Shadow of a Dream

"No, no, I'm sure, my restless spirit never could endure
To brood so long upon one luxury,
Unless it did, though fearfully, espy
A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.”

Endymion ~ John Keats

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PART NINE

Later that night . . .

Marguerite shivered, but not with cold, pulling her jacket taut around her. The firelight threw grotesque shadows onto the walls of the cave, a host of dancing flame-demons, leering down at her from the darkness.

“Are you all right?” Challenger’s voice was sharp.

“Fine,” she answered, abruptly. Although in reality, she was anything but, and she wasn’t all that sure about him either. His face was white with lines of pain and he was trying to work one-handed.

“Here,” Summerlee handed her a moistened compress. “It’s probably better if you support John’s head.”

Marguerite nodded with silent gratitude and a sudden lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it angrily away. This was no time to give in to emotional weakness and right now, she needed every ounce of backbone she possessed. Easier by far, to cope with Challenger’s terseness, than to wallow in the glow of Summerlee’s sympathy. There would be time enough for grief if Roxton died.

When all was said and done, they made a pathetic little band. Challenger’s arm was trussed up like a turkey and he was clearly having difficulties. Marguerite suspected that Roxton’s suffering was the only thing keeping him going. That and a hefty dose of the mysterious herbal tisane, Kartas kept him regularly topped- up with. But Challenger kept refusing to stop until they had done all they could for his friend.

Veronica was propped up by the fireside like a bird with a broken wing, semi-conscious and covered in bruises as she drifted in and out of lucidity. She was in no fit state to do anything except rest and regain her strength. Malone hovered over her anxiously, in-between helping them with Roxton.

Even poor Arthur was physically exhausted but he soldiered-on gamely, with no word of complaint. Marguerite knew he would do everything humanly possible to ease Roxton’s pain before succumbing to his own discomforts.

The treacherous lump in her throat had returned. In a relatively short space of time, this small group of people had begun to mean more to her than she’d ever care to admit, offering her friendship and a sense of security, like the family she’d never known. She was so tired, physically bone weary, but Marguerite knew she could no more rest than fly to the bloody moon. Her mind was alive with nervous anxiety and running on fear and adrenalin.

Summerlee turned away to wash his hands and Malone began to prepare Roxton. His bloodstained shirt hung in tatters about him, revealing the makeshift dressings. More blood clung to his white buckskin trousers and Malone’s hands shook slightly as he fumbled with the fly-buttons and eased them gently away from his hips. Roxton stirred and muttered, groaning at the movement. Although his pain-racked eyes fluttered open, he was clearly unaware of his surroundings.

Marguerite dipped her cloth into a bowl of water and began to sponge away the dirt and dried blood from his face. His skin felt burning hot to the touch, livid with a patchwork of purple bruising but almost ghostly white.

“Will he live?” She spoke over his head to Challenger, her voice low and carefully controlled.

“He’s very ill . . .” Challenger hesitated. “Coming so soon after his other brush with death, I hesitate to offer a valid hypothesis. He’s lost a lot of blood and the wound is infected. It’s going to be a difficult fight.”

“The fever’s the worst thing.” Summerlee turned back to them, a serious expression on his face. “He’s already in shock from loss of blood, I don’t know if his system can cope with the strain of fighting a serious infection. It’s imperative we lower his temperature, or he might not survive until morning.”

“What is it Veronica always uses . . . yarrow, isn’t it?” Marguerite heard her own desperation, but was long past trying to conceal it. “There must be some growing around here; we can send one of the Horta to find it.”

Kartas crouched at Summerlee’s side to observe as he removed the used dressings. His face was grave when the wound was revealed and Marguerite gave an involuntary sob of horror. The tissue around it was shiny and hard, seeping with serous fluid. Too often, she had seen wounds like this before, working under-cover during the war. Several times, she had adopted the false identity of a nursing sister, sometimes German, sometimes British, whatever the occasion had called for at the time. The alias had enabled her to drive an ambulance up and down the front lines with relative impunity, bringing her into inevitable contact with the wounded. She had quickly gained a multitude of nursing skills and knowledge, caring for some of the traumatised men broken on the rack of war. The memories and horror of those times would never leave her. The sight of the wound on Roxton’s flank was a ghastly deja-vu.

