Sacred (29 page)

But now it seemed foolish. What had I thought—that I’d stumbled upon some piece of information, some clue, that Will and Martin hadn’t already discovered?

Who was
I
—just some girl who’d spent a few hours reading one book about the Kabbalah! What could I possibly know that they hadn’t already considered from every angle?

But if it was true—if Will’s abilities to sense impending crimes really came as a result of being one of these
Tzaddikim
—why hadn’t he told me this?

It seemed that the house would not be yielding any answers today. I stood, leaning on the front gate, gazing intently at the little yard, but the door did not open, and neither Martin nor Will emerged.

I felt Traveler’s warm breath on my back. As I turned to stroke his muzzle, a car pulled up to the curb in front of Will’s house.

It was an old forest-green Jeep—and behind the wheel sat Martin. I felt the warmth of hope course through me, and my hand shot up in a wave. But though he raised his hand in return before he shut off the engine, his mouth did not turn up in a smile.

Martin climbed out of the Jeep and pulled a couple of grocery bags out of the backseat before heading across the sidewalk toward me.

“Scarlett,” he said. “How have you been?”

I considered how to answer Martin’s question.

“Not great, but I’ve found out that I’m stronger than I thought I was.” It seemed we were equally surprised by my answer. It was true—I wasn’t broken.

Martin’s face softened. “I’m glad to hear that, Scarlett.” He hesitated before asking, “Would you like to come inside?”

“I can’t. Traveler wouldn’t be comfortable alone.”

“Yes … this is a different horse.” Martin lowered his grocery bags across the picket fence into his yard and stroked Traveler’s velvety nose.

“Is Will here?”

Martin’s hand stopped midstroke, just for a moment, before he answered. “He is,” he said cautiously. “But he’s resting. He has a headache today.”

I had to fight back the urge to push past Martin and barge into the house. In my mind’s eye an image flashed—clear as a photograph—of Will in his room, lying on his bed, eyes closed.

“Is something wrong?” I asked. “Somewhere on the island … is something going to happen?”

Martin’s eyes were troubled. “It would be better, Scarlett, if Will hadn’t told you these things. It’s too much for you to have to process, along with all your own troubles.”

“I think I can handle it, Martin.” My voice sounded steely. “I want to help him.”

Martin laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Yes,” he said. “I know how you feel. I’d like to help him too. But I seem cursed to watch as those I love suffer. I don’t wish to share that burden with you, Scarlett.”

I brushed away his concern. “Why is Will just lying there?” I asked. “Why doesn’t he do something?”

Martin seemed torn between answering me and dodging my question. He looked in my face for a long moment, and he must have seen something there, for finally he answered, “It’s different this time. He doesn’t know where to go. It’s just the headache … no pulling feeling.”

“Did any other
Tzaddikim
report the same kind of experiences—being pulled to certain places, feeling compelled to help?” Probably I mispronounced the strange word, but I didn’t care.

Martin raised his eyebrows speculatively. “You have been doing your homework,” he murmured. “No, I’ve come across no record of anything quite like what Will experiences, though of course I’ve been researching for years now.”

He didn’t deny what I had suspected—that the Kabbalah had a name for people like Will.

“Martin,” I said. My voice was strong and steady. “I love your son. It doesn’t matter how he feels about me. I want to help him.”

Martin’s smile was sad. “I can see that, Scarlett. But you can’t help Will. All you can do is to take care of yourself, and do your best to leave him alone. Will doesn’t need your help.”

I felt embarrassed, chastened as though I was a little girl caught doing something naughty.

“Go home, Scarlett,” Martin said, and though his face was gentle and his tone was kind, his words stung me like a whip.

I couldn’t see clearly as I pulled myself onto Traveler and turned him up the road, but I called to Martin as I urged Traveler forward, “Tell Will I came.” And there was power behind my words—they were not a plea, but rather a command.

I knew as I rode away that Martin watched me, and I held my back straight, my head high. I saw again in my mind Will on his bed, and he sat up, and his green eyes opened and stared into mine.

The wind stirred the leaves on the trail as I rode toward the stable. Dark clouds blowing in from the sea cut the sunlight into shadow. I smelled a storm coming; the air felt electric. Traveler felt it too. His ears flicked back and forth and his step was light and high.

On an island, weather can change very quickly. It had been cold this morning, and overcast, but now it was clear that a storm was imminent.

I didn’t want to run Traveler on the trail, but I did want to make it back to the stable before the storm, so I cued him to pick up his pace. I resolved to keep it to a slow lope, reminding him with the reins to keep it mellow.

The storm clouds were faster than we were. With a warning clap of thunder, the sky opened and rain poured down.

I had to hand it to Traveler; though he quickened his gait when we began to be pelted by rain, he didn’t bolt. I felt his muscles tighten beneath me, and I worked at keeping my seat steady, my hands supportive and controlling, so that he wouldn’t spook and take his canter into a gallop.

