Peice of Sky - Part 2 (A Dark Shadows Story)

[lovesrain44]

Then Willie looked up again, and Barnabas looked down at him, at the washed whiteness of his face, and those eyes, blue like a summer's day over the shoreline, and he felt something break off inside of him. Now the fury came, as he knew it would, swamping through him like fire, and he raised the switch and brought it down across Willie's arm. Now the boy jerked away, clasping his hand over his arm, blood instantly seeping through his fingers. Now he cowered in fear, and Barnabas found that it fed something inside of him.

 

"On your knees," he growled. He would administer the punishment here, and be done with it.

 

But Willie hesitated, and it made no sense as to why, it was a simple enough command.

 

"I said, on your KNEES," he roared, reaching out to grab Willie's arm with his hand, fingers curling around the spot where he'd just struck with the switch.

 

It was satisfying only for a moment as he pulled Willie off the bed, and then he let go, watching as Willie huddled there, panting as if he'd run miles, head tucked between his shoulders. He grabbed the back of Willie's neck and hauled him up, throwing him forward, half across the bed. The hand that had been clasped around his arm now came free, smearing blood on the laundry-greyed sheet. Barnabas could not catch the scent of it, but his body reacted as if it had, and he stepped back, and lashed out with the switch. Watched as it sliced through white t-shirt, and Willie's body, as it tried to press itself into the mattress, a hard shiver running through him from head to toe.

 

"You realize, don't you," he began, "that Miss Winters left quite unhappy with me. And that she did not take with her the gift I offered."

 

Willie nodded, his hands clutching the blankets. This was more satisfying, though Ben would have been blubbering at this point, blubbering and begging for forgiveness.

 

"In effect, Willie, you have thwarted my courtship of Miss Winters. Why would you do that, I wonder."

 

No answer. The most supreme impudence, which Willie delivered seemingly without any effort at all. He raised the switch and brought it down across the boy's back. Heard the sharp gasp of exhaled air, and the shudder that shook the mattress. Could smell the salt as sweat broke out along Willie's skin.

 

"I believe I asked you a question. It was not rhetorical."

 

There was a slight pause before Willie answered, as if he were searching for breath. "I-I didn't," he said, gasping, "I w-wouldn't—"

 

"Then why did you reveal the cost of my gift to her?" he asked. "When you knew full and well that a lady of good standing would not permit herself to accept anything of such great expense from any of her suitors?"

 

Willie tucked his head down, as if wiping the sweat from his forehead on the sheets. Then Barnabas heard him gasp and swallow.

 

"I did-didn't know, it j-just—"

 

This was false, Willie was only trying to disassemble his way out of his punishment. And then there was the other matter.

 

"And you also called me a liar."

 

Again, no answer. It was as if a simple apology was too much for him, let alone bowing to his master's superior knowledge in the first place. He brought the switch down again, hearing the sharp, two-toned whine as it whistled through the air, and the snick as it bit through cloth and skin.

 

"Answer me!"

 

He would have his answer, even as Willie's body shivered on the bed, and he could hear the sounds of his dry, shallow breaths.

 

"You. Will. Answer. Me." He laid each of these blows in time with his words, punctuating them, hoping they would have some effect, that they would break through and make his point. He was the master of the house, and he would say when roads would be repaired and when they wouldn't be. He would be the one to give presents and entertain guests, and he would take down anyone who stood in his way, he would—

 

"I-I-I only meant that you—"

 

Of course Willie would begin by trying to explain himself instead of simply acquiescing to his master's demands. He struck Willie again, hard, hearing, at last, a cry of pain.

 

"A single utterance from you, Willie, has ruined all my plans," he said, feeling a calmness come over him. "This will not happen again."