“It looks like Veronica may have already tried to fight it using herbs.” Summerlee used tweezers from his medical kit to lift away some shriveled leaves. “These are comfrey leaves. I’ll need to cut away some of the infected flesh and debride this wound properly, or John could develope gangrene. It’s a good thing we brought the surgical equipment with us.”

Marguerite turned to Kartas. “Isn’t there anything else we can use - some miraculous jungle plant? Don’t tell me your people don’t know of one, you were shot, point-blank in the chest!”

“There is something – the spores of a fungus – but the poison must also be cut away. Here . . .” he handed a small pouch over to Challenger. “Use this on the healthy flesh only, it will have no effect on the other.”

Challenger sniffed the contents, cautiously. “The spores of a fungus, you say . . . curious.”

Whilst Summerlee waited for his instruments to boil, Marguerite supported Roxton’s head and Malone washed the residue of dried blood away from his torso. The increased handling had made Roxton agitated, he was restlessly attempting to turn from side to side.

“I won’t be able to hold him still enough,” it was taking all Malone’s strength to prevent Roxton from rolling over onto his injured side.

“This is too dangerous.” Summerlee looked worried. “I won’t be able to work on him while he’s thrashing around like this. I’ll have to use the chloroform but I’m not very happy about it. His breathing’s already laboured. I don’t want to depress it any further.”

Kartas met Marguerite’s anguished glance and placed a hand on Roxton’s forehead. Once again, she could sense the invisible link which seemed to bridge between them. Within seconds, Roxton became quieter. He ceased to resist their attempts to restrain him and fell into a kind of coma.

“Well, I’ll be . . .” Summerlee couldn’t bring himself to say the word but the astonishment was plain on his face. “It appears I won’t need the chloroform after all.”

Marguerite was silent as Kartas removed his hand. She wasn’t sure which was worse, an agitated Roxton or an apparently lifeless one again. The man was normally so full of vigour and vitality, it hurt her to see him like this.

“Get on with it,” she said, harshly. “Do it now, when he won’t feel the pain.”

“Light – I need more light.”

Summerlee spread his instruments out on a roll and Challenger prepared to assist him. Malone lifted the storm lantern and held it so the light fell across Roxton’s abdomen, allowing the two men clear access to the wound. Marguerite stayed where she was with Roxton’s head in her lap, biting her lips with grim determination as the grisly procedure began.

If it hurt her to watch, it would hurt him far more. The least she could do was support him through it, however vicarious her own pain. When this whole Largo business was over and done with . . . when it was finally over, whatever the outcome . . .

A blanket of weariness settled over her. Fate had handed her a salutary lesson and rest assured, she would learn from it. It was time to remember who she really was and why she’d come to the Plateau in the first place. It was time to build-up her defences again.

Oh, God.

Marguerite closed her eyes briefly. There was so much blood – blood everywhere. Summerlee looked like a slaughterhouse butcher and Malone was fast turning green. Roxton gave a low groan of agony but mercifully, remained quite still.

Her hands tightened protectively around his shoulders as she gathered him closer to her breast. At that moment, she would have done anything to lessen some of his pain. A shadow fell across her again and Marguerite faced up to a bitter truth. Irrelevant of whether John Roxton lived or died, the future which stretched ahead of her offered nothing but coldness and grief. A life spent without this man by her side would only be half a life.

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It turned out to be one of the longest nights of her life. She’d taken over when Summerlee had finished, using the herbs Kartas had given them before binding the ugly wound. Throughout it all, Roxton had lain as one dead. White and completely unmoving, apart from the occasional bout of shivering. A sheen of cold sweat lay over his skin and Marguerite was afraid. The fever had taken hold of him and she was powerless to do anything, other than sponge his body with tepid water and try and force him to drink. Most of the time, it was a futile task and the liquid spilled over his chin but she persevered with it doggedly, despite the despair she was feeling. Summerlee had fallen into an exhausted sleep, worn out by his physical exertions and the added stress of dealing with Roxton’s injuries. Marguerite didn’t have the heart to wake him. They had a long journey back to the tree house and a hard day ahead of them tomorrow.

