Haunted Ground (7 page)

I must have dozed off eventually because when I woke up, bright sunshine was streaming through the open window, the cold wind of last night replaced by a gentle breeze that caressed my face as gently as my mother’s hand.  I might have stayed in bed a little longer if it wasn’t for the sound of cars in the driveway, low voices of men, and the slamming of car doors.  So, Aidan was here with his crew.  I forced myself to get up, running a hand through my hair and tying my robe to hide my pajamas before going downstairs to open the door.

“Had a nice lie-in, love?” a burly man asked, squeezing past me into the narrow hallway.  “I’ll be happy to join you, you only need to ask,” he quipped, winking at me as he took in my attire. 

“That’s enough from you, George,” Aidan called out as he walked into the house followed by three other men.  A warm smile lit up his face as he greeted me, discreetly taking in my disheveled appearance.  “Are you all right, Lexi?  Did we wake you?”

I was about to answer him when the fear from last night took hold of me once again, my eyes filling with tears and my voice shaking as I tried to tell Aidan what I saw.  I thought I’d feel braver in the sobering light of day, but the bone-chilling terror I felt last night had gone deeper than I’d expected, leaving me quaking like Jell-O as I described my experience.  I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed as I heard my words tumbling from my mouth and saw Aidan’s eyes open wider in disbelief, but there was no one else I could turn to at the moment, so I plowed on, telling him everything I’d seen until I took refuge under the covers.

Aidan didn’t reply immediately, but took me by the arm and led me into the kitchen away from the curious stares of the men who weren’t even pretending not to listen, their lips quaking with amusement.  He pushed me into a chair, put the kettle on the stove, and set two mugs down on the table in front of me before rummaging through the nearly empty cabinets for some tea bags.  He finally found some and calmly poured us some tea before taking a seat across from me and pushing the mug toward me.

“Now, have a cup of tea, calm down, and tell me again exactly what you saw last night.”  I was glad to see that there wasn’t a glimmer of derision in his eyes; instead, he looked more concerned than amused.  I couldn’t have borne it if I thought he was laughing at me.  I took a sip of tea as I tried to organize my thoughts, not wanting to appear foolish or frightened. Aidan listened carefully, his eyes opening a little wider once or twice during my narrative, but he remained silent, allowing me to finish my story.

“Lexi, that ruin is not fit for habitation, not even for a vagrant,” he explained patiently.  “There’s nothing there but jagged rocks and rotted timber, and there’s no second floor.  There is no floor, or even stairs for that matter.”  He took a sip of tea, watching me intently.  He must have thought I’d gone off the rails just rattling around this big, old house all by myself.

“I know what I saw,” I repeated stubbornly, sticking to my guns.

“All right, I’ll show you.  Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll take a walk over there?”

I shook my head.  I didn’t want to go there, didn’t want to see the place where the man had been.  What if he were still there, lying in wait for someone to disturb him? “I don’t want to go.  I’ll just call the police.”

“All right, I’ll go on my own then.” 

“Take one of the men with you,” I suggested, but he shook his head. 

“There’s no one there, Lexi.”

“I’m coming with you then.”  I wouldn’t be responsible for something happening to him.  I was scared, but I would go. 

A quarter of an hour later we approached the ruin, the sun at our backs and our feet damp from the rain-soaked earth and morning dew.  I was a little nervous about crossing the stone bridge, but despite its ancient appearance it was sturdy under our feet, built to last centuries by people who had nothing more than chisels and axes.  I strained my ears for any sound that might be coming from the ruin, but all I heard was the joyous singing of birds, and the droning of bees as they went about their business of pollinating flowers and collecting nectar from the clover that grew in such profusion in the meadow.   

I hung back as we stepped into the shadow of the great oak in front of the house allowing Aidan to go first.  He lowered his head as he stepped through the narrow doorway, treading carefully over broken stones that littered the ground.  The floor must have been made of wood once since I could still see a few rotted planks beneath the stones, but now it was mostly earth, grass and roots poking through the spaces created by fallen stones.  I followed, half expecting someone to jump out at us, wielding a club, but all was silent and peaceful; the breeze moving through the open space.  We could see the entire ruin as we stood by the doorway.  There was nowhere to hide and as Aidan predicted, there was no one there. 

