I'm not in the mood for a sermon, you skitso.
He fell silent while he rowed. Brigitte didn’t know which was worse, the stony, white face in front of her or the curt, cutting voice of Patrick which had emanated from Jack. The thin, cruel line of his lips gleamed with a bluish tinge in the moonlight. He began to mutter to himself. The words were barely discernible. He was reciting a prayer. You’ll have something to pray about when you come round.
She waited for her chance to make a run for it. It didn’t come. Jack was well prepared. He rowed straight into a small cove and before he ran the boat aground on a stretch of beach, he let go of the oars and with a length of damp rope he bound her wrists and ankles together. The hull of the boat thumped, then scraped against land. Jack jumped from the boat into knee-deep water. His strength surprised her, when in one swift movement he’d pulled her toward him, hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried her onto the shore where he dumped her on the sand. She just lay there, with the breath knocked out of her, until Jack had finished anchoring the boat. He only removed the binding from around her ankles. Her hands he left tied. Grabbing a hold on the rope encircling her wrists he heaved her up. “Walk.” It was pitch dark and she couldn’t see a thing.
Jack didn’t need a lantern to light the way. He walked without faltering to the start of a small track and dragging her along behind him, headed inland. When a beam of moonlight broke from behind a cloud, she saw the small, rounded stone structure up ahead. The brief illumination was all she’d needed to fully understand Jack’s intentions.
“Jack Jamieson, don’t you dare leave me in that goat shed.” He wasn’t taking any notice and though she tried to slow their arrival by scuffing her feet in the dirt, they’d reached it in a few minutes. With one hand Jack slid the bolt on the door and pulled it open. He released the cord from her wrists and then shoved her inside. The bolt slid shut behind her with a thud. Brigitte screamed and kicked at the door, pounding at the wood until her fists went numb, but there was only the silence of the night outside and nothing else. He had gone and she was alone.
It was when the burning rage and indignation simmered down that the realization hit her. He wasn’t coming back. A tear trickled down her cheek. Angry, she sniffed and brushed it away. “You’re not getting the better of me, you bastard.” She shouted it out loud. Her voice sounded strange in the confined space. Brigitte pressed her back against the door. The only noise was her ragged breathing. The cell was so dark she couldn’t even see the walls. She slid down and sat on the floor. Like a blind person seeking to touch something familiar, she stretched her arms out in front of her, nothing. Inch by inch she moved them around, trying to understand the layout of her surroundings. On the left side her hand calm into contact with a rough fabric. She ran her palm over it. It reminded her of an old woollen blanket. She inched her body in that direction and found a bed, or what felt like one. Not sure how much headroom she had, in a half crouch, she crawled onto the structure and sat there hugging her knees, completely disorientated. The easiest thing to do was lay down, pull the blanket over her and try to sleep until morning.
“What’s happened here?” Murphy stood looking at the herb patch, his cap pushed back on his few remaining strands of hair and scratched his head.
“Johnson’s goats got out again last night. Their bleating woke me up at about four o’clock in the morning. It took me an age to shoo them off. I’ve been down to the farm already, went first thing. Told them I want compensation this time. Once is forgiveable, but twice in a month?” Jack’s scowl was enough to convince Murphy there’d been hell to pay
Murphy, tightened the string which held up his old trousers and was all business. “Not to worry,” he said, and pulled his cap down hard on his head. “I’ll tidy the rows up and water them down. You’ll see they’ll spring up in no time, just like they was before. Two days and nobody will even notice.”
“Only two days? That’s good. Don’t like to see them looking like that. Where’s Mrs M this morning?” Jack asked. Murphy was already picking up his tools.
“Gone into town to do a bit of shopping, said you’d probably want to be on your own seeing’s you’ve a lady friend staying over.”
“Mrs Anders,” Jack emphasised the Mrs. “Left last night. Family problems...” Murphy’s expression said ‘bad luck’ though he didn’t comment.