 

He began the punishment in earnest, bringing the switch down with almost full force, cutting through cloth and skin, noting only absently the vivid lines of red that sprang up through the white of Willie's undershirt. If it took the switch to break his servant, then by God, he would use the switch, wanting this lesson to be driven home, even if he knew it would take days longer for Willie to recover. How dare Willie ruin his plans? How dare he speak his mind as if it were his right, how dare he utter the price of that gift to Miss Winters, let alone speak to her at all, how dare—

 

Willie's cries, muffled by the sheets, brought him up short, and the sight of his servant's back, crisscrossed with red lines, stark against the white of his torn garment, made him stop. The lesson was learned then, if the evidence of choked-off sobs were anything to go by, or the shuddery writhe of Willie's body against the mattress. He broke the switch in two and cast it into the fire, and caught the sharp scent of fresh blood as it spiraled upward in the suddenly overly warm air. Stark, biting through the warmth of the room with viper's teeth.

 

He snatched Willie up, throwing him against the wall, noting the wide eyes and the opened mouth only distantly as the humming in his brain turned into a scream, almost blocking out the submissive and contrite words falling from Willie's lips.

 

"N-n-n-no, no, Barnabas, please, no, don't, please—"

 

The smell of blood was like a hardlaced perfume, and he knelt on the bed, meaning to have it. Gathered Willie in his arms, meaning to take it. Felt the satisfying heat pressed against him, the boy's bent knees on either side of his thigh, and the dark, slow shudder of Willie's body as the resistance faded from him. Yes, it was better this way, when they were willing like this, and he licked his lips and cupped his hand around Willie's damp neck, and looked at Willie. Willie looked back at him, and for a moment they hung there together, and then Willie tipped his neck away. Turned his jaw, the muscles on his neck raising the tendons, the skin pulled thin over the veins.

 

The movement, a complete and total obeisance so foreign to Willie's usual behavior, paused him. This was not at all how he'd wanted the evening to go and it was contrary to his practices to use his servants in this manner. Willie's body quivered with hard, uneven shakes, tense as a divining rod before it strikes water as he drew back, loosening his fingers from around Willie's neck. He was about to let go when Willie took a hitched breath.

 

"For the love of God, Barnabas," he said, voice shaking.

 

Startled again into stillness, Barnabas glanced at the body he held with casual tightness against him, and, hearing the pitched sound of a wordless cry, understood at last what was happening. So much sensation had built up, even from the jarring touch of a newly peeled switch, that Willie could no longer contain it. His sex was hot against Barnabas' leg, hard and pulsing with blood, and Willie obviously remembered the release that came from a vampire's kiss. His body longed for it, demanded it, pressing up against him, even as Willie opened his eyes, the realization of what he'd just said dawning over them like a sunrise. And, for a moment, exactly the color of a summer's day in Maine, so blue that it was as if the sun had risen in this very room, in the pitch of night. As if a piece of sky had born itself in Willie's eyes.

 

As Willie shoved himself away, his eyes began to close, taking the daylight with them, and the extreme hunger that Barnabas had kept at bay since sunset took hold of him. As he knew it would, searing up to the surface, sharpened keens of hunger so willful and newly formed that they would take no less than what had been offered them. He grasped Willie to him, linking one hand around his waist, one hand cupped around his neck, and plunged sharp teeth into the skin pulled taut over muscle. Heard the slight, high sound of punctured vein, and drew out again, lowering his mouth to seal around the break as the blood from Willie's heart pulsed to the surface in thick, rapid surges. So hot, his skin was so hot at first, and the blood, like it had been boiled, that it was almost too much to bear.

 

He moved his tongue across the wound, sweeping the heat away, allowing it to cool before he swallowed it back, feeling the long, slow sigh of his body as it was absorbed. And more, sucking more as Willie's arms linked around his neck, and the realization that Willie was right up against him, the muscles in his ribs quivering, every line of him taut and shaking. Easing back, he loosened the pull of his mouth on Willie's neck till only his tongue teased the edges of fragile, broken skin, and the blood, warm and sweet now, slipped past his lips without effort. Suckled hard, just for an instant, and then stopped, letting his mouth remain firm and quiet, resting there, absorbing the warm liquid and the salt of Willie's flesh.

