Chapter Seven
Acceptance
Vengeance has no rules.
It has no heart, no conscience,
no dignity, and no true allies.
The room was dark. My head felt tender, like a wooden club had had its
way with me and left my skull badly bruised. A fur covering was draped over my
body keeping me warm. Its coarse texture sparked a vague sense of recognition,
yet I couldn’t place the blanket anywhere in my memory. I tried to think where
the fur had come from, but the more I strained to remember, the more I realized
there was little I could recall about anything, including my present
whereabouts and how I had come to be in a dark and unfamiliar room.
The smell of a warming fire pervaded the air, though it had burned too
low to keep the tip of my nose from experiencing a chill. Its light reached
from beyond the foot of my bed, leaving most of the room cloaked in darkness. I
stirred, but my head screamed at me for making the effort. The pain forced a
groan of agony from my lips to which someone responded.
“Catherine? Are you awake?”
His voice was hushed but distinctly concerned. Uncertain of the man’s
identity, I said nothing. The air fell silent again, and I assumed he was
listening for a sound of movement from me. I, likewise, waited for a clue as to
who he was. I dared to cast my eyes about, searching for his silhouette in the
darkness. All I could make out were articles of furniture. None of them I
recognized, although, the details were hardly discernible.
A shift in position had my head swimming in circles like a whirlpool
within my skull. A wave of pain accompanied an unpleasant onset of vertigo. I
put a hand to my temple, wanting to stop the spinning, and groaned aloud.
“Catherine?” the man repeated. I heard the legs of a chair scrape
against the floor as he stood up.
The minimal light of the fire was blocked out when his head appeared
above me—a large shadow with a dark mane. He was not a small man. I squinted to
make out his features, and I flinched when he reached for me. Again I groaned,
regretting the sudden move that made my head throb in multiple places. His hand
fell gently on my forehead as if he meant to stop my brain from swirling.
Oddly, it seemed to work.
“How do you feel?” he asked. I perceived genuine concern.
“Not well,” I answered honestly. “What happened to me?”
Despite his shadowed countenance, I noticed him grimace at the mental
imagery evidently conjured up by my question. “You don’t remember falling?”
“No.”
“Well… you did. You hit your head pretty hard.” His fingers wiped
softly at my forehead before he removed them.
I considered his words for a moment. It certainly explained the
throbbing.
“How did I fall?” I wanted more information—about everything.
“I uh… I’m not sure,” he declared with a heavy sigh. His eyes flickered
to the far side of the room for a second, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he
was telling me the truth. What I wondered with greater interest was who this
man was.
“I don’t remember anything about it,” I cautiously confessed.
His expression conveyed pity towards me, and he stroked my cheek, a
gesture that put his big hand against my nose. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“Yes, a little.” I was stalling. Or perhaps it was a test to see what
he would do. I wanted to trust this person, but he was a perfect stranger to my
foggy mind.
I watched him turn and cross the floor noiselessly. His silhouette bent
over and collected two logs of wood which he placed inside a stove that complained
in a creaky moan when the front cover opened and closed. The man returned to my
bedside and watched me watch him. We seemed to share the same uncertainty. I
was the one to finally kill the silence.
“Who are you?” I asked. It was a straightforward question that would
undoubtedly reveal all he needed to know about the seriousness of my condition.
“You don’t remember?” He scrutinized my face, squinting. There was no
hint of hurt feelings in his features. Maybe concern. What I identified
primarily was apprehension as he waited with a tight expression for me to
answer.
I tried to place his dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and full lips but
failed. No flash from the past divulged any shared experiences. No emotional
response moved me. Nothing.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
The man exhaled loudly. “It’s alright. You suffered serious head
trauma. Some memory loss is to be expected.”
I wondered who had told him that. But what I wanted to know most was to
whom I was exposing my vulnerability.
“Who are you?” I asked again.
I watched his face contort, shifting through a range of solemn
expressions. A touch of relief seemed to soften his face before it creased
again conveying sympathy, concern, and then a great deal of anxiety. He tried
futilely to smile through it all.
“Tell me who you are,” I finally demanded. His hesitancy was draining
my hopes of trusting him. When his eyes glossed over with pure pity, I
instantly loathed the look.
“I am your husband,” he professed, reaching to caress my face as if
meaning to soften the blow of his words. My gaze scrunched tight with
skepticism, and my head shifted, attempting to escape his touch. The action
brought a hammer down on my skull—at least that’s what the pain felt like.
Nausea ripped through my stomach in concert with the pain. I wanted to vomit.
“You really shouldn’t move,” the man—my husband—told me. “You’re not
well.”
I’m married to a genius, I thought to myself. The hostility behind my
sarcasm shocked me. Was the feeling real? And why so strong?
I grabbed my head and belly at the same time and, despite knowing the
agony it would cause me, I rolled in a swift lurch to where my chin could
extend over the side of the bed. There, I emptied the liquid contents of my
stomach. For a few moments I was caught up in dry heaves, feeling every
contraction of my abdominal muscles pound with equal ferocity inside my skull.
My eyes went blind as a greater darkness seemed to cave in on my brain. I heard
the man—my husband—groan with disgust.
I woke as disoriented as the first time but with some recognition of my
surroundings, especially the spicy smell of wood burning in a stove beyond the
foot of my bed. I glanced about in the dark with just my eyes, afraid to move
my head. No one was visible. Groggy and unable to form a clear thought about
anything, including myself, I paused in hope that something in the dimness
would light a memory. I recalled only three things distinctly, all recent: The
horrible headache when I moved. A man who claimed to be my husband. Liquid
vomit; I had thrown up. Other than that, nothing was certain.
