Read Online The Stair Of Time (Book 2) by William Woodward - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Woodward
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her mind that had been cut off from the rest.
If she woke—when she woke—he fervently hoped she retained all that she’d dreamt. It would mean so much to her to know from whe nce she came, to know just what had befallen her and why. To have thick roots well planted in the earth that she could feel and see, instead of ambiguity floating hither and yon wherever the wind blew it.
Well, most of him fervently hoped, anyway. There was a small, insistent voice that persisted in asking unsettling questions : Will she be the same if she remembers? Will I be as important to her? Is there someone else in her lost life who she loves as much…or more? Some things are best left undisturbed, buried where they can’t bother anyone. Perhaps there was a good reason for her amnesia. Perhaps it was for her own protection.
Eri ck was obviously her brother, but who was Sarilla? Sometimes, when Mandie spoke to her, a dark cloud of worry passed over her face, a thunderstorm brewing between her ears. Other times, she spoke to Sarilla like a treasured confidant, as if she were the older sister she’d always wanted but never had. Her dreams skipped about from one period to the next, seldom sequential, weaving together the colorful tapestry of her past one strand at a time, each end markedly different from another.
Some profound emotional shift had occurred in her previous life, and Andaris was just beginning to suspect what it was. If only he had more time, he was sure he could unravel the mystery, her dreams offering little win dows of insight, each opening into her past in seemingly random order. The question was, if he connected those windows, those dots, would he begin to discern a pattern, a puzzle of some greater design? Hoping to do just that, he’d taken to writing down what she said in his journal.
On rare occasions, Mandie eve n played the part of the person to whom she was speaking. It was a little creepy, but without it, Andaris wouldn’t know the names of her mother and father. So far, he had determined that she and her family had lived on a farm. Her younger brother, Erick, was her only sibling, and he ofttimes was a pain in the neck. Her father, Eli Johansen, was a simple, hardworking man. Her mother, Marnie Johansen, had died unexpectedly, and was dearly missed. Mandie liked school, was good at it, but liked sitting in the tall grass beneath the willow tree behind their house even better, just being, as she put it. She was generally happy, and her family was generally fair and kind. Sarilla remained an enigma. It was frustrating, because Andaris sensed that she was important somehow, linked to this unnatural sleep more than all of the others combined.
The fact that her home life hadn’t been demonstrably different from his own made him feel closer to her, made her seem more real somehow. As much as he’d grown to love and respect her, he now realized that he’d been holding a part of himself back, fearful of the ambiguity. After all, a blank page can be filled with almost anything . Whatever the imagination cares to devise. Bright or dark, straight or crooked, it all fits onto the page.
Andaris sighed, placed her hand atop the other, and stood up. He’d been here a couple of hours now, and as much as it pained him, knew it was time to go. All the arrangements had been made. Molly, the scullery maid who had tended to his head wound at the base of the wall, had enthusiastically agreed to care for Mandie in his absence.
“Oh, yes sir…Y our Lordship,” she’d told him, bobbing her head up and down whilst executing, considering her portly size and advanced years, an impressively low curtsy. “It’d be an honor and a privilege! I swear, my Tom won’t believe me when I tells him that a bona fide war hero, and a princely looker to boot, wants old Molly to tend to his missus. I tells ya true, and make no mistake, I’ll be the talk of the warren, I
If she woke—when she woke—he fervently hoped she retained all that she’d dreamt. It would mean so much to her to know from whe nce she came, to know just what had befallen her and why. To have thick roots well planted in the earth that she could feel and see, instead of ambiguity floating hither and yon wherever the wind blew it.
Well, most of him fervently hoped, anyway. There was a small, insistent voice that persisted in asking unsettling questions : Will she be the same if she remembers? Will I be as important to her? Is there someone else in her lost life who she loves as much…or more? Some things are best left undisturbed, buried where they can’t bother anyone. Perhaps there was a good reason for her amnesia. Perhaps it was for her own protection.
Eri ck was obviously her brother, but who was Sarilla? Sometimes, when Mandie spoke to her, a dark cloud of worry passed over her face, a thunderstorm brewing between her ears. Other times, she spoke to Sarilla like a treasured confidant, as if she were the older sister she’d always wanted but never had. Her dreams skipped about from one period to the next, seldom sequential, weaving together the colorful tapestry of her past one strand at a time, each end markedly different from another.
Some profound emotional shift had occurred in her previous life, and Andaris was just beginning to suspect what it was. If only he had more time, he was sure he could unravel the mystery, her dreams offering little win dows of insight, each opening into her past in seemingly random order. The question was, if he connected those windows, those dots, would he begin to discern a pattern, a puzzle of some greater design? Hoping to do just that, he’d taken to writing down what she said in his journal.
On rare occasions, Mandie eve n played the part of the person to whom she was speaking. It was a little creepy, but without it, Andaris wouldn’t know the names of her mother and father. So far, he had determined that she and her family had lived on a farm. Her younger brother, Erick, was her only sibling, and he ofttimes was a pain in the neck. Her father, Eli Johansen, was a simple, hardworking man. Her mother, Marnie Johansen, had died unexpectedly, and was dearly missed. Mandie liked school, was good at it, but liked sitting in the tall grass beneath the willow tree behind their house even better, just being, as she put it. She was generally happy, and her family was generally fair and kind. Sarilla remained an enigma. It was frustrating, because Andaris sensed that she was important somehow, linked to this unnatural sleep more than all of the others combined.
The fact that her home life hadn’t been demonstrably different from his own made him feel closer to her, made her seem more real somehow. As much as he’d grown to love and respect her, he now realized that he’d been holding a part of himself back, fearful of the ambiguity. After all, a blank page can be filled with almost anything . Whatever the imagination cares to devise. Bright or dark, straight or crooked, it all fits onto the page.
Andaris sighed, placed her hand atop the other, and stood up. He’d been here a couple of hours now, and as much as it pained him, knew it was time to go. All the arrangements had been made. Molly, the scullery maid who had tended to his head wound at the base of the wall, had enthusiastically agreed to care for Mandie in his absence.
“Oh, yes sir…Y our Lordship,” she’d told him, bobbing her head up and down whilst executing, considering her portly size and advanced years, an impressively low curtsy. “It’d be an honor and a privilege! I swear, my Tom won’t believe me when I tells him that a bona fide war hero, and a princely looker to boot, wants old Molly to tend to his missus. I tells ya true, and make no mistake, I’ll be the talk of the warren, I
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