 

Tucked there in the curve of Willie's jaw, Barnabas felt the slight and constant tremors build from the bottom of the boy's spine, shooting up through him like a pack of arrows let loose, sending the hot body pushing against him as the tension-hard cock pulsed against Barnabas' hip. Willie's head fell back, his mouth opened in a silent moan, sandsilk hair dancing over Barnabas' fingers.

 

He drew away, arm still around the boy's waist, letting the body pulse with its pleasure, noting the damp splay across the front of Willie's garments and the sheen of tears on taut cheeks. Held him there while the boy's arms, dappled with sweat, fell away, waiting until the pleasure passed and the boy's head tipped forward and his whole body collapsed, limp, against Barnabas' chest.

 

He waited. Felt the unfamiliar weight of Willie's relaxed body as it rested against him, head tucked under his chin as a child would napping against its father's breast, chest moving in hard, almost uneven breaths as the pulse of the human heart slowed. Of course it was this way, it was always this way, though their minds might fight it before, and they raged afterwards. During, they were his. As Willie was now, hands rising to circle his forearms, but lightly, not to push away. Holding on until the reality of his world ceased rocking like a plundered ship, and the luminescent tide of pleasure moved back out to sea.

 

When Willie's body tightened and he felt the surge of human heartbeat, he let go and let his servant fall back on the bed. Stepped back, noting with part of his mind the sharp, salient tang of spent passion rising above that of burning wax, and hanging beyond like a lost note, the faint bloom of drying blood.

 

"Your disobedience has cost you, Willie," he said, "but it will cost you even more if I'm not able to convince Miss Winters to accept my gift to her." There was no answer to this, and he reached down to push Willie back against the mattress so that he could better attend to what his master was saying.

 

As Willie looked up, he could see the cast pallor of Willie's skin, grey against the pale sheets. His hair was stuck to his face as if he were burning hot, though his body shivered as if in the midst of a storm. And his eyes, the color of fog draining across a riverbank. His servant was obviously able to attend, but only barely.

 

"You courted this for your own gain," he said, feeling the tightness in his own voice, unable to speak of his taking of Willie's blood directly, "and it will not happen again." He slashed his hand down to emphasize this, watching Willie's eyes follow the movement, but half-unfocused, as if they could not quite comprehend what they were seeing. It was no use, he would not be getting through to his servant tonight. He opened the door to the hallway, and turned to watch as Willie's eyes rolled back in his head and the muscles in his neck became completely slack. He closed the door behind him, hoping that his imminent visit with Miss Winters would prove more fruitful than his discussion with his servant had been.

 

*

 

As Miss Winters approached him from across the foyer at Collinwood, he tightened his fingers around the edge of the gaming box. She saw that he held it, of course she did, but he wanted her to know how important it was, so he did not try to tuck it to one side or hide it in any way. Her shoes made soft click-click noises that echoed in the still air and he watched the skin beneath her eyes tighten as she came closer.

 

"Now, Barnabas," she began, "you know very well I can't accept your present, I don't know why you insisted on bringing it here."

 

He moved past her to place the gaming box on the hallway table. Letting his hands move over it as if caressing it, drawing her eyes there, on the loveliness of the lid, the gilded paint, the brilliant colors. "How perceptive you are, Miss Winters," he told her without looking at her, "for it is this very gaming box that I wish to discuss."

 

"I don't think that there's anything to discuss," she said, her voice firm. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as her gaze fell on the box. He pretended to adjust the lid and then let his hands fall away as if revealing a treasure.

 

"As much as I hate to disagree with you," he said, keeping his tone gentle, "I feel that we do need to talk about it. Communication is the very heart of friendship, wouldn't you agree? And I do so want us to remain good friends, as we have been."