I breathed in deeply, partly searching for the smell of sickness. There
was none. The man—my husband—must have cleaned up the mess. Maybe he did care
for me. The fact that I felt no endearing emotions toward him—no internal
warmth or inherent recognition—made me uneasy. No sentiment tied itself to the
thought of him. Not even one hazy memory fought to break through to my
conscious awareness. He said he was my husband. My husband. This person I felt
no flicker of emotion toward.
No, that wasn’t true.
I had felt something toward
him in an involuntary response before hurling the contents of my stomach onto
the floor. I had felt animosity. And to it, I had reacted sarcastically. It had
been automatic, thus making it real. If this man was actually my husband, I
doubted I was happy about it.
I listened in the quiet for his presence, for a sound of movement or
breathing, but heard nothing aside from the soft popping of burning wood. I
inhaled the spicy smell and experienced a sense of contentment. It too was a
genuine emotion conceived internally. For the love of me, however, I could not
recall any past occasions spent beside a warming fire. My brain barred every
attempt to force an unwilling memory.
Too awake to go back to sleep, I amassed the courage to roll onto my
side and perhaps sit up entirely. It all depended on the pain. I turned my
cheek toward the pillow first without any unbearable effects, and so my body
followed suit. My head throbbed, but not enough to keep my elbow from pushing
against the mattress in an attempt to sit up. It was a stupid move. My brain
suffered an agonizing jolt, and the room spun, making my stomach reel as if it
were churning acid into vinegar. The awful nausea to follow forced me into a
full sitting position where I began to vomit air between my legs onto the
floor. My stomach was empty and complained fiercely about the fact.
I heard a door creak, followed by a momentary gust of cold air that
felt wonderful. My abdomen seemed to relax in order to appreciate the cool
reprieve.
“Catherine?”
It was the voice of that man—my husband. He sounded worried.
“Catherine, why are you up? What are you doing?”
He was suddenly seated beside me, one hand taking hold of my arm while
the other flattened against my forehead, apparently feeling for fever. His
touch was cold from being outside. It felt good.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“I went to see your grandmother,” he replied without the slightest
hesitation. I believed him even though I couldn’t picture a face to attach to
the woman.
“Is she okay?” I asked, concerned as to why he would pay her a visit in
the middle of the night; I assumed it to be around the midnight hour by the
quiet darkness.
“She’s worried about you,” he said before changing the subject. “You
should lie down, Catherine.” He attempted to steer me toward my pillow, but I
fought him by tensing every muscle in my body.
“No,” I refused. “I might throw up again.”
He seemed to agree that my plan to puke on the floor rather than on the
bed was preferable, not that my stomach could produce anything but rancid air
in its present condition. It took him a moment before he jumped to his feet and
retrieved a clay pot for me, meant to collect any forthcoming vomit. I felt
annoyed that he had failed to supply me with a bowl long before now. The word
“pathetic” came to mind, and I wondered if he had proven to be an annoyance to
me in our joined past. Or was I simply an overly critical person?
I held the clay pot to my chest, slumping over it, and asked a string
of questions.
“Where am I?”
“You’re home,” the man said, sounding like I had just asked him
something bizarre.
“It’s not as if anything is familiar to me,” I snapped. He immediately
adopted a tone of apology.
“Of course not, Catherine. I’m sorry.”
I felt bad for my momentary loss of temper. Why did this man whose name
I couldn’t even recall seem to try my patience? I wanted to know how to address
him, but he had yet to mention his name. I felt like an idiot for my inability
to recall it, and so I continued to avoid the subject, hoping the answer might
naturally come to light.
“What’s outside these walls?” I asked.
He pointed toward a closed window. “Our village.”
I waited for more, but it didn’t come. “Does our village have a name?”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. Again I waited, but he remained
silent. My eyes traveled sideways to find him regarding me with a dissecting
gaze.
“What is it?” I finally asked, experiencing a great deal of
exasperation.
“Oh, right. Tarishe. We live in Tarishe. We have for many years. I
oversee all civic affairs here.”
It was the first bit of information he had volunteered without me
asking for it. I hoped he would divulge more, but his tongue halted again.
“What do I do here in Tarishe?” I asked. The question made me anxious.
I feared the answer would be as unpleasant to hear as finding out I was married
to this man who possessed the power to vex me without trying.
“You?” He seemed shocked by the question. Perhaps he believed I
recalled more about myself than I did. I looked down into the bowl on my lap.
My neck drooped, and I felt a sickening pain at that simple gesture. It was
better not to move at all.
I waited with anticipation, hoping the man—my husband—would speak. A
wave of gratitude washed through me when he volunteered a wealth of information
about myself, more than he had about anything else thus far. I was not
disappointed by the things he shared.
“Catherine, you are a huntress. One of the best in Tarishe. You have
provided meat for our village without fail for years. Dompier normally chooses
you above all others to join his hunting party. He brags of your skill with a
sword, a spear, a bow—any weapon placed in your hands. Of course, your silver
sword has always been your weapon of choice. Especially when it comes to
protecting the village from werewolves.”
“Werewolves?”
“Yes,” he nodded, watching me closely. “Do you remember the
werewolves?”
My brow pulled taut trying to force an image of myself brandishing a
silver sword against wolverine beasts. I could picture nothing; it hurt to
think. I asked another obvious question.
“Who is Dompier?”
“Dompier? Why he’s one of your closest friends. He calls you Cat. You
allow few others to call you by that nickname.”
“Do I allow you to call me by
that nickname?” I asked. It was the next logical question.
The man—my husband—stammered a reply. I did not believe his answer.
“Well, uh… yes. Yes, of course. I mean you are, after all, my wife.”
I saw an opportunity and took it. “And do I have a nickname for you? Or
do I just call you husband?”
“Um… no. You have always used my given name—Thaddeus.”
