whole. It didn't make sense when he thought about it rationally, unsentimentally, as though Adam was not his son rather someone else's, his actions not looked upon in any particular way, not colored by the contrasting memories of the past. When people died, they were gone. Men didn't break without ample reason to.
"What happened in the desert?" he asked again. "What happened between you and Kane, Adam?"
Turning the page in his book, Adam took no notice of the question.
Expelling a sigh, Ben sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, a conscious action meant as a reminder for him to keep his frustration in check. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he lost control of his tone of voice or the questions he meant to ask meticulously. Walking to the bed and sitting carefully on the edge, he couldn't help feeling that Hoss's earlier frustration was now becoming his own. In some ways, it was the same and in others it was different. Hoss was tired of circular conversations, of not having predictability in how Ben would handle Adam, what kinds of things he would and wouldn't allow him to do. Hoss was longing for stability and predictability—both things Ben knew could never be granted under such circumstances. Not without answers. Not without obtaining new information that would allow them to see the situation for what it really was.
Was Adam truly sick? Or was something else going on?
Rubbing his hands idly against his thighs, Ben couldn't help feeling he should know more than he did. That maybe he did know more than he could readily recall that he had access to some elusive detail he had been gifted to help liberate Adam from whatever had grabbed a hold of him, held him down and remained intent on never letting him go.
He's not going to let me go! Adam had screamed. But Kane was dead, how could he hang on to anyone or anything? How could such a thing be possible or allowed?
Do you dream of him, Papa? Adam had asked. He told me you did.
This was a question Ben had dismissed at the time. He had been so overcome, first by relief as Adam spoke for the first time in months, then by apprehension as he couldn't reconcile the things his son was saying. Sane men didn't talk the way Adam did; they didn't dissolve into hysterical tears, so frightened and intimidated by things no one else could see. Rational men didn't starve themselves, hurt themselves, or stop talking. Then again, they didn't seem to have knowledge of other people's bad dreams either.
Adam couldn't have known about his dreams of Kane. There was no rational explanation for his awareness of such a thing. Of course, rationality was something that seemed to have left him a long time ago.
"You asked me if I dreamed of Kane," Ben whispered. "I do."
Adam looked at him then, his eyes seemingly searching his father's face for verification of something Ben couldn't define. Looking into his son's searching eyes, Ben's dream of Elizabeth sprung to the forefront of his mind. All at once he recalled what it had felt like to sit next to her and the things she had said.
I don't know how to help him, Ben had admitted.
That's okay, she had said, when the time is right you will.
Looking at Adam, Ben prayed the right time had come. For the first time in a long time, he didn't think about the words as they left his mouth. He let them come, flowing naturally from his heart.
"You dreamed of Kane too," he said softly. "You went into that desert knowing what you would find. You went looking for him. That is why you were intent on being allowed to go on the drive to Eastgate. You didn't plan to return. That is why you hugged me before you left."
Jaw tightening, Adam swallowed thickly, his eyes filling with tears. The showing of his emotion wasn't prompted by being overwhelmed or afraid. It was sadness mixed with grief and the slightest hint of guilt. It was then Ben knew for certain he was on the right path, that he had finally found the correct things to say.
"I didn't want you to go on the drive because I had dreams too," Ben continued. "I dreamed of you standing on the edge of a cliff, surrounded by white rock and desert. I dreamed you were preparing to jump. You asked if I could catch you. If I would be able to make it to the bottom in time. I didn't understand what the dreams meant at the time and I'm not sure I really do now. I don't know if they were a gift or curse, something to be heeded or dismissed. At the time, I did my best to dismiss them, now I know that was wrong to do, because I think maybe that trip to Eastgate was you climbing that cliff and now you're standing on its edge, waiting to jump, waiting for me to either hold you back or catch you at the bottom. You asked me a long time ago if I could hold on to you and I'm doing my best. I know Kane is standing right next to you on the edge; he is inching you further and further away from me. I can feel you slipping through my fingers. I don't think you want to jump, but I don't you don't feel like you have a choice anymore."
He extended his hands, palming Adam's cheeks and wiping his tears with his thumbs. Leaning into the touch, Adam's posture loosened, his legs crumpling the pages of the book in front of him in the bed. Lifting his hands, he grasped Ben's arms, holding them and his father's gaze as though his very life depended upon it.
"And whether the Kane you see now is real or imagined, I don't know if it truly matters," Ben said. "Because ultimately the fight is the same. If he is some figment of your imagination or a ghost, it doesn't change what you must do. You say you don't want to be like this, that you're not the one making yourself act the way you are, but you're the only one with the power to change what you're doing right now. If Kane isn't real, then you're going to have to find a way to truly convince yourself of that. And if he is, then you're going to have to find a way to live knowing that he's there. You're going to have to find a way to shake the hold he has on you; you're going to have the courage to ignore the things he says to you. You say he's not willing to let you go, but I want you to know that neither am I. I'm on this edge with you, son. I can only hold you back for so long but trust me when I say that I will always be there to catch you. I will do anything that is required to make it to the bottom in time."
As soon the words left his mouth, Ben knew they had been right. He could tell by the way Adam was looking at him. Though his son's eyes were full of tears, he could see relief sparkling in their depths. He could practically see Adam mulling over all the things he had said, weighing and considering each in an effort to allow himself to believe them. Ben hoped his words had carried enough weight to be believed.
Eventually, Adam let go of his father's arms and shifted his weight, moving to sit beside Ben with his legs hanging over the side of the bed, his sock-covered feet firmly planted on the floor. Leaning forward, he cleared his throat, smoothed his hands over his face and focused his attention on the floorboards between his feet.
"Okay," he whispered.
It was only a single word, but it meant more to Ben than any other he had ever heard in his life.
