Bonds of Earth (13 page)

“Why are you stopping?” Seward demanded.

“Because you’re supposed to work with me, not against me,” Michael snapped.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Seward shot back. “I’ve been doing everything you ask me to. You have no reason to complain.”

Michael closed his eyes and counted to ten. This state of undeclared war was getting them nowhere. At some point they had to acknowledge the need for honesty between them, even if neither of them truly wanted it. Now, Michael realized, was as good a time as any. “Look,” he sighed, “I can tell you’re tensing. You have to let go.”

“I’m fine,” Seward hissed, forehead resting on his arms. “Just do your job.”

Michael’s fingers dug into the flesh of Seward’s shoulders; the muscles jumped and twitched under the skin. “I can’t do my job if you’re going to fight me like this.” Using his palms this time, he began a more soothing effleurage over the same area. “Relax.”

Seward’s body shuddered briefly, muscles fluttering under his hands before they tightened again. Michael redoubled his efforts, stroking lightly down his back on either side of his spine. “Relax,” he repeated, more of a request than a command this time.

“I…,” Seward began, and Michael leaned closer.

“Yes?”

But Seward only shook his head and tensed once more. Debating with himself for a moment, Michael slid his hands to Seward’s sides, his touch now feather-light.

The tremors came suddenly, beginning in Seward’s legs and spreading like wildfire until they seemed near to consuming him. Horrified, Michael hastily removed his hands, but when the shuddering only grew worse, he spread them over as much of Seward’s back as he could. Seward buried his head in his arms and drew in a deep, shuddering breath that turned into a sob on the exhale.

Acting on instinct, Michael bridged the distance between them and draped himself over Seward’s back, whispering his apologies into Seward’s skin. His hands moved constantly, trying to impart some of his own strength despite feeling weaker than a baby himself, shaken and bereft.

After a time that might have been minutes or hours for all Michael knew, Seward shifted under him and groaned. Realizing the tremors had stopped, Michael pushed himself off Seward’s sweating back. Neither of them spoke for some time.

“Was that what you wanted?” Seward demanded, though there was more exhaustion than heat in it.

Michael rested his hands on Seward’s shoulders for a moment before withdrawing completely. “No,” he answered softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Seward murmured. “You were right.” He shifted, turning his head toward the wall. “I’ve been in pain for so long, I don’t know how to let go of it.”

Michael felt his heart lurch in his chest at the unexpected confession. “I think perhaps you just did,” he said, the words thick in his throat.

“I hope so,” Seward murmured, closing his eyes. “God, I hope so.”

Michael had no idea how long he stood there, gaze fixed on the sweep of Seward’s eyelashes and the dark crescents below them, before he registered that the other man was fast asleep. He did not even consider waking him for the rest of his massage; instead, he drew the curtains, covered Seward with a light blanket, and let himself out of the bedroom as quietly as possible.

T
HE
next day was beautiful, warm and sunny, and Michael spent far too much of the morning in the garden. The time for Seward’s exercises came and went, and still he worked, willfully ignoring the voice that called him a coward.

He’d been so certain for a while that he could maintain the distance established by mutual agreement, assuming that the part of himself he’d buried, that eager young idiot determined to save the world, wouldn’t rise from the dead. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Worse, his original assumptions about Seward were crumbling before his eyes. He had no idea what he would see when the dust settled, but he had a suspicion he wouldn’t like it. Or perhaps he would like it too damned well for his own good.

He was still mired in indecision and frustration, unable to force himself to go into the house, when Seward—in yet another extraordinary move—came to him.

Sarah emerged from the house first, opening one of the mullioned glass gymnasium doors and waddling out with one of the easels clutched in her hands. It was taller than she was and unwieldy, but she managed to get it outside without breaking anything and unfolded it carefully on the terrace before bolting back inside to fetch the other one. When she had them both set up, she brought out two blank canvases and propped them up so that the artists could face the garden.