I exhaled a sigh of relief at having learned his name without the
awkwardness of a direct request. Thaddeus. I repeated it numerous times in my
head to the point of discouragement. The name failed to conjure up any
memories. My spirits sank even lower, suffering the weight of disappointment
and fear. What if my past never came back to me? What if I never recalled what
made my family and friends dear to me? What if I failed to remember the skills
that made me a valuable huntress and protector of my village? What would I do
then?
I was surprised by a splash of droplets in the clay bowl below my face.
I understood they were tears. I was crying. This truth upset me, and I wiped my
cheeks dry. My gut told me I was not a sniveling, weepy sort of creature.
“Are you hungry? Or thirsty? Would you like some water?”
Thaddeus rose from the edge of the bed to fetch the things he offered.
I remained hunched over my bowl, afraid to move for fear my head would scream
at me again. I was hungry but at the same time nauseous, doubting any food
would stay down for long. A few moments later, a thin piece of jerky and a cup
of water appeared under my nose. I took the jerky without looking up, thankful
for a food item I could simply savor without swallowing. The jerky tasted
divine to my tongue, and I assumed my body was craving salt.
“You should drink some water too,” Thaddeus said after a few silent
minutes of watching me suck salt off the stick of meat. I knew he was right,
but I didn’t dare kink my neck to where I could sip from a cup.
“Let me help you,” he volunteered. I felt his hand land gently on the
back of my neck with no adverse effects. The cup was brought to my lips, but my
entire form had slumped too far forward to drink. I pushed the cup away, more
interested in the salted jerky anyway.
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
“You need water,” he insisted, and then attempted to press my shoulder
as if he could make me sit up straight. I reacted defensively. It felt entirely
normal to do so.
My eyes narrowed as they shot up, warning him to comply with my wishes.
The move caused a shooting pain to travel up my spine before exploding like
fireworks in my head. I dropped the jerky onto the floor and hugged the clay
bowl, heaving up another supply of rancid air.
I heard myself whimper “make it stop” as blindness stole my sight and
then my consciousness.
Voices, low and conversing, reached my ear, and I wondered if they were
the cause of my wakening. The room continued to abide in darkness, but only
because heavy curtains denied the morning a way inside. The outer edges of a
window within my view were painted soft gray-blue where daylight attempted to
penetrate the drapes. Due to the faint amount of filtered light, I could see
more detail in items of furniture positioned nearby.
A chest of three drawers stood tall with sculpted edges, each drawer
equipped with a wrought-iron handle. A single shelf held a short stack of books
and a pile of loosely-rolled parchments. These scrolls were prevented from
rolling off the ledge by a black inkwell lacking a quill. Beneath the shelf,
articles of clothing hung on antler hooks: a shirt, vest, jacket, and belt.
There was more, but my attention swung to the highness of a ceiling planked by
wooden rafters. The room felt bigger without darkness of night concealing the
space overhead.
My ears perked up when I heard my own name mentioned, whispered between
voices serving as background noise until now. I strained to hear, able to
comprehend only fragments of the conversation.
“She awakens more often…”
“…almost healed… hard to kill.”
To kill? My heart palpitated. Were they talking about me?
“…had me worried…”
“Filthy mongrels… tough to eliminate…”
I sighed with relief at the word mongrels, assuming mutts were the
object of hatred. Had dogs caused my head injury?
“…told her little.…”
“She remembers nothing?”
“No, no, nothing.”
“It may not last…”
“It might… given time.”
“…too risky…”
“Maybe not…”
“It is too risky.”
Risky? What was risky? What were they talking about?
“I will go ahead and—”
“No! She’s my wife; I’ll handle it my way!”
It was a loud and clear outburst by Thaddeus. But what exactly did he
want to handle? And to whom was he speaking? A doctor? It seemed logical my
husband was conversing with a medical practitioner, discussing my care. I
stirred in bed, wanting to sit up and speak to the man myself. When I rolled
onto my side, my head throbbed but with less pain than before. I felt certain
my injuries were healing.
“Doctor?” I called out in a weak and raspy voice. I managed to maneuver
into a sitting position without excessive pain. My head suffered what felt like
internal pressure; however, it was less crippling than the throbbing I had
endured in the night. My stomach rolled with a minor wave of nausea, mostly
hungry.
“Doctor?” I cried out again, afraid Thaddeus might show him to the door
before I had a chance to ask any questions about my condition. I was surprised
when my husband was at once standing before me. A smaller form crept slowly out
of the shadows behind him. I waited for the person to come into focus under the
minimal lighting available.
“You’re awake,” an elderly voice observed.
I saw an old woman plagued by a curvature of the spine. With a wooden
cane in hand, she stood comfortably close to Thaddeus. She eyed me strongly.
“You’re not a doctor,” I presumed. I looked to my husband, expecting an
introduction, but he denied me the courtesy. My eyes flickered back to the
elderly character who continued to regard me through tight eyes. I couldn’t
think who this frail creature was or if I had ever seen her before. Despite a
mix of emotions nipping at my heart, no specific sentiment grabbed hold.
“You honestly don’t remember me,” the woman decided without asking. I
felt a sharp prick of shame in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m sorry, no.” Then I recalled where Thaddeus had been in the night.
“Are you… are you my grandmother?”
“I am.” A smile tugged awry on the old woman’s face. I failed to see
any compassion in a smirk that made me both wary and untrusting. She did not
appear to be a concerned grandparent.
Then Thaddeus turned to her and began discussing me as if I were no
longer in the room; they said the oddest things.
“I think we should wait. She’s almost healed and I see no threat of…”
Thaddeus stopped short before adding, “I like things as they are—no memory of
werewolves or vampires or anything else.”
“Vampires?” I breathed incredulously. Whoa, was I somehow involved with
vampires? Had they caused my injury?
The old woman shook her head slowly, disagreeing with something of
which I was uncertain. “It is better to give her some memories…”
Some? Not just some—all! I wanted all
my memories!
