Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Read online

  Don Benito looked bewildered.

  “You know, the other night, when I argued with the captain about the hypocrisy of punishing just the girl.”

  Don Benito’s mouth curved into a smile. “It hasn’t helped, has it?” He threw his head in the direction of the forecastle.

  “No, if anything the reverse.” She returned to her original question, and he sighed.

  “No, I think you were right. But so, to a point, was the captain. Men are weak willed when it comes to female temptation.”

  “Even a priest?”

  Don Benito looked away. “Yes, sometimes even a priest.”

  Alex covered his hand with hers. “I hope it was worth it, you seem to be paying a very heavy price.”

  Don Benito kept his eyes on the horizon. “I loved her, I still love her and that, I fear, is my greatest sin. I can’t truly repent, because every night I see her in my dreams.”

  “To love isn’t a sin,” Alex said. “You know that, and so does God.”

  “Ojalá,” he whispered. “I hope so.”

  Chapter 6

  2005

  John Orrock stopped at the garden gate, watching Magnus Lind with some concern. Over the last few months, Magnus had sunk into a deep depression, and as he moved round the garden, working his way from one rose bush to the other, there was none of the normal vibrancy in his movements. His blond hair, heavily streaked with grey, was messy and too long, his tall body moved slowly, almost hesitantly, and an air of constant, brooding sorrow hung over him. According to Diane, he was becoming obsessive, unable to let Alex go.

  “It’s easy for you to say,” John had remonstrated with his wife. “Keep in mind that not only Alex, but also Mercedes, just vanished. Here one day, gone the next. Difficult to deal with, to never know where his wife and daughter ended up.”

  “Hmm.” Diane said, making a face. “I’m still not sure whether I believe all that crap about Mercedes and Alex and rifts in the fabric of time.”

  John had grinned at her. “There are days when I don’t believe it either – but don’t tell Magnus that.”

  John opened the creaking gate, smiling in the direction of Magnus.

  “Hi, I thought I’d find you out here – beautiful day that it is.”

  Magnus just nodded and stood back to eye a gigantic, rambling rose.

  “I always forget how much work it is,” John said. “In summer, when the whole garden’s alive with colour, I tend to think it just happens by itself.”

  Magnus snorted, his blue eyes on his almost son-in-law. “It definitely doesn’t.” He looked down at his swollen joints and clenched and unclenched his fingers a couple of times. “I have to stop for today, so if you want I’ll make us both a coffee.”

  “Where’s Isaac?” John asked once they were settled in the kitchen.

  Magnus jerked his head upwards. “Where he always is, in the studio, painting.” He bit into a huge slice of carrot cake. “He’s quite good.”

  “He is, isn’t he? His teachers are quite impressed.” So was John, amazed at the drawings that flowed from Isaac’s hands. “Genes, I suppose.” He shared a quick look with Magnus; as long as those were the only genes Isaac had inherited from Mercedes, things were alright in the world. Just thinking of Mercedes’ magic pictures had something cramping in John’s belly, sending cake and frosting back up the way they’d come. John coughed and swallowed a couple of times.

  “How are the twins?” Magnus said, stretching himself for another slice of cake. John beamed. In his opinion, Olivia and Alice were the most perfect beings in the world, with their mother a potential runner up. He felt a flash of guilt at how easily Diane had superseded Alex in his heart, but comforted himself with that it was only natural. Alex was gone, she was never coming back, and he had a life to lead.

  “Both of them can sit by now, and I think Olivia tried to say Daddy the other day.”

  “Really?” Magnus sounded incredulous, but smiled all the same.

  “Well, according to Diane, they can both say Mummy – ask her when she comes over.”

  “Oh, I will,” Magnus laughed and extracted a gigantic chicken from the fridge. “We’re having Coq au vin, with a lot of au vin.” He handed John a chopping board and a substantial amount of carrots and shallots.

  *

  It had become a family tradition, Sunday dinners at Magnus’ complete with white linen on the table, lit candles, wine, and a succession of increasingly more complicated desserts.

