Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (8 page)

Somebody, please help me!

She fell into the safety of her haze. Through the fog, she could hear the man uttering obscenities. She could see the violent attack of his body on hers. She could feel him blowing rancid spittle in her face as he rhythmically shouted, “There! There! There!” The physical pain he inflicted by his selfish cravings could not compare with the much uglier crime he committed on poor Blair, of wounding her spirit and mind in ways that would surely never heal.

Get up,
her inner-voice, with an identity of its own, told Blair.
It’s over.
Go clean yourself up, for heaven’s sake.

Blair rose slowly, shakily, observing the bruising that was already beginning to form all over her body. She walked gingerly down to the river. At the river’s edge, she knelt and splashed water onto her front. She looked down at her breasts and touched one of them softly. It held bite marks and bruises and scratches.

Father saw what he did to me…and just watched. He just watched!
A pinched wail escaped her.
Did my father, who was so joyful of my pregnancy mere days ago, arrange for me to be raped just so that he could place the blame on someone else? Or…oh, my God…did he want me to lose my baby?

Blair crossed her hands over her womb in a symbol of protection.
Will my baby be all right?

She began crying, quietly at first but graduating into uncontrollable sobs.

That was how Sean Marshall found her.

“Blair?” He could only see her from the back, kneeling at the edge of the river and crying. He approached slowly, knelt next to her, and lifted her face up to his. “Oh, Blair. Oh, my Lord.” Sean took in the torn dress, the dirt on her face and breasts—no, not merely dirt, but bruising and a lot of it. He blinked furiously as his eyes took in the gouges and teeth marks. He looked angry enough to spit nails.

“I’ll kill him,” he whispered through clenched teeth as he removed his white handkerchief from his pocket. He dipped it into the cold, clear water of the Nestucca and began dabbing gently at the most offensive dirt and spit that covered her.

Even as Sean washed her, the voice in her head kept repeating,
I’ll never be clean…I’ll never come clean.

After a while of Sean’s ministerings, she began to snap out of the faraway place she’d been. She was surprised that darkness was already falling. She looked into Sean’s face, really seeing him for the first time since he’d found her there.

“Will you?” she asked.

“Will I what, Blair?”

“Will you kill him for me? Please, Sean. Please kill him.”

“God forgive me, Blair, but I want to. How could your own father do something like this?”

“He didn’t.” She looked down, too ashamed to meet his questioning look.

“But…I saw, once before…the two of you here by the river. I know what he’s done to you, Blair.”

That startled her. “What you must think of me. I have so much shame—”

“No, Blair. This isn’t your fault. Your father, he’s a monster.”

“He says I seduce him. I came to his bed when I was little. I was frightened. He…he says I am a demon child.”

“You were an innocent child. He’s the parent who should be lookin’ out for your well-being. Instead…no, it’s him who is responsible for all of this. You are a victim, Blair. Look at you! No woman would ask for this.” Sean dabbed at the tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

“He didn’t do this. The music man did. But Father…let him.”

Sean looked horrified. “Your father allowed that man to rape you?”

“I was his payment for teaching the note singing lesson and for chopping wood.”

Somehow that was even worse. It was too much.

“It was not enough to brutalize his own daughter? Now he has lent you out to be brutalized?” Sean pulled her in and held her close. He would have to kill the preacher and that transient scum for what they’d done to Blair or else go insane. “How could he do such a thing?” Sean asked of the sky.

“Because I’m pregnant, Sean. My father made me pregnant, and now he has someone else to blame it on. Or maybe he wants me to lose the baby. Do you think I will lose the baby, Sean?” She began crying softly. “What am I going to do?”

Sean had been struggling over the course of several days with his idea for saving Blair. He had asked God for a sign telling him he would be doing the right thing. Now he guessed the news of Blair’s pregnancy was that sign. If Sean had had doubts before, the sight of Blair before him cleaved them away.

“Blair, will you marry me?”

She took her palms from her wet eyes, but she would not lift her eyes to meet his.
Why would this good and handsome man waste his life on marrying me?
Blair thought. She couldn’t allow him to do that. “I can’t,” she said.

“Blair? Please? I think we could be happy. I’d get you out of here anyway. You’d be away from him. And I could give your child my name. I can protect you, Blair. Say you will and come with me now. I promise I would never hurt you.”

“Don’t waste your life on me, Sean. I’m not worthy of one so decent as you. I can’t let you do it.”

He stroked her beautiful dark curls and wiped her tears. “I want to marry you, Blair. I know that in time we’d even grow to love each other. We can be happy. C’mon, Blair. Tell me you will.”

She felt miserable and overjoyed, scared and hopeful. She was in Sean’s arms, and those warm, comforting arms enveloped her completely. Her face was pressed to his shirt, and she could feel and hear his strong heart beating. His gentle fingers stroked her hair, and his eyes held nothing but compassion. There was no judgment there.

After all God had allowed her father to do to her, is this, in some way, compensation?

She never believed she deserved happiness. But Sean had told her that none of it was her doing. Her father, the preacher, was the wicked one. She was a victim.

Say yes!
The inner-self urged.

Blair took a gulp of air and wiped her eyes. “All right, Sean. I will.”

