Flowers From The Storm (13 page)

Christian locked glances with the man, and the keeper instantly looked away. He patted Christian’s cheek and said something in a fatherly fashion as the others strapped him into place.

While Christian stood in humiliated, imprisoned frenzy, breathing like an enraged bull, the extra help left and the Ape went about the morning routine. It defiled Christian near to madness. He wished desperately for Maddy and was sick with fear that she would come now, before it was done.

But the Ape finished and wrote his loathsome things in a book and went away and left him alone.

Christian was going to kill him.

Someday. Someday.

He didn’t think of how. He thought of the look on the Ape’s face, the relish of terror, the time it would take; he’d once seen two men hanged and quartered—the expression of the second condemned traitor as he watched the executioner cut down and butcher the first: that was the fear, that was the struggle, the prolonged kicking and spasms, that was the cringing, weeping, purple-faced, swollen-tongued, bloated sickening twitching entrails-sliding agony he was going to inflict.

He thought of that, with berserk pleasure, until Maddygirl came.

She jarred him yet; the transition from night to day, from nightmare vengeance to daylight purity; it was almost more than he could bear. He’d thought himself driven to the limit before, but with each morning she brought reason, then left him to the dark and the Ape, whose mood took a deeper turn now every night. Christian began to see that he’d had it easy. His throat throbbed from the garrote; he prayed to God that his family hadn’t forgotten him, that his name protected him, because it would be so simple to keep that stranglehold an instant too long—so easy; and he felt deserted, discarded, disowned; he had no reason to believe there was anything left of the universe but this cell and the hallway and what he could see from the window.

And Maddy. Maddygirl. Standing in the hall in the white scoop bonnet, holding a shaving basin, gazing at him in his shackles.

The Ape hated her. Christian saw it in his eyes when he looked at her from behind, saw it deepen with each small confrontation, the half of them over things Christian couldn’t even follow. He was afraid for her, wished her to stay away and craved for her to come, without words to caution her or warn her off—in the end, not brave enough to hope to be left alone here.

She looked shocked, as she had when she’d first seen him. And then her whole figure seemed to grow hushed and motionless. He already dreamed about her voice. It was like a river talking, sliding between serene banks; when she spoke, the sounds made him close his eyes and imagine he understood.

Water? Woods? Retur?

He opened them, and she was gone. The Ape looked at him through the bars. Just looked, without smiling, without frowning, one long knowing moment. Then he winked and whistled low, as if to a dog, and walked down the hall.

When she came back, she would not let the Ape in. She unlocked the door, opened it only far enough to slip inside and pulled it hard out of the Ape’s hand as he tried to come behind her with the steaming water bucket. The bars shut with a ringing crash. Christian saw the Ape’s expression as water splashed on his leg and the floor. Maddygirl set the copper bowl on the table, turned and faced the keeper. Her hands were at her waist, her back rigid.

“Sea adid!” The Ape’s ferocity had vanished before she turned. He gave her a hurt look.

“Lee there,” she said, in a voice so still and controlled that it even impressed Christian. “Thast her dutees.”

The Ape’s mouth worked in an ugly way. He dropped the bucket, splashing half the water over the floor, and left.

Without an instant’s hesitation, she came to Christian and began to work at the straps that held his arms.

She didn’t look up at him, but released each one with a sharp pressure and yank. Freed from the wall, he stood balanced over his feet, unable to step forward in the jacket.

“Canuhdoo buckle,” she said tartly, still not looking up at him. The angry color was very high in her cheeks.

He closed his eyes. Because it was the only thing he could manage, he lowered himself, bending both his legs at once. He rocked forward onto his knees on the floor, drawing in his breath against the pain where the Ape had hit him, and waited, his shoulders back, staring straight ahead.

She did nothing for a moment. He knew what she must think; how strange he appeared. He gritted his teeth together.
Off. Vile foul loathsome thing off
!

“Untessary the do at,” she said, as she knelt behind him and unbuckled the jacket, releasing the taut pressure that held his arms bound across him. She pulled the restraint forward off his shoulders, leaving him bare-chested.

It took several seconds before he could command his hands. He flexed his arms wide, until he hit the shaft of agony in his back. The ringers at the end of his limbs seemed to become his again, instead of objects without purpose, things that had nothing to do with himself or his intentions. As soon as he felt capable of doing it, he pushed up off the floor, wincing. Maddy stood, too, dusting at her skirt with the jacket.

He took her by both shoulders, pulled her close to him, and kissed her mouth.

It was short and hard. He pushed her back away and let go immediately so that the stiff reaction that sprang into her spine wouldn’t turn into real fear. It was just surprise, he thought, watching her, watching shock and bewilderment and indignation and chagrin chase themselves across her face.

“Friend!” she said in a confounded tone.

“Friend,” he echoed.

It just came, without volition, meaning nothing. But he looked at her, Maddygirl with her red cheeks, her lifted chin, the narrow spinster nose with the stubborn bump in it, and if he’d lain down more times than he could count with women more elegant and comely, he’d never seen anything as beautiful as Maddy in her starched—
thing
—
white
—
head
—
sugar
?—than Maddy in this prison cell.

“
Love
,” he said. “
Love
.”

He amazed himself, and her. They stood looking at one another. The thin morning light fell down through the bars on the window, catching her cheek and sultry lashes.

