Bitter Eden (54 page)

walls, his body writhing in the pain of loneliness. Crying, he lay flat on the floor of the cave, touching every part of his body, trying to imagine it was some-ope other than himself he touched and who touched him.

The fifth day he spent like an animal on all fours, trying to seek out any warm spot on the rock, imagining it was the warmth of human skin. He kissed the rock, his hands roving over the grain, feeling the curves of its rough surface sensual and pleasurable against his own pliant body.

During the night he was cold. The fire had gone out. He couldn't see anything inside the cave. The sea lashed with a cold heartless fury. Peter curled in a tight ball against the back of the cave wall, going mad.

On the sixth day two guards came to drop off new supplies. Peter sprang from the cave as the guard climbed up the edge of the rock. He grabbed hold of the man's hand, laughing and kissing it. The guard slapped him back-handed across the mouth. Peter fell to the rock kissing the man's feet.

From below in the boat, the other guard called to his partner. "He all right?"

"Berean?" The guard laughed.

"Yes ... is he alive?"

"Sure he's alive. Bonkers as a loon in May. CTmon up here and take a look. I'd never have thought Be-rean would take solitary this way."

The other man began to climb the rock. Once his head and shoulders were above the surface, he stopped. He made a face of disgust at Peter groveling at the guard's feet* "Get in the boat. We'll report it to the commandant."

"Shouldn't we take him back? They're never going to get him back to work if we don't get him off this

rock. They say he can work like a team of oxen if they give him enough of the lash. They're not going to want to lose him."

"We've got no orders to release him. Get back in the boat."

The other guard stood for a moment, fascinated by Peter. "Funny which ones solitary breaks. Take Be-rean here, a-loner from the start. The triangles didn't do a thing to him. The arrogant son of a bitch just took his medicine and went back to work as unrepentant as ever. Six days on Grummet and look at him. He's a pussycat. Come here, Berean. Let Gene get a good look at you."

Like an obedient dog Peter got to his feet, standing as near the rock's edge as his chain would allow.

"Don't stand near him, you fool. You don't know what he'll do. He damn near killed the last man he attacked," Gene said.

"Ahhh, he's not going to do anything, are you, Berean? Look, he loves me." The guard reached out touching Peter. Peter stood, his eyes closed in ecstasy. The guard jumped down to the ledge of the rock and got back into the boat.

Peter opened his eyes, staring in horror. "Don't leave me! Please! Don't leave me."

They could hear him screaming as they rowed back to the mainland.

Four days later they returned for Peter. The commandant had finally ordered his release and considered it a favor, for his solitary was to have lasted two weeks. He was being released after ten days.

By the time the guards returned for Peter, he was afraid of them. He was afraid they weren't real. He was afraid they were more of the strange creatures who had begun to haunt him, airy men and women

who danced before his eyes and reached out with warm hands until he leapt to his feet trying to embrace them; and then they disappeared, leaving him alone grasping the air.

He had learned the air people would stay with him as long as he didn't attempt to touch them. Any company was better than none. He forced down the desire to be touched, taking comfort in the fact that the air people at least shared his solitude by being there.

As the guards came forward to release Peter's chains, he backed fearfully away from them. He didn't dare let them touch him. By their touch they would vanish, and he'd be alone. He could no longer stand being alone. He'd give up anything rather than be alone. With disorderly speed, thoughts flashed through his mind. The air people were trying to trick him into touching them. They wanted release from this loneliness as he did. They wanted release. Only he had the power to release them. He wouldn't give it Power exercised by the powerless. He laughed, delighting in his newfound eminence. Cunningly he sat back and watched the guards from the corner of his eye so they wouldn't know he saw. As long as they didn't know how badly he wanted them near him, they wouldn't be so likely to leave him.

The guards finally had to rush him, pinning him to the ground. One held him screaming and writhing as the other took the chains from him. To make him manageable they had to bind him hand and foot and carry him to the boat. Peter lay in the bottom of the boat raving and crying in rage and despair all the way back to Sarah Island.