To add to her worries, there was Challenger. The Scientist had been restless all night and looked more than a little red-faced. The odds on him developing a wound infection were becoming uncomfortably high.

Marguerite got to her feet with a sigh. She needed to fetch a bowl of fresh water and stretch her cramped and aching muscles. As she moved to the mouth of the cave she was aware of Veronica watching her. She refused to meet the other girl’s eyes. It was still too soon for a rapprochement between them. Marguerite had no desire to pretend everything was all right.

The night air was cool and refreshing, a light breeze ruffled her hair. It felt heavenly to escape, even if it was only for a few minutes, and once Marguerite had discarded the dirty water and re-filled the bowl, she allowed herself to linger in the moonlight.

Moments like this were so precious, and few and far between on the damned, Plateau. Ever since they’d arrived on this bloody continent, fate had sent them sprawling from one disaster to the next. She was beginning to believe the whole, wretched quest was cursed.

The real implications of her journey hit home hard. Once she found the other half of the medallion, she would be free to leave whenever she wanted. The ouroborous was a passport to so much more than just her future. It was also the key to unlocking her past.

She had searched so hard and waited so long, invested too much to be diverted from her path . . . to get sidetracked by kindness and a handsome face. By the decency which twinkled out at her from a pair of sexy, dark eyes.

“Marguerite?”

Hell and damnation, it was Veronica. The very last person she wanted to see.

“Over here.” Her voice was curt. “You should be resting. We have a long day in-front of us tomorrow.”

“Ned fell asleep . . .” Veronica sounded hesitant. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yes, well . . .” Marguerite rounded on her sarcastically. “Forgive me, if I don’t feel the need to reciprocate right now. I only came out for fresh water. I have to get back to Roxton.”

“Please, Marguerite. Kartas is with Roxton . . .”

“Kartas?” Marguerite was sharp with anxiety. “Is he – is everything all right?”

“Nothing has changed. He became a little restless when you left, so Kartas is sitting with him now.” Veronica moved out of the shadows. “We need to talk. I wanted to tell you . . . to tell you how sorry I am. I know you blame me for everything that’s happened since Largo, and believe me, I understand why . . .”

“Well, that’s all right then.” Marguerite tried to move around her but Veronica barred her way. “Excuse me!”

“Please, Marguerite, won’t you hear me out?”

Marguerite allowed her defensive guard down. “This isn’t the right time for us to have this talk. Not now – not while Roxton’s so ill.”

“Roxton asked me to give you a message.” Veronica’s voice was low. “He asked me to tell you it wasn’t his fault – that he’s sorry if he caused you any trouble.”

Marguerite continued to stare at her but the world had tipped sideways on its axis. Her pain and grief rose-up to engulf her as the carefully, constructed mask slipped. “Oh, God . . .”

“Marguerite?”

She pulled herself quickly back together. “Trouble. I’m beginning to think it must be the silly man’s middle name.” The words sounded slightly hysterical, even to her own ears. “Roxton could find trouble at a Sunday school picnic.”

Marguerite knew she was babbling but was powerless to stop. The empty words enabled her to regain some composure, to try and stop her hands shaking so badly, the water slopped over the lip of the pail. The threads of her life were unravelling around her and she was losing control of it all. She rued the day Largo had come to the tree house. The man had opened a can of worms and it was proving impossible to replace them.

“None of what happened was anyone’s fault.” Veronica broke in desperately on her thoughts. “It was all Largo. The man exploited my hopes and fears, abusing our hospitality and misusing my father’s research. I wanted him to be my father so much, it blinded me from the truth. The blue orchid brought out a side of me I never want to experience again.” She reached out to Marguerite imploringly. “I know now, it worked on an instinctive level. It made me employ the killing techniques I normally use only to survive – turned me into a killing machine working for Largo’s benefit.”

