Nathaniel

EPILOGUE

"We'll take her to our house," Leif Simpson said.

Janet lay on the ground, her head cradled in Laura Shields's lap. Her face, glistening with a film of perspiration, was a mask of pain made grotesque by the orange light of the fire. The first violent contraction of her premature labor had wrenched a scream from her lips, and only Buck Shields's strong arms had kept her from collapsing. But now she drew on what few reserves of strength she still had. "No," she whispered. "Anna's… I want to go to Anna's."

"But there's no time, Janet," Ione protested.

"There is," Janet gasped. "I'll make time. But I want to have my baby at Anna's. Please… please." Another contraction seized her, and she moaned.

"I'll take her," Buck Shields said. "We'll put her in the back of the Chevy. It won't take more than an extra minute or two." He glanced at Ione Simpson. "Can you meet us there?" As soon as Ione had nodded, Buck leaned over and picked Janet up in his strong arms. "It's going to be all right," he told her. "We're taking you home." Janet sighed, and let her eyes close, blotting out the sight of the smoldering farmhouse, giving in to the pain that was wracking her body.

As Buck carried her to the car, she numbly tried to remember what had happened that night, how the fire had started.

But all she could remember was being at the kitchen table, then going upstairs to bed. A few minutes later, the house had burned.

She had no memory of going out to Potter's Field that night, no memory of what she had found there.

She had no memory of seeing Nathaniel that night.

For in dying, Nathaniel had taken her memories of him with him.

Ten minutes later, Ione Simpson arrived at Anna Hall's house, a determinedly cheerful expression masking the dread she was feeling. Janet's baby, she knew, was at least a month early, possibly more. And from the look in her eyes, Ione had known that Janet was in shock even before she went into labor. Nonetheless, she did her best to ease the fear that was plain in Michael's eyes as he sat in Anna's parlor, staring up at her. "Isn't this going to be exciting?" she asked. "Just like Magic foaling last spring, except this time you're going to have a baby brother or sister." Then, when Michael failed to react to her words, her tone changed. "Where's your mother?"

"Upstairs," Michael replied in a dazed voice.

"All right. Now, I want you to do something for me. I want you to find all the clean towels you can, and bring them into your mother's room. Okay?"

Michael seemed to come out of his trance, and nodded.

A few minutes later, his arms filled with folded towels, he appeared in the doorway of his mother's room. He stared at Janet, who was propped up against the pillows, her face drawn, lines of pain etched around her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with anxiety. "Does it hurt?"

Janet said nothing, but Laura Shields took the towels from Michael and eased him out of the room. "She's going to be fine, Michael. She and the baby are both going to be fine."

Michael gazed at the faces around his mother, but in none of them could he see anything to give him a hint about what was going to happen to his mother. His grandmother was sitting beside his mother, gently wiping her face with a damp cloth, while his uncle hovered in one corner. At last, understanding that right now no one had time for him, Michael went back downstairs to wait.

It was just after midnight, and Michael was in the parlor doing his best to shut out the sound of his mother's labor as it echoed through the house. Outside, the wind had begun to rise. He was alone-had been alone for hours as everyone in the house gathered upstairs to help with the delivery. Michael had wanted to be there, too, but his wishes had been denied. It would be easier for everyone, particularly his mother, if he stayed downstairs.

He was lying on the sofa now, staring out the window into the darkness, listening as the wind rose, howling around the house. Then, slowly, in the back of his mind, he felt something reaching out to him. It was a voice, and though the words were unclear, he understood the meaning.

Someone, somewhere, needed his help.

There was something oddly familiar about the sensation. It seemed like something that had happened before, but that he had forgotten about.

Then, as the wordless pleas for help became more insistent, the sounds of the wind and of his mother's agony began to grow dim. Unconsciously, Michael folded his arms over his chest, then drew his knees up, curling himself into a tight ball.

There was something surrounding him. Something damp and warm, and very comforting. And then, slowly, he began to feel pressure on his head, and the damp warmness around him began to move, producing an undulating rhythm that seemed to rock him gently.

The pressure on his head increased, turning into pain, and suddenly Michael moaned, a soft cry muffled by the damp folds that bound his limbs. The pain sharpened, and he felt as if his head was being crushed. Then the moist strictures of his bonds suddenly tightened around him, squeezing him, moving him…

"It's coming," Ione said. "I can see the top of its head now. Bear down, Janet. It's almost over-just bear down hard."

Janet, sweat running off her body to soak into the already damp sheets, groaned softly, and tried to comply with Ione's instructions. But it was hard-so hard.

Suddenly Michael's bonds closed tightly around him. He felt as if he were being crushed, and he tried to fight against the restraints, but he had no strength. He screamed now, a long, high-pitched howl of agony.

