IN THE TIME OF FOG

PART THREE:

Caroline made a couple of phone calls about some portraits

she'd been commissioned to paint, then took Marcus out with

her for a brief walk. Neither of them wanted to get far from

the house. Marcus kept turning his head back in that direction,

making a soft noise in his throat.

"I know, boy, I know," she said, patting his head as she turned

her steps homeward. "But you can't sit and stare at him all day." 

She smiled slightly. It was how she'd spent most of the day herself.

She fixed herself a pot of tea. It was one of the things she liked.

Not just a simple mug with a teabag tossed in, but an actual pot

on a little tray. Lately she'd even begun collecting teapots, finding

their shape appealing. She had seven now, lined on a shelf in her kitchen. Her favorite was a fat pink rose, its green stem curved

to form the handle. She'd used the whale this time, however. It's

tail made the handle, its waterspout the top of the lid. Carrying

it into the studio, she sang, "I've a whale of a tale to tell you, son,

a whale of a tale or two!" Looking at the man on the day bed,

she grinned. "I bet you DO have a whale of a tale, Mr. Silent. I

bet you do!"

Setting the tray on a small table, she studied him. He was still

doing that inward stare, but his hand rested on Marcus' neck.

"Do you like tea?" She thought about pouring him a cup, but

decided something that hot would be too risky trying to get him

to swallow. "So, you're English, are you?" she said conversationally.
"Do you know you sound a bit like Richard Burton? Perhaps you

could read the phone book like I saw him do once. He made it very interesting. I bet you could do that, too."

She sighed, addressing Marcus instead of the man. "Well, boy, I

think it's going to be up to you to get through to him. I don't seem

to be having a bit of luck with it."

Finishing her tea, she pulled her easel a bit closer. Now that his

beard was trimmed, she wanted to sketch him with his new look. "You're quite handsome. But I suspect lots of women have told

you that." A thought hit her. "Are you married? You're not

wearing a ring."  It hadn't occurred to her that he might have a

wife, a family somewhere waiting for him. He seemed too...alone... somehow for that.

She worked on her sketch for the next hour, then noticed he

seemed to be drooping a bit. "Tired again, are you? Well, let's

get you settled in for the night, then. Been a long day."  Indeed it

had. It seemed ages since she'd headed out that morning with

Marcus. After he was lying down again, she went to her room

and did her own preparations for bed. "Here, Marcus," she

called. She'd never had to call him to bed before. His claws

clicked across the floor and he jumped up beside her, laying his

head on her leg as he always did.

She'd left the doors open through the bathroom so she could hear

the man if he needed anything in the night.   After only a few

minutes, Marcus lifted his head. She lay quietly, wondering what

he would do. Slowly, he moved, jumping off the bed and padding through the bathroom. "Ah," she said, an odd twinge in her heart. Every night of his life he'd slept with her. She waited a moment

or two then barefoot, made her own way through the connecting doorways, turning on the bathroom light as she went so she could

see into the studio.

Marcus was completely up on the daybed, lying between the man's

legs, his head resting on his lower torso. "Can't stay away from

him, eh?"  His tail thumped slightly. "It's all right. You don't need

to apologize. I understand." The positioning was wonderful and

she turned on a small lamp, making a quick sketch before she

went back to bed.

Maximus drifted through the fog, aware from time to time of movement, of sounds around him, but unable to focus on them,

to make any sense of them.  Finally there had come one thing,

one single thing that had some meaning for him. It was the touch

of fur under his hand. He didn't know if it were the drape of his

cape or the dog that followed him on the campaign in Germania.

All he knew was that fur was there in the fog and it was the one
thing he could touch. When it was under his fingers, he felt...quiet

...as though the waves that battered against his mind had calmed

into smoothly-surfaced sea, and he could rest. He didn't see the

fur so much as sense that it was there. Why it was there, how it

was there, didn't matter. It was there...simply there. So he slid

his fingers over it, made contact with it, and the simplicity of it

was enough.

He woke sometime in the middle of the night, woke to find the

fog had thinned. Opening his eyes, he studied the shape of the

moon through a large window. He knew it was the moon, knew

he had looked it at only recently. He couldn't remember where

he'd been or what he'd thought when he last saw it, only that it

was the moon and it was familiar.

His eyes slid down and encountered the face of a large dog

looking directly at him. It was lying between his legs, its mouth

open, tongue lolling wetly out one side. He blinked. Dog, he

thought. Yes, dog. Like he had with the moon, he recognized it

for what it was, but not who it was or why it was there. None of

that mattered. He lifted his right hand and the dog turned its

head, licking his fingers. Smiling slightly, he began to stroke its

head.

Fur. This was the fur. His whole being centered in on the dog

and the dog looked back at him with large brown eyes that said,

"I understand."  He felt joined to the dog, connected to it so

that he wasn't sure where he left off and the dog began. He wasn't

even sure he did leave off.  He stroked and stroked its head, a comforting awareness of companionship in the fog rising through

him. The dog pushed with its hind legs so that a larger portion of

itself was higher up on the man's chest, and he tucked his muzzle

under the man's chin. Maximus curved his arms around the dog,

closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.

The  birds  woke  her with  their dawn songs.  She lay  there,

stretching, taking a moment to get her bearings. Something was...different. Marcus! Marcus wasn't there. She sat up, her

hand going to the spot on her leg where his head always rested.