“It wasn’t so much what happened then . . .” Marguerite’s resentment reasserted itself as she listened to the other girl.

She didn’t really blame Veronica for the deadly effects of the drug, and as for wanting her father back, it was almost too bitterly ironic. Both of them were searching for lost parents – albeit in different ways.

“It was afterwards, when Roxton was still so ill. He needed to talk, but you froze him out. You made him feel you blamed him for destroying all your dreams. You nearly killed him, Veronica. For Christ’s sake, he almost died.”

“I know.” Veronica hung her head. “I didn’t realise . . . didn’t know. I was so wrapped up in my misery and guilt, there was no room for anything else. It was like losing my parents all over again. I hope you can understand.”

With a sudden flash of insight, Marguerite lifted her head. “You and Roxton have already talked about this . . . he forgave you, didn’t he? That’s why you lured the head hunters away. Was it guilt, a way of atoning?”

“No!” Veronica drew herself up more strongly. “Not guilt – not any more. Roxton made me see things differently. He made me realise none of us were to blame. Most of us saw what we wanted to see – what Largo wanted us to see. Ned wanted to make me happy by producing a man he thought was my father. Roxton saw someone who needed saving and Summerlee, a potential fellow-botanist. It . . . it was obvious what I saw, but then Kartas changed everything.”

“He certainly did,” said Marguerite, wryly.

Veronica turned back towards the entrance of the cave. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for hurting Roxton. Sorry for what the drug made me do and the way I behaved to him afterwards. I would rather have stuck that knife in myself than hurt anyone of my friends.”

“Wait,” Marguerite put a hand out to steady her. “I’d better walk back with you.”

The two women walked from the river in silence, each of them deep in thought. Marguerite knew Roxton would have readily forgiven Veronica. In-fact, he would have been happy and relieved to do so. It was simply the nature of the man. She passed a weary hand across her brow. Some of the anger had filtered away, to be replaced by a shroud of anaesthesia. She felt numb and slightly detached from things, as though in a state of fugue.

The red blaze of scarlet anger had died, but she wasn’t sure if this was any better. The fury at least, had driven her, had given her some sort of purpose. This peculiar, blank sensation seemed to dull down her shattered emotions, burying them under a lacklustre blanket until she functioned as if in a dream.

It only took a couple of minutes before they were back at the cave. As they were about to enter, Marguerite turned around to face Veronica. “It isn’t as easy as saying you’re sorry. I can’t just say I forgive you. Not whilst Roxton’s so badly hurt, not when he could be dying.” She took a shaky breath. “Perhaps when everything’s all right again. If it’s ever all right again.”

And that was the truth of it, she realised. Whilst John Roxton hovered between life and death, nothing could be done or decided. She was suspended in a form of grey limbo and at the moment, there was no ray of light. It was easier to blame Veronica than to point any fingers at herself. Marguerite knew she was guilty of pulling away just when Roxton had needed her most. She had left him alone and raw with guilt because she was too much of a coward to front-up to her own feelings. She had known all along he was unhappy, but had chosen the easier option.

Marguerite sighed, heavily. This was no time to waste in self-recrimination when there was yet another war to be won. The battle for Roxton’s life had just begun and it promised to be a hard one. She knew there would be no compromise, no raising of white flags here. She wasn’t about to surrender.

END OF PART NINE
Lisa Paris - 2005

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PART TEN

Marguerite was hot and footsore by mid-morning the next day. As the crow flew, they were not too far from the tree house. That was all very well in theory, but the reality of transporting two injured men over the awkward terrain was proving somewhat different.

As Marguerite feared, Challenger had succumbed overnight to his wound and become semi-conscious and feverish. He was far too ill to travel on foot. If it wasn’t for the Horta, they would have been stuck at the cave indefinitely, but shortly after the sun had risen, Kartas had produced a separate travois for each man.