The doctor sedated him and put him in one of the solitary cells in the prison hospital. When they had him reasonably calm, he was examined by the doctor and found to be sound of body considering that he

had eaten virtually nothing. He had hoarded his food fearing the day he would have no more and no one would ever return to him. As to his mind, the doctor shrugged, unconcerned. "Most of them get over it sooner or later. He is a life-term man, isn't he? Well, then, youVe no worry. He's better off as he is. He obeys what he's told, so he understands. You'll get many a good day's work from him."

When Peter returned to the barracks there were three letters waiting for him. Two were from Stephen telling him of the May house, and one was from Callie telling him about Hobart Town, but he was incapable of reading them. He stared at the letters, not even daring to pick them up. He was as frightened of them as he was of everything else.

The criminal spirit of Peter Berean was broken. It was hoped that conversion would follow.

Peter was sent back to the sawmill the next day. In the harness he found security. In the work he found a mindless solidity that helped camouflage the deep despair of being despicable and alone*

Chapter 37

It seemed to Stephen that it had been weeks since he had had the time to be young, and he longed for it. Though he saw her every day, watched her work by his side and put out every bit as much energy and effort as he, he missed having free moments with Cal-lie. Moments when she would shrug free of the responsibilities of Jamie, Natalie, the farm, moments when she would forget Peter and run like a wood sprite through his newly plowed fields, laughing with a sound that was like a song on the wind to him.

He counted the days of his life by those moments when the smell of freshly turned earth and flowers and grass all swelled and enveloped him, whispering her name in his ears. Those were the moments when she was his. Those were the days he worked for and longed for when he didn't have the time to be with her.

He had known for some time he would never marry Agnes Wharton. He just hadn't found ^a way of breaking free without hurting her. Jack had called him a damned fool, and was probably right. Agnes would

make him a good wife, but he loved Callie. He expected to die a very old man still loving Callie.

For months, however, Stephen had struggled with his decision, trying to be fair. Jack's constant warnings and his own logic told him to marry Agnes Wharton, to settle down and begin to raise a family. He would be happy with Agnes; he didn't doubt that. But the yearning inside him to be near one particular woman would never be satisfied.

Stephen knew that all his arguments against marrying Agnes were the romantic tomfoolery that Jack labeled them, but he questioned that men ever achieved anything extraordinary by being objective. The heights and nadirs of life were achieved only subjectively. Stephen never mentioned this line of thinking to Jack, knowing it would bring forth a barrage of sarcastic teasing. But he made his decision on it. He'd wait for Callie.

Even with the decision made, he didn't rest easy. There were too many questions and uncertainties. There was Callie herself to complicate it. Though he believed that a desire as great as his could not go unrecognized by her forever, she had not given any indication since they had returned from Kent that she would ever consider him as anything more than a loving brother.

The other consideration that made him doubt himself was Peter. He knew he would never step between Callie and Peter if things were as bad with his brother as he suspected. No matter how much he wanted to, he could never interfere if Peter truly needed her. But if he should be wrong and Peter returned home healthy and well, then he'd be free to court Callie openly and on an equal footing with Peter. So much of his life depended on Peter. The waiting to bring

him home became more difficult for Stephen with each passing day.

After brooding about it and arguing with Jack for a solid week, Stephen decided the time to break with Agnes had come, and it must be done with complete honesty. Jack waited for him in the carriage as Stephen went to tell her they would never marry, that while he cared greatly for her he loved someone else and he would marry that woman or none.

Jack scowled as Stephen climbed back into the carriage. "Do you feel like the heel you are?" he asked.

"I've felt better," Stephen said shortly.

"I don't know what you're going to do now, but I'm going out to get drunk."

"I don't feel like drinking," Stephen said. "And I don't want to see anyone tonight."

Jack looked disgustedly at him. "I didn't mean I was going with you. I'm going alone and forget I ever introduced you to that girl."

Stephen looked somberly from the carriage window. He said nothing, and felt about as low as Jack thought he was. "Good night, Jack," he said as the carriage stopped to let him out at the house.