That serious, pensive mouth of hers took on a dry, uneasy curve. She swung the jacket on her finger.

“Easy conkest thou.”

“Friend,” he repeated, with a hesitant smile. “
Maddy
. Friend?”

“Only friend?” She made a mock-pout. “Thotow wert bow!”

Beau?

That, he couldn’t say. Or preferred not to attempt. Her color was still high; her teasing had an edge of nerves. He was offended that she’d make a jest of it. With a moody grunt, he turned away.

“Thy back!” she exclaimed. “Astou done?”

He sat down in the chair, facing the rungs. Every move hurt; he was fairly certain that his… his—what?

Inside
,
white, hard, curved, frame
. He was injured.
Crack. Bone
. He looked at her defiantly, silently.

“Dist fall?” she demanded. Moving behind him, she reached toward his bare back. He tensed in anticipation, but her contact was featherlight, tracing the outline of what Christian imagined must be a flaming bruise.

“Hurt?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

Her fingers moved; the next touch made him flinch and expel a harsh sound through his teeth.

“Ah,” she said, and touched again along the bone. “Here?”

He nodded once. The probe came again, and he made a short, affirmative groan. He held onto the chair and endured the exploration, until one contact shot pain like a stake through his back. His head came up; the involuntary jerk was worse than the touch.

“Fracture,” she said. Mercifully, she didn’t touch him again. “Cuzzinderd bindoonite. Fall?”

It dawned on him that he could understand her—enough to work meaning out of what she said. He labored for the word, and got it. “
Fall
.”

No chance he was going to blame the Ape. He could see easily enough where that would lead.

“How fall?” she asked.

He just looked at her.

With a slight pursing of her lips, a little frown, she regarded him. “Where?”

He shrugged, grimaced at the pain of the unthinking movement.

That dissatisfied her, he could tell. She wished to do something, make some adjustment, remove some hazardous obstacle. That was fine. As long as she didn’t go accusing the Ape.

He grabbed the chairback and tilted it beneath him, miming, leaning over perilously. As he let it fall back with a thump that jarred him painfully, her face lit in comprehension.

“Oh, chair! Chair fellver?”

He inclined his head.

“Thamus caerf.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. “Move slow. Artipetuous.”

Impetuous.

He was that. He shouldn’t have kissed her. It embarrassed him now. Look at him; look at him here, in this place, befuddled, as dumb as an animal, with grunts and manual acts for speech. Couldn’t even button his own damned—
what, what
?—
Christ
—he could look down at what he meant, these things on his legs, but the word just hung out of reach, impossible.

Damn.

Damn bloody hell shit damn damn damn. Damn!

Those words he knew. He could have said them, too. He’d tried it, when he was alone, a whole list of curses in English and Italian and German and French. They were like mathematics; they were right there ready when everything else was inaccessible.

She held out the shaving bowl toward him and ran her finger around it. “Clean,” she said.

That was a change. He nodded.

She went to the door and opened it, bending over to retrieve the bucket. Christian thought suddenly that it would be easy to stand up and shove past her; it would be easy to escape; and in the same instant that he thought it he was on his feet.

She turned around, pulling the bucket into the room. The lock clashed shut.

Christian stared at her, breathing hard. She didn’t even realize it; she didn’t know how simple it would have been; the Ape had never—
never
—given him such a clear chance. And she’d do it again, because she didn’t know.

He felt dizzy with agitation. Excitement and a strange kind of fear thudded with his heart. If he got out that door, if he left this cell—what would he do? Where would he go?
Run. Run! yes;
his body was ready, but his brain seemed an uproar of confusion.
Left, right
—which way would he turn? He couldn’t even be certain of that, and it seemed vitally important. There would be stairs. Stairs, doors, corners; the gardens; walls…
damn
!

Maddygirl was looking at him, her expression cautious, daunted. He realized that he was standing with his fists clenched, his whole body taut and explosive.

“Sh’voh?”

He would take her with him. He needed her. The thought of walking out into the world by himself seemed appalling—appalling and sweet; he wanted it so badly that he felt hot wetness burning behind his eyes.

She watched him, waiting.

With an effort that took everything he had, he put his hand on the chair and sat down again. He blinked twice, hard.

She smiled. Christian let go of the breath that fought to leave his chest. He made his arms relax.

“Here,” she said. “Brot thy raze.”

He looked at her, confounded.

“Here.”

It appeared suddenly, almost under his nose. He started back. In her hand lay a razor, not the Ape’s dull butcher knife, but one like his own, precisely curved, steel and pearl.

His own razor.

And his own—
finger, gold, family
—

“Ring,” she said.

His ring.

He took it from her in his left hand. He held it.

“Dostowmember ring?”

Of course he remembered it. It was his signet, golden and heavy in his palm. He couldn’t think what to do with it.

“Not member?” She reached for it.

“No!” His fingers closed hard. If she would just give him time—let him think.

He started to put it on. His hand held it against the back of his other hand. That wasn’t right. He spread his fingers out, as wide as they would spread. He kept losing the hand where it should go and then suddenly finding it again. In his mind, he could see the ring on his finger; he just could not seem to reckon how to get it there.

Perhaps he
was
mad. Maybe he only thought he was sane. It was like looking at a box, knowing there was a simple way to open it, and turning it over and over, unable to find a seam.

He began to grow angry. His own goddamned ring!