“We will accompany you back to the tree house.”

Words had seldom sounded so sweet to Marguerite’s ears. “Thank you,” she’d answered simply, too worn out for anything else.

The night had been never-ending, just as hard as she’d expected. Too afraid to get any proper sleep, she’d managed to close her eyes for the odd, fretful five minutes here and there, until the fingers of nightmare jerked her awake again. Not that Roxton had made any demands on her. In-fact, he’d lain as though dead. Not even groaning when she’d checked his bandages or tried in vain to force him to drink. The shallow rise and fall of his chest was the only hint he still lived.

Challenger’s condition had worsened steadily, but she left him in Summerlee’s capable hands with barely a qualm of guilt. It took all her energy to concentrate on Roxton. There was none left for anyone else.

They’d been making slow progress for three hours now and to make matters worse, it was raining. A fine, but relentless drizzle, which clung to her hair and clothes. All of Malone’s attention was concentrated on helping Veronica. The girl was in pain from her fractured shoulder but silent and uncomplaining.

Marguerite sighed. They were all tired and dispirited. At this rate, they would not arrive back at the tree house before sunset. The bumping and jostling was not helping Roxton’s condition, and as she walked along at the side of his travois, Marguerite wondered if he would even survive the journey. She was trying her best to stay clinical – to be practical and almost detached. It was easier than confronting her treacherous emotions. Easier than falling apart.

Kartas caught her eye for a second, his own expression grave. He had stayed close at hand the entire time, watching her, watching Roxton. He was acting as guardian to the both of them, or so it seemed to Marguerite. She thought about the code of honour the two men had apparently developed. Men from different sides of the world, a universe apart. When Roxton had first told her about Kartas calling him the Markus of Queensbury, she’d found it hysterically funny. It now seemed unbearably poignant. That same code of honour had saved all their lives.

“Do we need to stop?” He put the question to her, but the subject of it was Roxton.

She looked down at Roxton’s ghostly face. “Not for his sake. Perhaps for the others . . .”

They halted beside some running water, on the banks of a small stream. Marguerite bathed the dirt from her skin and re-filled her canteen. At best, the tree house was three hours away. It seemed like an eternity.

“How’s Roxton?” Challenger’s voice was a ghastly croak.

Marguerite turned to face him, glad he was finally awake. “The same.” She straightened her spine. “I suppose we should make the most of the quiet – he’ll be his usual, annoying self again soon.”

Challenger regarded her astutely. “He’s a strong man, Marguerite. If anyone can survive this, Roxton can.”

She busied herself washing-out compresses, unable to help a bitter laugh. “Oh, don’t I realise that. The invincible Lord Roxton – or so everyone, including him, believes!”

“Not invincible,” said Challenger, evenly. “But determined and incredibly strong. It’s a strength we’ve come to depend on. He knows that, he won’t let us down.”

“Not like some of us let him down, then?” there was a thread of anger inside her now.

“John’s not the type of man to bear grudges. The Largo incident was unfortunate, but we have to put it behind us. We should concentrate on staying alive. There’s too much to do here – too much to contend with. We all of us, need to pull together in order to find a way home.”

Was that a sly dig at her? Marguerite studied Challenger closely, but could find no evidence of one. She wasn’t ready to leave the Plateau until she finally found what she’d come for. The other half of the ouroborous and some answers to her questions. Afterwards, well . . . afterwards, her destiny lay along a different path to that of her companions. The truth was, she would be forced to desert them. To use the refuted power of the talisman to transport her back to the world. The thought made her feel uncomfortable.

“Home?” she gave a harsh laugh. “I’d settle for the tree house right now.” And that was the biggest irony of all. The tree house, its motley bunch of inhabitants, they were the nearest thing to a home and family than anything she’d ever known.

She started as Kartas stepped up beside them and placed a warning hand on her arm. Marguerite knew something was wrong, the Horta appeared so sombre. For a terrible second, her heart twisted in her breast. Roxton . . . her eyes sought him out immediately. But no, Summerlee was with him. The doctor was examining Roxton’s bandages with no sign of outward distress.

