Born in the Mouth of an Angel
Part I
Abigail Fero
Copyright 2012 Abigail Fero
Published by Black Shire Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Table of Contents
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part I
He woke in a field, covered in blood. The stench of the dried, sticky blood filled his nostrils and he grimaced, his stomach heaving its disapproval. Rolling onto his side, he tried to stand, the hard ground and shorn hay making it difficult. He stood on tender feet, surveying the empty field, mowed clean of its hay, only sharp remnants remaining behind.
He had no cellphone in his pocket and no identification either. A half-moon hung in the sky, bright enough to light the world for him. It didn’t take him long to realize he needed to get out of the field, to find some sort of cover. His feet protested every step he made, his soft soles pricked and bleeding, his toes stubbed raw on rocks and hard soil. But in the end he made it to the tree line and beyond, to the river.
He stood on the bank, looking in. The cold rushing water didn’t look inviting and it took him a moment to work up the courage and conviction. There was little choice in the matter. He stripped bare, his torn shirt followed by his pants, stiff from the dried blood. Jumping into the river, he shivered as he scrubbed, ducking his head under the current and trying to work his fingers through his hair.
Once he emerged from the river, he shook himself before bending over the rocky bank to dip his clothes in, one piece at a time. He couldn’t abide the blood, despite knowing somehow that it was his own. Though he wrung out his clothes as best he could, they were still wet and cold as he put them on, making every whisper of wind colder against his body.
Looking up at the moon, hanging beyond the trees and their mask of leaves, he tried to gauge where he was. Nothing looked familiar and he couldn’t tell if it was because even the recognizable looked changed in the night or because he’d never been there before. Realizing that it was useless to try and scrape together any sort of memory as he stood, cold and wet, he decided to move on.
Lost and confused, he didn’t know where to go, in which direction he should head. So he picked a direction randomly and started walking, keeping the river on his right. As he made his way over the landscape, words echoed through his head, the only familiar thing he had.
“Born in the mouth of an angel,” he said, quietly and to himself. The words hovered in the frosty air before slipping away.
The words ran around in his head, the last word chasing the first in a mad circle. He walked and winced as his feet cut and bled. The river gave way to a trickle, the trees thickening and thinning. Houses began cropping up in the distance and still he walked, never veering from whatever course his feet were set upon.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, he found her. She was standing outside, in a pool of shadow cast by a towering house. Her white nightgown and long white hair made her easy to spot in all the darkness. Somehow she didn’t look real. He hadn’t seen anyone else and in the early hours of morning, without even a glimpse of the coming sun, he felt alone in the world.
Advancing through a screen of bushes, he felt compelled to approach but didn’t know how. He was all too aware of how he must look. But he needed a coat, or a blanket. He needed help.
And then she looked right at him. He froze, unsure if she could actually see him or if she was just gazing in his direction. It was still dark in the shade of the trees he hid behind.
“I know you’re there,” she called, making him jerk in surprise.
He stood, unsure whether or not that meant he should reveal himself. Her feet were bare, too, and her night dress floated around her ankles, glowing in the white light. The bushes rustled as he moved past them, out onto the grass, not far from where she stood. She smiled at him and then turned away.
She hummed tunelessly as she headed towards the house. He didn’t know if he was supposed to follow or not so he stood there, the dew wetting his feet. When she was only a few steps from the door to the house, she turned and looked at him again.
“You must be cold, let’s go inside.”
He frowned, hesitating. This wasn’t normal but then, his whole night had been anything but normal. With a shrug, he joined her at the side of the house as she took her last steps and threw open the door. He followed her into the house that loomed over them, casting its dark well of shadow, overlapping the trees.
The moonlight didn’t penetrate inside the house and he wasn’t sure where anything was. He couldn’t see well enough to take more than a few tentative steps and she disappeared, though he could hear her rustling around somewhere close by.
“There’s a couch in front of you,” she told him from somewhere in the room.
He took one step, then another. His hands outstretched, his feet found the sofa first and he tumbled down onto it. The warmth and softness made him sigh.
“There’s a blanket on the back of it if you want to wrap yourself up.”
He did as she said, scrabbling for the blanket. Once he was ensconced in its warm cocoon, he could feel the heaviness of the night settle on him. His eyes drooped as he slumped further down into the embrace of the couch. Dimly he could hear her approach. A glass clinked and the couch dipped next to him when she sat down.
A clean, sweet smell drifted in the air and he cracked an eye. His pupils had dilated enough that he could make out shapes in the darkness. A pale mug sat on a table in front of him and he reached for it.
The handle was almost too small for his hands and the rim had a chip in it but none of that stopped him from taking a scalding sip. Though the liquid burned in his mouth, he didn’t make a noise and swallowed, feeling the heat rush through his body.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked, the whites of her eyes glowing. When he didn’t reply, she sighed. “You never remember me anymore.”
Her irises were light colored, as was everything about her. He didn’t know what to make of her and he certainly had no memory of the woman sitting next to him.
His hand seemed stiff as the honeyed tea settled oddly in his stomach. He didn’t know her and he hadn’t realized he was supposed to. After the silence lengthened and she didn’t say anything else, he took another sip of the tea, the bitter aftertaste pleasing.
She moved restlessly next to him, her own teacup forgotten in her hands. He wanted to say something, anything, but didn’t know what to say. Nothing leapt to mind but he cleared his throat anyway.
She looked at him, expectant. He frowned and cleared his throat again.
His lips formed words but his vocal chords didn’t cooperate. He coughed and spluttered, the words dying unexpressed on his lips. He frowned. He’d spoken earlier, if only to himself, so he didn’t know what could be wrong.
Again and again he tried. She stopped looking at him as though she hadn’t expected him to be able to speak. Her delicate features were unmoved as she flicked a glance at him, noticing him grow increasingly frustrated as he couldn’t force a word past his lips.
He panicked, trying to make a sound emerge, only a hacking cough coming forth. His hand scrabbled at his throat, his wild-swinging elbow knocking her elbow, splashing her with the hot liquid from inside her teacup.
She yelped and sprang to her feet, the white nightgown plastered to one leg. She disappeared and he could hear water running in another room. Not much longer and she returned. His hand fluttered uselessly as he tried to apologize.
“It’s ok,” she waved away his concern. She gave him a hard look. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
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He didn’t understand. He didn’t have anything to compare it to.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she told him, grabbing his free hand and tugging him to his feet. He rose, towering over her, the mug still in his hand.
“I’ll run you a warm shower. Get you out of your pants. I have some of your old clothes here. I bought you some new slippers too,” she told him as if he might be excited at the prospect of new slippers when he didn’t have a voice or a memory. Or a name. What was his name?
He stood on the cold tile floor of a bathroom as she started the shower for him. Once it was on, she turned to leave, tugging the blanket he still had wrapped around his shoulders and taking that with her.
The warm water ran down over his bowed head as he stood under its spray. Once his body thawed, and the feeling returned to his feet, he groped along the tiled wall for the soap he knew he’d find. The bar slipped in his hands but he kept hold, running it over his body, pleased to