Then she remembered. Yesterday. Things had changed yesterday, changed in the fog when she had found the man sitting against

the tree. Her eyes went to the open bathroom door. It was quiet.

He must still be sleeping.

She slid her feet into her slippers and went through the bathroom

into the studio. She hadn't pulled the curtains and the morning

sun shone brightly into the room.  Marcus lay almost completely

atop the man, who had his arms around him. Aware of her

coming, the dog lifted his head, the movement waking the man.
He looked at her, actually almost looked at her as though he saw

her, and said, "Dog."

"Right," she replied. "Definitely dog."  She came closer, wanting

to see his eyes. "Are you there today?"

Maximus awoke, instantly aware of the dog's weight atop him.

His fingers curved into the thick, dark fur, wanting to make sure

it was still real. Then another form was there, not so clear as the

dog, slightly misty around the edges, much less real. It leaned

toward him with wide blue eyes and stared at him. He didn't
know what to do with that, so his fingers sank even more deeply

into the reality of the fur and he said, "Dog."  He heard himself

say it in that way you hear a sound but are not quite sure of its

source.

She straightened. "Marcus," she said, "I know you don't know

you weigh 120 pounds, but don't you think you're a bit heavy to

be a chest dog?"  She snapped her fingers and reluctantly,

Marcus leapt down to the floor. "Out you go. Time for your

morning business."

The dog was gone. He held his arms still in a slight circle, flooded

with emptiness. She came back from the door and saw tears

swimming in his eyes. "Ahhh," she said, making a face. "Took

your dog, did I? Well, he'll be right back. I promise." Indeed,

Marcus was already scratching at the door and so she hurried

to let him in. He ran across the room, leaping up on Maximus,

who let out a big breath and clutched him.

She shook her head. "I've heard of security blankets and all

that, but ,Marcus, it looks like you've become a security dog."

He lifted his head, mouth open in what looked very like a smile.

"You don't seem particularly unhappy about that, I must say." 

His tail thumped. "Watch it," she cautioned. "You know what

they say about mad dogs and Englishmen."  Or, in this case, she wondered, was it mad Englishmen and dogs?

She padded into the kitchen, wondering if the man could eat

something more solid now that he was a bit lucid. Toast seemed

like a good idea. She made a tray with orange juice, toast,

poached eggs, and a few slices of bacon.

"You cannot have your head up to his chin while he eats

bacon, Marcus. You simply cannot." She made him move

down toward the foot of the bed and got the man propped

with pillows again. He kept his eyes glued to the dog, ignoring

the tray she'd set on his lap. She picked up a piece of bacon,

dangling it close to his face. Marcus licked his chops, drooling

on the man's leg.

In a moment, the man's tongue came out a bit, moved across his

lips. "Ah," she said in satisfaction. "You do smell it, don't you?" 

She touched it to his lips, so that he could get the flavor of it, then

broke off a small piece and slid it onto his tongue. "Come  on,"

she urged, "you know what to do with it."

The soup, the scrambled eggs, had not really registered for him,

but the bacon on his tongue was real. He didn't know what it

was, only that he wanted it, and began to chew it. She picked

up his hand, placing the rest of the slice in his fingers. He lifted

it, trying to focus on it, on the process of how to get it inside

himself. The most real thing, though, was the watching eyes of

the dog and before Caroline could stop him, he'd stretched his

arm out and Marcus had snatched the bacon, swallowing it in

one unchewed gulp.

She compressed her lips, moving her mouth from side to side.

"Think you're funny, do you?" This time she sat on the edge of

the bed, leaning her body between him and Marcus before she

handed him another slice. "Let's try this again." She pushed

his hand toward his mouth. He blinked at her as though he

were puzzled. "In the mouth. In the mouth," she urged. His

lips parted and the whole piece went in. "Ack!" she cried. "Be

careful. You want to choke?" But he was chewing and after a

while, swallowed. So far so good.

She picked up half a slice of toast, slathered with honey, and

touched it to his lips. Again his tongue explored. His green eyes

followed the toast as she pulled it back, then rose to meet hers.

He saw her. She could see it in his eyes. He saw her. She gasped

slightly at the force of some intense personality that flashed in

him briefly then settled into mist.

"My God!" she breathed. "That was...you." She leaned toward

him, searching his eyes for it again, but it wasn't there. "Who

ARE you? Where do you go in yourself that I can't see you?" 

Then it hit her. He was hiding. He was in there but he was

hiding from something he found too painful to bear. But that

one flash of him had galvanized her. She gripped his arms.

"Damn it! I am going to get you to come out! You hear me,

mister! I AM going to get you to come out!!"  Practically

smacking the toast into his hand, she stood and began to pace

the room, throwing looks at him from time to time.

"Agatha," she said almost fiercely, deciding that as long as she

talked to dogs and insensible men, she might as well talk to dead authors. "This damn plot is beginning to get to me. How in hell

could someone like that...," she turned, staring hard at the man, "someone like...that," she repeated, still not able fully to believe

what she'd seen in him, "end up in my woods?"

She crouched again beside the bed,  watching him blandly

chewing toast. "God DAMN it! You come BACK here!"

He handed the last bite to Marcus, smiled, and said, "Dog."

ON TO PART 4

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