Shadow, who had been asleep on the floor, suddenly awoke and rose to his feet. He moved to the couch, paused a moment, whimpering, to lick at Michael's face, but if Michael was aware of the big dog's presence, he gave no sign. Then, with Michael's next scream, Shadow turned and trotted upstairs to lie by the door to Janet's room, his ears laid back against his head, his tail twitching nervously, an odd sound halfway between a whine and a snarl drifting up from his throat.

In the parlor, the terrible pressure on Michael's head suddenly stopped. He tried to move his body, but couldn't. And then there was something else.

Something seemed to be twisting itself around his neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

He began struggling, fighting against the new restraint, but he couldn't get loose, couldn't throw it off. He could feel himself choking, feel himself beginning to gag.

Then, in the distance, he heard a voice.

"Here it comes," the voice whispered. "Here comes the pretty baby." Then: "Once more, Janet. Just once more."

Suddenly the pressure on Michael's body increased, squeezing, squeezing him ever harder, and he could feel himself being moved forward.

But with each forward motion, the pressure on his throat increased. There was no air now, and he could feel something strange happening in his brain. His sensations were growing dim, and his pain was easing.

There was a blackness around him, a gathering darkness that threatened to swallow him up. For a moment, he fought the blackness, tried to fight his way into the light. In the end, though, the darkness won, and he gave in to it.

"The umbilical cord," Ione Simpson gasped. The baby had stopped moving, only its head having emerged from the womb, and she knew instantly what had happened. "The cord's wrapped around his neck. It's strangling him. Hard, Janet. Bear down hard. Now!"

With a final effort that was more sheer will than strength, Janet forced the last of her energy into her torso. Her body heaved on the bed, and she cried out in exhaustion and agony. But slowly, the baby moved.

"Now," Ione whispered. "Now…"

With sure fingers and strong hands, she grasped the baby's body and drew it forth from the womb. Working as quickly as she could, she cut the umbilical cord away from the child's neck, then gave it a gentle thump on the back.

Nothing happened.

She tried again, a little harder, then felt for a pulse.

There was nothing.

Her eyes left the baby for a moment and scanned the room. Anna still sat by the head of the bed, her face pale and impassive. Laura Shields, her eyes fixed on the motionless infant, was crying, shaking her head in apparent disbelief. In the far corner, Buck Shields stood, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his entire body quivering with tension.

"Like Laura's," he said softly. "It's like Laura's."

Then, though she knew it was too late, and that there was nothing that could be done, Ione tried once more to bring the baby back to life.

Michael opened his eyes in the dimly lit room. Upstairs, he knew, his brother had been born, and he'd helped in the birth. Already, he understood that the odd voice he'd heard in his head a little while ago had been his brother's voice, and that his brother had needed his help. And he'd given his help, taking on the pain of the birth as he would take on whatever other pain his brother ever felt.

His brother, he knew, was his responsibility. It would be up to him to take care of the tiny child, comfort him when he was unhappy, tend to him when he was sick.

And protect him from evil.

Michael got up from the sofa and started slowly up the stairs. As he approached the landing, Shadow got to his feet, then moved slowly toward Michael, his tail low. He whimpered softly, then licked at Michael's hand.

Michael opened the door to the room in which his mother lay, and stepped inside.

His gaze roved through the strangely silent room, drifting from one face to the next. Finally his eyes fell on the tiny bundle that was cradled in Ione Simpson's arms.

"Let me see him," Michael whispered. "Let me see my brother." Ione hesitated, then slowly shook her head. "I'm sorry, Michael…" she whispered.

"Let me see my brother," Michael repeated.

Now it was Anna Hall who spoke. She rose to her feet and moved slowly across the room until she stood in front of Michael. "He's dead, Michael," she said quietly. "Your little brother was born dead."

Michael's eyes widened, and he backed away from his grandmother. "No," he said. "He wasn't dead. I know he wasn't dead." His voice began to rise. "I could feel him. I could feel him and he was alive!"

Turning away from the people in the room, the people he knew had killed his infant brother, Michael fled from the house, out into the night and the shrieking wind. He ran aimlessly, scrambling through fences, stumbling in the fields. At last, exhausted, he collapsed to the ground, where he lay sobbing and panting. Shadow crouched beside him, licking at his face.

He didn't know how much time passed by, but when he looked up, the night had grown even darker. The wind had ceased. All was silent.

In the distance, there was a soft reddish glow, and slowly Michael came to realize that he was seeing the dying embers of the house that had burned that night.

And then he saw another light, the yellow flame of a lantern, looming in the darkness. He watched it for several long minutes, and when it didn't move he began creeping forward, huddling low to the ground, Shadow beside him.

And then, in the darkness, he could see.

There was someone there, working in the dim light of the lantern, and Michael knew what they were doing.

They were burying his brother, burying the brother he knew they had killed, but who was not dead.

As he watched, Michael knew what he must do.

In his own mind, his brother was Nathaniel, and his brother still lived.

Now, it was for Michael to avenge Nathaniel.