“What is it?”

“Listen . . .”

Marguerite concentrated hard, filled with sudden dread. Even before she heard a sound, she knew it would be the drums. Faint and faraway on the rain-soaked air, they were ominous and dark with threat.

“Head hunters?”

“Yes.” Kartas regarded her, gravely. “The Chief seeks to avenge the death of his son. He has placed a tribal bounty on your heads.”

“Terrific,” Marguerite’s hand moved involuntarily to her neck. “So, what happens now?”

“You will take the Markus back to the tree house. Some of my men will help with the travois, but I must leave you now.” Kartas stared off, into the jungle. “They will not take long to track us and they have the advantage of speed. Many will come this time, in great numbers. If we stay, they will slaughter us all.”

Marguerite fought to contain her panic. “This keeps getting better and better. Where the hell are you going? You can’t just leave us here!”

Kartas turned back to face her. “You think I leave to save myself?”

“I . . . I . . . no, I . . .” Marguerite shook her head, angrily. “Well, what am I supposed to think? Just wave you, cheerio?”

She watched as his anger suddenly died, and much to her surprise, he smiled. “The Markus has much to contend with, but for now, the protector needs protecting.” He got to his feet and gave a nod to his men. “All will be well, if you do as I say. I will take care of the bounty.”

“Kartas,” Marguerite followed him to the edge of the clearing. “The ouroborous – I need to ask you . . .”

“There are no answers,” he forestalled her question. “Only those which come from within. The time will come, but it’s not yet right. Too soon, and the darkness will win.”

“But . . .”

“The Markus needs you. Go to him. If you let him, he will always take care of you.”

The Horta faded into the trees, swallowed-up by the mist-laden jungle. Marguerite felt suddenly vulnerable and not just because of the new danger. Kartas knew something, she was convinced of it. Something about the ouroborous. It was all very well him talking in riddles, but it was solid answers she needed. Riddles and half-truths, secrets and lies. Her whole life had been a conundrum. She had come to the Plateau in search of some answers, not more mysterious questions.

They wasted no time getting back on the trail. The sound of the drums was much louder by now, but Marguerite no longer feared them. By now, she had total faith in Kartas. He’d promised to take care of the tribal bounty and she had no doubt that he would.

It was the future which scared her. The future and the past. She felt like a bloody jigsaw puzzle with several, key missing pieces. Kartas, Shanghai Xan and his cohorts, Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all. Everyone seemed to know something about her. Everyone except her.

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Five days later . . .

Something heavy lay across his chest and try as he might, he could not move it. Roxton shifted slightly and then wished he hadn’t as white-fire exploded in his gut. He lay very still for along time after that, sliding in and out of the darkness. He was drifting along on the wash of a tide which threatened to pull him under.

His dreams were vague and full of imagery, thronged with faces and names from his past. Some of them friend and some of them foe – it was the latter which figured most prominently. Enemies, men who had sought his death and those who had tried to hurt him. He wished for the strength to chase them away, but he couldn’t even lift his arms.

The weight on his chest had lightened now. It lay near his head on the pillow. It was warm and fragrant, soft-fleshed and breathing and somehow, through all his burning dreams, Roxton knew it was crying. Or rather, she was crying. Something soft brushed across his face, a lock of long, dark hair. He knew it was the colour of midnight, even though he couldn’t see it. Deep as sable and soft as the shadows which danced along the fringes of his mind.

She was crying, he realised with a sense of wonder, Marguerite was crying. He vaguely remembered asking himself if she would ever shed a tear over him. Well, now she had provided the answer to that question and he would have sold his very soul to dry her eyes.

“Marguerite . . .”

He wanted to comfort her, to ease her pain, but for some strange reason, his voice didn’t work. It wasn’t the only thing not functioning. Roxton lay where he was after that, floating in a thick, grey mist. It was easier and much more comfortable than trying to work out what had happened. Time merged in a dreamlike blur of reality. He swung like a pendulum between confusion and hurt.