I looked up at the patch of sky visible through the nonexistent roof and surveyed the walls.  There was no second floor.  There was nothing; just a husk of a house that must have been comfortable and spacious for its time.  It had been a two-story structure with a fireplace at both ends, the blackened symmetrical chimneys poking into the summer sky.  There must have been at least one room upstairs, but now there was nothing but open space and a few broken beams sticking out of the crumbling walls. 

I placed my palm against the wall closest to me in the hope that I would sense something of the people who’d lived in this house, but all I felt was cold, unyielding stone.  I turned and looked around.  Today, a structure of this size might be used for storage or as a single-car garage, but in its heyday this house probably housed an entire family; a family whose living space consisted of one room downstairs, possibly divided by a curtain to partition off the sleeping quarters, and the loft where the children would sleep, all in the same bed.  I could see remnants of a wooden table and a broken bench, but not much else.  There was nothing to tell me more.  There were no broken dishes or pewter candlesticks, no bits of fabric or leather, or corroded metal from tools.  A few rotted beams in the corner might have been a bedstead, but it was hard to tell after centuries of wind and rain eating away at the exposed wood.  The ruin was barren and desolate with no traces of habitation, ancient or modern.

“You see?” Aidan asked.  “There’s nothing here, no remains of a fire, no table, and certainly no bed.  You must have been dreaming.”  He put his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. 

I just nodded in acquiescence, but I knew what I had seen.  I hadn’t been dreaming, and I was certainly wide awake when I saw the man kneeling by the tree a few days ago. He’d been as real as Aidan and I, so I stepped through the narrow doorway to look beneath the leafy branches in the hope that he might have dropped something or left an imprint of his knees, which was, of course, ridiculous to expect after last night’s downpour.  The ground beneath the tree was undisturbed.  I turned back to Aidan, desperate to try one last idea.

“Is there anyone in town who matches his description?”  No one could accuse me of giving up easily.  Maybe he was some naturalist or bird watcher who’d spotted something in the great oak.

“Not that I know of.”  Aidan shrugged, turning to leave.  “I haven’t seen any long-haired men dressed in period clothes wandering about; I would have remembered.  Maybe you’ve seen a ghost,” he suggested with a twinkle in his eye.  “I proposed that you make up a story, not actually believe it.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I answered, sounding angrier than I intended to.  He must think me some hysterical female, afraid of spending a night on her own.

“Nae one does till they clap their eyes on one,” Aidan countered with a smile.  “The wilds of England are nae place for the faint o’ heart,” he said with a broad Scots accent, making me laugh.  “Come now lassie, let’s get yer house sorted, aye?”

I followed him meekly back to the house, but I knew what I had seen.  I’d find the answers on my own, and the most likely place to start was the town, but my inquiries would have to wait.  I had furniture to mark and closets to empty.

September 1650

England

The storm had passed, leaving in its wake a lung-seizing freshness that made Brendan shiver under the thin blanket as he lay in the bottom of the straw-lined wagon driven by his uncle.  The moon was out tonight, the clouds lit up from behind like something out of a biblical apocalypse every time they floated over its bright surface.  The wind rustled in the leaves, the treetops swaying darkly against the moonlit sky, the leaves dripping as if the whole world was quietly weeping. 

Rowan was sitting in the wagon next to him; her arms wrapped around her knees as she hummed softly, the tune barely audible above the cacophony of creaking wheels and the hooting of owls. 
So, she isn’t completely silent
, Brendan thought as he watched her in the darkness.  Rowan’s face was shrouded in shadows, but when the clouds momentarily parted, her face was pale as the moon itself, her eyes dark and unreadable, and her full lips tightly pressed together even as the mournful tune carried on the wind.  There was something so unbearably sad about this girl, something that tugged at his heartstrings in a way no one had.  Even the young women Brendan had seen in Ireland and Scotland, women who were terrified and defiant, were full of life and passion, bursting with a desire to live and love, but Rowan seemed strangely removed and as distant as the moon her face resembled.