Seward emerged from the house with the painting supplies. Michael couldn’t help but notice that his limp seemed a good bit less pronounced than it had the last time he’d seen Seward set foot on that terrace. The other man handed the girl one of the palettes, then surveyed the lawn with his deep, watchful gaze.

When it settled on Michael, he felt the weight of it like a blow. He met and matched it, then looked away, unwilling to see even the slightest measure of disappointment or reproach. He reminded himself he didn’t give a damn about Seward’s opinion, but that didn’t seem to help.

When he looked up again, Seward’s eyes were trained on the canvas. As he watched, Seward lifted his hand and made a firm, broad stroke across the pristine surface.

Shivering from a sudden chill in the air, Michael turned back to his work, uprooting weed after weed, inadvertently digging up three marigolds in his haste to finish.

T
HAT
night a fierce thunderstorm swept overhead, hail pelting the roof above Michael’s head like fistfuls of rocks hurled by an angry giant. When Michael awoke in the morning, his worst fears were confirmed when he saw half of the plants he’d nurtured lying ground into the dirt where they had once lifted their eager heads to the sun.

He spent most of the morning in the garden, uprooting the dead flowers and flinging them into a wheelbarrow. The ground was soggy enough from the storm that various parts of him were liberally coated in mud after an hour. The smell of the living earth filled his nostrils as he worked.

He was nearly finished when he looked up to see Sarah and Seward crossing the lawn. Sarah’s hand was engulfed by his large one as they walked slowly but steadily toward him. Wiping off his hands, Michael met them halfway, beside the ruins of one of the annual beds. “I was about to come in,” he said, more testily than he’d intended.

“I wanted to see the garden,” Sarah said, looking up at Michael. “And Mister Seward said he would come with me.” Her head turned slowly, taking in the devastation as she clutched Seward’s hand. “Oh. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Silently berating himself for not considering her feelings, Michael hunched down in front of her. “It’s not so bad. The older flowers are mostly fine, and your roses are still in good shape. And we can put the seeds right in the ground this time. We should have flowers again before the end of the summer, if we’re lucky.”

“Can I help you plant them?” Sarah asked shyly.

“Of course you can,” Michael said. “I’m counting on you. In fact, I wondered if you could fetch the seeds from the greenhouse. We’ll see what we’ve got left, and you can tell me where you’d like the flowers to go. And while you’re at it, check and see if any of your grandmother’s lettuce seeds are still there.”

Eyes widening, Sarah nodded and released Seward’s hand, then took off across the lawn as fast as her legs would carry her. Seward watched her go with what could only be called a wistful expression.

“She came to me when she was too afraid to go outside by herself,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, bringing Seward’s attention back to him. “I didn’t think of what it would do to her. She’s worked hard on this garden.”

Seward’s gaze shifted to the garden. “It’s a shame this has to be taken from her, too.”

Michael frowned. “The garden can be restored,” he murmured. “Good as new.”

Seward said nothing, merely turned around and began hobbling back toward the house. Michael noticed he seemed to be relying on the cane less for support than for reassurance.

“Have you tried walking unassisted on uneven ground?” Michael asked softly. They had tried having Seward walk without support a couple of times on the smooth floor of the gymnasium, but never outdoors.

Seward turned back and stared at him. “No.”

Michael walked up to him and held out a hand.

Hesitating, Seward regarded his cane, then Michael. Sighing, he thrust the walking stick into Michael’s outstretched palm.

“Try it,” Michael urged gently. “Only to the terrace steps.” The distance was no more than a hundred feet; it would be challenging but not impossible.

Seward started slowly, watching his feet take each step, obviously nervous about his balance. “Don’t think about it,” Michael called. “Just let your muscles compensate.”

“Easy for you to say,” Seward shot back, though Michael saw his posture relax somewhat. He jogged to catch up with Seward, then walked a few paces behind him.