There were hands on him, pulling and torturing him. Others, and sometimes hers. Sometimes he fought them but most of the time, he just lay there cocooned in the twilight world which saved him from the worst of the agony. Roxton tried to drink when they told him to, but often, he was too weary to comply. The water would run down onto his chest and it was then, most of all, that she came to him. He couldn’t stand to hear the note of panic in her voice so he would try his best to swallow a few mouthfuls.

For her, he fought it. Anything for her. Anything to save her from harm. But there were times when he was tempted to succumb to the darkness which hovered around the edges of his spirit. Part of him knew he was very close to death but strangely, the thought of it caused him no alarm. Death had pursued him for so long now, it was inevitable that one day, it would catch-up and engulf him.

He’d cheated fate too many times, escaped with his life by the skin of his teeth through reckless years of running from torment. Flaunting his life like a red rag to a bull with a careless disregard for danger, risking it all on a whim or a prayer and trusting his luck to the devil. But now, the timing seemed cruel and ironic. To die when he’d found a reason to live – a woman to save his damaged soul. Marguerite was that reason, he knew it now, in-spite of her hidden secrets. He could help her conquer the terrible fear which caused her to spurn his advances. He would make it his sole purpose to chase all her demons away.

Marguerite was his reason to live.

Through all the confused hours of fever and hurting it was she who inspired him to fight, to struggle against the enveloping darkness which promised an end to his pain. Who would be there if he left her alone, who else would support her or save her?

He had made this woman his mission in life but it wasn’t as simple as that. She might not know she needed him but he knew they needed each other. Roxton realised it was morning. A shaft of sunlight streaked across his pillow. The sheets were clean and smelled of soap. Somehow, he didn’t have a clue how, he was lying in his own bed.

He tried moving again. Turning his head experimentally and waiting for the darkness to descend. It didn’t, not this time, and he lay for a while savouring the benison of near freedom from pain. Next, he thought, he might open his eyes, but it seemed so extraordinarily difficult. It was some minutes more before he managed to do so, but he decided the wait had been worth it.

“John?”

Her voice sounded just like it did in his dreams, tender and warm as honey. There was a ragged trace of anxiety too, which he wished he could magic away. He tried to smile or he thought he did, but it came out as a sort of grimace.

“How . . .”

“Thank God!” her mouth trembled, slightly. “John, do you know what I’m saying?”

“Marguerite . . .” he pronounced it with difficulty, but it brought an aching smile to her lips.

“Shh . . .” the tenderness was still there. As soothing as her gentle touch on his brow, as sweet and just as surprising. “You were wounded again, you’ve been very ill. I . . . we thought we were going to lose you.”

“There were head hunters,” he began to remember. “Veronica led them away from me, but they tracked me back to the cave. Veronica . . .”

“Veronica’s fine.” Marguerite anticipated his next question. “Worried about you. We all are.”

“All?”

He saw her eyes fill with sudden tears before she turned quickly away. “Like I said, you nearly died. Again. You’ve been making a habit of it lately and it’s beginning to wear on my nerves. One can only take so much of this hero stuff before it becomes rather tiresome.”

In-spite of his pain and confusion, Roxton wasn’t fooled. He watched in silence as she poured him some water, trying to make sense of it all. Veronica had made it to safety. They must have reached him with seconds to spare and saved him by the skin of their teeth. He really hadn’t thought he’d come through this time, but the Fates clearly had other plans.

“Here you go, Rip Van Winkle,” she cupped his head and supported the glass. “Drink, you’ll feel better for some of this. We thought you might sleep for ever – anything to get out of chores.”

In-spite of her feeble attempt at levity, the anguish still hovered in her voice. She looked thinner and pale with lack of sleep, her lovely eyes darkened with shadows. Roxton swallowed obediently, anything to ease her burden.

“How long?” It came out a little better this time but he sounded raspy as hell. For a man who had thought he would never wake-up, he was happy to settle for that.