“After all the excitement, I think I’ll go over to Inchagoil for a few days retreat. I’ve still got some research work to do on the old monastery ruins and with all the recent comings and goings, I’m getting nowhere fast. A bit of peace and quiet and some serious concentration is what I need.”
“Best keep out of the way of the missus, then or you’ll get nothing done. Herself’s got a list of questions all ready to ask about the young lady, not that it’s any of her business like, but you know her as well as I do. Will you be taking the camper?”
“Yes, even if I’m sleeping rough, well, it’s nice to be comfortable.”
“I’ll go and see to it before I start on them then.” Murphy nodded his head at the flattened plants.
“No need. Its ready to go.” Jack had already taken Brigitte’s things from the bedroom, put them in her over-night case and hidden it in the back of the van, out of the way of spying eyes.
The less anyone else knows about this the better.
Chapter 28
Dawn didn’t shed much more light on Brigitte's situation. Only made it clearer there was no escape. The walls of the cell, built from solid stone blocks, were broken by a small slit which served as a window. There was another small hole a few inches across in the roof through which she could see a tiny scrap of dull sky. The only other light was filtering through the cracks around the border of a small hatch in the thick wooden door. It was still firmly bolted on the outside. It had just been a pre-wakening dream in which Jack had come to his senses during the night and returned to unlock it. Despondent, she sat back on the thin mattress and leant against the rough wall. The iron bedstead creaked. It was good to hear a noise and so she bounced on the bed until she thought the springs would give out. It didn’t make her feel any better.
Apart from the bed, the only thing in the cell was an unvarnished wooden table. Between the table legs nestled a red, lidded plastic bucket and a roll of toilet paper. “I hate you, Jack Jamieson,” she screamed at the top of her voice. There was no choice. She’d have to use it. She’d woken up ravenous, but there wasn’t even a drink of water in the hut. A flutter of panic made her heart race. What if he's going to leave me here to starve to death?
The grey light seeping through the hole in the roof grew strong enough for her to be able to inspect the door fastenings. They were solid and the only tools she had at hand were her fingernails. Two minutes later she didn’t have those. Without warning the small hatch in the door swung open and Jack’s face appeared. His hair was wet. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. It must be raining outside. He held a lantern in his hand.
“Take this and let this lamp light the way to enlightenment.”
He's off his head. She took the paraffin lamp and box of matches. If he didn't let her out, anything would be better than sitting in the dark all night. She turned to put them on the table top. A rustle of plastic was followed by a dull thud and a carrier bag landed on the floor by the door. Jack slammed the hatch shut and bolted it. She wanted to cry. She needed the toilet. She loathed him with a vengeance as she pulled out the bucket. After she'd finished, Brigitte opened the bag. In it was a bundle of blank paper, a Biro and a couple of pencils, a dry bread roll and a bottle of water. So much for Mrs. Murphy’s quality cooking. She’d have eaten it if it had been mouldy. Stress made her hungry. For want of something to do, and to take her mind off being shut in, she took the sheets of paper and a pencil and started to doodle. What she drew looked like a hangman’s noose. She put them down on the bed and imagined Jack’s neck in it. In a fit of temper, she stabbed the point of
the pencil in the paper so hard it pierced right through half a dozen sheets. We’ll see who you think you’re playing with now, saint fucking Patrick. In one, long-armed, swipe, she sent the loose leafs of folio swirling to the floor where they settled in the dust. Bored to tears, or that was her excuse, she soon repented and picked them up again. Somewhere close by there is water seeping through the stones and gathering in a pool.
