Glancing dejectedly at the unfamiliar land, he felt
utterly lost.
Which was impossible.
Born and raised in the Silcamore District, he knew
Black Rose had to be just around the corner, had probably been circling it for
the past hour or so. Yet the fact remained. The more he raced his horse, the
less he recognized the territory.
Damn!
The entire day spent riding home only to be in the middle of nowhere!
Annoyed for the waste of time, his knees tightened
around Fuzeon’s belly, vowing he would reach home if it were the last thing he
would do. And he might just have gotten his wish had a fat drop not hit his
nose first, then his forehead.
Rain,
great! That’s all I need!
Night had just fallen, with Stella setting at the
twenty-fifth hour, an hour ahead of time
given the full day of cloudy overcast sky. Now it looked anything but friendly,
and the big black clouds that had steadily gathered over the horizon promised
nothing good, as did the ominous thunderbolts that pierced the velvety darkness
with distant flashes.
Goddamn it!
He needed cover and fast, but none seemed available in the flat emptiness he
was crossing. Just my luck! Where’s a shelter when you need one?
To think his father had taken such pride in running
the Shelter System, making sure that all travelers on Silcamore’s roads had
adequate hospitality to see them through their journey. Too bad he hasn’t placed one here, wherever here was, or wherever
he would be going as he hurried away from the wet drops.
The downpour suddenly increased as though to spite
him. To irritate him mostly, since the watery droplets had the most unfortunate
habit of infiltrating through his long hair and clothes to run down bare skin.
Snorting, the horse reminded the rider he might not
be the only one feeling uncomfortable. “Hey, Fuzeon.” Bending toward the black
head, he spurred him. “Let’s get a roof over our heads before we both drown.”
Fuzeon nickered softly in agreement and accelerated
as if he had just such a place in mind. So, the man raised his gaze and noticed
a distant light on the left. Faint and unstable to be sure, still the first
sign of life in what seemed to be an eternity.
Quickly steering Fuzeon, he rushed in that
direction, only to realize he was at the village’s outskirts, just a stone's throw away from Black Rose. But by then, he
was too tired and wet to care.
Reaching the pale glimmer, he realized it came from
a poorly kept and neglected shack, with an annexed stable that looked like a palace.
Must be Fuzeon’s lucky day. Getting off the horse, he tied him up next to an
empty trough. At least he’ll be sure to spend a better night than his master
will.
Then speeding
to the front door, he knocked loudly, trying to ignore how run down the
rest of the place was.
“Yes, just a minute,” a female voice answered.
After a few moments, she appeared on the threshold.
“Good evening, sir.” Lit from behind, a complete
stranger stared back at him with huge, green mesmerizing eyes.
And what he read in them was something so unusual he
could not help sinking in it. A mix of relief, happiness, anticipation and so
much more jumbled together, so strong, he feared he would drown in it.
“May I help you?” As though she realized the effect
she was having on him, her expression changed to a faintly mocking one.
“Yes, I...” If he hesitated, it was because he was
pulling himself together and trying to recover a semblance of control. Too many
emotions were surging to the fore all at once that he simply had to stop to
analyze the person in front of him.
At first glance, he could have sworn he had never
seen her before in his life. But the second glance told a totally different
story, until awareness hit him like something long repressed or unjustly forgotten.
By the gods, I know her!
Which seemed as impossible as his getting lost in a
territory he knew like the back of his hand.
Breath caught in his throat, he checked her over one
more time. Young, tall, very slim with well-shaped
muscles that testified to a life on horseback, dark hair and extremely
beautiful—he could not shake the weird
sensation of looking in a mirror, as if she were his reflection or a twin he
had somehow lost without remembering where or how. Because something about her
colors and general build was impressively like him.
Eighteen or nineteen at the most, her thick, silky
hair had the same raven black hue and texture as his, even if hers was longer
also compared to his below-the-shoulder
cut. Her perfect oval face had stolen some definite features from him, like the
straight nose, exquisitely designed soft lips and the clear-cut almond shape of the dazzling green eyes.
If this was the only discordant note, for his eyes were as black as cinders, it
only strengthened the feeling he knew her at some intimate level he could not
quite define at the moment. No, not a casual acquaintance at all—the more he examined her, the more she felt
over and beyond familiar as if she belonged to him, which again was impossible
because no member of his family lived in the village.
Maybe she has worked at Black Rose.