“Too long,” she said, abruptly. “Almost permanently, in-fact. It’s becoming too much of a habit this, John. I think I preferred the cigars.”

“I’m sorry . . .” Roxton already felt exhausted, he could feel his eyes slipping shut. Damn, but he needed to stay awake, she deserved more reassurance.

“Don’t be,” her tone had softened again. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Go back to sleep. Just heal and get well.”

He was more than happy to oblige. The touch of her hand was whisper-soft, pushing the hair back from his forehead. He wondered if she’d been here through it all . . . nursing and watching over him. A warm sensation stole through his veins and the pain receded slightly. He could still feel her presence beside the bed and it helped him to relax. Marguerite, more comforting than morphine . . . his thoughts were getting muddled-up again.

There was a familiar weight pressing on his left hand. Roxton opened his eyes. The Roxton ring was back on his little finger, albeit wrapped around with black twine.

“My ring . . .”

“I found it on the balcony the night after you left, caught up in the liana. It must have slipped off your finger when you were out there, you’ve lost quite a bit of weight.” Marguerite stopped and shifted her glance with a faint flush of embarrassment. “When we knew you were in trouble, I took it along. It didn’t seem right to think of you without it. The cotton will stop it from sliding off until you put on a bit more weight.”

Weak as he was, Roxton felt some surprise. His own notion of the ring as a sort of talisman seemed less ridiculous now. To hear Marguerite speak in similar terms made his superstitions more plausible.

“Thank you,” he spoke to her quietly and reached across for her hand. “I thought perhaps, I’d lost it forever.”

Was it the ring he was talking about or did he mean something else entirely?

Roxton was too frail and weary to analyse it now, but he thought he saw the answer in her eyes. Their fingers entwined and she clung to him tightly. There was no real need for more words. He knew he should sleep to regain his strength, to recover and eventually get well, but Roxton was reluctant to surrender this moment of peace between them. There was a bond, a tenuous understanding, more precious than words could say.

It didn’t take long for his weakness to triumph and Roxton felt his muscles go lax. He had never been a very good patient but was resigned enough to realise this was going to take a while. The wound had been bad – he had nearly died. He still didn’t quite understand how he’d managed to survive but miracles happened here on the Plateau. This time, fate had worked out in his favour, but he might not be so lucky again. In-fact, none of them might be. And that was why he had to ensure he recovered as fast as he could.

They needed him. Needed his expertise. His strength and sometime soldier’s ruthlessness. The Professors provided the brains and Malone the imagination. Veronica had local knowledge and tremendous survival skills. Marguerite . . . well, anyone who underestimated the redoubtable Miss Krux, did so at their own peril. Roxton tightened his grip on her fingers. He had to get well for all their sakes, but she was his priority. To resume his accustomed role as guardian to this little surrogate family.

But for now he was fighting a hopeless battle against the ravages of illness and infection. Roxton allowed his eyelids to fall, secure in the knowledge Marguerite was beside him. If anything good had come from all this business, it was the sense of a new beginning. A firming-up of his own intentions and a growing resolution in his mind. Life was short and precious, especially here, on the Plateau. To waste it on doubts and false inhibitions was folly of the highest kind.

He felt her lift his hand to her mouth and the brush of her lips across it. The wetness of tears against his skin as she cradled his palm to her cheek.

“Both of us lost it,” she whispered, quietly. “Both of us so nearly lost it. Promise me you won’t die, John. Promise you won’t leave me alone.”

Roxton badly wanted to answer her, to give her the assurances she needed, but he was losing his grip on reality and his voice just wouldn’t work. It was clear she didn’t realise he could hear her. That she would not have spoken otherwise.

‘Another time,’ he thought, disjointedly. Thanks to whoever watched over him, there would be another time. Sleep stole through his body like a wash of warm tide and rocked him gently away.

END OF PART TEN
Lisa Paris - 2005

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Parts 1 & 2       Parts 3 & 4       Parts 5 & 6       Parts 7 & 8       Parts 9 & 10       Epilogue & Author's Notes

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