“No!” my would-be husband barked. He seemed adamant that I remain in
the dark.
“Yes!” I argued aloud. My outburst went completely ignored.
The man wagged his finger in my general direction. “Do not touch her. I
will do here as I see fit.”
As he saw fit? The audacity!
“Bonds must be rebuilt, Thaddeus. There are those she must love and
those she must not.”
“I am well aware of that, and I can do it for her.”
A skeptical grin thinned the old woman’s lips. “That stubborn creature
will never believe what you say. She needs to have memories and emotions deeply
ingrained. She will only believe what she feels internally.”
I was confused. Ingrained memories? But where were my actual, real memories?
“You would force her to feel the things you want.”
“As it was before. She must hate our common enemy.”
“Your enemy, not mine. I’m tired of this petty game. I no longer wish
to be a part of it.”
The old woman nearly stood up straight, her mouth gaping as wide as her
eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m done with this tiresome existence. I want to move on.
With her.”
“With her?” Those wide eyes
flashed an intense hatred at me. I felt myself cringe.
“Yes, with her. You gave her to me.”
“And you fought me tooth and nail! You were dead set against marrying
this creature.”
Thaddeus shrugged indifferently. “Well… I’ve changed my mind.”
“Since when?”
“Since the wedding. She is now my wife, and I am her husband. I want a
life—a life of my own. Something more than contending with those troublesome
werewolves. I want a peaceful existence with my wife.”
“Ha! Those mongrels will never leave you in peace. They will forever
seek her out. Peace does not exist with her! She allows no peace, no happiness,
for anyone!”
Thaddeus regarded the angry woman, and for a moment he appeared to feel
sorry for her. “You could be happy if you wanted to be, if you ceased mourning
the past. My brother is dead; he has been for over fourteen years. You should
leave him be. Bury him and move on with your life.”
“Lucian was my life! That vicious,
hateful mongrel took him from me!” A bony finger pointed down at me as if
suggesting I were the mongrel. Their
conversation was making less sense as it progressed.
“Lucian was not your only son, you know. Or have you forgotten?”
“I know, I know. Which is why her memories must be carefully restored.
I do it to protect us, Thaddeus. To protect you. I will not lose you to her as
well.”
Thaddeus was unconvinced. “I want a life, and I will have one—with her.
She is no longer one of theirs, nor is she your charge. She is mine. She will
love me and remain with me, and we will build a pleasant existence together.”
“Is that what you think? You forget what happens on All Hallows Eve.”
“I’m well aware of what happens on that cursed night, but it is only
once a year.”
“She will turn on you—mark my words!”
“I will see to it that she doesn’t.”
“Ha! You are neither powerful enough nor brave enough to prevent it.”
“Stop provoking me, mother! I am more capable than you know!”
My brain was drowning in confusion and anxiety as well as suffering an
increasing pressure headache. Thaddeus had called my grandmother his mother.
Clearly, these people—these peculiar characters—did not have my best interests
at heart. In fact, they seemed bent on securing their own selfish desires at my
expense. The need to escape in order to preserve whatever was left of my actual
identity prompted me to find my feet. While they were bickering between
themselves, I managed a few side steps before the room began to spin and the
floor rose to meet my tumbling form. The fall gained me the undivided attention
of the pair.
My self-professed husband jumped to my aid, grasping both of my arms
with the intention of helping me to stand. I wouldn’t allow it, determined to
fight my way free of him and the old woman if necessary. Focused on reaching
the door, which unfortunately stood on the opposite end of the room, I was
convinced my escape into the village outside would enable me to cross paths
with a compassionate soul willing to help a woman in distress. My strength,
however, failed me. I lacked the muscle to put up a physical fight, proving
more of a nuisance than anything to the man holding me down. Despite my
weakened condition, I continued to struggle for my freedom, unwilling to give
in to the shady intentions of two oddballs whom I feared were more my captors
than the family they claimed to be. I was scolded and told to calm myself.
“It’s alright, Catherine,” the man lied. “No one is going to harm you.”
“You’re right about that,” I snarled, kicking low.
I was prepared to sweep his feet out from under him when my brain lost
its ability to communicate movement to the rest of my body. Try as I might, I
could not move any of my limbs and remained on the floor, paralyzed. I was
instantly afraid. Thaddeus seemed momentarily confused by my stiffness, but
then his face wilted into a scowl as he turned to his mother and understood.
Her skeletal claw hung in the air, aimed at me.
“I had the situation under control,” Thaddeus insisted, folding his
arms in a huff.
“Something must be done about her,” the old woman declared, keeping her
claw outstretched toward me. I realized it was by her power I was being held
fast and immovable. Even my tongue had been denied mobility or else I would
have pled for my life.
Thaddeus made a face, conveying his perturbation at unwanted advice.
The man groaned as if he felt coerced to submit to his mother’s will.
“Oh, alright,” he finally ceded.
I gawked at him wide-eyed, unable to beg for mercy. That’s when he told
his mother in a tone attempting authority, “You will restore her memories as
they were—nothing more.” I felt a mild sense of relief before he slyly added,
“No wait. Endear her to me.”
I awoke in the dark, warm under a thick quilted blanket. There was no
light to see by which suggested the hour was around midnight. I could smell a
slight odor of perspiration which automatically turned my nose to myself,
realizing in the process that my clothes were missing. I was sleeping in the
nude, something I never did.
Trying hard to remember disrobing the evening before—trying harder to
remember anything about the day prior—I sensed substantial warmth originating
from a source next to me. Close to me. Too close. It was this warmth, combined
with the unfamiliar bodily smell, that made me aware I was in bed with someone.
Panic seized my heart, making it jump as if it would escape my chest. I was horrified.