With the resounding echo of its drip, I mark the passing of time. It is the only sound that breaks the solitude. As the light of the new day streaked the horizon, the birds sang the dawn chorus, but even they seem to have disappeared. I am alone here in this dark cell where Patrick has left me. The door is barred and I cannot leave. I am confined within these four walls. Hour after hour pass and I lay here spent on a bed that has grown uncomfortable. The hay in the mattress clogs together and moulds into unforgiving lumps from the weight of my inert body. Only the voices of the ancestors break the monotony. They come to save my sanity which is slowly slipping away. They are but distant whispers that I can barely hear. I do not want to listen. I am trapped and alone in this misery of a place.
I pull the small wooden settle across the dirt of the floor and place it beneath the hole in the wall. From there, standing upon its meagre height, I peer through the slit to watch something of the world outside. There is nothing to see. The distant view is obscured by trees. The gnarled bark of the trunks is deeply etched with the impressions of lost souls. Their faces interweave and twist, one upon another, in a tortured dance of pain and suffering. In this solitary cell, it seems, it will be ghoulish company I keep. Something scurries through the carpet of fallen leaves below the trees. There is life somewhere even if I cannot see it.
The day passes interminably to dusk and with it comes the soft, guttural calling of doves as they settle to roost. A scraping at the window slit stirs me from my misery. A young bird has perched there to preen. Her soft grey feathers lay perfectly groomed. She coos to me and I rise slowly from the bed so as not to startle her away. Taking the dried-out crust from the bread Patrick has left me, I offer it to her. She eyes it with an eager wariness. Her dark pupils, ringed by a circle of brilliant blue, fascinate me. They are piercing, intelligent eyes which observe the meagre morsel I offer her with disdain. She takes it without grace and flies away into the night. I envy her her wings and her ability to fly to freedom.
These intolerable days pass into weeks and still my time is spent enclosed in the cell. So much time lost. Days pass into night until I lose count of how many have been left behind. Patrick on occasion appears in the doorway. He remains a vision of piousness, even in this, his latest self-appointed role of custodian. He does not speak to me. Only he stands and stares to gloat at the misfortune he has blessed upon me. He throws food to me as one would throw a bone to a dog. For it is like a dog I stay here, trapped, alone and abandoned. The days he is of a crueller mood then he appears in silence beneath the window slit and throws my food onto the floor of the cell. He is a man of little mercy, for there are few who would treat even a dog asee. He waits for his taunting to break my spirit. In time he will learn. It is impossible to break that which no longer exists. I give him no recognition nor will I bend to his ways.
There are others who are imprisoned as I in this morbid place, though I cannot see their cells. I know not who they may be for I see only their insubstantial shadows. They shuffle past murmuring mutely in indiscernible tongues accompanied by the scuffle of feet and the rubbing of cloth against the stones. The dull of the evening and the rolling mist brings with it the sounds of coughing. It is a pain indeed and I long to leave the confines of the cell and to attend to my duty of caring for the sick and suffering, but there is little hope even for that I will be set free.
In the pre-dawn hours someone with the fight and spirit still in them wakes me from my troubled sleep. He calls out and with his shout comes the sound of his fists pounding violently against wood. I will him to quieten or he will suffer as I have done. He will be left for days without food or water. Neglected, until the delirium overtakes him and he submits more easily to their will. The shouts turn to screams and my heart cries. They are muffled, tortuous cries of agony cloaked by the thick stone walls. The pounding of fists no longer reverberates from the wood but sounds from a softer target. I try to block them out and travel to a distant place in my mind. I care not to contemplate the brutalities Myrddin may have suffered at the hand of these men of Christ or I will surely lose what little sanity I have remaining.
Night brings with it a lonely howl of misery, wolf-like in its wretchedness. It is a pitiful lament of complete despair which tears at the fibres of my being. For one, the ultimate moment of desolation has been reached and another will has been broken. Patrick’s flock has grown one more. The ancestors whisper to me in a constant voice. “Only the wise will defeat them.” Over, and over again, the voices of the elders departed from this world repeat the same words. I knew not what they mean. My mind is fogged by misery. It is enough to know Patrick will let me and the child growing within me live.