 

"Regardless of whether we talk about it or not, you'll just have to carry it back to the Old House," she said, less sure now. As her hands hung at her sides, one of them twitched as if it wanted to reach up and touch the box.

 

"I should hardly think I will be able to do that," he said, turning to look at her a little, "because Willie insisted I bring it. He is very distraught, you know, that he ruined the surprise."

 

"He is?"

 

"Yes, very." He turned to look at her fully now, catching her eyes with his and keeping them there. "And as angry as I am with him, I could not help but sympathize with his desire to set things aright."

 

"Surely you're not still angry with him?"

 

"I am furious, to be honest," he said. "There is only so much leeway one can give a servant, a man like Willie, before one has to draw the line and drive home a point."

 

"What do you intend to do?"

 

"I have to teach him a lesson, otherwise he will never learn discretion," he said, with force.

 

Miss Winters was silent for a moment, her head tilted slightly as she looked at the box, and again one hand moved as if it wanted to touch it, this time rising to waist level before it dropped. "That seems so severe," she said, finally.

 

"If you would, Miss Winters," he said in the silence, not having thought to appeal to her inexplicable soft spot for Willie Loomis, "consider this. If Willie had not revealed the price of the gaming box, you would have accepted it, would you not?"

 

She nodded slowly.

 

"But if you do not accept it because of what you learned, then Willie has wronged us both and deserves to be punished."

 

Her eyes rose to meet his, and he could see the confusion pushing through like unwanted thoughts. "You already struck him out of anger, Barnabas," she said. "And that was wrong."

 

He bowed his head, still looking at her. "It was unintentional."

 

"But if you punish him for his mistake, that will be quite intentional and more wrong than anything else that has gone on tonight."

 

"If you accept my gift, as I had intended, Miss Winters," he said now, feeling like he'd shot a bolt home, "then I will see no need to punish Willie anymore this evening."

 

"Are you trying to make a bargain with me, Barnabas?"

 

"To be honest, yes. If you take this gaming box now, as my gift to you, then I will consider the matter ended."

 

He heard her sigh as she looked at the box, and knew that he had won. It was the sigh of a woman, not much changed since the days of his courtship of Josette, who catches in her sight an object she longs to have and who knows it is soon to be hers. Even the modern sensibilities of Miss Winters were not, apparently, so jaded that she would not want for something fine and elegant. With large, calm hands, he reached out to push the box towards her across the tabletop.

 

"Do we have a bargain, Miss Winters?" he asked. "This box for Willie's lack of culpability?"

 

With only a glance at him, her fair hands reached out to accept the box, pulling it to her and lifting the lid in one motion. Then she paused, holding the lid against her chest as she looked up. Her eyes were brown and serious. "But he has a cut on his lip, Barnabas, and nothing to keep it from getting infected. Part of my bargain is that I will give you something to put on it and you will take care of him. Is that agreed?"

 

It was such a small thing, really, and looking into her eyes sparkling like fine sherry, it became so insignificant that he nodded. "Certainly, my dear Miss Winters. It will be as you wish."

 

*

 

In rolled up shirt sleeves, Barnabas stood in front of the cast iron stove, arms across his chest, waiting for the water to come to a simmer. He'd managed to stoke the dead ashes into life, using the coal from the half-filled coal scuttle, yet another chore left undone during his servant's foray to Bangor.

 

In his pocket was a new tube of ointment that he'd promised to ensure that Willie used, and on the counter were two clean, folded cloths, and a basin. A canister of sea salt waited, its lid already opened. All at the readiness to comply with his end of the bargain. To perform a task he might have done anyway, seeing that he'd actually laid into his servant quite hard. Not that Willie hadn't deserved it, he most assuredly did, but father always said that a gentleman took care of his servants and livestock, even when they didn't behave as they ought. This part was true, but Barnabas was beginning to feel that father's advice had not, for the most part, stood the test of time. Even if it had, Joshua Collins never would have been able to deal with the likes of Willie Loomis. And Barnabas would not have struggled so hard to convince everyone that all was as it should be, that he was going to rehabilitate Willie, had he known how difficult it was going to be.