Not by the circumstance in which I found myself but by my inability to recall what
had brought me to it. Where exactly was I? In the darkness, it was impossible
to tell.
As quietly as feasible, I rolled onto my side, away from the unknown
body providing me heat. I meant to slip out from beneath the covers and search
blindly for a discarded garment, but a hand reached out to stroke my arm,
causing me to tense up and freeze. The touch was gentle and affectionate. I
heard a man whisper at my back.
“Are you awake, Catherine?”
I recognized the voice. It brought with it a flood of memories, the
most recent involving me standing under a full snow moon in a luxurious white
dress. It was a scene from my wedding. Thaddeus had said “I do.” For me as
well, I recalled. But that was the end of my memories regarding the wedding. I
remembered nothing after the actual ceremony.
I rolled onto my back again, feeling somewhat relieved I was where I
was supposed to be.
“Is this your house?” I asked, unfamiliar with the bed and the
prominent musky smell.
“Yes,” Thaddeus answered, continuing to stroke my bare arm. “But you
must think of it as your house too, now that we’re married.”
“Married,” I breathed uneasily. My mind was trying very hard to wrap
itself around the idea. I knew it was so, for I could recall the monotone
murmur of the pastor who had performed the ceremony while Thaddeus stood
fancily dressed at my side. But how had I gotten from the red bulrush meadow to
lying here naked in bed? My body trembled at the touch of my husband’s hand on
my bare shoulder. He held on.
“Are you okay, Catherine? Is something wrong?”
I confessed to him, “I… I don’t remember last night.”
“You don’t?” He sounded surprised.
I felt him move closer. He leaned over and found my mouth with his
lips. He kissed me once, softly, his long curls brushing against my face. I didn’t
fight him, though the hostility that had existed between us over the years came
rushing to mind. Now, however, I felt no bitterness toward the man, despite our
past. It was as if our vows had magically erased those years of resentment.
Thaddeus pulled his lips away but remained with his nose near mine. I
could barely see him studying my expression in the darkness.
“Are you telling me you don’t remember kissing me like this… among
other things?”
I felt a rush of heat to my cheeks, but I had to admit the truth. “I
remember the wedding ceremony… and then waking up here just now. That’s all.”
Thaddeus let out a light laugh as his hand went to brush the hair from
my forehead. He was touching me, intimately close to me, and I didn’t seem to
mind. My head told me I should mind terribly, but I didn’t.
“I’m not entirely surprised you don’t remember,” he smiled. “I should
never have encouraged you to drink a toast to our new life together.”
I pulled my eyebrows low. “I don’t normally drink.” I exhaled a note of
personal disgrace. “At least not anymore.” I had sworn off alcohol after
blacking out on occasion—twice having found myself pregnant without any clue as
to the identity of the father.
“I can understand now why you don’t drink,” Thaddeus said, still grinning.
“You don’t hold your liquor well at all. Please don’t feel bad; it’s my fault
you gave in and drank a glass… actually a few glasses,” he informed me. “But it
is tradition to toast the bride and groom. I didn’t want us to appear rude.”
His hand landed on my cheek, warming it substantially. “I hope you can forgive
me for insisting you partake.”
“So I was drunk?” I asked, deeply concerned about my behavior in such a
state.
“You were a perfect lady,” Thaddeus assured me. “That is, until I got
you home alone. Too bad you don’t recall that part.”
I wasn’t sure what to think or what to feel. My mind seemed unable to
wrap itself around what Thaddeus was saying. I couldn’t imagine giving myself
to him willingly. But then again, we were married, and I had been stinking
drunk, apparently. Strangely, the aversion I once felt toward him had vanished.
It no longer seemed to affect me.
Thaddeus leaned in and kissed me on the lips again. Internally, I
wrestled to anchor myself to an emotion that made sense, but my strongest
feeling was pure contentment. It was a foreign although pleasant state of
being. As his kisses grew more passionate, my body naturally became aroused. He
was my husband I kept thinking, repeating the words like a line to be
memorized. He was my husband now. It was a simple fact I could wrap my brain
around. And so I let my body and Thaddeus have their way, afterwards falling
asleep in the man’s arms.
Sunlight stirred me awake. I was alone in bed where I recalled
everything from the night before. Rising onto my elbows, still naked under the
covers, I looked around for Thaddeus. The room was empty. My stomach growled
and rolled, upset and hungry. My muscles ached and my head felt heavy, as if I
had been asleep for days. I assumed I had slept in, far past my normal time. I
hardly ever rose late in the day living with my grandmother; she wouldn’t allow
it. The thought of her made me wonder how she had fared her first night alone.
Spying a shirt draped on an antler hook beneath a shelf of books, I
grabbed it and slipped the garment over my head. It reached down to half the
length of my thighs while the arms were at least a hand’s span too long. I
bunched up the sleeves and rolled the cuffs while scanning the one-room house.
My interest landed on a wall of cupboards on the other side of the floor, set
back behind a table and chairs.
I crossed the room and checked every cupboard for something edible,
discovering next to nothing appetizing. There was a container of lard, a small
canister of salt, a bag of dried beans, bottles of ground sage and other green
herbs, an empty basket with only breadcrumbs, packages of cured jerky, and a
pumpkin so rotten it looked like a sunken head. I took a chunk of jerky and
began sucking on it, relishing the salt. A search through the only chest of
drawers in the room provided me something short-sleeved and decent to wear. It
also revealed the hiding place of my silver sword which I at once reclaimed.
Finding a ceramic jug of water, I poured a portion of it into a basin
and washed my hands and face. I wet my hair enough to comb through the long
strands before braiding them into one long rope that naturally rested across my
shoulder. Then, cinching a belt around my waist, looping it through the sheath
for my sword, I stuffed another hunk of jerky into my pocket and headed
outside.
