Torn by loyalties, plagued by disbelief, drawn
irrevocably to sensuality and desire, how would the twins survive the promise
of this ominous and fatefully dark day?
“No!”
Panic erupted in visions of dread. She saw the dark hole only seconds before
being pushed into it. Swallowed by night
and stench, and silent screaming; she fell downwards – almost slowly, like
Alice into the bowels of the earth - landing heavily on mouldering leaf litter,
fetid plumes rising like spores releasing into her face.
Lorrie coughed, spat, “Oh… god!” Pushing herself up hurriedly, grimacing at
the slimy feel on her hands, she wiped them frantically on her jeans and spun
around in the darkness trying to find where she had fallen from. It was pitch black. Her eyes strained for any hint of light.
A faint crack almost too small to detect
formed an arc above her head. Lorrie
reached to touch it but found it was further away than she had
anticipated. “Hey!” she yelled, “Hey! You can’t leave me down here!”
For a moment Lorrie listened for any sign of
relenting but no movement came from above. “Come back here.” She jumped at the slash of light, trying to
reach it, swiping nothing but air. “You
come back and let me out! Come back!”
God, she was trapped, in a pit. God!
An airless hole in the ground, in a stench that clamped her nostrils
shut in self-defence and knotted her stomach in desperation. “Come back you bastard! You fucking, sick bastard! Come back!”
Her frantic jumping increased until she slid on the slimy floor and fell
again. Panting, she cried blind
anguished tears. “Let me out… Let! Me! Out!”
No movement.
No one came. The bitter tears
scolded her as in despair Lorrie buried her face in her arms. What had she done to deserve this? Why was her mind set on tormenting her? Shouldn’t there be a tunnel, a peaceful
river, calm brilliance, heavenly light?
Not this utter desolate darkness.
Suddenly the tears stopped, a nasty thought
creeping silently into her head… She saw
a white room with padded walls, saw herself huddled in a weeping heap in one
corner, screaming from delusions, from a madness that had overcome her and sent
her into a frenzy of fantasy. Perhaps
there had been no car trip, no landslide or consuming fiery red power… Lorrie
opened her eyes eagerly, certain that now she had guessed, the night would peel
back. Fearfully, desperately she wanted
to see the white room, to know that suddenly she was sane again and this
imagined reality put behind her.
Darkness pressed hungrily across her vision. “God! God!”
She bit into the knuckles stuffed into her mouth. This was worse than anything that had
happened to her yet. Worse than thinking
herself somewhere else while reality was a padded cell, worse than separation
and capture. It was even worse than realising
she was going over the edge of a cliff, dangling into a vortex of waiting death. She was alone, completely and utterly; forced
to face herself and her fears without the facility of any distraction.
The earth seemingly squirmed with life,
teaming with crawling, scuttling creatures. Gases popped in fatal plumes; fungus growing
in the cool depths of the moist hole, stealthy sounds assaulting her
imagination. The smell of decay, the
reek of mouldering excrement, the heavy laden odour of dirt all crushed down on
her from above. And what if it
rained? What then? She would drown.
Never had she imagined such isolation, such
fearful wretchedness. It had been the
furthest thing from her mind as Simeon had whispered to her that very morning,
“This is home,” and Lorrie had looked curiously towards the vista before her
even as all brought their mounts to a halt, they too wishing to wallow in its
glory.
Her buttocks no longer protested the feel of
the saddle nor the sway of the animal beneath after so many days. It was as if she had developed the necessary
callus to numb herself to the pain, and had acquired the rolling motion of hips
to match its jarring gait.
Time in Simeon’s company had done nothing to
diminish her growing awe for the man - her constant companion. He spoke her language, held her safe upon his
horse, the vertigo easing back at his mere touch. He had administered to her
every need and more pertinently, saved her life from the fall that would have
surely doomed her. Still Lorrie could
not get over his miraculous return to health.
How could he have done it? He was
solid and whole, no mark left of the horrific injuries he had suffered in the attack
that had precipitated his act of bravery. He had pulled her back from her
horror, from inevitable death as she had fallen over the lip of the precipice. He was beautiful, and invincible. And he had saved her.
But now he – no, they - had brought her to
their home, the journey finally over.
The first sight of the towering oaks was
breath-taking, the beauty of the massive tree-scape rendering all thought, all
fear invalid. Lorrie had thought
instantly of her camera bag, almost reaching instinctively for it. Damn! Not here, nothing here! No pencil, charcoal, no ink, and no paper;
nothing with which to capture the moment of its revelation.
The horses had stood upon the nude yellow,
pitted-clay ridge, their riders admiring, even as she did, the vast green swath
of horizon that jutted as majestically into the clarity of blue sky as any
mountain. It was wondrous.
“’Tis called the Fae Wood,” Simeon had
advised and she had turned her head as the words whispered a warm breath over
her sensitive ear, her cheek almost caressing his lips with an intimate shudder
for his closeness. God he had lovely
lips! Equal to, or if she was honest
with herself, even lovelier than those forbidding, perfect lips pressed taut
about their tense leader’s mouth. And yet
weren’t that man’s the features she caught herself studying more and more often
as the days had passed since her rescue from the gorge, not Simeon’s. It was a morbid fascination, blatant
curiosity and yes, tinged with fear for she had been unable to understand
it. Why did she find herself looking at
the man, that rough, hard, prohibitive exterior that shouted a cold and
collected demeanour? What did she expect to see; hints of fiery passion
churning hot enough to consume her?
No! Of course not! Then, why?
Why did she find herself doing that very thing so often?
They called him Tavis Eagle-born and while it
seemed a strange title to Lorrie, a slightly primitive moniker, it felt
eminently appropriate. Oh, dear, Lorrie had
shaken herself and abruptly pulled away from Simeon only to turn into the flare
of fiery brilliant green eyes that sent a blazing surge of guilt through her as
Tavis came to a halt beside them. The
man drew her attention like a scab beneath her fringe-line, to be thoughtlessly
picked at with no effect than a further itch, prolonging the satisfaction of
more pain and affliction. Shit!
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