  “We worry about you,” Diane said once the dishes were cleared away.

  Magnus gave her a guarded look. “Why would you do that?”

  Diane made an exasperated sound and handed Magnus one of the twins to feed. “You can’t let her go, can you?”

  Magnus pulled his brows together; this was not a subject he wanted to discuss, but Diane ploughed on.

  “It’s almost three years, you know she isn’t coming back.”

  He ignored her, concentrating on the child in his arms and the contented little murmurs she made as she emptied her bottle.

  “She’s dead, Magnus,” Diane said, reaching across to place her hand on his arm.

  “No she isn’t, she’s just somewhere else, in another time.”

  “But she’s still dead,” Diane said. “Even if she’s fallen through to another time – and we don’t really know that for sure, do we? – even then, she’s dead by now.”

  Magnus wanted to deny this, but nodded in agreement.

  “It makes my head ache. I spend nights trying to unravel this circular reference. How my daughter has gone back in time and died before I was born.”

  John came over and relieved him of Olivia, punching him on the shoulder. “Of course it makes your head ache. It’s not exactly an everyday occurrence, is it?”

  “Tell me about it.” Magnus poured them all some more wine and carried his glass over to the window to stare unseeing at the darkening garden outside.

  April, month of unfulfilled promise, of budding shrubs and exploding greens, month of blue twilights and of dusks that fell like gentle fogs over the ground, month when it was so difficult to be alone, wishing desperately for what once had been. His wife and his daughter – both gone, none found. The loss of them lay like a crown of thorns around his heart, and with every day the ache just grew worse.

  “It would have been easier if she’d been dead,” he said, feeling horrible for voicing it. “Now she’s just…gone, and even if I know in my head that I’ll never see her again, in my heart I can’t stop hoping.”

  Diane hurried over to give him a warm hug. “You have to let her go, Magnus, you have us, your living family, and we want you to be happy, not always pining for someone you’ve lost.”

  “Family?”

  Diane hugged him even harder. “Family. Not by blood perhaps, but definitely of the heart.”

  His hand floated up to caress her well-coiffed chestnut hair. Yes, in Diane he had a daughter, a girl he’d seen grow at almost as close range as Alex.

  “So,” Diane said, craning back to see his face. “Let her go, say goodbye.”

  Magnus lifted his shoulders in a helpless gesture. “I want to find her.”

  John sat up in the sofa. “Find her?”

  “Yes, find some proof that what we believe happened to her actually did.”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” Diane shook her head at him. “You have no idea when or where…You don’t even know her name!”

  “Of course I do!” Magnus snapped. “She’s Alex Lind, isn’t she?”

  “I think Diane means that she might have married,” John said. “And she does have a point; where would you start?”

  “Here, somewhere here in Scotland, and not that far back. She’s not a woad dyed Pict – or an aluminium wrapped space traveller.”

  “Well, thank heavens for that,” Diane muttered. “Although she would probably look great in blue skin and nothing else.” She covered Magnus’ hand and shook it. “The probability of you ever fi
nding anything is microscopic. One very small needle in a gigantic haystack of history.”

  “I know,” Magnus replied with a deep sigh.

  *

  Later that night, Magnus refilled his whisky glass and moved out to stand in the long hallway that ran from the front door to the back of the house. The Alex gallery, Diane called it, sixty-seven pictures of Alex from the day she was born to that last photo of her and Isaac, two weeks before she went up in thin air. He tapped a forefinger at this last one. A complicated relationship: an unwanted child and a mother that had taken a long time to overcome that initial dislike. But in this picture, she smiled down at Isaac, her short hair shimmering in the sun.

  Just by the kitchen door hung the only picture he had of Mercedes, and he blew her a kiss. His magic wife; witch, some would say. He missed her every day, dreamed often of her. Sometimes the dreams were erotic, dreams of him and her in a long gone southern night. Mostly they were dreams of a young Mercedes dancing across a poppy studded meadow. She had achieved her goal. She was at peace – he could see it in her eyes.