 

It had seemed so providential at first glance to take into his household the man who had released him from his coffin prison. After which would follow many more servants to take care of his needs at the Old House. Even as he realized how wrong he was, how unattainable the goal turned out to be, modern citizens being loath to take up a life of bonded servitude, it was nothing compared to the egregious error he discovered he had made with Willie.

 

He had picked the wrongest man in Collinsport to be his manservant, but it had taken several days after moving into the Old House to realize it. He incurred inconceivable roadblocks to his plans from Willie's modern upbringing and his insistence on speaking his mind. Those were things that, in time, could be broken, and, in the very beginning, had seemed to be his only problem. A firm hand, his father would have said, was what was needed, and so Barnabas applied it, though, when given orders, Willie still balked, and when told to remain silent, Willie continued to speak up, and not only to speak up, but to call his master to task about those activities which were none of his concern. And when being punished, he sometimes fought back. Something Ben never would have done. But that wasn't the worst of it. No, that wasn't the worst of it at all.

 

A low, thick steam was rising from the pot now, and Barnabas took a handful of salt from the canister and shook it over the water, letting the crystals fall and melt in the heat. Salt water was the best for cleaning out shallow wounds such as were left by the switch, probably even better than the ointment he carried in his pocket. But a bargain was a bargain, and he would not go back on his word.

 

Watching the salt melt, he remembered the day he realized what the worst of it truly was, the day Jason McGuire had cornered him up at the Great House and had queried him about his choice of servants. Jason had been puzzled, he'd said, about what a man like Barnabas Collins would want with a man like Willie Loomis, knowing that Willie had little empathy and no moral conscience. Knowing that like associated with like. Barnabas had realized, even early on, that Jason was a great disassembler and could mock sympathy or concern or confusion as easy as some people breathe.

 

He wasn't puzzled at all, no, on the contrary, he was using what he knew about Willie to jab at Barnabas. But Jason's questions were eventually asked by others, and the consensus was clear: Willie Loomis was a man of ill repute. A dastard in the worst way, a thief, con artist, a traveler shaking the dust off his heels from one town as he made his way to the next. Why on earth would a gentleman such as Barnabas Collins want to associate with a man like Willie Loomis?

 

And since Willie had such a bad reputation, whenever anything bad happened in town, most specifically the disappearance of Maggie Evans, all suspicions were focused on Willie, suspicions entirely too close for comfort. He'd had to ensure that the suspicions stayed on Willie without casting any shadows his own way, which had been fairly wearing to keep this up for weeks at a time. Had he known then what he knew now, he would have broken Willie's neck the first night and cast his body over the cliffs. It would have gone entirely unnoticed then, but now, now that he'd made such a story about feeling useful in giving Willie a chance for a new life, he was shackled to it. Any disappearance on Willie's part would come back directly to haunt him. And that was to be avoided at all cost.

 

The water was hot enough now and so he lifted the pot and poured the water into the basin. Then he put the pot down, threw the towels over his shoulder, and picked up the basin. Moving down the hall and up the stairs at a slow pace so that the liquid did not slop over the sides allowed the steam to float right into his face. There was the mineral smell of salt, and the smooth moistness of the cloud of fog as it wrapped around his skin, reminding him of the times he'd tended to Ben or one of the other servants, and for a moment, it seemed as if he were there. In the Old House when it was new, taking care of the tasks that father had delegated to him. But as he opened the door to Willie's room with one hand, the fanciful thoughts vanished.

 

Willie lay on his stomach, arms over his head, as if that would hide him from his master's eyes. Of course he wasn't asleep, though he pretended to be, lying quite still, almost frozen, as though he were holding his breath.

