Mary-Cade Mandus - Skin Deep

Right away, he knew something was different. Rising on his elbow, he cocked his head, listening hard, but could detect only the mundane sounds of a typical Wilderness night. And, that’s when it struck him. It was night, yet the consummate blackness appeared less intense, less obscuring. In fact – his eyes roamed the room – the lines delineating the furnishings and walls emerged sharp and defined from the murk. The longer he stared the less effort it took to distinguish objects. It was as though a mist was ebbing away and neither rubbing nor blinking minimized the effect.

Excited and just a little apprehensive, he sprang from the bed making a wild two-handed grab for the bedpost when his leg brought him sharply to task. He flopped back onto the mattress, breath hissing through his teeth. The success of his daily outings had made him careless and he cursed his stupidity, worrying that such recklessness might have caused re-injury. Much to his relief, however, the pain soon abated and a gingerly waggle of the offended limb resulted in only minor discomfort. Grabbing the crutch and taking his time he hobbled to the window.

No longer impenetrable to his sight, the night's secrets were laid bare. Beyond the window the dense woods fanned, each leaf, branch and trunk standing out in marked contrast from its fellows. A young hare achieved the protection of a bramble bush just as an owl swooped, talons raking the quivering thorns. As various nocturnal hunters prowled along the ground and up amongst the trees, their eyes flashed like fireflies, betraying their positions. Crispin's gaze followed the dirt trail as it left the yard, entered the trees and climbed to the small rise. Where Filch and Toddy had romped days before twin fawns now gamboled under their mother's watchful eye.

Crispin reveled in this new liberation. He didn't know how or why the miracle had occurred nor - at the moment - did he care. All that mattered was that he found himself no longer handicapped, forced to grope blindly in the dark.

It took him a moment to realize that four figures now stood upon the hill. A human had joined in the fawns' play. Squinting, he tried to make out the identity but at that distance only the gender was discernible; it was a woman. By her slender build Crispin knew she was not Elena and most definitely not Hyacinth. She stroked the doe's elegant neck then knelt. The fawns stepped nimbly up, vying with each other for a pat and kiss. One last cuddle, then the woman set off down the path toward the cottage. The faintest suggestion of a hummed tune drifted on the breeze to Crispin's window.

Another movement, this time nearer at hand, drew Crispin's eyes reluctantly from the approaching figure. Craning his neck he saw – Filch, lurking by the cottage's right corner. The little creature's manner was cautious, head twisting, bobbing this way and that. Crispin assumed he was on the watch for Amadeus but when his face turned toward the window it was evident that worry, not fear, was the cause of his disquiet.

An excited but soft trilling began when his searching gaze lit upon the figure of the woman. She was just entering the wood and was momentarily lost to view. A rapid series of hop-skips carried Filch to the center of the trail. There he waited, head and shoulders bobbing rapidly as his feet sidestepped nervously. As the woman stepped from the trees he blocked her way, hands and arms gesticulating wildly. Crispin tried to make out what Filch might be saying, but they were whispering and beyond ear range. Just then, silky and delicious as cream, a laugh rose in the silence, discharging a spontaneous shock of pleasure through his body. His fingers gripped the sill.

In the yard, Filch tried to hold his ground but the woman stepped daintily around him. The little man hesitated, hands still fluttering then, reluctantly followed. Crispin's pulse quickened and he leaned forward against the sill trying to see her face but drawing Filch's attention instead. Spying the man at the window the little man gave a startled squawk. The woman glanced down at him inquiringly. Filch, a finger to his lips, took her hand and tugged, attempting to pull her back towards the forest. Laughing, she gave in.

This was odd behavior even for Filch, and Crispin was nonplused until he realized that Filch was unaware that he could see them. He felt momentarily empowered then. The sight of the little creature’s exaggerated tiptoed retreat proved too comical and he was unable to hold back a laugh. At the sound both figures halted and turned their eyes back toward the window.

