The Farthest Gate (The White Rose Book 1)

THE FARTHEST GATE

MORGAN BLAYDE

© Copyright Dec, 2014

Acknowledgments:

To those who helped along the way: Jane O’Riva, Sally Ann Barnes, Denny Grayson, Scott Smith, Caroline Williams, Chris Crowe, Betty Johnson, Dave Murray, Steve and Judy Prey, Jim Czajkowski, Penny Hill, Leo Little, Chris Smith, Jean Colegrove, Chris Reilly, Amy Rogers, Kathy L’Ecluse, Georgia Harbeck, and Tod Todd.

OFFICIAL WEBSITE:

www.morgan-blayde.com

1. THE HAND OF DARKNESS

Rising through crushing depths of sleep, I gasped for air. Damp with sweat, my nightgown clung as I thrashed in my covers, heart pounding, aching with premonition.  Then the hand of darkness closed, and I sank once more into nightmare, having failed to escape after all.  Without remorse, nightmare ran off with me once more…

My arms cross.  I hug myself and hover, a ghost in icy winds that howl like damned souls.  I am near my father’s cottage.  My feet are just above the path which cuts through the snowy drifts along the ice-covered lake.  Winds tug me to a scene I do not want to see.

Phillippe
, approaches on horseback.  His sapphire eyes are dark in the night, his sun-gold curls hidden by the hood of a heavy woolen cloak.  A knitted cloth wraps his lower face.  Here is my son, the treasure of my life.  He slows, stops, and turns to stare across the ice.  He claws the scarf from his face.  His horse nickers, complaining, wanting to finish the journey and find a warm stall and food.

Phillippe’s
breath is white as he sits entranced.

I turned my head, dreading what I w
ill see.

A woman
stands barefoot on the frozen lake, oblivious to winter, her young, voluptuous body immodestly veiled by sheer black fabric that does not hide her ripeness.  Her hair spills down her back, black cascades tugged by wind.  Languidly, she beckons.  Her full lips separate. She calls him, an invitation to scandalous pleasures.  She sings—a song of death.  She is a spirit, wandered in from some dark fable.

Phillippe
slides off his horse and stumbles toward her, hearing what I cannot, oblivious to danger.

“No,” I scream, “go back!  The ice is too thin.”

I strain to reach him, wanting to hold him back from disaster, but an unseen wall keeps me at bay.  I fight the barrier, tearing at

it like a mad woman
.

Phillippe plod
s toward the spirit, showing her a bright smile she does not deserve.

She retreat
s further from the bank.  Her face melts, sloughing off.  A grinning skull glows in the soft haze of silver moonlight. I can no longer tell if she is singing her dirge.  Her eyes are red, demon stars.  She beckons with a wiggling finger.

Phillippe stagger
s slightly with his next step.  The groaning ice cracks, threatening to splinter even more.

“No, Phillippe, go back.  Go back!”

He cannot hear me.  My heart is torn asunder, and he does not know.

The wraith
gently fans fire-scorched wings, ribbed like a bat’s.  The tissues of her hand mist away, showing white bones underneath.

“Phillippe!”
I scream.

The ice br
eaks.  He vanishes. The lake closes over his head, broken by bubbles that mark his passing.

L
aughing silently, the spirit turns her fleshless grin my way, as if to say, “Look what I have done.”

Anguish crushe
s my heart.  I cannot breathe.  I no longer care.

S
he fades to nothing, leaving only a water grave.

The room’s cold air knifed my lungs.  I brushed pale strands of damp hair from my face, willing my heart to relent its frantic pace.  I was free of the dream, but not its residual terror.  Fear had seeped deep into my marrow. The dream was something from one of my Grandmama’s bedtime stories.  I longed to have her alive and with me.  Her arms had always been a comfort.

I
n the distance, the church’s full-throated bells pealed, though not for any reason I knew. The slow, spaced resonations echoed with melancholy, lending weight to this moment in time.

I
slid to the edge of the bed and swung my feet down into my slippers, sitting up.  My robe was draped at the foot of my bed.  I gathered it in and wrapped it around me as I came to my feet, standing in the gap of the curtains that enclosed my bed.  I took several steps down to the hand-woven rug that cushioned the hardwood floor.

Part of me wanted to throw
winter clothing on and go racing into the night.  My heart demanded to follow the lake path, and to see if the ice was broken.  Awake, and mostly rational, I knew this for folly.  Phillippe was away, serving an apprenticeship in Paris, with his uncle, a silversmith of great reputation.  My son would not be out in the bitter cold this time of night ... unless he was trying to surprise me with his presence for the holidays...

This
was 1633—not darker centuries past.  There was no need to let myself be driven into thoughtless panic by ill omens.  Murdering ghosts were the invention of idle men, trying to earn coin in the commons of some inn.  At least, I told myself that.

I drifted to
the small, moon-bathed window, brushing aside lace curtains made by my grandmother.  In such small ways, she was ever around me, a guiding force.  Thinking of her, I offered up a small prayer, asking for her blessing that this dream might be just that, and not a dark promise.