The sun was visible in its entirety above the walls of Tarishe, which
meant the coldest hours of the day had already passed. Nonetheless, the season
itself was determined to deny the land much warmth. I ran my fingers around
both ears, tucking away any short, stray hairs, and then headed off in the
direction of the butcher’s shop in hopes of finding a better meal and something
warm to drink. I could smell meat cooking in a smoker, and my stomach reacted
by grumbling, hungry enough to be nauseated. When I rounded the apothecary’s
place onto the busiest stretch of road in the village, I spied a group of
huntsmen gathered directly in my path. Their voices were loud and merry, the
conversation rich with laughter.
The group noticed me in my approach. One powerful voice called out
above the others, greeting me.
“Alas! Look who’s up and about! It must be a sign, Cat. Or should I
say… Mrs. Thaddeus?”
I pulled a face at my good friend’s teasing. “It’s still Cat to you,” I
told him, stepping up close enough to receive a strong hand on my shoulder.
“What sort of sign are you looking for now, Dompier?”
“Ohhhh,” he sang in a lilt, “just a sign that you’re right as rain
again.”
My brow crumpled its concern—a look that caused an eyebrow to arch on
Dompier’s hairy face.
“What’s wrong, Cat?” He seemed to eye me warily.
“You saw me drunk last night,” I murmured, assuming that was his reason
for seeking a sign I was well again. Dompier flickered a glance at all the
other huntsmen who instantly reclaimed their bright mood. My big friend
squeezed my shoulder and shook me playfully.
“Sorry to tell you this, Cat, but there ain’t one here who could answer
that question honestly, seeing how we was all drunk as skunks ourselves!”
There was a loud round of guffaws that actually made me feel better
about having forgotten the greater part of my wedding night.
Dompier threw his arm around my neck. “We were just talking about
heading up toward the hills to search for elk. How ’bout it, Cat? You want to
join in the hunt today?”
My heart leapt at the chance. My stomach, however, reminded me it was
emptier than a hollow log.
“Yes,” I started to say when a happy chorus of huntsmen drowned me out.
It warmed my heart to feel their acceptance. I dared to finish my sentence.
“But I have to get something to eat first. I’m ravished.”
“Easy as pie to fix.”
My hairy friend steered me away from the others and into the nearby
butcher’s shop where a tasty cut of smoked pork was pressed into a circle of
bread and then handed to me along with a jug of warm cider. The butcher tossed
me an apple and a friendly wink on the way out. Dompier settled up with the man
as I went to rejoin the hunting party, but my steps slowed when I noticed our
village leader—my new husband—among them. I was concerned he meant to spoil my
plans. Of course, he had a right to object to me leaving, seeing how the next
few days were technically considered our honeymoon.
My first instinct was to insist I have my way, but that stubborn
determination dissolved like froth when I suffered an overwhelming need for
peaceful interaction between us. Trying to make sense of what was a terribly
foreign reaction to this man, I reasoned that any success in our marriage would
only be hindered by a selfish argument.
“Catherine.” Thaddeus neither smiled nor frowned as he sized me up. “I
didn’t expect to see you out.”
I wasn’t sure why he would say such a thing. Hardly ever in my life had
I remained cooped up inside any dwelling.
“I was hungry,” I told him. “There’s very little food in your
cupboards.”
“In our cupboards,” he corrected.
“Our cupboards,” I repeated quietly.
He nodded, admitting what I said was true. “I’ll have to remedy that.”
“Well… I’m good for now.” I held up the smoked pork sandwich from which
I had taken a few bites.
There was an awkward moment of silence where I thought for certain
Thaddeus would try to steer me back to his house—our house. It was a huge
relief when Dompier threw his bulky arm around my neck and again announced his
intention to take me elk hunting with the others.
“We’ll take good care of her,” he assured my husband. “We won’t let the
new missus out of our sight.”
Thaddeus seemed to grapple with the decision. I wanted to stretch out
my neck and announce that I was joining the hunt whether he liked it or not,
that it was my job to supply the village with game, that I wasn’t suddenly
incapable of choosing my daily activities because I was married, but I couldn’t
seem to get my tongue to pronounce the words. My brain and my mouth seemed
unable to communicate, as if they were making use of opposing languages.
“I—I… I want to…” were the only words I could manage to stutter. Again,
I felt a formidable need to maintain a peaceful rapport between us. I tried to
console myself with the thought that plenty of future hunts would be mine.
“Ah, let her come along, Thaddeus.” Dompier gave me a strong sideways
hug. “We could use her sword. And you know she’ll be yours the whole night.”
There were a few wry smiles flashed at the remark, but no one dared
snicker in my presence. Despite my unusual passivity toward Thaddeus, I still
had no qualms about putting my fellow huntsmen in their places. On their butts
if necessary.
“I’d prefer you didn’t go far,” Thaddeus finally said, ceding to the
will of the majority.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief and then immediately hated myself for
acting as if my actions hinged on his ruling. Thaddeus leaned in to kiss me,
his lips shifting at the last minute to land on my cheek rather than my mouth.
I wondered if he too was battling conflicting emotions because of this
marriage.
Dompier pulled me along while the rest of our party gathered up their
gear, preparing to leave. I hurriedly devoured the food in my hands and felt a
renewal of energy course through me. Dompier insisted that I slip into a
leather jacket and a fur hat, voicing how it would be his tail if I caught my
death of cold. He grinned with humor at the sight of me, but wisely said
nothing.
Thaddeus was standing at the gate when we arrived, waiting to let us
out. Dompier gave him a single nod, and the gate was opened just enough for our
party to file out in pairs. My hulky friend and I were the last to leave,
catching a final order from our village leader.
“Be back before sunset.”
I met my husband’s anxious gaze, but neither of us exchanged a word.