Seward was about ten feet from the steps when he stumbled, his right ankle turning traitor and giving way as he tried to lift his foot. Michael watched as Seward’s toes dragged against the ground and his body pitched forward. Although Michael was not able to catch him, he was on his knees a moment later, hands closing around Seward’s arms and helping him to rise. “I’m sorry, it was too much to ask of you,” Michael murmured, savagely angry with himself. He’d allowed his own selfish need to win over his best judgment, and he’d distanced himself from Seward. Now the man under his care had suffered for it.

And then Seward’s head jerked up suddenly, nostrils flaring as he inhaled a sharp breath. His eyes grew wide and wild, and Michael’s grip on his arms tightened.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, looking over Seward’s body for some sign of injury.

Seward shook his head mutely and twisted, breaking Michael’s hold on him.

It was then that Michael realized he’d forgotten to take off his gloves. There were dark brown rings on the arms of Seward’s white shirt where his hands had been, and Seward was staring at them with something akin to horror.

“Damn it,” Michael muttered, stripping off his gloves and reaching up to wipe at the mud with the sleeve of his own shirt.

“No!” Seward shouted, shoving himself backward, out of Michael’s reach. He scrabbled backward on his hands, crablike, heels digging into the wet grass as he tried to escape.

Heart hammering, Michael held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture and leaned away from Seward, trying to prove he was no threat. He hadn’t the faintest idea what the hell was going on, but he’d seen enough shell-shock victims to realize Seward was in the middle of an attack. The other man’s face had gone as pale as his shirt, and he was panting as though he had been running for miles. Once he was flat on his ass, he raised his trembling arms and stared at the mud, then began brushing futilely at the stains. A low, desperate sound emerged from his throat, twisting Michael’s heart.

It sounded like the cry of a dying man.

Michael tried to help, but whenever he attempted to get closer, Seward would grow even more agitated and distressed. It was clear that he was locked inside some terrible, vivid memory, but he retained enough of an awareness of the outside world that he could react to it. Unfortunately, it was the reaction of an unreasoning animal rather than a thinking man.

Michael sat there helpless for another few moments, trying to think of an approach that might get through to Seward, when Sarah came running up to them. Before he could warn her off, she stopped a few feet from Seward and dropped to her knees, crawling slowly toward him.

“Sarah…,” Michael began, but the girl only shook her head and kept crawling.

“It’s happened before,” Sarah said, tone confident. “I know what to do.”

Michael tensed as Sarah approached Seward’s violently shaking body. She knelt beside him and leaned forward, speaking in his ear so softly that it could not be heard over the sound of Seward’s keening.

After a few tense seconds, Seward subsided abruptly into silence, and Sarah’s voice finally drifted to Michael’s ears.

She was singing. The haunting old song was strangely sweet and pure when delivered in her small clear voice, and she sang it with the confidence of long familiarity. Michael wondered if Mary had sung it to both of them at one time or another:

I’ll sell my flax, I’ll sell my wheel,

Buy my love a sword of steel,

So it in battle he may wield,

Johnny has gone for a soldier.

When he had calmed sufficiently, her small hands pried Seward’s free from his own arms, then stroked his hair back from his face with the tenderness of a mother for her child. Seward drew in a ragged, gulping breath, and Michael could see the tracks of tears etched into his cheeks. When she stood, the fingers of both hands wrapping around one of Seward’s wrists, Michael scrambled to his feet to help them, his own eyes stinging.

P
ARRISH
arrived on schedule a few days later for Seward’s one-month checkup. Michael banished himself from the examination, citing pressing work in the garden, though it was a bald-faced lie. He and Sarah had already done the replanting. All that remained for now was to sit back and watch it grow.

The lunch hour came and went, and still Parrish did not emerge. Michael was ready to chew off his own leg by the time he’d drunk the last of his coffee.

As though she sensed his need for distraction, Sarah turned to him when they were finished with the dishes and took his hand, looking up at him with patient, solemn eyes until he relented and followed her.

She led him, strangely, to his own room. When he opened his mouth to ask a question, she darted inside and ran to the locked door at the far end that he had guessed opened onto the rest of the attic. Kicking off her shoes, she indicated with a pointed look that he should do the same. He obeyed, still puzzled.