Outside, snow covered the
yard.  The road beyond was tracked by horses’ hooves and wagon wheels.  The trees in view were bare of leaf with ice sheathing the drooping branches.  Blue shadows made the familiar landscape fey and strange.  I was about to return to bed when I saw my son’s horse arrive, wearing bridle and saddle, lacking a rider.

The world lurch
ed under my feet.

“God, no!”

I darted to my armoire, but bypassed my usual dresses, needing sturdier wear.  There were clothes here belonging to Phillippe, freshly mended by my needle.  Hurriedly, I donned them, and threw my heavy, wool cloak over my shoulders, securing it.  My shoes went on.  Running steps took me to the door.  I wrenched it open and burst along the darkened hall to the cottage’s common room where I stalled, seeing my father at the fireplace, prodding a dying fire with an ash-coated poker.

He spun, clutching the iron like a sword.
  Perhaps he, too, had been plagued by nightmares.

“Celeste?  Where are you going at such an hour?”

I pointed toward the front door.  “Phillippe’s horse has come home without him.”  I scarcely recognized the distressed tones of my voice.  “I must find him!”

Not waiting for further word, I hastened to the door
and thrust it open.  I heard the clatter of father replacing the poker in the stand as I ran out.  Cold air misted my breath.  The horse murmured seeing me, hopeful of a warm stall and bag of oats.  He plodded to meet me.  I gathered up his reins tied them to a railing.  I could not let him rest.  My son would need his horse when found.

I went on to the barn and entered.  W
earing boots and a black cloak, father was there already, having come through the entrance from the house.  Though the war with the Spanish had not yet reached our village, he had buckled his sword on. I was not surprised, knowing the weapon was his craft, as the finest sword master ever to instruct a king.  Retired from service, the blade was too much a part of him not to be kept close.

He
stopped me, gripping my arms, peering into my face with dead-calm eyes.  “Stay here.  I will do all that is needful and bring Phillippe swiftly home.”

“I
am going with you.”

“You will only slow me down.”

“I am going.”

I
jerked away, entering the stall of the horse father let me use.  He no longer argued, but made no effort to help either, letting me struggle with the weight of my saddle.  My dear father had a habit of spooning out spite when he didn’t get his way.  Object lessons had always been an article of faith with him.  In my own way, I served a more intimate and friendlier God.  My convictions centered on the impulses of my heart.  They demanded I find my son.

My horse s
tared at me as if I were crazy, going out on a night like this, never-the-less, he allowed me to roughly toss the saddle to his blanketed back. I strapped it down, checked the cinching, and approached his head with the bridle.  He nudged me with his head, begging for a treat.

I stroked his head and whispered, “Later, I promise.”

His bridle in place, I took the reins in hand and led him out of the stall to where my father waited.  We went into the yard, secured the barn door behind us, and mounted.

Father flicked his reins, “Eeeyah!”

I copied his gesture.  We rode as fast as the snow allowed.  Since we lived at the edge of town, there were few close neighbors to disturb with our passing.  If my dream were accurate, I knew where Phillippe would be.  “He’s on the lake path,” I yelled, drawing up to my father.

“How do you know?” he called back.

“I just do.  Trust me.”

He nodded and let me take the lead.  We abandoned the main road, veering toward the lake.  The path flanked the lake’s white ice.  On our other side, ice and moonlight glazed the dark ranks of an apple orchard.

Watching the ice, I saw a fresh break in its expanse.  My head went numb, as though someone had struck me viciously.  My dream had proved true, and my son ... my son...

“There!”
Father reined in.  “We need to see if he—”

Father’s
voice broke, unable to express the same fear that knotted my stomach.  We slid to the ground.  I grabbed the rope father had brought, and tied one end around my waist.  I offered the coils back to father.  I was lighter, and could go out further on the ice.  His strength would be needed to pull me back ... with my son.  I hadn’t been able to save him.  My heart was darkening and would never again know joy.  All I could do for Phillippe was to recover his body and put his spirit to rest.

Heaven
had shown me a cruel face.

Father tied his end of the rope to his saddle, and mounted.  He was right to do so
; the horse’s strength was greater than our own.

After brushing away snow, I pried a rock loose from the frigid earth.
  Memories flashed through my head of having done this before, going ice fishing with my father.  If I needed to break the ice like my shattered heart, the rock would prove useful.  Carefully, I went onto the ice with my burden.  The white surface creaked and groaned.  Near the break, I went on my stomach, peering ahead, into the dark water.  No one floated on the surface, but this was the site from my dream.

Oh,
Phillippe ... where are you?

A
startled shriek escaped me as he floated face-first up to me, trapped under three or four inches of ice.  His expressionless eyes were empty, staring.  I smashed the stone against the ice until it began to crack and splinter.  The rock broke through, dragging my clawed hand into the icy water.  The stone slipped from grasp like lost hope.  I snarled a curse and began to worry the edge away until I could plunge my whole arm in and reach under the ice to gather Phillippe.