I felt proud of my work with Traveler. He was young and pretty green, but I had him well in hand during what might have been dangerous trail conditions. I felt keyed up too, and in spite of my interaction with Martin, in spite of the knowledge that Will did not want me—that he might never want me in the way that I wanted him—I felt
good
. A wide, foolish grin split my face. The air smelled earthy and wet, so
alive
, and Traveler’s hooves splashed through the mud and puddles that were forming on the trail.

Perhaps it is impossible to feel anything but free on a running horse. Perhaps I really
was
stronger than I thought I could be. But I knew, in the moment before the accident, that life was beautiful in spite of the pain that is its constant, sometimes hidden, shadow. I knew all the pieces existed within me. I might still be fractured, but the pieces were knitting back together, and I would be stronger in the places where I had broken and healed. How I knew this, why I felt this so surely, I don’t know. But my own, beating heart—my own, heady gulps of air—this was life, and I was glad for it.

And then Traveler spied a downed branch on the trail.

It must have recalled for him the trot poles that had terrified him back at the stable. Had we been walking, or even trotting, I would have had time to steady my seat. And if the trail had been dry, I could have predicted better what would happen when he saw the branch, when he grunted with fear, when he dodged fast to the left to avoid it, then swerved right to keep from colliding with a tree.

But there were too many factors, too fast, and nothing I did could right the situation. The slime of the mud
beneath his iron shoes threw Traveler off balance, and he stumbled to his knees, and I felt myself unseated in that queer, slow-motion kind of way, and as my body flew from the saddle, I almost had time to tuck my head to my chest, I almost had time to cover my bare head with my arms, and then I hit the muddy trail, and my head struck a rock with painful force, and then my world closed around me.

SEVENTEEN

I
woke, shivering, to rain. I lay on the trail, next to the rock that had knocked me out. Sitting up too fast, my first thought was Traveler—where was he? I swung my head around to find him, but the movement struck me down again. Too much pain. I retched in the mud, rain plastering my hair to my head, and when I touched my brow to push my hair out of my face, my hand came away red with blood.

The horse was gone. Lightning split the sky. I was alone.

I wanted to cry; little sniveling sounds came out of me but there were no tears, though my face was wet with rain. I sat, sprawled in the mud like a broken doll. My heart pounded furiously in my chest; I felt terribly afraid.

Looking around, I tried to situate myself. Time had passed since I’d been thrown; the sun, shrouded by the rainclouds, was lower in the sky. It was late afternoon.

I felt confused, as if my thoughts were swimming through
dark, murky water. Which way was home? I remembered again the horse. Where was Delilah?

No—Traveler. I’d ridden Traveler. But why, and where? It was difficult for me to link any facts together to form a chain of thought. Too much effort was required; after a moment I gave up and closed my eyes.

I was shivering, and my teeth clanked against each other. I knew these things meant that I was cold, but it was as if I was observing myself from very far away. It felt better to have my eyes closed. The weight of my body seemed too much to bear, so I let myself slip back down to the muddy path and I curled myself into a ball. The rain seemed to slacken before redoubling.

I did not sleep, but I was not quite awake. I was still.

Inside my head, or outside of my body, it was impossible to tell which, the world swirled like water down a drain. Images streaked by me and I tried to grasp them—Delilah, trotting gracefully in the arena; Ronny as a young boy, muddy and grinning widely after a soccer game; Lily tossing her curls in that particular way. And Will—Will, eyes serious and eager, slipping the orchid corsage onto my wrist. Will, across from me in the Yellow Room, entrusting his secret to me. Will, next to the pond, his arm at my waist, asking, “Do you want me to kiss you, Scarlett?” And Will, his mouth slanted across mine, the feel of him against my body. And as I lay in the rain, it seemed as if I were in his arms again, as if I were whirling in circles in a dance rather than dizzy and bleeding on the muddy earth, and I said his name—whether aloud or not, I did not know—
Will, Will, Will
.

A loud rumbling sound brought me awake again, and I opened my eyes into the bright, staring headlights of a truck. Except for the lights of the truck, the sky was darkening on the precipice of night. I was blinded by the headlights, my headache redoubled by their glare, and I brought my arm across my face.

The rain pounded down, and I heard someone running toward me through the mud.

“Scarlett,” he called, aghast, and I forced my eyes to open. It was Will. Behind him, his father’s green Jeep still ran, its engine grumbling like some monster, its headlights frightening in the rain. The driver’s-side door was open. Irrationally, I found myself worrying that the upholstery would be ruined by the rain.

Will dropped to his knees beside me. His hand, fire-hot, touched my cheek. “Scarlett, look at me,” he begged.

Even though I wanted to, I found it nearly impossible to focus on his penetrating gaze. My eyes kept slipping to the side, like marbles on a slanted floor. But I breathed in the smell of him in the rain—warm, like he’d been sitting next to the fireplace in his front room. Somehow spicy. My eyes closed and I pictured myself in his arms, and I felt myself slipping away again into unconsciousness.

I felt my body shifting, and I knew that Will had me in his arms, and that now I would be safe.

“You came,” I murmured into his shirtfront.

And before I passed out again, I heard him reply, “You called me.”