Friendship's Bond (23 page)

Alec had landed in the boat, only her own swift action preventing him falling overboard into the freezing water.

They had huddled together, her arms holding him close, his face pressed to her shoulder as she leaned across him trying to protect him from wind-whipped spray flung like daggers of ice against the skin. It had seemed the crossing would never end, that waves tossing the boat like a cork must surely overturn it, throwing its occupants into the black depths. Then at last with the firmness of land beneath her feet she had thought the ordeal was ended, only to realise as each of the people ordered from the ferry melted rapidly into the darkness one more trial had been replaced by another.

Beyond the bedroom window a shaft of moonlight flashed its splendour across the room endowing it with silver brilliance, and in its glow Ann seemed to see two figures each barely able to stand against a wind screaming demonic fury, while others hurried away intent on escaping the savage frenzy.

Not one of those erstwhile passengers answered the query regarding lodgings, a place of safety for the remainder of the night.

They stumbled together up the steep incline leading from the water’s edge. Ann watched them struggle against the force threatening to throw them back into pounding waves, watched as they came one by one to the dense shapes etched on its summit, unlit buildings where she got no reply to repeated knocks.

Ann lived again the horror of a night spent in the lee of what had proved a church, hours which had seen her slowly lapse into semi-consciousness, numbed into stupor by the freezing cold.

An old woman had saved her life. Transferred by memory to a room lit by a single oil lamp, the warmth of a wood-burning stove seeping into her bones, Ann listened to a bearded black-robed figure, a distinctive hat and heavy gold cross worn about his neck marking him as a priest such as many she had seen in St Petersburg.

‘
You were both almost dead from cold . . .
’

The quietly spoken heavily accented words had been difficult to understand but the priest had been patient.

‘
. . . praise to God Maija found you.
’ He lifted a finger to head and breast. ‘
It is her practice to come each dawn to the church to give thanks for the life of her sons and pray for their safety while they are away fishing; it is her house you are in.
’

‘
I . . we . . . were going to England.
’

‘
England!
’ He frowned then listened without interruption to the explanation of how she and Alec had boarded the wrong ship, then to her query as to why they had been forced off it and put ashore in darkness. He shook his head, his reply itself half questioning.

‘
The ferry had many people, too many I think for safety; the captain he is responsible, he would be fined heavily also maybe his licence it is taken away so he avoids by putting people off ship. But this must not be seen. He must not use the ferry ports nor land them in places such as Hamina or Porvoo right on the coast that . . .
’ He nodded as though confirming to himself. ‘
Yes, that is the reason of rowing boats, they can come up the river Kyma, leave people here in Ruotsinpyhtää . . . then the ferry continues its journey without problems.
’

Without problems! Momentarily drawn back to the present Ann sighed deeply. It had not been that way for Alec or herself. He had been in so much pain and not knowing the language she had virtually been unable to help.

‘
Maija understands, she says you wash dishes very clean, that is enough of help and for the boy you should try not to worry; Maija she is skilled in the use of herbs, she trusts God will permit the child will be healed, we must also trust.
’

The gentle words brushed away the darkened bedroom replacing it with soft gleams of evening sunlight shimmering on the surface of a river, its banks rimmed by a forest of tall trees sheltering a scatter of buildings. A forge, its timbers blackened by the smoke of its fire, stood in sharp contrast to houses and farm buildings, the rust red and white of their painted walls reflecting brilliant as gemstones on the velvet blue of water. In the centre of the tiny village as though cradled at its heart stood an ancient octagonal wooden church, outside of which a young woman removed a shawl from her head shaking loose a pale sherry-gold fall of hair. Then she draped the brightly knitted shawl about her slender shoulders as she began to walk away.

Ann watched the slight figure pass beyond the cluster of houses, watched as a breeze off the river lifted the hair in a silken cloud; watched the taller heavier figure of a man glance around then moving quickly follow in the same direction.

Muffled by the soft grass of the river bank, whisked away by a gathering wind, no sound of footsteps alerted the woman as she stood smiling at caps of silver cresting waves washing gently to the river’s edge. But as callused fingers grabbed at her shoulder Ann cried a fear real as it had been that evening, a cry drowned beneath the beer-soaked breath of a mouth closing over her own. Her hands pressed hard against her knees as if she pushed again at the man. He had released her mouth. She had not understood one word of what he had said but the look in those bleary eyes, the press of a hand to her breast had needed no interpretation.

‘
Da . . . Da.
’

Hoarse, guttural, the words sounded in her mind, leering laughing words seeming to imply she agreed with the man’s intention. But she had not agreed. She had cried out, a scream coinciding with the man’s loud, almost bestial howl, carrying it out across the river away from the village, away from any help.

He had held her for a moment at arm’s length, beer-fogged eyes playing over her face before one hand clasped the back of her neck in the grip of a vice and the other threw away the shawl and ripped open her dress to paw at her body.

‘
Da.
’

He had laughed that strange word again then as she tried to twist free had slapped her hard across her face, his own features now a dark mask of lechery. Releasing her neck he caught her arm in the same vicious grip.

Maija’s shawl! Unconsciously Ann’s hand reached now as it had then for the patch of colour lying vivid against the green-covered earth, the spread of it holding the promise of protection against the fear threatening to engulf her. Had that fear caused her to cry out like a child whose comforting toy had suddenly been taken away, a cry which like before had been swallowed up in a roar?

But the roar had ended in the savage low-throated growl of a predator whose prey was making a break for freedom.