  Chapter 7

  By the time they staggered into the yard of the farm that was going to be Matthew’s new home, the seven indentures were dizzy with exhaustion. None of them had the energy to do more than throw a disinterested glance at the surrounding structures, and when they were led into the shed that was theirs to share, they lay down and rolled over to sleep.

  Matthew couldn’t sleep. The space was cramped, so small that seven men on the floor per definition meant involuntary body contact, and Elijah, the man beside him, was snoring him loudly in the ear. Through the minimal aperture high up in the wall, Matthew could see new unfamiliar skies, and inside of him a small voice expressed that mayhap these would be the skies beneath which he’d die – far away from home, without the comfort of a loving hand. He twisted at the thought and closed his eyes in an attempt to find something to hold on to in all this dark.

  She smiled at him, she lifted her hands to her hair and drew out the pins to shake it loose, and he wondered where she was, because this was not their bedchamber, this was somewhere else. Alex wrapped a shawl around her – the one he had given her last autumn with the wee embroidered roses on it – and stepped out into a night where the stars hung within touching distance of her hand. He saw her move over to a railing and something warm and light fluttered through his belly. A ship, she’s on a ship…aye, she was coming for him, her eyes promised, and with that small comfort he shoved his hands under his head and drifted off to sleep.

  In the grey light of dawn they were dragged outside. Matthew’s eyes widened as he took in the size of the farm. Plantation, he corrected himself, this was a plantation. Huge wooden buildings stood to one side, and even from where they stood, he could make out the smell of tobacco. Jones led them round and explained that these were the curing barns, indicating how the tobacco was hung on poles to dry.

  “Heavy work,” Jones informed them, pointing at a man who was precariously balancing a loaded pole on his shoulders. Finally, he led them down to the fields. To Matthew’s eyes they seemed endless, line after undulating line of dark green tobacco plants, with here and there a pale yellow flower showing through.

  As they were walking towards the cook house, Matthew took the opportunity to fall in step with the overseer.

  “There’s been a miscarriage of justice, I’m here unjustly.”

  Jones gave him a disinterested look.

  “I was abducted by force in Edinburgh,” Matthew went on. “And now I must return to my family and home. I have a farm to run as well,” he smiled, trying to find some point of contact with the silent mountain beside him. “Not at all on this scale, but mine.”

  Jones regarded him for a moment. “We paid twenty pounds for you.”

  “Then I’ll see you reimbursed.”

  “Really?” Jones said. “How?”

  “Once I get back home—” Matthew began but was interrupted by Jones’ loud braying laugh.

  “Get back home? And you aim to swim? Fly like a bird?”

  “Nay, of course not. I’ll go by ship.”

  “And how will you pay the passage?” Jones’ eyes glinted maliciously. Matthew fell silent and trudged beside him for some paces.

  “I shouldn’t be here, I must get home.”

  Jones came to a halt. “But you are, and we’ve paid good money for you. Unless you can reimburse us, you’ll just have to work your years off.”

  Matthew shook his head angrily. “Nay, that isn’t right. You know it isn’t!”

  Jones gave him a bored look and yawned. He pointed his hand in the direction of the cook house.

  “Get some breakfast. You’ll need it.” He nodded and despite his bulk swivelled elegantly on his toes, hurrying up towards the main house.

  Behind him Matthew stood clenching and unclenching his fists. How was he to find twenty pounds in this place, here where he couldn’t even find the few coins needed to send a letter back home?

  After a tasteless breakfast of watery gruel and bread, Jones lined them up in the yard and took his time inspecting them. Matthew stared straight ahead and pretended he was elsewhere as the overseer hemmed and hawed over his physique. Jones fingered Matthew’s coat, his breeches, and stood back, eyeing Matthew with a small quirk to his mouth.

  “Take them off,” he said. “You won’t need clothes such as those here.”

  “Nay,” Matthew said, “they’re mine.”

  “Are they? Well, I’m telling you to strip.”

  “No,” Matthew replied, squaring himself. “Why should I?” Too late he became aware of the sudden light in Jones’ eyes, and the whip caught him straight across his face, splitting his lip.