But hard as he thought of the many women employed at his home over the course
of his twenty-one years of age, he found
no trace of a name to associate to this startling creature.
“Hem...” The woman cleared her throat. “May I help you?”
“I’m sorry, Milady.” Snapping out of his odd
musings, he shifted on his feet. “But with the storm and all, I seem to have
lost my way to—”
“Black Rose?” There was a note of incredulity in her
voice he found a bit taunting.
“Well, I guess you know where I live.” Then again,
everyone in the village knew of Black Rose.
“Also who you are, for that matter.” The hint of a
smile curved her lips before she made a show of bowing. “Welcome to my humble home,
Prince Duncan Caldwell.”
“All right.” No
surprise here, either. He was the local celebrity after all. “Since you
seem to know all about me, may I enquire on your name, Miss...”
“Ylianor.” Angling her head, she leveled her gaze
with his. “Just Ylianor.”
“Who’s there?” The angry man’s voice broke the
strange magic that had trapped him, rooted him to the ground it seemed, to the
point he had also ignored the rain beating down on his back.
“I’m sorry.” With a start, she jumped away from the
door looking every bit as bewitched as he was. “It’s raining harder, and I’ve
kept you outside.” She gestured behind her. “Please, come in.” Then turning
around, she raised her voice, “Coming, Father.” Focusing back on him, an
apologetic smile split her lovely face. “If you’ll excuse me...” Without
waiting for a reply, she went to a nearby table, picked up a small candle and
disappeared up a flight of stairs.
Hailed by loud thunder, he entered the house, as
poor and desolate on the inside as it was on the outside. Sparse candles lit
the table and the few chairs scattered around a cold fireplace next to an empty
kitchen. Nothing more to see, he waited patiently for her to return, which she
did shortly after.
“Here.” She handed him a towel. “At least you can
get dry.”
“Thanks.” He smiled gratefully, shifting the long
hair to rub the back of his neck.
“Would you like to stay the night?” Slightly
embarrassed, her cheeks colored of an adorable red shade. “I mean, with the
rain and all, maybe it would be better.” She seemed to pull herself together.
“There’s a free bed upstairs, and I could fix you something to eat.”
Judging from the little furniture he had seen, he
guessed the small shack would be unable to provide for too many sleeping
arrangements. “Where will you sleep?”
“Oh, I won’t be doing much sleeping tonight.”
Retrieving his towel, she folded it on the back of a chair. “My father is
dying, so I’ll keep to his bedside.”
“I’m sorry.” He really was, even if nothing she had
said so far had shed any light on who she really was, or on what her connection
to him might be. “Can I be of assistance?”
“No, thank you.” She did not sound sad, just
exhausted. “He’s been ill for a long time, but tonight I feel it’s his last one
in this dimension.”
“I see.” Not sure he did, he tried to be convincing.
Averting her gaze, she glanced out the window. “If
you’d like, I’ll take care of Fuzeon.” For a moment, she seemed lost as though
fascinated by what she was fixing so intently. “I’m sure this thunderstorm has
frightened him enough already. My father always keeps a few bales of hay
stashed away for just such occasions.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about me.” Surprised,
he cocked his head. “And about my horse.”
“Not to worry, Prince.” She patted his shoulder
gently, as though he were a child in need of reassurance. “I’m the stable
keeper’s daughter, so not only do I know your family quite well, but also your horses.”
“You are John Meyer’s
daughter?” That explains the familiar air!
But not why he did not remember her.
At her nod, he knew things were not adding up at
all. “Until he became ill, John stayed in Black Rose.” That had happened a year
or so ago. “He had a place above the stables that was for him and his family—”
“I didn’t live there,” she was quick to grasp where
he was going.
Too quick.
“I lived here, in the village.” Then she pursed her
lips, evidently unwilling to keep talking about it.
Which only perked up his curiosity. “Never even came
to visit him while he was working?”
John Meyer had been Black Rose’s stable-keeper forever, the man both he and his father
had blindly entrusted with the precious charge of their four-legged friends. Like Prince Charles loved to
tell his son, John had no equals, and it had become more evident since the man
had fallen ill and left his service without Duncan being able to find an
adequate replacement anywhere.
“No, I never did.” Averting her focus, she stared
away from him. “About Fuzeon, would you like me to—”
“Yes, please, if you could look after him, I’d be
most grateful.” Following her gaze, he noticed that the window next to the door
gave a clear view of the horse inside the stable. “We come from a long journey,
and maybe I taxed him more than I should have.”