It took Filch but a moment to grasp the situation. He exploded into action, squawking, bouncing and hopping uncontrollably while tugging frantically upon the woman’s hand. But she was intrigued and paid him not the slightest heed. Gently extricating herself from his grasp she headed back toward the cottage and the window. Filch made one last attempt, grabbing her skirt. Pulled up short, she turned in exasperation. Whatever the reprimand, it did the trick. The skirt dropped from Filch’s hand and he stood aside, his head and body sagging. He presented such a dejected picture that the woman relented and, putting a finger beneath his pointless chin, coaxed his head up and, leaning down, kissed a cheek. This elicited a watery smile from Filch but Crispin could see that he was far from placated.

Why Filch should be so adverse to an encounter was perplexing but as Crispin watched the graceful figure draw closer he found the answer to be insignificant; he'd find out later. At that moment, all that seemed to matter to his existence was learning her name.

She halted directly beneath the window. A breeze from the forest played with her hair and clothing, releasing a luscious scent. Crispin's senses reeled. It was the same perfume worn by his phantom visitor. Fearful that the slightest stirring or sound might shatter the moment he could only stare, breathlessly, into the face lifted up toward his.

She was younger than she’d appeared – Amadeus’ age or perhaps a year or two older. Rich, bitter chocolate-hued ringlets framed a fair countenance of such delectable sweetness that his heart ached from the sight. Her smile was every bit as intoxicating as her unforgettable kiss - Crispin was lost.

He blinked. She was speaking, saying his name, inviting him to come down, join her. Discomposed by the thrill of her voice - the invitation - he couldn't speak, so just continued to stare at her, like an idiot. She cocked her head, a frown puckering between her brows and tugging at the corners of her mouth. Then she laughed softly – not with derision but self-consciously, as though a little startled and embarrassed by his behavior.

The laugh snapped him out of his stupor. Still not trusting his voice he nodded dazedly and motioned that he'd come down. As fast as the limp would allow he hurried across the room then came to a dead stop. What must he look like! He'd given no thought to his appearance nor looked in a mirror since he’d been there. Frantically his eyes searched the walls and side table. No mirror. The windowpane could serve as a looking glass but he rejected the thought immediately. There would be no way to do it without being seen and he'd acted the fool enough in front of her as it was. Furiously he finger-combed his hair and when a fingertip flicked against his jaw was somewhat startled to discover he'd sprouted a healthy growth of beard. His clothes were wrinkled but he'd just have to hope she wouldn't notice. He negotiated the stairs easily enough and once outside, headed toward the corner where he’d spotted Filch.

Nearing the site his heart began to pound so fiercely it was difficult to breathe. And, as fervently as he desired to hurry, his limbs seemed to be reacting in slow motion. His steps flagged and he fell against the wall. At the back of his mind a warning was sounding. His head felt on fire with the noise - like a hive of bees was trapped inside. He shook his head, clapping his hands over his ears in a ludicrous attempt to stifle the sound but it persisted - swelling almost unbearably. Then, as suddenly as it had begun the intensity began to weaken. He could feel it struggling to regain its hold but it was as though a heavy door were determinedly closing, shutting it out. Suddenly, it was gone and with it - the memory of it. Crispin pushed himself away from the wall, unable to recall stumbling. Shrugging, he squared his shoulders, gave his hair and clothing another smoothing, then rounded the corner.

From his vantage point in the woods Mutch watched the scene. Being a creature desirous of order and stability, he was pleased. That Mistress had expected to be able to keep the girl and man apart had been a puzzle to him - seeing as how Crispin could never leave the Wilderness. And Mirella was young - with all the yearnings that encompassed - and headstrong. She was also terribly lonely, despite their united efforts to keep her thoughts from what had been lost. It was very clear to Mutch – it was destiny - the two were meant to be together.

And he didn't share or understand the misgivings Mistress held for Crispin. Mutch trusted his instincts implicitly and they told him the man presented no threat, least of all to Mirella. If it had been otherwise, he would have dispatched him without hesitation.

