Chapter 30
Cover My Eyes
Ten minutes later, anyone within earshot had thrown on a coat and made their way to the town square. Bennington continued to call out and demand to be freed. Given that the key to his cell was somewhere on one of the halves of Jonas Cooke, no one was making his release a priority.
John-David Sloane had covered Jonas’s body halves with a horse blanket. It was instantly soaked through with blood.
The townsfolk gathered in a three-quarter circle around the pillory, staying well clear of the bloody, blanketed lump in front of Sloane’s store. Someone had ridden hard to the Cooke house a mile away. Now they were riding back just as hard, with the Cooke men well in front.
“Someone come here and release me now!” Bennington called. Chloris felt guilty to be glad her master was going ignored by the muttering crowd. His integrity would dig graves for both of them.
Luckily, the clamor of Adonijah’s horses drew their attention. The people crowded together to make room for the remaining Cookes, who rode their horses right up to Sloan’s shop, hopping off the instant they stopped.
“What is that?” asked Adonijah, already teary-eyed.
“Jonas.” Sloane gestured grimly toward his bench. When Adonijah lunged to pull the blanket away, Sloane seized him in a tight embrace. “It’s better you don’t, Adoni.”
The patriarch pushed Sloane away and snatched hold of the blood-glossed horse blanket. He stopped himself from yanking it away at the last instant, instead drawing it carefully.
Cries of shock and horror emerged from everyone—except Adonijah. He stood as if frozen, holding the edge of the blanket in fingers going bone-white.
Conal O’Herlihy pushed through the cowering bystanders. “What is th…?”
With Conal suddenly shocked silent, clever Chloris saw her moment. She screamed, pointing at Conal’s feet. “I saw them!”
Their silence was promising. “Those feet! Those are the shoes of the man who killed Jonas!” She pointed at where Conal had stood to threaten her, where his footprints remained.
Adonijah knelt to examine Conal’s shoes.
“No! She’s…” Conal didn’t finish.
Elias lowered his lamp to the shoe print. “Have him to stand here, Father!”
Phineas and Rufus grabbed Conal’s arms and dragged him to the print.
“Careful!” Chloris cried. “He has a knife!”
Phineas made a quick search of the folds of Conal’s coat and found the bone knife Conal had taken from Schroeder—the one with which Conal had stabbed the corpse of Hezekiah Hardison. Rufus forced Conal’s feet into the footprints.
“Conal came and threatened me to make me say my master was guilty!” Chloris continued. “When Jonas came to confront him, they fought. Conal took up the axe, and…” Her sobbing was both calculated and genuine.
Adonijah had glowered at Conal since her first exclamation. Now, satisfied by the paltry evidence, the elder Cooke snarled as he charged Conal. “I’ll kill you here and now, bastard!”
The Cooke sons held the Irishman still to allow their father whatever vengeful act he wished.
“Adonijah Cooke, you listen to me!” From the jail, Bennington’s thundering voice finally cut through the rising discord.
“Say your piece later, Bennington!” Adonijah took the bone knife from Phineas.
Conal’s panicked pleading was silenced by Rufus’s meaty hand, as he yanked the Celt’s head back to expose his throat.
“Are we no longer men of law, Adoni?” Bennington shouted. “How will you serve this community and your Lord if you murder the man?”
Adonijah shook with rage. Everyone was silent for a terrible time. Then he released Conal. “Get Bennington out of that cell and put this filth in his stead.”
As the boys shoved him toward the jail, Conal caught the eyes of a handful of his followers and gave a subtle nod. They all slipped away, as the citizens remained to share their shock.
* * * *
Modern day
The rains increased, the scarlet lightning flashed longer and brighter, the animalistic growl of thunder sounded deeper and louder as the vigil for Ysabella progressed.
Though there was some flinching among the chanters, no one broke contact or concentration. Bernard squeezed the hands of his wife and daughter as if they might float away, articulating the strange words with the same intent he applied to complex chemistry problems, remembering what he had learned—and said to McGlazer—about the power of ceremony and focus.
“Okkala Boro-Tah Cam-Ura Taaaaaahn!” Brinke’s incantation was now a shout trumpeted to the heavens on the voice of one of its own warrior angels, insistent to the point of godliness.
“Okkala Boro-Tah Cam-Ura Tahn!” the chorus of well-witchers enjoined.
The sentience of Violina’s storm grew as well, the thunder becoming angrier, more disturbingly alive in response to every repetition. The roars funneled to every ear as if from mere inches away—yet all eyes remained closed, all hands remained joined, all voices continued in perfect rhythm.
“I pass this piece of my life into you, Ysabella!” cried Brinke. “This piece of my essence!”
The others were unsure whether to repeat these words. They continued with the earlier words, their insistence, if not the same elements Brinke gave, moving and passing into the crone.
“I pass THIS PIECE of my BEING into Ysabella Escher! My queen mother! My Self!”
The storm’s thunderous protest was wasted.
Ysabella rose from the bed and floated into the air on wings of Will, eyes, mouth and hands opening to unleash orbs of pure white light that warmed the faces of her attendants.
Brinke had anticipated the sudden power surge. As she was tossed from Ysabella, she grabbed Emera in a protective shell. The child giggled against her breast as they rolled onto the floor and away from the shaking bed, its sheets billowing as if from hurricane winds.
As the expulsion of light dimmed, Ysabella floated down to stand on the mattress, smiling at everyone around with joy and gratitude. Her eyes fell on Brinke and Emera.
“Oh, my beautiful girls!” she called “Thank you!”
* * * *
“Whoo!” said Violina. “’Tis a night not fit for man nor beast, aye, Kenny Killmore?”
Her use of Dennis’s stage name was as infuriating as the kisses she kept giving