Nodding in understanding, she grabbed a candle and
went outside. He spied her from the window as she entered the stable to reach
Fuzeon, his dark frame already moving to welcome her. Then resting his muzzle
on her shoulders, he allowed her to caress his back. So he grew more perplexed.
Fuzeon was a very special horse that did not trust
people, often including his own friends. Fuzeon privileged him alone after he
had managed to overcome the horse’s diffident nature. And considering the fact
he had accepted neither his mother nor his sister, the animal’s behavior seemed
even more puzzling.
On returning, she placed the candle near the table
and pulled out a chair. “You can sit if you’d like.” Her voice trailed to the
kitchen, “While I fix dinner.”
Accepting her offer, he plopped down, feeling every
tired bone in his body. On the opposite side, she gathered a few plates then
retraced her steps, bringing a vegetable soup, some bread and a small piece of cheese.
“Here you go.” She set everything in front of him.
“I know it’s not much.” A trace of regret veiling her lovely eyes, she went
around the table to sit in front of him. “But with Father’s illness, I haven’t
had time to look after anything else.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Not that it was enough
for two, practically not for one either.
She glanced at the little food as though it were her
dinner and breakfast. “I ate already.”
It sounded like a lie, pure and simple. And judging
from her extremely thin frame, he was about to decline her offer when a noise
distracted him.
“Hey, slut, where’s my food?” The voice upstairs
shouted, “Are you going to let me starve, you bitch?”
No, he could not believe his ears, nor could he
recognize his friend since childhood in the spiteful vulgarity of this enraged
tone. His John Meyer had been a quiet and patient man, not very talkative, much
preferring the company of his beloved horses, always hard at work with a
passion few others possessed.
“Please forgive my father.” As though reading his
mind, she leaned forward. “He’s very sick. The disease has consumed his mind as
well as his body. Now he doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time.” She got
up from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll bring him dinner.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Rising himself, he
felt embarrassed and concerned for her.
“No, thank you.” But she seemed to have things under
control. “No one can do anything for him anymore.” In the kitchen, she grabbed
a tray and headed upstairs.
Falling back down, he tasted the first spoonful of
soup, wondering where she found the strength to put up with this strenuous
situation. True, she seemed resourceful and organized. Yet also alone, as alone
as if she did not have a living relative besides the one who was dying now. Not
one person in the whole world who gave a damn about her—
“Are you done, stupid cow?” John’s overbearing voice
crashed in his thoughts. “Get out of here! I don’t want to see your ugly face
again. Fuck off and leave me alone.” There was a slight pause, as though
perhaps she was trying to make him see reason.
Only he could not catch her soft voice.
“I said get out! Get out of my house and stay out!”
John’s breath appeared to be unusually strong for a dying man. “Leave, filthy
bitch. Do you hear me?”
Next thing, she came down two steps at a time, face
pale and drawn.
“Are you all right?” He immediately got out of the
chair and strode to meet her halfway.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Another lie, though he lacked the
heart to challenge it. “Don’t worry. I know it’s hard to believe he’s dying,
but it will happen tonight, so...” She shrugged as if to indicate she would
tolerate the nasty behavior to make his passing easier.
“Maybe I could talk to him.” He tried to ignore the
fact she had read his mind again, for the second time. “We used to be friends
when he worked at Black Rose, and he’s taught me all I know and appreciate
about horses—”
“No, please.” She raised a hand in frustration. “His
mind is so far gone that he hardly recognizes anyone anymore. Or if he did,
he’d just treat you as badly as he’s been treating me lately.” She peeked at
the stairs behind her shoulders, her long hair falling on her breasts. “It’s
best if you remember him in his better days, handling his adored animals,
rather than this bitter shell that has nothing left of the man he used to be.
Besides, his energy’s slipping away fast, and it might be too much of a strain
for him.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Understanding her point, he
let it go. “But what will happen to you when he does pass away? Will you stay here?”
“I...” At the hesitation, her brilliant green eyes
clouded. “I might.”
“Is
something wrong?”
The writing bug first snagged Cheryl Owen-Wilson through the penning of a personal essay, for which she received an award and publication. Today what drives her writing life is Southern Gothic fiction. Since her biological roots are buried not only in Oregon, but also deep in the bayous of Southern Louisiana, the genre is a natural fit. 
