Eternal Eden (38 page)

I answered him by walking towards the sun-bleached logs and seated myself on one of their smooth surfaces. Patrick situated himself on the log across from me. His face was locked in seriousness and his eyes looked everywhere but into mine. I grew more anxious every second he kept silent, knowing whatever he was going to speak with me about held a great deal of significance.

I exhaled my anxiety when he started talking. “I love William the most of all my brothers.” He chuckled, somehow managing to make it sound serious. “Actually, we’d all say that about him—he’s been the leader of our family from the beginning, even when we were Mortals, and we all know there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for us.”

He grabbed a long crooked stick resting at his feet and began drawing in the sand. “Being the leader comes with a high cost, and he’s suffered a great deal. More than any of us can imagine.”

My stomach felt sick when I thought of the suffering he’d endured.

“Any of us would do anything to protect him from more pain. He’s tried his whole life to shield us from it, but we were all trying to keep him from the same thing. The Foretellings create a hell that none of us can even begin to understand, and then there was before—” Patrick stopped abruptly, and looked into my eyes for the first time since we’d left the cottage. “Has he told you anything about our Mortal lives?” he asked, his eyes filling with grief. “How we became Immortals?”

My throat was too dry to reply, so I shook my head. I’d been desperate to know since I discovered the magnitude of his blood family that were Immortals. I’d guessed it had to have been horrifying, but I couldn’t ruin the bliss of last night by asking William.

Patrick’s head rolled back, his eyes closed, and he took in a deep breath; as if preparing to unleash some unimaginable horror. “It was 1780, and we were living outside of Charleston. Our parents were well-to-do and had strong ties with the separatist movements. There were five of us children then.” His face flinched, and he looked away from me. “Nathanial, William, me, Joseph and our little sister, Elisabeth. She was only ten—far younger that any of us—but we adored her.”

He looked off into the distance, smiling as if remembering something from the past. “She was the female equivalent of William and Joseph combined—happy and likable like Joseph, and intelligent and compassionate like William.” He chuckled and shook his head. “She was fortunate she didn’t take on the rougher characteristics of Nathanial and me.”

I tried to imagine the Hayward brother’s little sister and how much she took after her brothers; with the wide, full-lashed eyes of William, and the quick, brilliant smile of Joseph’s.

“We were all avid colonialists, eager to be rid of Britain’s tyranny, but William was especially. So much, he started his own militia, and before long, they were well known throughout the colonies as an imposing threat to the British. The Colonialists idolized these brave young men, while the British prayed they would never meet them in battle. William was fearless and a natural leader. Men wanted to follow him . . . they gravitated to him, and soon his militia swelled in numbers.”

I heard the raucous chortle of seagulls overhead, but I paid them no attention—I was transfixed in the scene Patrick was painting for me of the Hayward’s Mortal lives.

“A traitor in William’s militia gave up the name and location of its leader, and the British surmised an army to march upon our plantation. William was on an unusual leave and enjoying a couple days away from the war when they came for him.” Patrick’s voice began to waiver, and he focused his eyes on the sand below him.

“We were all outside, just preparing to have supper, when they marched through the front gates. There had to have been a hundred. My father begged William to escape, to run away before they captured him, but he wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t leave his family behind.”

I bit the side of my tongue, trying to focus on that small pain so I couldn’t focus on the larger one growing inside me as Patrick’s tale progressed.

“William immediately surrendered, but they weren’t appeased with just him—they came for so much more.” Patrick’s eyes grew wide, and I bit down harder on my tongue, praying for the physical pain to chase away the emotional that was accruing.

“They grabbed our mother, Nathanial’s new wife, and”—he sniffed harshly, and the glassiness in his eyes paralyzed me—“they grabbed Elisabeth too. We tried to fight, but there were nearly twenty armed men to each of us. They bound our arms behind our backs, wrapped pieces of cloth around our mouths, and marched us to the large sycamore that stood in the front of our plantation. They had our mother, Emma, and Elisabeth already strung up and sitting on horses, and once they crippled our knees out from underneath us so we were kneeling mere yards away from them . . . they pulled the horses out from underneath the three woman we all loved, and we were forced to watch them die the slow, agonizing death of a merciless hanging.” Patrick buried his head between his hands, dropping the stick to the side. 

“Elisabeth was the last to die. She didn’t have the weight the other two did to expedite her death . . . her eyes flew franticly between the five of us—the five men she idolized and trusted to keep her safe, begging us to save her. William tried more than once to make a run for her, each time being crushed back down beneath the butt of a rifle or the end of a bayonet,” Patrick’s whisper was so tight with sorrow, it sounded like it would snap.

“When Elisabeth took her last breath, the scream that ripped through William’s body was terrifying. He sounded like the angel of death coming to tear apart every last living thing on earth, down to the last remaining organism.”

A lone tear ran down my face, but my body was so paralyzed, I couldn’t move my hand to wipe it away. 

“And then, his face just went blank—empty. There was nothing left. The brother that we’d loved and idolized, the strongest militia leader in the colonies, was just . . . gone.”

Patrick lifted his face from between his hands, and it was so lost in sorrow, I reflexively reached my hand out to place it over one of his.

“They lined the five of us men up, still on our knees in front of the lifeless woman before us, and shot us each once in the stomach, leaving us behind to die a slow death.”

I restrained the scream that begged to be released from my throat. The thought of each one of the Hayward brothers being shot in the stomach, and lying beside one another as they awaited death, grated my hold on sanity.

“We were all too ready to die, the only thing we wished was that death could have found us sooner,” he said, and his voice sounded steadier. “That’s when Noah found us.”

