Page 67 of The Beast

Although bent over with age, the old man was spry, making quick time to his cabin, which looked in much better shape than the one Duncan planned to live in.

“I will get work and pay rent.”

“I know,” Fergus replied. “As much as I can use the coin. I hope it will not be for long.”

They settled inside the man’s humble home and ate the surprisingly good meal. The rest of the day, Duncan worked on the empty cottage’s roof. Huge gaping holes in the thatched covering had to be repaired.

That night, he slept on Fergus’s floor until a nightmare shook him awake.

He hurried out, at first confused by his surroundings, before realizing where he was. In his mind, the cracks of a whip still sounded again and again, and he pressed the heels of both hands against his ears. It didn’t help since the sounds were inside his head.

What sounded like a moan made him whirl toward the woods where a bed appeared, on it was Beatrice wearing a flowing white gown. Arm stretched, she held out her hand. “Come darling.”

“No,” Duncan said and moved backward, knowing it wasn’t real.

“Duncan.” Her voice sounded hollow, sad.

“No,” he grunted, turned away, and hung his head. It was not going to be easy, the new memories mixing with the old. Some beautiful and the others terrifying.

By the time he was settled enough to lay back down, it was almost dawn. Daylight helped, but only a little. The tormentors in his head cared little for time.

The next several days passed quickly. He spent the days working and the nights fighting the monsters in his head.

“The roof looks good. Ye are a fast worker,” Fergus said craning his neck to get a better look as Duncan slathered mud on the outer walls for better insulation during the winter.

“I am going to the village. Ye said ye wanted some things,” Fergus explained motioning to a small wagon with a mule hitched to it.

“A pair of blankets, some whiskey, and a pot,” Duncan replied and pulled out his coin sack. He’d already given Fergus more than he’d asked for rent. “Get a new blanket for yerself as well.”

The old man grinned, showcasing the gap between his few teeth. “Aye, and a pint or two of ale as well.” Climbing to the bench, the man made a tsking sound, and the mule pulled away.

Duncan continued working on the walls, refusing to consider that this would be his home. Instead, he concentrated on each handful of mud. The mixing, the smell of it, and the weight of it in his hands.

Hopefully as time passed, the terrors would lessen. What he wished to never lose, were memories of his wife. Her face, voice, and the sensation of her body against his.

“Beatrice,” he said into the wind. “I love ye. I hope ye believed it.”

Weeks later, Duncan cooked a rabbit, his gaze concentrating on the fire in the hearth. The cottage was finally done, and he was comfortable enough.

He’d kept busy building a table, two chairs, and a bed so he would not have to sleep on the ground. A merchant traveling by had gifted him a mat and some cups for allowing him to sleep there during a rainy night.

It was all he needed. To pass each day, unable to distinguish between them. Other than occasionally speaking to Fergus, who seemed to understand he needed to be alone, he hadn’t spoken to another person in many days.

He often wondered what Beatrice did and pictured her in the mornings, hair disheveled, as she chose what to wear that day. He’d loved her expressions, the bottom lip between her teeth, and the way her blue eyes flashed to him when happy or annoyed.

More than anything, he missed making love to her, the sounds she made during and the huskiness of her voice when finding release. The woman enjoyed bedsport. That they’d learned to be lovers together was something he was thankful for.

“Duncan,” Fergus called from outside. “I need help.”

He rushed out to find Fergus bent over, breathing harshly. “My chest… it hurts…” Fergus stumbled forward, Duncan caught him, and carried the man inside.

“Breathe slowly. Give yerself time to catch yer breath,” Duncan said unsure what else he could do to help.

He poured whiskey into a cup and held it up to the man’s lips. “Drink.”

Taking a sip, Fergus coughed and sputtered when the strong liquid slid down his throat. He grabbed Duncan’s tunic tightly. “I am glad not to die alone.”

“Ye are not dying,” Duncan said attempting to convince himself of it as well. “Ye are just ill.”