Jack leaned out of the window. He looked at Stephen standing on the side of the driveway. "Change your mind, Stevie. Don't be such a damned fool all the time."

Stephen shook his head. "I can't, Jack. I am a damned fool about this."

"Ahhh, shit," Jack said and whacked at the top of the carriage for the driver to go on.

Stephen walked down to the spot he loved in the woods. He wandered aimlessly along the side of the stream, then sat down staring into the water. Slowly the tension and the sadness of his meeting with Agnes washed away, and he was left with a sense of relief.

Though it had been difficult, he didn't doubt now that his decision had been right—at least for him. And then his thoughts turned, as they always seemed to turn, to Callie.

Tomorrow was Sunday. His fields were plowed. Her creamery was in order, butter churned and the room cleaned. He would take her all to himself to this wooded spot near the stream. He imagined how she would look standing against the backdrop of the trees and the sky and the water. He pretended to know what she would say and what he would respond. She could bring Jamie if she liked and they could laugh and play and watch the child together.

It was very late when he finally left his place by the stream and returned to the house. He went to sleep still making plans for the morning and trying to imagine how it would all be. But when he awakened he found the house quiet and empty of all but Natalie.

"Callie's made them all go to church," Natalie said when he asked.

"Everyone?"

"Yes, even cook, who says she hates sermons.*'

He laughed and went to the pantry, pulling bread and cheese from the shelves and wrapping it to go into the basket. He finished packing the basket with a crock of beer for himself and the cider Callie preferred. "Have you eaten?" he asked as Natalie stood watching him.

"No one fixed it for me. Callie took everyone with her."

"Sit down. If you want the best breakfast you'll ever get, wait until you taste what I can do with an egg."

Natalie sat down, waiting.

"You can set the table, Nat."

"I don't know where the dishes are kept"

"Try looking on the shelf/' He pointed to the neatly stacked dishes.

She looked at them but didn't move. He walked over, took two dishes, and put them on the table, then put knives and forks on top of them. "You can arrange them on the table?"

"Yes."

Stephen scrambled their eggs and browned two pieces of bread. He sat down opposite her and began to eat. "You've got to stop your daydreaming about Albert, Nat. You do it too much. It's no good for you. I know you loved him, but he's gone and you're still young. You've no business acting the way you do."

"I must be careful."

"Of what?"

"He might see me."

"Who might? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Peter. He knows that I know he killed Albert."

Stephen put down his fork, staring at her.

She looked earnestly at him. "Peter's here . . . looking for me. He thinks he can kill me too, but he can't . . ." She looked around the room warily. "I'm always on guard. I see him sometimes. He has terrible eyes and he hates me, but I guard. . . . He'll not find me."

"You're imagining things. You keep yourself closed in that room of yours too much." He tossed his bread onto the plate, disgusted.

Natalie stiffened, her head cocked, listening. "He's coming," she whispered and jumped up from the table, running all the way to her room.

"She's crazy as a loon," Stephen muttered as he cleared the table. He finished cleaning the dishes, then dismissed thoughts of Natalie when a happy crew of household help, Jamie, and Callie came in the back door.

"Good morning, sleepy heathen," Callie said cheerfully.

"Good morning to you. Go change your clothes. We're going to the stream, and don't try to give me an argument," he said.

"Me too?" Jamie piped.

"You too."

"Uncle Stephen, will you teach me to swim some more?"

"Uhh—well then, Fd better change my clothes too if that's what you have in mind."

"I do!"

"All right-go! Get ready."

Jamie came downstairs again with cutoff pants and more equipment to entertain himself with than he could carry. Behind him he left a trail of balls, toy trains that Stephen had carved for him, and a bag of marbles that spilled as they dropped, rolling over the hallway.

"Jamie!" Callie scolded as she came down the stairs.

"He didn't drop his hoop or towel, Callie." Stephen laughed, ruffling Jamie's hair. "Come on, I'll help you pick them up."