“Noah?” I questioned, my voice sounding hoarse from the long silence.

Patrick nodded his head. “Noah was a man that lived on another plantation near ours. We’d always considered him an old recluse, but now understand the reason for his reclusion. He and his group of Guardians were the ones that Immortalized each of us. They’d seen the smoke rising from the fire the British had set to our house, and reached us just before we all passed on to whatever awaits us after this world. It was too late for our mother, Emma and Elisabeth . . .” he finished, as his face grew weary.

It had taken a great deal of strength to relive this gruesome event that had forever cemented this male family of five.

I moved from my seat and sat beside him, wrapping one arm around him and drawing him close to me in a weak attempt to comfort. But how could one ever comfort this kind of pain? I didn’t know how to react or what to say. I felt like an unwelcome intruder into a very private moment.

“I’m so sorry, Patrick.” The words sounded even more inadequate than I’d imagined. “Thank you for telling me. I truly appreciate it.”

He sat up straighter, and his eyes grew more composed.

He patted my leg. “You’re welcome. I knew you’d want to know.” He hesitated, blankly observing the screaming seagulls still above us. “I didn’t want William to have to tell you.”

I didn’t need to ask why. I remembered Patrick’s prelude to his telling of the Hayward family massacre when he said he’d do anything to protect William. This was one way of doing so—by not making his brother revisit the ghastly memory.

“I should get you back before he goes into withdrawals.” Patrick’s charming smile was back in almost full form, so I felt I could remove the comforting arm still wrapped around him.

We stood up from our makeshift bench and walked down to the edge of the surf, letting the waves lap at our ankles.

“Can I ask you a question?” I knew it was needless to ask because I knew that he, above anyone else, would always give me the cold, hard truth; no buffering for my benefit or to protect my feelings.

“Shoot,” he answered, matter-of-factly.

“Why is it—with Nathanial and Abigail, and Joseph and Cora being United so long now—has the Council never granted you or William a Betrothal?”

He guffawed, grabbing his stomach during the hysterics. I glared at him with annoyed eyes. “Gosh, Bryn . . . the way you said that makes William and me sound like losers.”

“No, that’s not what—”

He held up his hand, shaking his head. “No, I know that, but when someone puts it that way . . .” He looked amused, and he stroked his chin with his index finger. “For me, the Council hasn’t found anyone gifted or beautiful enough.”

I shoved him aside into the waves, rolling my eyes in the process.

“No, really, it’s probably because they haven’t found anyone patient enough to put up with me and my
antics—
isn’t that how you put it?” His taunting eyes gleamed.

“I’m sure that’s not it,” I responded, refusing to be baited by his antagonism. “You’d make a very fine husband if”—I lifted an eyebrow and raised one finger—“they find you a saint for a wife who’s on a mission from God.” I laughed while he feigned a sad puppy face.

“I’m just teasing,” I assured him.

“I know, but I deserve it.” He leaned down to pick up a flat black rock and threw it with stunning force into the ocean. Even with my new vision I couldn’t track it.

“As for William, the Council’s tried and tried to Unite him with several women.”

The taste in my mouth became bitter.

“But I bet you can guess the one reason those never worked out.”

I look at him puzzled.

He rolled his eyes and lifted his hand, holding out a finger and tapping the end of my nose. “You.”

I smiled my response.

He just shook his head, looking bewildered by my ignorance.

There were no more surfers to be seen now, and just as we turned to trudge through the billowy sand towards the cottage, Patrick kneeled down for what looked to be a broken half of a sand dollar. When he pulled it free of the sand, he revealed a whole one. He wiped it clean on the end of his sweater and handed it to me.

“For you.” His eyes wouldn’t meet mine and he stood as if he was suddenly shy. “You know, it’s nearly impossible to find a whole one—a perfect one.”

I glided my fingers over the sandpaper-like shell in my hand as he continued.

“Just like”—his eyes flickered to mine for a moment before they shied away again—“you.”

Before I could react, his eyes darted to something behind me. I turned to see what had caught his attention. It was William, standing on the edge of the porch. He waved, and I waved back as he loped into a jog towards us.

I turned back to Patrick, but he wasn’t in front of me any longer. I caught a glimpse of his figure sprinting with blinding force in the direction we’d just come from. Remembering the sand dollar in my hand, I looked long and hard into it, hoping its stained white surface would hold the explanation for Patrick’s unusual behavior. I sighed and frowned at the shell when it revealed nothing to me.

The frown dissipated the moment my eyes were distracted by the man jogging towards me with a smile on his face that cleared my mind of all else but him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SAVING PAUL

“Thanks for everything,” I said, after Cora released me from a hug.

“Anytime. Sorry I’m such a blabber-mouth, but this guy can be kinda tight-lipped when it comes to anything that makes him look like an even bigger saint than he already is,” she said, encouraging her husband away from the good five minute embrace with his older clone.

Joseph’s eyes looked shinier than normal when he was pried from William, and while Cora embraced William, Joseph did the same with me.

“You’re like a sister to me now,” he whispered. Despite every physical appearance, his voice was not identical to William’s. It was not golden and rich like honey—it was tighter and a couple notes higher. “Take care of him, okay?”

I could only nod my head, too moved by his words to trust my vocal chords. He released me and wrapped his arm around Cora, who’d just pulled away from William after whispering something to him.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re forgiven,” William said to her, pulling me under his arm and moving to his older brother and wife; trusting I needed his physical support where they were involved.

“It was good to see you, Nathanial.” William withdrew his arm from me to grip his brother in an embrace—they looked like two bears wrestling from their overbearing size.