 

Barnabas placed the basin on the desk for a moment, and then gave the coals in the hearth a stir, and added several logs on top of that, waiting until the flames sprang to life. Then he arranged the chair by the bed and placed the basin on it, laying the clean cloths on the rung of the chair.

 

"Willie," he said, but there was no answer. Only silence, and a faint hum as air was drawn up the open chimney flue. The room had been almost ice cold when he'd entered, and Willie's body was only barely covered by a sheet and a single blanket. He could not possibly be asleep.

 

"Willie, look at me. I know you're awake."

 

He watched as Willie's ribs twitched under their thin covering of cotton.

 

"I said, look at me." It was a direct order, how difficult was that to obey? Obviously it caused a great deal of difficulty, as Willie did not move. Giving up with waiting, he reached down and pushed on Willie's shoulder, moving the stiff weight of his body until he was on his side. He looked at Barnabas for only a second, salt matting his lashes, lips ashen pale. Traces of tears streaked his cheeks, cutting through the blood on his lip and on his neck, the fragments of his garment quivering as he seemed to try and hold his breath. Then he looked away, as if searching the room for something besides his master to hold his attention, eyes falling on the chair and the basin.

 

For a moment his brow lowered as his mouth worked, and Barnabas could see the pulse of vein leaping in his neck, though he was still surprised when Willie spoke.

 

"Get out," said Willie, his voice catching in the middle.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"G-get out and leave me alone. I can take care of myself."

 

Willie's gaze rose halfway up, as if he were about to look straight at Barnabas, something he had yet to do this evening. But they stopped, locked on some fixed point that never moved, though Barnabas could see the glittering lights in his eyes. He felt his hand clench itself into a fist. It was intolerable that Willie should speak to him this way, not after all that had gone on this evening. Not after all the trouble he'd taken, abiding by Miss Winter's wishes on his behalf. Not after he'd lit the fire in the kitchen with his own hands, not after—

 

"Go ahead and hit me," snapped Willie, still focused on the air between himself and his master. "It'll make you feel better, and I couldn't possibly feel any worse."

 

He was going to do that, he was on the verge of doing that; Willie certainly deserved to be put in his place for his irreverent remark, and he was about to raise his hand when Willie crumpled back down on the bed, silent tears rushing down his face. He watched as Willie tried to hide his face, pushing at the tears with the heel of his palm, and then pulling his hand down along his neck to cover the marks that his master had left there earlier. He shuddered then, curling down, as if his body pained him, but more than that, as if the thoughts in his head were driven like prisoners in a tumbrel toward certain execution.

 

Barnabas waited while the tenseness in Willie's body faded, while the fire sputtered behind him and the silence became still once again. The punishment earlier had been severe, yes, but not to this degree. He'd seen Willie take far more severe whippings, and the only evidence that anything had occurred was the stiffness and slowness with which he walked for a few days. Not this utter collapse. What, then, had caused it?

 

Willie's hand fell away from his neck for a moment, fingers trembling, the wound open as if he'd scratched it, and it came to Barnabas that the problem was not the weakness of body that was affecting Willie, but rather the state of his own heart. The independent heart that could resist the control of his master to the point where Barnabas had to often take him in hand, and even beyond to where a whipping would leave him in bed for days, could not, apparently, withstand its own flesh.

 

The moment of passion he had witnessed earlier had been something borne up from the dark, secret well of Willie's own desire, and what he was seeing now was the aftermath. Passion spent, the body's heat spun through looping whorls of pleasure, the delirious moment passed, and now Willie crawled through the fire of self-recrimination. Well, he had asked for it. And it was not his affair if Willie hated himself for what he could not resist.

 

Barnabas shifted, and then cleared his throat to attend to the more pressing matter of a bargain with a lady.

 

"Miss Winters surmised that I had struck you out of anger over the incident with the gaming box in the kitchen."

 

Willie did not move, though his entire body was still and listening.