Rising from his crouch Mutch faded back into the trees, growling softly to himself. He was frustrated. A threat did exist and his relentless scouring of the Wilderness for its origin had, up to this point proven fruitless or - almost so. There was one spot – a pool – deep within the forest. It was small, roughly ten feet in diameter, placid and innocuous yet there was something askew with it and it drew him. No matter how far afield his searching led he always found himself back upon its banks. He'd spent many days and nights canvassing its rocks, low-hanging trees and dense plant life, studying the flat surface from every angle, patiently watching, and waiting. But his vigilance had unearthed nothing and it gnawed at him like an insatiable flea. With that in mind he decided to pay it a visit but first made a detour to his hut to check on Toddy.

Standing just inside the door he gazed tenderly down upon his child. Toddy was sleeping deeply, his arms and legs - fast lengthening and losing their baby fat - jerked periodically in dream hunt. Mutch's heart swelled with pride and sadness. If only Mala were there to share in their son’s maturing. He swayed with emotion, choked back a whine, and left quickly for fear of waking Toddy. Once he was a fair distance beyond the compound his pace quickened to a trot, then to a run and he raced with abandon through the woods, leaping fallen trunks and the remnants of ancient rock fences, releasing his sorrow through exertion. Reaching the pool he dropped upon its moss- laced bank, chest heaving, tongue lolling. A breeze licked the sweat from his face but produced no ripple to disturb the water's pristine surface. To Mutch, mockery seemed to underlie its calmness and in his presence mood such audacity proved too much. His hair stiffened and he leapt up. Racing around the bank, he ripped up rocks and flung them into the water snarling and snapping at a foe he had yet to designate. The assault continued until he no longer had the strength.

Amadeus was torn - trail Mutch or stay and watch what was transpiring across the yard. He decided on the latter; he really could care less what the hunter was up to. Stealthily he crept further out onto the limb. It was as broad as a giant’s nose and its thick foliage provided the perfect screen from those on the ground without obscuring his view. He had just gotten settled when Crispin came hobbling around the side of the cottage. The girl hastened to meet him, her hand outstretched. Amadeus’ lip curled; the man was pitifully awkward as he took and pressed her pale fingers to his lips - the ungainly crutch robbed the courteous gesture of any grace. The sight of the man’s rough, unkempt figure beside the slender beauty of the girl was so absurd that the boy was unable to restrain a snort of contempt. Filch, hunched worriedly in the shadows by the cottage wall, straightened abruptly. He had caught the sound and his keen eyes darted intently back and forth across the forest’s inscrutable face.

Amadeus made no attempt to seek deeper cover. Although he would rather not be caught, if it happened he could brazen it out; after all, it wasn’t as though he didn’t have a right to be there. What interested him more than immediate discovery was whether Filch would come to investigate. The green eyes flared like candle flame at the prospect, then dimmed. The featherbrain would never muster the courage. And true enough, the little man didn’t budge, continuing his scrutiny from a safe distance. The boy turned his attention back to the humans and sat up with a start. They were gone! Scanning the trail, then the yard, he caught the flutter of a dress as it disappeared behind a tumble of toadstool-spotted logs. They were heading for the front of the cottage. Soundlessly he swung down from the branch, dropping into the thick leaves and soft loam below. Before chasing after the couple, he decided to take a parting shot at Filch. Picking up a sturdy branch he gave the surrounding bushes a savage thrashing all the while uttering deep throaty growls. The terrifying ruckus sent Filch scrambling for safety. Smiling smugly to himself, Amadeus set off.

Although swift and sure, his gait was missing its inherent grace. The muscles of his right leg were tender and deeply bruised, the result of Hyacinth’s kick. That she had managed to inflict it pained him far more than the injury itself. But being an opportunist he hadn’t allowed the mishap to go unexploited. A few heartrending moans and melodramatic leg dragging had procured some choice pampering - extra bits of food, a couple of comfy pillows - from Elena and the softhearted Mirella.

He found his quarry at the well. Mirella was seated upon its rim, her hands fluttering like ghostly moths in emphasis as she spoke. Crispin leaned against the well post, his expression rapt, the quintessential lovesick swain. Springing to the kitchen-house roof, Amadeus located a spot that afforded excellent eavesdropping. He stretched out on his belly, chin resting comfortably upon his crossed arms. The banalities of their tete-a-tete, however, soon set him to squirming. Finally, thoroughly bored, he abandoned spying and set off in search of a more interesting pastime.