Chapter 17

S
ean led Blair back to the Marshall house. He would never allow her to sleep in the cottage again. She was his responsibility now, and he aimed to live up to his promise to her that he would not allow her to be hurt again. Mavis Marshall took one look at the disheveled girl being ushered through the door by her youngest son and sheltered her like a mother hen did her chicks. To her credit, Mavis asked no questions. She merely took the girl from her youngest son’s arm and led her to the bathing room. She filled the oversized claw-foot tub with warm, soapy water, adding a touch of rose water and glycerin to soothe the poor girl’s skin. She helped the girl undress in silence, almost. Mavis could not call back the gasp that escaped her when the child removed her blouse.

Blair bit her lower lip at the exclamation, humiliated beyond words.

Mavis put a soft arm around the girl’s shoulders, stroked her hair and whispered, “I’m going to burn these clothes, child. I want you to slip into the water and soak yourself awhile. I’ll come back to check on you with a cup of hot tea.”

Blair nodded somewhat mechanically and stepped into the inviting bathwater.

Mavis closed the door quietly behind her, the girl’s ragged clothing piled in her arm. She handed them to Will, who stood talking quietly with Wyatt, Sean, and the two farm hands who received room and board, Johnny Arthur and Henry Kellerich. Will stared at the torn and blood-stained blouse that lay atop the pile. Sean could see that his brother was seething, and it may have been the first time he had ever seen Will so angry. Will had a reputation with the ladies, Sean knew. But he was not a womanizer. On the contrary, Will cherished the fair sex, and seemed to put every woman he knew up on a pedestal. When Will saw him usher in the tender young girl, with her delicate body battered and bruised and her lovely face stained with tears and more, Sean thought Will looked fit to do murder.

“Burn them,” Mavis ordered. She pulled her husband aside and told him, “Wyatt, that sweet girl is covered with bruising and bleedin’ and teeth marks, for heaven’s sake. She’s been…dear heaven…so horribly violated.” Tears escaped her eyes and Wyatt drew her head to his shoulder. Mavis drew strength from her husband’s touch. She squared her shoulders and announced, “The brute who’s work this is must be dealt with in the strongest terms, and swiftly.” She turned toward her sons and charged, “Who’s responsible?”

“She says it was the music man, Ma. Came over to chop wood for the preacher and…” He shrugged. Sean would not lie to save a man like the preacher, but neither would he reveal the ugly secret he’d promised Blair would never be known to anyone but him.

Henry slapped Johnny on the back. “Let’s get ‘im.”

They left to fetch the horses.

“Someone needs to tell the preacher what’s happened, Wyatt.”

“I will go over and visit with him about the matter,” Wyatt promised.

Sean reached for his mother’s arm and touched it softly, saying, “Ma, please, don’t leave her alone. I, I want her to stay here from now on. She’s scared of the cottage, an’…well, anyhow, I intend to make her my wife soon as possible.”

Wyatt’s pipe fell out of his mouth. “Son…are ya sure?”

“Pa, there’s some things you don’t know, an’ I can’t tell ya neither. But I have made up my mind on this. She’s not goin’ back to the preacher’s house. I want her to stay here, with us.”

Stunned, Mavis left the room to fetch some tea for Blair so the men could talk.

Wyatt Marshall and his youngest son were left standing face-to-face. “Sean, is this what has been laying so heavy on your mind these recent days?”

“Pa, I can’t talk about it. I made promises.”

Wyatt bent and retrieved his pipe from the soft fir floorboards. The tobacco had been strewn wide and wild. He plucked at snuff remnants he could find and stuffed them back into the pipe; his shaking hands visibly betrayed strained nerves.

Sean could see the effect his announcement had on his father—Wyatt Marshall was clearly rattled. Sean bent and swept up what remaining tobacco could be seen into his hand, and poured it into his father’s palm. “I’m sorry, Pa.”

Wyatt looked into his son’s eyes. “And, Rebecca?”

“It’s going to be alright, Pa.”

Wyatt grabbed his son’s hand between his and squeezed. He nodded, but said nothing. There was nothing to say. And yet, he harbored a gnawing worry that a great storm was building on the horizon. He worried for Sean.

Later that evening an angry mob, lead and incited by the preacher himself, pushed and prodded the music man toward the octopus tree. The eight branches of that particular spruce bent horizontal before reaching for the sky, giving the appearance of an octopus gone belly up. Henry Kellerich tied the noose and heaved it over a strong arm of the tree. He had no weak stomach for the task he set about doing. A German at heart, Kellerich was an advocate of swift, sure justice. He’d seen the girl come into the house with Sean, seen the beauty’s haunted eyes and tear-stained face, her delicate body ravaged by the sick rotter standing too near to him for his liking. Johnny grabbed the man, whose hands had been tied tightly behind him, and shoved him toward the noose. The man stumbled and fell to his knees. He began crying, which only proved to disgust Kellerich all the more.

“Get up, you pagan,” he jerked the man to his feet and threw the noose around his neck. “It’s time to answer to your maker.”

He and Johnny pushed the man up into the saddle of Johnny’s horse, Paint, as the township urged the punishment to befall. The music man was wailing. He pleaded for a chance to explain himself but could not be heard above the jeers and insults from the crowd. His eyes searched out Bowman in the midst of the onlookers and he yelled, “The devil tricked me. He made me do it!” Just then, Johnny Arthur slapped his horse’s hind quarters and the rope stretched taught as the horse unseated its rider.

“Then to the devil with you!” the preacher hollered piously above his parishioners’ cheers as the life blinked out of the music man.

Chapter 18