Brendan barely registered Reverend Pole’s house as his uncle helped him out of the wagon and supported him as he led him inside.  Brendan’s clothes had been torn and bloodied, so he wore his uncle’s cast-offs, which were somewhat too short and way too wide as his uncle was of middling stature with a rotund belly that bespoke of a comfortable middle age, but Brendan barely noticed.  The room shifted in front of his eyes, and his knees buckled as his uncle maneuvered him to a bench.  A merry fire burned in the grate, and the large room smelled of bread and stewed vegetables with a slight overtone of melting wax coming from the guttering candle on the table next to an open text and an empty plate.  Reverend Pole must have been reading late into the night, too engrossed to even clean up after his evening meal.  He was tall and cadaverously thin, his fine gray hair sparse and barely covering his egg-like head.  A pair of intelligent eyes peered at Brendan, quickly replaced by a look of astonishment as he noticed Rowan.  Reverend Pole took out three wooden cups and filled them with mead, setting one in front of Brendan and the other two before Caleb and himself.  He didn’t pour one for Rowan. 

“I make it myself,” he said proudly, nodding toward the cups.  “Do try it.”  The mead slid easily down Brendan’s throat, the potency disguised by the honeyed taste.  He normally preferred wine or ale, finding mead to be sickeningly sweet, but at the moment any kind of relief was more than welcome.  It didn’t take long for the alcohol to enter his bloodstream, taking the edge off the pain that seemed to be devouring him from the inside.  He nodded his thanks as Reverend Pole refilled his cup while listening to Uncle Caleb’s account of what had happened.  The reverend nodded in understanding, glancing at the ladder that led to the darkened loft. 

“Aye, I think he’ll be safe here,” Reverend Pole muttered.  “Most of my parishioners seek me out at church.  I do get the occasional summons to attend the dying, but those callers hardly ever come in, not having any time to spare under the circumstances.  Brendan should be comfortable in the loft, and no one will question Rowan coming more often.  Everyone knows I’m getting on in years and need a bit of help around the house.   It’s very kind of you to help, child,” he added, smiling at Rowan, an odd look on his face.  She just nodded and stared at her folded hands, her face pale. 

Brendan eyed the ladder leading to the loft.  He balked at the thought of having to climb it with his injuries, but he had no choice, so he gulped down the last of his mead and rose to his feet unsteadily.  Uncle Caleb gave him a gimlet eye, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him.  “Will you make it up there?”

Brendan just nodded, gritting his teeth as he lifted his uninjured leg to the first rung and gripped the ladder with his good arm.  He had to try to put as little strain on his injuries as possible or he might not make it to the top.  He gritted his teeth and climbed the ladder, acutely aware of Rowan’s eyes on him as he ascended.  He was in agony, but he wouldn’t shame himself in front of the girl by showing weakness.  He wasn’t sure why that was important to him at the moment, but he chose to focus on her rather than on his pain and it helped. 

The loft was fairly spacious, furnished with a narrow cot, a wooden trunk, and a three-legged stool, but it showed signs of neglect.  The floor was covered with a thick layer of dust, and the straw mattress was made up with dirty linen and a stained blanket that was likely crawling with vermin.  The air in the loft was close, smelling of dust motes and mouse droppings.  An intricate spider web filled one corner, the spider still very much in residence as it went about its task undisturbed by humans.  Rowan gestured to the stool as she disappeared down the ladder again, returning a moment later with clean bedclothes, a fresh blanket and a broom.  Brendan didn’t sit, but leaned against the wall with his good shoulder, and closed his eyes as a wave of vertigo nearly made him lose his balance.  He was so weakened he could barely stand, but he had to wait while Rowan changed the sheets, swept away the cobwebs and quickly ran the broom over the dirty floor.  Caleb helped Brendan to the cot while Rowan opened up the tiny window and threw open the shutters to let in some air. 

A fresh breeze filled the loft, bringing with it the sickly sweet smell of clover and the scent of rain and damp earth.  Brendan inhaled deeply and allowed his eyes to close.  He felt as if something was dragging him under and he could no longer fight its power.  He was sinking, the dark waters closing over his head as he fought to stay conscious, but he lost the battle, his body going slack as he succumbed to the enveloping blackness.  He had no recollection of Uncle Caleb and Rowan removing his clothes, or of Rowan tenderly tucking the blanket around him and brushing the hair out of his face, before making the sign of the cross over him in silent benediction and following her uncle from the loft to collect the items she’d brought with her. 

Rowan would stay at Reverend Pole’s this night to keep an eye on Brendan.  She was surprised that he could even walk or climb the ladder given the amount of blood he must have lost, but he was young and strong; a weaker man would have succumbed to his injuries by now.  Rowan drew in a ragged breath at the very thought of it.  She would do everything in her power to heal Brendan.  She wouldn’t let him die.