 

"She then told me that if I punished you for your ill-spoken words earlier this evening, I would be wrong."

 

Now Willie stirred, turning his head as if to hear better, as if he could not believe what Barnabas was saying.

 

"She further bade me to bring you this, and to make sure that you used it."

 

He pressed the tube of ointment into Willie's hand, opening the clenched fingers to do this, and Willie took it, not lifting his head or even looking up. It was obvious to Barnabas then that he would have to be the one to apply the ointment, even if the salt water he had prepared would do a far better job on its own. He had, after all, given his word.

 

He began by lifting the blankets, and Willie jerked away as if he'd been stung. The boy's struggles increased as Barnabas attempted to remove the tags and tatters of his cotton undergarment. Willie shied away from his hands like a pony avoiding capture, and Barnabas knew he would have to put an end to that or not only would Willie do himself a damage but Barnabas would be unable to fulfill his end of the bargain.

 

"Be still, Willie," he said, making his tone low and strong, letting his breath ride softly behind it, feeling the calmness echo beneath his words. He waited, watching as Willie sank back down into the mattress, the muscles along his neck relaxing, eyes half closing. He slipped his hand underneath his servant's chest, lifting him half up as he slipped the remains of the torn garment away, and then setting him down again. Turning, he tossed the t-shirt into the fire, and then took one of the cloths and dipped it in the basin, wringing out most of the water before using it to wipe the traces of blood from Willie's neck and chin. And then from his back, using long unhurried strokes as he might when wisping down a fine horse after a long, hard ride. The salt in the water raised the welts a little, but the swelling would go down rapidly and any open skin would heal without festering.

 

When all the blood had come away and there was no more to be lifted, he dropped the stained cloth back in the basin and picked up the other clean, dry cloth, using this to remove all traces of moisture. Then, taking the tube from the bed where Willie had dropped it, he unscrewed the cap and reached out his hand to apply the ointment. But at the first touch of his fingertip, Willie jumped. And then again. Each time he bent to his task, Willie's skin moved away, the flesh along his spine twitching with each movement of his master's fingers against him. He was becoming so agitated that it was going to be difficult to finish the task at hand in a reasonable time.

 

There had been a horse like this on the estate once, ears always flagged up, nostrils flared, mane swirling with every twitch and sound as if a wind moved through it. Had this been father's horse? Or Jeremiah's? He could not remember exactly, but he knew he himself would never have owned an animal like that, one that was so much work simply standing still that it could never predictably carry anyone anywhere. Willie was like that now, turning his head to one side, hair falling over his eyes like a horse's forelock, shoulders tensing up as if one more touch would see him bolting for the hills. Barnabas did then what father always did, echoing as best he could that particular humming deep in the chest that seemed so effective at calming even the most fractious of animals.

 

Easy now, Willie.

 

Almost instantly, and with a small sound from somewhere inside of him, Willie's head sank back down to the pillow and his body became still, and his breath evened out. Calm, almost asleep, as that horse had been after father had talked to it for an hour and a half. He spread the rest of the ointment in a thin layer over each of the welts, and even over the skin that was only barely bruised. And then along Willie's arm, where regrettably he'd struck out in anger, as he should not have done but which, at the time, seemed the only way to break through Willie's rebellious attitude.

 

"Turn your head this way," he said now, and Willie did so, compliant until Barnabas touched the corner of his mouth. Then he jerked away, all unexpected, and the sense of calm that Barnabas had felt flowing through him came to a sudden, icy halt.

 

"Hold still, and let me finish," he said, feeling the snap in his voice.

 

Willie froze with instant and uncharacteristic obedience, and Barnabas finished up, tracing the curve of Willie's lip with the edge of his finger, leaving a smear of ointment behind.

 

Then he was done. He stood back, looking at the tube in his hands as he put the cap back on. "I marvel at modern science that they can contain all of the wisdom of the village doctor in one place."


Peice of Sky - Part 3