The Night Angel (17 page)

Mystery
. Serafina picked up her lightest pencil, cut the nib to a delicate point, and focused anew upon the eyes. The paint here at the center was so dry the paper crackled softly as she drew. She made mere suggestions of angles and further precision. Too little and the watercolors would appear weak. Too much and the lines would overshadow the color.

She stepped back and used the stained rag to clean her quill. And saw the answer.

The chair creaked as she seated herself. She dropped her pencil to the floor.

“Serafina?”

Her mother entered the room. She inspected her daughter, then came around to look at the canvas. She drew in a sharp breath.

The canvas shone with what was not painted at all. Balanced between the two faces and two sets of eyes was their shared love.

“Bettina?” her father called. “Is she ready for us again?”

Serafina could hear her mother swallow hard. “Come see.”

Her father stepped into the dining room, and she could hear his own quick intake of breath.

Serafina understood. It was finally clear. The issue had not been only the eyes but the balance between the two figures. They had to express an identical message, one that became the fulcrum upon which the two could be balanced. This was the purpose behind the exact tilting of heads, the shading, and the subtle blurring of lines.

She looked up at her parents. What did they see? A pleasing portrait? Probably a little more than that. Yet it did not matter. She studied the canvas again. Was this what it meant to create good art? Would she be required with each canvas to find a mystery that would only be answered when the work was complete?

Her father said, “My darling daughter, this is astounding.”

“Magnificent,” her mother added.

“Thank you, Mama. Papa.” She had to try twice to push herself from the chair. “Please excuse me. I am very weary.”

As she prepared for bed, she felt as though someone else was asking questions of her. What happened if the mystery remained unresolved? What if she painted a canvas and at the end felt the hidden mystery was not clear, not even to herself? What then? Would she destroy the work? Would she confess her failure? Serafina thought these things, and yet they drifted in and left just as easily. All she could say at the moment was, this time the mystery had been resolved. Everything upon the canvas drew the focus toward what could not be seen, only felt. Love.

Chapter 15

They saw no Indians. But the bears were plentiful. As were wild boar and feral dogs. Even cougars. At least that is what Aaron told them. All Falconer knew was that some beast made a howling racket their second night on the trail, tracking around their perimeter and terrifying the women into wide-eyed panic. Only Joseph’s sharp voice kept them from bolting. The mules shrilled louder than the women and fought against their hobbles. Joseph and Aaron wrapped empty provision sacks around the mules’ eyes and tied their traces to logs. They could drag the logs but neither snap the traces nor escape, Joseph explained.

The progress of the group remained painfully slow. They would have starved long before reaching the state line had it not been for Aaron. The boy vanished at first light, slipping into the forest and melding with the natural cover. Come sunset he found them again, a variety of wild game hanging from his belt. He handed his catch to the women and retreated to the camp’s perimeter. He never spoke, at least to Falconer.

But Falconer was not satisfied to let things remain as they were. He saw a good deal of himself in the wild young man. Where Falconer had escaped to the sea, the young man used the forest. But the half-savage way of dealing with a cold and uncaring world was the same.

On the third afternoon since leaving the turnpike, they finished the pears. Three people ate from each fruit, save for Falconer. He did not bother to try and share his portion, for still no one took food from his hand. He watched Aaron from across the campfire. The boy crouched like an untamed animal with a good eye for cover. The waning sunset turned his taut features into sharp planes of fear.

Falconer rose slowly, hating how the entire group tensed when he moved. They watched without turning their heads as he picked up the musket and crossed the clearing. When he arrived near to where Aaron gnawed on the pear’s core, he settled on a rock, the musket lying across his knees. The lad was a half inch from bolting.

Falconer addressed Joseph, who was seated by the fire, watching intently. He said quietly, “Would you join us for a moment?”

When Joseph approached, Falconer asked the young man, “Have you ever handled a musket?”

The lad said nothing, nor did he look straight at Falconer. His keen interest, though, was clear enough.

Falconer carefully lifted the weapon from his lap. He explained each of the components in turn. Explained how to cock and fire. How to aim. How to load. Knowing the lad would need to hear such things several times more. Taking it as a prize that the lad watched his hands straight on and remained crouched there beside him. Which was all he had been after.

So he went through the entire explanation a second time. Trying to reveal through his tone of voice that he could be trusted. Then he asked, “Would you like to fire it?”

The lad made no sign he had even heard. But his eyes never left the musket.

Falconer did not wait for an answer he knew would not come. Instead, he asked Joseph to tell the group that he and Aaron would be stepping into the woods for a bit of target practice. “Don’t anyone become frightened,” Joseph finished.

Rays from the departing sun spread like a fan above the western hills. They were camped upon a ridgeline with nothing save forest and advancing shadows in every direction. Falconer motioned to Joseph and Aaron and walked to where the ridge path spread out over a rocky outcropping. He knelt beside the lad, such that the young man was now taller. He nestled the musket into his own shoulder, explaining how important it was to maintain a proper stance. He explained the way to take a sighting. Then he handed Aaron the weapon. And touched the lad for the very first time.

He could feel the young man’s flesh quiver beneath his fingers. The tension radiated up through Falconer’s hand, taking hold of his own gut. Falconer fought to keep his voice calm. He showed how to jam the musket into the muscle. How to aim down the sights at a tree trunk. How to balance the long barrel. How to fire.

The gun’s bark echoed over the empty hills. Falconer walked them over to where the trunk remained unscathed. He showed where the ball had plowed a furrow from the earth less than a handsbreadth from the trunk. He explained that this was a remarkable first shot.

