Briskly Through the Trees

The wind whipped briskly through trees writhing far over on the next hill. The young woman's face turned toward the hissing, otherwise she was motionless atop the dust of a bare ridge. Her cloak rustled as gusts billowed past her. Her ears strained to listen. There was no motion but that of her eyes searching the horizon. Shadowed clouds rolled above her, blocking the bright silver of the moon, darkening all in a moment.

Molly tightened the cloak to her breast then shook her dark hair free and into the wind. "Macrua," she whispered. "Are you with me Macrua?"

Across the dell, floated a strong but aging voice. "I am wi ye Molly girl." The ancient voice was far away, yet clear enough. Macrua had answered. Macrua always answered.

"Is it near time Macrua?"

"Tis very near time. Go on. Go to th' tree when ye hear hoofbeats, Molly. Go like I told ye."

"I remember," She turned her head westward. The wind was not cold, but she did not like the way the sharp bluster made her face tear up so. Too much like weeping...there was no time for weeping.

She flexed her shoulders then let them slump. There. That was more relaxed now. Better. Macrua was nearby. Nothing to fear. But...what now? Nay. Now was a very short time. The future was for others to worry on.. Her part was fixed.

At first she thought it might have been the whipping of her cloak hem. She froze. No. Yes...the drumming of a horse galloping at great speed. This was it. Her breathing suddenly quickened. The tree. Where was the tree? She spun quickly to face the east. There. The tree. The small bare one half the distance to where she knew Macrua to be. Glancing over her shoulder, she turned and ran headlong across the top of the ridge, not looking back again in fear that she had waited too long, too long to make it.

As she ran she realized that the sound of the hoofbeats had stopped but she knew it was only because the rider had decended into the valley. There was no time to delay, only time to run, harder, harder, as fast as her bare feet would carry her over the brief rise, as fast as her wish for it all to be over. Suddenly she stumbled.

No! Not here! she gasped. The tree. She must make it to the tree. Gathering the hem of the cloak in her right arm, she rose and continued, her eyes trained on the small sparse bush. For a moment she wanted to stop, collect her thoughts, but there were no more moments, she was out of time. She continued running, now wheezing from exhaustion, drawing strength from somewhere, finding the stamina to at last to stumble against the base of the young tree.

For several seconds she did not move except to heave loudly in huge animal gulps of air. Again, she turned to look in the direction of the rider. The thundering hooves were charging up the side of the ridge. Moments, only moments now.

"Get up, Molly!" Get up!" urged Macrua's frantic voice. Painfully, Molly grabbed a spindly arm of tree and pulled herself to a standing position. She felt a rise of nausea, but, again, there was no time - even to be sick.

Suddenly all was calm. The wind died, as if by command. The lone figure of the girl and the tree stood bathed in the light of the high and fully ripe moon. For that moment, nothing stirred but Molly weaving dizzily on her patch of Earth.

Again, the hoofbeats, muffled at first, then crisp and clean as the steed and rider mounted the ridgetop where she had stood only moments before.

Her eyes narrowed. Her hands calmed. Slowly, her arms lifted to her throat and sure fingers loostened the tie of her cloak. The garment fell heavily to the ground at her feet. Beneath, she wore only a worn-thin gown.

The horseman paused on the ribbon of ridge. She could not see his face. The angle of the moon was behind him. But she knew who he was.She knew what he must do.

The rider held his arm aloft, almost as a salute. She took a deep breath and answered with her own raised arm. Both dropped their arms together. She watched as he reached down to his side and slowly drew out something gleaming, something that captured the full reflection of the moonlight above. A cutlass; a wide mirrored cutlass.. It rang like crystal as it cleared its scabbard and he raised the point militarily against his shoulder with the blade toward her.

Time was now hers She knew he would not move until she did. She savored the moment and closed her eyes. Again she took a deep breath, then opened her eyes again. Nothing had changed. She knew now that nothing would.

With a quick motion she tore at the neck of the gown and kicked it to her side. Beads of sweat reflected brightly on her skin.

The horse took several high steps forward, then broke into a thundering gallop. Her eyes widdened as the rider crouched low, swinging the cutlass madly. Faster they came. She tried to pace her breathing to the rhythm of the hooves. A slight groan rose from somewhere within her, a groan that did not end but continued to grow louder. She could not stop the sound inside her. It was now a scream, a continuous scream. As he closed on her, she quickly raised her arms high, stretching her stomach muscles tight. The cutlass raised again for a final time. The piercing scream cut short as the steel sliced cleanly through the softness of her taut belly, a single stroke severing the young woman neatly in half, spattering the tree branches with a thick splash from the vessel of her life's blood.

The rider did not stop, or even pause, but drove madly on, turning south into Gilmore's valley.

Quiet returned to the ridge once more.