In the shadowed darkness of the bedroom the hand Ann had stretched out for the imagined shawl, struck blindly at the face leering in her mind; she heard the enraged howl as her fingers clawed at the rough pitted flesh, felt the thud of his body against her own, his strange-sounding words hurling at her like so many stones.

There had been little chance of escaping that hold yet even as anger tightened it she knew she had to try. Squirming, twisting, her free hand lifting to strike again stubble-thick cheeks she had hurled herself backwards attempting to use her body weight to pull herself loose.

It might have worked. In the silence of the sleeping house Ann’s hand dropped defeatedly to her lap. In the seconds after he released her, he raised a hand to the stinging scratches painting scarlet lines on the weather-browned canvas of his face and she had turned to run but in that same moment wind from the river had lifted her hair out behind her like a streamer, a ribbon her attacker had caught. He had snatched her back laughing as she cried out against the painful tug to her scalp, continued to laugh as he drew her close, her spine pressed against the hardness of him. His other hand had pushed inside her torn dress, scaly fingers rubbing rasp-like across the tender flesh of her breasts.

Then from the deepest recesses of her mind, rising above the fear, above the revulsion, had come one thought: relax, let her body rest against his, let the scream in her throat become the soft cry of enjoyment; smile as he turned her to face him, then the moment his guard dropped push with all her strength. He might not fall down but he would at least stagger back and that would give her time to run back to the safety of those pretty painted houses.

The thought had warmed her fear-frozen mind. He was heavy-set, his frame encumbered by thick clothing and sturdy knee-length sea boots where she was lighter and so able to run faster.

But the idea had crumbled, sinking with her into welcome darkness at the sight of the man’s friends coming to join him.

Chapter 21

Had she seen three more men racing in, one grabbing her round the waist trying to hold her back, to deny her the safety of her dark place, or had it been an illusion her brain had conjured out of its own terror?

Rising slowly into paler darkness she had tried to wrap herself in the soft velvet of its blackness so as to hide again in depths where pain and fear held no powers.

Yet darkness had withdrawn its shelter.

Light, yellow flickering light played over her closed eyelids; voices, low hushed voices brushed her ears.

Even though deep down Ann knew she was in Leah Marshall’s house the memory of that moment jolted her senses.

They were men’s voices! The men who had attacked her! Where had they brought her, what would they do with her once they had taken their pleasure? Would they leave her in this place? No! Leaving her alive posed a risk to themselves. They would not chance that. The river! She gasped as if already feeling the breath-snatching coldness of those deep icy waters.

‘
Ann . . . Ann is awake
.’

Her gasp had caught their attention. She had tried so hard not to tremble. If she could lie still, hold her eyes fast closed, maybe they would leave her alone; they might even tire of waiting to take their sport and leave altogether.

‘
Ann,  Ann.
’

She would not answer, she would not.

Of a sudden she realised someone was speaking her name; had she in her fright cried it aloud, were these men now repeating it in order to trick her into wakefulness?

‘
Ann.
’

Help me! she had prayed silently. Help me not to breathe!

‘
Ann . . . Ann, it’s Alec, please . . . please come back, don’t stay in that dark place.
’

‘
There is no one here will harm you.
’

A quiet gentle voice had added itself to the younger-sounding frightened one yet still her mind had whispered ‘trickery’.

‘
Do not be afraid
,’ the deeper voice of a man had continued, ‘
you are safe in the house of Maija. Her sons rescued you. They were returning from their fishing when they spotted a shawl lying on the ground, and recognised it as belonging to their mother. Maija knits her special design into each garment she makes, it is a tradition with the women of the village; that way they identify their own kin should a fishing boat meet with disaster. Maija’s sons were puzzled as to how the shawl came to be there but then they heard a cry, which came from a woman being half dragged along by a man. Fearing some mishap had befallen their mother they caught up with the man. It was not Maija but a young woman whose mouth was bleeding and her cheek marked with the scarlet weal of a blow. That told all.
’

‘
It’s true Ann, Maija’s sons took you from that man and brought you here to their mother.
’

That was Alec’s voice; he would not lie to her.

She drew a deep breath into her aching lungs, ending the pretence of being still unconscious.

Ann watched the tapestry of the past unfold, saw herself lying on the narrow truckle bed Maija had provided for her use and beside it outlined against the pallid yellow light of an oil lamp the darker more solid shape of a robed priest lifting a cross from his chest to touch it with his lips.

‘
The one who attacked you was not a man of this village, he is not of Ruotsinpyhtää, for that we thank God.
’

The quiet voice of the priest echoed this explanation while behind him Maija, Alec and Maija’s three tall sons almost hidden in the gloom of the tiny house reverently marked the sign of the cross at forehead and breast.

‘
He is of the crew of a Russian fishing vessel anchored at the mouth of the river. On occasion they come to Ruotsinpyhtää for to relax from the long days of their work and leave with no trouble; but that man drank not only Nelos Olut, a very strong beer, but also Salmeikkikoska, a spirit of high alcohol and then despite being advised against it drank several glasses of Koskenkova, a vodka that is even more intoxicating than the others; it was this, too much of drinking, had his mind fall to the wickedness of the Devil
.

‘
Maija’s sons are happy they were able to save you,
’ the priest said with a smile, ‘
now they and I together must go to the church there to ask forgiveness of the Lord for the beating they gave.
’

Maija’s sons! The scene faded as Ann turned to where the dawn light crept over the tiny windowsill. They had rescued her that evening in Ruotsinpyhtää, saved her from an evil that only hours ago had reared its head again.