He helped the lad reload. And fire again. He gave Joseph the pistol, mainly so the older man would feel included. But Joseph fired with both eyes tightly shut. He also assumed the harder he pulled the trigger, the straighter the pistol would fire. His arm clenched from forearm to neck with the effort to fire straight. Falconer did not correct him.

They returned to camp when it grew too dark to see the target. As they reentered the firelight, Falconer said to Aaron, “Why don’t you keep the weapon, see what you can bring down tomorrow.”

He walked away without a backward glance. He unfurled his bedroll and sighed his way down. He lay for a moment looking at the stars. For once the cloud covering was gone and the night clear. He cast a quick glance across the camp. Aaron stood cradling the musket, staring across at where Falconer lay. Falconer closed his eyes and counted the day a success.

Up close a musket gave off a solid bang. At a distance of more than fifty paces, particularly when the sound was muffled by vegetation, it was more like a harsh cough. The next day, their little band heard an occasional cough from the surrounding forest. By the time they halted for the midday rest, the sound had grown more distant, and no one paid it any further mind. Not, at least, until Aaron returned at sunset. The lad was so weary he walked bowed over the musket. He stank of burnt sulfur at twenty paces. His clothes and face were charcoal stained. One eyebrow was burnt halfway off. His game pouch was completely empty.

He stumbled over to where Falconer chopped kindling. “I cain’t hit nuthin’ with this thing.”

Falconer pretended not to notice that everyone was watching. “Did you strike the first animal you went after with your slingshot?”

Aaron swiped at his sweat-beaded face, streaking the soot. “I’s wasted a passel of shot and powder, suh.”

“You haven’t wasted a thing, Aaron.”

Aaron made a feeble effort to hand back the musket. “But, suh—”

“Give it a few more days. Let’s see what happens.” Either Aaron would bring home heavier game than he could bring down with the slingshot or they would soon go hungry. But Falconer did not say it, deciding there was nothing to be gained by adding to the lad’s sense of anxiety and guilt.

Falconer was not naturally a patient man. He was most comfortable with testing bodies to the limit—both his own and those under his command. But here he was dealing with the infirm, the aged, the weak. None of the band had shoes except for himself. The trail was rocky and steep and long disused. At times he and Joseph had to use the sword to chop back the undergrowth. Falconer could not press them harder. So they rested long at midday and they halted before sunset. And their supplies continued to dwindle.

Which made his internal state uncommon strange.

Falconer was not given to inner reflection. He was born to action and molded by hard days and worse nights. Yet here he was, chained to a snail’s pace by his charges, all of them facing starvation around the next bend. Yet he felt as happy as he had ever been in his entire life.

Not even Serafina’s absence could taint the glory he felt rising in his heart. He went to bed replete and slept deep. The nightmares that had plagued him for years were now so distant they might as well have happened to a different man. Which, in a sense, Falconer suspected they had.

When they halted, Falconer applied himself to whatever chore needed doing. As soon as the food was shared and the others were resting, he opened his satchel and pulled out the Bible. He used a dogwood leaf to mark his place. It went as flat as the pages to either side. Falconer pulled it out that evening and held it so the firelight shone through its translucent surface. Even a fragile leaf held heart-stopping beauty.

A scrabbling sound caused him to drop the leaf back onto the page before him. Joseph approached and said, “My Geraldine, she wants to ask you something.”

“Of course.”

The woman was handsome even in illness. Her ailment was no worse than when they had first set off, but not much better either. Afternoons found her wearied to where she could no longer hide her rough breathing. Falconer used her hacking cough as the signal to halt for the day. Geraldine fiddled with her threadbare dress and spoke to the ground at her feet. “Suh, I was wonderin’. Would you be reading from the Good Book?”

“I am. Would you like to read with me?”

“Can’t hardly make out my own name, suh.” She pointed at the pages, a shy and fearful gesture. “Would you mind readin’ a word to us now and then?”

The gift of trust was so great he felt his throat clutch tight. Falconer dragged his hand across his mouth, a slow motion intended to grant him time to regain control. “I would be honored. Is there any particular passage you would like to hear?”

“Don’ hardly matter, suh. Long as it’s the Word.”

He rose to his feet and approached the fire, moved almost to tears by the sight of so many of his band drawing in close. “In that case,” Falconer said, “I will start at the beginning.”

Aaron appeared an hour after dark. The lad was so weary and burdened down he could scarcely hold to his feet. Across his shoulders he carried the body of a young deer.

Everyone was up and jabbering and trying to help take the load. When the animal was lifted from his shoulders, Aaron collapsed onto the ground. A cup was held to his lips. He drank too swiftly and choked. Another cup was brought, and a cold griddle cake. He devoured it with trembling hands. Then he tried to push himself upright. “I gots to be going.”

“Rest,” Falconer said.

“Suh, I left the musket back there in them woods.”

“You can find it in the morning.” Falconer stood over him until the lad’s eyelids stuttered and closed. Then he turned to the deer. He lifted the rear haunch. The animal weighed almost as much as Aaron.

Joseph and the old woman were already busy. His sons were sent off for more firewood. Within minutes the flames rose as high as Falconer’s shoulder. They roasted a haunch while others built a drying stand. After the days of short rations, the smell was maddeningly inviting. The younger folk danced in anticipation around the fire. They had to shake Aaron very hard to award him with the first slices. The lad ate and collapsed once more.

All night two of the group took turns remaining awake to stoke the fire and keep the coals burning steady. By morning the meat on the drying racks was done. They stowed the venison jerky in the empty provisions sacks, breakfasting on the last of the fresh meat.