When the gate locked shut behind me, I experienced a wave of exhilarated
relief.
“How about we head towards the river?” Dompier said, a twinkle of
adventure in his eyes. I felt the same excitement course through my veins.
“I’ll follow you anywhere,” I grinned.
We hunted as a group all afternoon, tracking fresh hoofmarks from the
riverbank, but we failed to come across any elk. Luckily, a wild boar surprised
us by making the mistake of accosting our head hunters at charging speed. These
men took the animal down with spears and then cut open its belly, wrapping up
the meat in hide cloths. Dompier and I strayed from the butchering site and
ducked through a thicket of trees to head for a shallow ditch that bordered a
small, open meadow. This dip in the woods was a favorite spot for bucks to
hunker down and keep out of sight. We crossed the meadow together, remaining
under cover of shade just inside the tree line.
“What’s wrong?”
I flickered a glance at my tracking partner, wondering what he meant.
“Nothing,” I answered, shaking my head.
“Don’t lie to me, Cat. You’re at my tail when normally you’d be up here
in front, eager to be the first to spot a pair of antlers. Somethin’s wrong.”
I grinned askew at how well Dompier could read me after years of camaraderie.
“I just… I feel like something’s off in my head,” I confessed.
Dompier slowed his progress and looked hard at me. “How so?”
“I’m not sure why or how exactly, but it feels like I’ve lost my edge
when it comes to Thaddeus. I’m having a tough time standing up to him, and you
know I’ve never had difficulty
standing up to that man… or anyone else for that matter. Except for my
grandmother,” I wisely added, “but that’s different. She raised me; I owe her
enormous respect. It would be wrong to oppose her.”
Dompier spit out a single chuckle. “I did notice you held back speaking
your mind this afternoon.”
“Yes!” I exclaimed, grateful he had noticed. “And you know I’ve never been tongue tied around Thaddeus before. I’ve
always voiced my thoughts, but for some unfathomable reason I feel hesitant
now. And oddly—very oddly—I’m not experiencing the same sense of repugnance
toward him. None at all, in fact. How could such strong feelings simply die
overnight?”
“Well…” Dompier breathed, thinking. “Tell me what your feelings are
now.” I looked at my big friend, honestly scared to voice the truth. His
expression urged me to confess.
“I feel…” I shook my head, hardly believing what I was about to say. “I
feel comfortable and… I don’t know… content, I guess. I feel like our marriage
vows were somehow a truce declared between us, and I feel desperate to keep the
peace. But at the same time, I fear that I’ve lost myself, as if my will and my
drive and the strength of character I’ve always possessed has been
compromised.”
“Strength of character doesn’t mean you have to battle everyone who
tries to get close to you, Cat.”
“I know that.”
“Do you? ’Cause you’ve been fightin’ people all your life. This is the
first time I’ve ever seen you get close to a man, and it’s only on account of
your grandmother insisting on it.”
“It’s not a requirement to have a man in my life,” I said with undue
defensiveness.
“No, it’s not. But if you ask me, I think you want it. And I think
you’re happy to finally have one who means to stick around. And I think there’s
a part of you afraid of screwin’ this up—even if it is Thaddeus.”
I scoffed at his theory. “What kind of nonsense are you talking about?”
“Look, Cat, there ain’t none of us who don’t want someone to love and
care for us and provide that warm body we can curl up to in bed. Heaven knows
I’m thankful for the affections of my own missus. Maybe you never expected to
have such things—until now. Maybe the subconscious part of your head is trying
to protect this relationship by making you bite your tongue around your new
husband. I think your heart knows what it wants, Cat, and it’s trying to keep
your marriage from being spoiled by that ‘strong character’ of yours.”
I sighed uncertainly and voiced perhaps my greatest fear. “I don’t want
this marriage to change me.”
“Well, it’s dern well gonna do just that. Aye, it already has! And,
although you seem reluctant to admit it, I think deep down you want this to
work out, even if it means softening up your nature a bit.”
I locked my jaw defiantly and looked to the treetops, squinting at
nothing. Was he right? Was this involuntary submissiveness simply a
manifestation of my deeper desire for a successful marriage?
“It’s okay to let your guard down and love someone, Cat. It’s okay to
be happy.”
I didn’t reply to Dompier’s advice, but I let it ruminate in the back
of my mind. As luck would have it, we spotted antlers—a six-point buck—sticking
up from the ditch ahead. I crouched low and overtook my partner, coming to the
drop from within our cover of trees. There was more than one buck. All three
were fast on their hooves when we were spotted, but my arrow was swift and
accurate.
Dompier celebrated out loud, communicating to the others our success in
acquiring additional meat. He then helped me skin the animal.
We followed a red horizon home, making it to the front gate of Tarishe
before the sun fully set. The earthy scent of fire and smoke was strong, rising
from pits within the village. It always grew darker inside the walls of Tarishe
sooner than in the forest outside, thus the need for fires and fixed torches.
Thaddeus was present to greet us upon our return, smiling at our haul of fresh
meat. He made his same ignoble speech to those who were gathered, managing to
pat himself on the back for conscientious leadership that made fruitful hunts
possible, providing plenty of meat for his beloved villagers.
“That’s your noble husband,” Dompier murmured cynically as he threw his
sack of venison in a cart provided by the hands who would take over. “Good
thing we give the man plenty to take credit for, eh?”
I groaned under my breath. The self-importance Thaddeus assumed from
his authority wasn’t his most favorable trait, but it was a fault to which
everyone had grown accustomed.