  “Now,” Jones repeated, “strip.”

  Matthew dabbed at his lip with his sleeve and considered his options. Either he undressed himself, or he would be undressed, here, in front of all the people that were slowly assembling. He stiffened; if they wanted his clothes they’d have to tear them off him.

  Ten minutes later, Matthew lay curled around himself, as naked as the day he’d been born. All of him was covered with welts and he was bleeding from nose and mouth. His clothes lay in torn tatters on the ground beside him, and even in his semi-conscious state he felt a vague satisfaction that no one would have the use of them. A bucket of ice cold water was poured over him and hands pulled him to his feet. A grey worn shirt landed at his feet, followed by equally worn breeches in an undefined colour that may once have been brown.

  “Get dressed.”

  He complied and followed Jones and his shipmates to the barns.

  “You’ll be packing all day,” Jones informed them, waving his hand at the full interior. “All of this has to be baled today.”

  “This is your fault, Graham,” Elijah muttered much later. They could scarcely move their arms, and in the dark above them pole after pole of unpacked tobacco still hung.

  “You reckon?” Matthew slurred.

  “Aye, this is for you not doing as he said.”

  Matthew attempted a snort through his swollen nose. “Nay, Elijah. We would have been doing this no matter. This is him breaking in his new men.”

  *

  For the first few months of his life at the plantation, this was all Matthew did. He baled and baled, lifted heavy loads of dried tobacco leaves until he was certain his arms had lengthened permanently. Often he couldn’t sleep, the air in the little shed smothering him, and he crawled out of his makeshift bed to stand for hours in hot summer nights, trying to find some oxygen to draw into his overworked lungs.

  He hated it here; the heat and the humidity, the far too vivid greenery, the strange bugs and unfamiliar birds. He longed for cool winds and the rustling shade of oaks and alders, he yearned for robins and blackbirds, and the endless twilights of the northern summer skies. He was a servant, and he had never been one before, never had to adapt himself completely to the will of another man. His days began when someone else decided, and
they ended when that someone chose them to. And sometimes the days were very long, with a disinterested Jones insisting that the barn had to be emptied, however late the night.

  Initially, Matthew entertained ideas of running away, somehow evading the dogs and making it unscathed to Jamestown. Whatever notions he had of escaping were wiped clean out of his mind a couple of days after his arrival, when one of the veteran indentured workers jerked his head in the direction of six desiccated objects nailed to one of the barns.

  “Hands,” he said, “they tried to run.”

  “Ah,” Matthew said. All that day his wrists itched.

  Matthew attempted repeatedly to convince Jones that he was here erroneously, ignoring the big man’s warning scowl as he once again explained what had happened to him.

  “Please listen,” he pleaded one Saturday, lengthening his stride to match Jones’. “Will you not try and help? I have a family, a wee lad who needs his father.” He could hear the begging note to his voice, but he had to try. Jones ignored him, his eyes on the barn for which they were heading. Once inside the barn, Jones wheeled, bringing his open hand down in disdainful slap across Matthew’s face. Jones hit him again, this time with full force. Matthew stumbled back, raising his arms in defence.

  “I don’t care,” Jones said, advancing on him. “I’ve already told you, twenty pounds and you are free to go. Until then, hold your tongue and do as you are told.”

  Matthew stood his ground. “I have a right to speak out, and I’m here unlawfully. Mayhap I should walk into town and talk to the magistrates there.” The moment he said it, Matthew understood it had been a mistake. At the look in Jones’ eyes, the way the small mouth was sucked in to all but disappear into the heavy jowls, Matthew retreated a couple of paces.

  “Threatening to abscond?” Jones asked, crowding Matthew. He moved his head slowly from side to side. “We can’t have that, can we?” He lunged with surprising speed, and felled Matthew to the ground with one well-directed kick. The next kick hit Matthew squarely in the stomach, and he couldn’t breathe, mouth wide open as he tried to draw some air into his lungs. A fist in his face, and Matthew groaned. Yet another blow, and Matthew bit through his tongue.