Robert somehow knew that he was unconscious rather than sleeping, but that didn't appear to matter. It came anyway, different as always.
This time he could see more faces belonging to the people who stood by him at the lake. The large figure of Jack Finlayson with his staff, for example, more defined than he had been before. Now there was Mary, standing holding those Peacekeepers of hers – with Mark hiding behind, peeping out.
He looked down into the surface of the lake – while it still was a lake – and saw his reflection, the Stag-Man from the last dream staring back up at him.
What am I? asked Robert. Who am I? Why do you keep showing me this?
The reflection didn't answer, but Robert knew what it would have said. He was tied to this place, connected. Then the reflection vanished, consumed by the fire that accompanied the Frenchman's walk across the lake.
Even before Robert could reach for his bow and arrow, De Falaise was firing into the crowd, randomly hitting Robert's men. There was confusion as his people panicked, each one trying to find cover. He saw them diving to the ground, throwing themselves behind bushes and reeds.
When he looked up again, De Falaise had a hostage.
It was Mark.
The Frenchman laughed as he held the gun to Mark's temple.
No! screamed Robert. He attempted to move forwards, ignoring his fear of the fire, his only concern being to rescue Mark. But Robert found he couldn't shift. Looking down, he saw that he'd caught several bullets when the Sheriff's weapon had discharged. He fell to his knees, tears flooding his eyes. Robert reached out to Mark, his form flitting between Stevie and the boy he now knew.
Robert fell backwards, gazing up at the clear blue sky. He felt pain, but it was an odd sensation: disjointed, like the wounds didn't really belong to him.
A face hovered into view above him, concerned, frightened. It was Mary. She was asking if he was all right, then telling him to keep still, that she was putting pressure on the bullet-holes, stemming the blood flow. Promising him that he'd be okay.
But even as she uttered these words of comfort, her own appearance was changing. Suddenly the words were being spoken by Joanne, the face that of his dead wife. He began to shake, twitching as he lay there bleeding to death on the bank of that flaming lake, the heat reaching for him. Joanne was trying to hold him down, pleading with him to keep still. Her face pulled out of his line of sight for only a second, but it was enough for the features to change again.
This time, when she dipped her head again, it was a skull – not white and bleached like you might see in a science lab, but faded and yellowing, with shreds of skin still hanging from it.
Robert struggled to get up again, but the skeleton – a real, honest to God skeleton now – was holding him down with more strength than he could find in his weakened condition.
The skull drew closer to his face, coming in for a kiss. He brought up his hands and tried to fight it off, but as it filled his field of vision, the blackness of the eyes obliterated everything else.
Until there was nothing left…
Robert's eyes snapped open.
It was dark, very dark. But that was only because his vision was still adjusting to the half-light; torchlight under cover. His head was pounding and his body ached. But it was his arm that throbbed the most. He was suddenly aware that he'd been stripped down to his boxers, his bottom half covered with a blanket. The familiar 'ceiling' of the makeshift tent that served as his home slowly greeted his eyes, and he relaxed slightly. Tentatively reaching across he felt the bandage around his arm, where the bullet had grazed him. Only a flesh wound, but sometimes those can hurt the most.
There was something wrong with his face; it felt strangely naked and exposed. Robert touched his chin, his cheeks. His beard was gone. For some reason this was even worse than being in his underwear. He couldn't believe that had happened while he'd been unconscious, and wondered just who would have had the balls to do it anyway.
He heard a rustle and sat up, seeing the figure at the other end of the tent. He squinted and Mary's face came into focus. She was holding a clipboard and writing on it. Robert pulled up the blanket, trying to hide his semi-nakedness.
'Hello again,' said Mary looking up. She gave a little laugh when she saw his actions. 'Don't bother on my account. Who do you think it was undressed you? Had to if I was going to wash your clothes. They really stank.'
Robert rubbed his chin again, furrowing his brow.
'Oh, yeah, that too. I figured you'd never let me do it while you were conscious. Don't worry, I'm very good at it. Used to have to shave my dad all the time when I was growing up – never used a knife before, though. And that hair could use a bit of a trim at some point as well.'
'What… what happened?'
Mary placed the clipboard under her arm and crawled over beside him. He pulled back slightly. She noted his discomfort and increased the distance between them a little. 'It's all right, you know. You haven't got anything I haven't seen before… Under that beard, I mean.' Mary smiled. 'You shouldn't cover it up; your face. You're quite good looking, in a sort of mean and moody way.'
'You didn't answer my question,' Robert said, feeling the blood rush to his bare cheeks.
'The short answer is, you passed out in the truck. Had a bit of a turn actually – put the wind up that mate of yours, the big guy.'
'Jack,' clarified Robert.
'Right, Jack. In fact you scared me a bit too. You even stopped breathing at one point.'
Robert's frown intensified. 'I dreamed I was dying.'
'It was no dream. We had to give you the kiss of life.'
Robert looked at her.
Mary closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again. 'All right, I had to give you the kiss of life. Don't worry, I knew what I was doing. I have some medical knowledge; I looked after my brother when he got sick… And the animals, of course… not that I'm comparing you to… oh, you know what I mean.'
He continued to stare, saying nothing.
'You're very welcome, by the way,' said Mary, her tone hardening.
'Er, thanks,' said Robert.
'That's better. Now, how do you feel?'
'Strange. A bit out of it; sluggish.'
'That'll be the sedatives. The injections I've been giving you.'
'What?' He clutched his arm.
'There was all kinds of good stuff in the medical packs from the trucks. Helped you sleep, helped with the pain… The priest guy-'
'Tate.'
'Yeah, Tate – I'm getting there with the names – he showed me where everything was. To be honest, it's a wonder you didn't fry when my garage blew.'
'What was in there anyway?'
'Fuel for the tractors. We always made sure we had a good stock in and I've only been using it when necessary. Fields don't plough themselves, you know.'
She leaned over to examine his arm and he shuffled backwards, recalling the skull-thing from his nightmare.
'Hey, what's wrong? I've been looking after you for two days now and-'
'Days?' Robert couldn't believe what he was hearing.
'Your body needed time to heal itself,' explained Mary. 'You took a bit of a tumble.'
'That's one way of putting it.'
'Not for the first time, by the looks of it. I always say that there's nothing a good long rest won't cure and this is a perfect example. Don't worry about what's been happening out there, your men seem to have everything under control. They're still delivering stolen stuff back to people it was stolen from…' Mary thought about this for a second. 'If you see what I mean.'