Day after day my steps mark a path deep in the dirt floor where I pace the hours away. Even in exhausted sleep there is no escape from this living nightmare. The night air fills with the scent of old roses so strong and so sweet, that for a moment, I dream I am home again. But it is no dream Myrddin brings to me. It is a living torment from which there is no escape. His urgency distresses me and I am afraid of what it is he has need to show me. He is in some eerily damp and obscure place, illuminated only with flickering torch light and seated in a chair. He is bound and gagged. My heart races with panic. Desperate to get away, I try to wake, but he grabs me by the hair and forces me to watch the gruesome scene before me.
There are two men, executioners, and they prepare him for his end. The stake penetrates his skull and pierces the skin between his shoulders. My heart and my breathing seem to stop. Still he won’t let me turn my eyes away. They drag him across the room and push him, still bound to the chair, inside a dark, cavernous hole. I can but scream at them to stop, but not a sound escapes my constricted throat. There is a great nothingness, where, but for a faint, soft trickling of water there is silence. Darkness engulfs me and the sound of water returns. I awake in the cell cold, alone and trembling. He has gone and I must face this horror without him. It is my piercing primal scream which echoes through the night as I pound my fists against the stone of the wall. My desolation is complete when I collapse to lay prostrate in the dirt in infinite despair and the bloodstained rose-petals, carried on the whispered breath of a sighing breeze, fall upon my prostrate body in a soft, blanketing caress.
His absence is a pain almost too great to bear. The future lays like a wilderness before me, empty and long, knowing he will never return. I long to see him again and feel the warmth of his strong body pressed upon mine. To touch again the roughness of the beard that grew like a shadow upon his cheek. To trace the line of the scar which ran so deep below his eye, and with kisses, chase away the worry from his troubled brow. I long to lie with him and forget these troubled times we live in, but they have stolen him away. How easy it would be to surrender. To give in completely, and go to where I long to be, with him for forever. But even in these, my darkest moments, I know it is not my time. So I wait, and will wait, for all eternity if need be, to be with him again.
It is long I mourn. My hair hangs lank and lifeless from the months of maltreatment. My dress has become sweat-stained and dirty, crumpled to no more than an offending rag. I abhor my own rancid scent and cannot bear to see the scum of dirt my body has gathered. There has been little enough water to drink that cleansing has become of second importance, but I am alive and the child kicks strong in my womb, it is enough.
I am big with child and my belly stretches tighter every day. Patrick permits me to leave the cell. The liberty is a gift, but my body is weak from the many months of inactivity and I tire quickly. It is well apparent I am incapable of escape for the burden of pregna
ncy does not sit well upon me. But still, Patrick does not trust me. Today he appears accompanied by a spindly shadow of a youth. Bone thin and dressed in rags he is a strange creature who can neither hear nor speak. He has been so afflicted from birth. He is deemed safe company for me to keep.
Grellan, I am sure, is a mind speaker. My senses are sharp from speaking with the ancestors, but with him it is like playing a game with a child. I know he hears me when I call to him in my mind for his expression changes and he raises his hand to his mouth as if he has wish to laugh. I will try to win his confidence for he has been badly treated and hides inside his silence for protection. It takes but a few days to befriend this strange man-child and soon it is he who answers me as if he whispers the words into my ear. He has become my faithful friend and servant and never leaves my side. I care for him the best I can and share with him the misery of food Patrick leaves me.
Today Grellan and I wander further than doorway of my cell. The discomfort of the child grows stronger and compels me to move. It is the first time I have seen the surroundings where I have spent so many months enclosed. It is a poor place and I know not where we are. There are twelve cells in all, built stone on stone in the tribal way. There are men enclosed in the cells. They suffer more than I have for they are shackled to the walls with chains. I wish to speak with them, but Grellan becomes nervous and fidgets an anxious dance when I get to close. We make our way back to my cell where he roughly pushes me inside and closes the door hole with the wood restraint.