After we were thanked by numerous individuals, receiving enough pats on
the back to be assured our hard work wasn’t overlooked, the meat was carted off
to be cut and processed. I meandered over to the nearest fire pit to steal some
warmth for my cold hands when an unusually strong sense of inner calm washed
over me. It slipped in with the shadow of a presence which I promptly
comprehended as Thaddeus standing beside me. The oddly pleasant reaction to him
made me think of Dompier’s words. I could not recall a time I had ever felt
agreeable emotions towards this man, and therefore I began to wonder if it
wasn’t in truth my subconscious yearning for a gratifying relationship despite
our disagreeable past. The idea of no more loneliness was appealing.
I looked up at my husband and wished it were possible to read his
thoughts. I used to feel certain about his opinion of me; it seemed obvious the
way we quarreled. But he had asked my hand in marriage—or my grandmother had asked
it for him. Had his feelings changed? I was stunned by the potency of hope that
encouraged me.
“Are you ready to go home, Catherine?” he asked. “It’s warm inside the
house. I kept a fire going for you.”
I continued looking at him, unsure how to respond. “Thanks,” I managed
to say and then glanced in the direction of his house—our house.
“Well, you are my wife. And I know you don’t like the cold.”
I’m his wife, I thought to myself. He had said the words as if that
simple fact made it necessary to be both thoughtful and kind. As if having
gained a wife or husband meant having also gained her or his concerns, and
hence the need to consider the person’s needs, wants, and preferences as
strongly as one’s own. It struck me as a perfect description of what marriage
ought to be. An agreeable notion that had not entered my petty way of viewing matrimony.
I would have assumed it to be above Thaddeus’ egotistical mindset as well.
“Catherine?” he said again, watching me regard him with a quizzical
expression. “Are you ready to go home?”
I nodded, which made him smile.
There was little said on our walk home. I followed Thaddeus along a
torch lit path. He looked back at me numerous times, perhaps wondering what
weighed so heavily on my mind. Why was I unwilling to accept the peace my
emotions seemed determined to inflict upon me? Why was I fighting the idea of solidarity?
Did I want to be alone?
No. No, I didn’t.
Years of strengthening my independence, perhaps believing on some level
that my fate was to be forever solitary, had made me a strong and capable
woman. I feared change. But did marriage demand a drastic change in my nature?
No. Why should it? Strength of character wasn’t a flaw or an enemy to marital
happiness. Yet I feared becoming a different person—a vulnerable, reliant,
weaker person. Dompier had insisted change had already occurred in me to some
degree. I did in fact feel susceptible emotionally around Thaddeus and yet
without a total loss of myself. Is this what love did to people? Disarmed them
with lures of peace and happiness? But if peace and happiness and companionship
were indeed to be the outcome, why fight it?
“Catherine?”
I swallowed back my unsettling emotions and looked up to meet the eyes
of my husband. He stood aside, holding the door open, waiting for me to enter
his… no… our house. I could feel heat
escaping from the room. In order to prevent undoing Thaddeus’ efforts to warm
up the place, I hurried inside where my feet paused just past the threshold.
The one-room space was dimly aglow, illuminated by a handful of thick candles
arranged on the tabletop and also at the foot of a large bath basin. Steam rose
from the tub, suggesting a hot bath had been prepared. The house smelled less
of musk and more of bread and simmering stew and a hint of lilac. The table was
set for two, no fancy dishes, but a protective tablecloth had been spread
beneath the tableware.
“You… you made dinner?” The question came out in an incredulous manner.
Thaddeus took no offense.
“And I had water heated for a bath. I thought you might like to clean
up after hiking through the forest all afternoon.”
“That’s… very thoughtful,” I said because it was true.
Thaddeus gestured towards both the steaming stew on the table and the
steaming bathtub. “You can start wherever you’d like.”
My eyes flickered back and forth and back again. Perhaps he thought I
was incapable of deciding because he pulled out a chair and asked me, “Are you
hungry?” I nodded that I was. I had eaten nothing since lunch, having been too
involved in the hunt to remember the apple stored in my pack. Thaddeus began to
help me out of the borrowed leather jacket and hat. I unbuckled the belt about
my waist, releasing the silver sword in its sheath at my side. All the items
were placed in a pine-needle basket near the door.
I stood there feeling awkward in his shirt, which covered me like a
tent without the belt keeping it snug against my waist. My appearance must have
sparked something in his memory.
“Oh, I put your clothing in the bottom drawer over there.” He pointed
across the room where the bed rested in a corner with a chest of drawers beside
it. “I gathered up some things from your grandmother’s.” He then pointed to the
opposite end of the room. “And there is plenty of food in the cupboards now;
you shouldn’t have to go out in search of something to eat. Not that you can’t go out, of course, because you can
go out if you want to. Within the village, I mean. Not outside the gates—not
without an escort. It’s the law, you know.”
I wanted to laugh at the nervous way Thaddeus fumbled with his words.
Once again, I experienced the strongest endearing sentiments toward him.
Dompier’s words echoed in my head: “It’s
okay to love someone. It’s okay to be happy.”
Right at that moment I was keenly aware of how happy I felt.
My day had been a pleasant one spent hunting—a favorite pastime. I had
come home to a warm dinner, a warm bath, a warm room—attentive gestures
presented to me by this man to whom I was married. He apparently longed for the
same consideration and companionship in marriage as I did.
It was okay for me to have this. It was okay for me… for us…
to be happy.
A sense of true contentment swelled in my chest, and I allowed myself
to succumb to it. Being a wife would change me. It would. But if it meant
gaining this sweet happiness, it seemed a desirable change.
My husband placed his hands on the back of the chair which he had
pulled out from the table. He stood still, patiently waiting for me. I took the
seat and thanked him for all the preparing and stocking of shelves while I had
been away. He seemed greatly pleased by my spoken appreciation, which made me
feel strangely satisfied, and so we smiled at one another.
From that point on, it was as if the contrary chapters from our
past—the entirety of our previous existence—simply evaporated, mingling
inseparably with the steam warming our one-room house.
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