MY HEART IN STONE

PART 14:

“Mistress Keirs!  There you are!”

Rachel turned her head toward the open French doors of the terrace atop the Mini Hotel, 

her neck muscles the only ones to have escaped the utter fatigue the rest of her body was 

experiencing. She had forgotten how physically demanding housecleaning could be; and

in a place like the medieval keep of Neviditelny Kamen, it was three times more so.  She'd 

managed to walk, near zombie-like, back to her room, prop herself up in the shower to 

scrub off the accumulated layers of dust and grime and stumbled downstairs to the Mini’s 

restaurant for a bite to eat.  Somehow, though, crawling back to her room wasn’t what 

she quite wanted.  She needed atmosphere to cleanse herself of the day, wash her soul of 

the memory of Mikol’s hard eyes and voice, replenish the hope that reuniting with Cort 

was only a matter of hours, not miles, away.  So she brought her food up to the terrace on 

the roof of the hotel and lounged, watching the colors of the pure sky turn kaleidoscope as 

prelude to the stars.

The owner of the voice was Volos.  Volos the Magician, Rachel began to call him in 

private.  He stood in the doorway backlit by the antique hall light, his gray chopped hair 

spiking out from his head like a mad scientist’s, his large hands in his pockets.  He 

reminded her so much of her late grandfather, Rachel couldn’t help but smile back up 

at him.

“I see you washed away the lotion,” he added with a returning smile.  “I came to find 

out if there was anything else you needed?”

Rachel shook her head.  She wasn’t sure what Gerta had told Volos about their need 

for a lotion that would change the appearance of her skin, but he had been happy enough 

to oblige, without further dark hints to stay away from Kamen.  There had been some 

kind of agreement, to be sure.  Also, the thought that perhaps Terry got a hold of him and 

told him that he would promise more money also flitted through her mind, but for now, 

she couldn’t pursue that little mystery,could only look back up at the proprietor with 

a weary grin.

“I think I’m okay,” she replied. 

“May I sit with you?  I refuse to go below until I have enjoyed this sunset.”  Volos stepped 

forward to sit in the lounger nearby, his clothes still baggy on a wire-thin frame, and 

folded his arms across his chest.  They then sat in silence watching the last bit of jade 

stratosphere turn to indigo.  When the last bit of fire began to fade in the distance, it cast 

forth a meteor to streak across the lower arc of the horizon, its essence sparking brief 

before guttering out completely. 

“Do you make wishes on falling stars?”  Volos asked of her, eyes twinkling.

Rachel thought for a few moments.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” she said, sounding more sad than she intended, but she couldn’t 

help herself.  Her heart was all out of wishes.

“You sound so despondent!” Volos prodded.  “May I ask why?  Forgive me,” he added 

hastily as Rachel turned a bemused face toward him.  “but I am always anxious that my 

guests are comfortable and pleased, and you…you, young lady, have rapidly become a 

special feature here.  Hromada has not disappointed you, has it?”

How could she reply without sounding rude?  Her mouth dropped open to mumble 

one denial or another, but the truth was right there in front of her: until Cort was out 

of Neviditelny, the city of Hromada would, indeed, be a sad place for her.

“I guess I was thinking…” she stammered, fidgeting. Volos had a way of making her 

feel like a student in a classroom.  Not entirely a negative feeling, but one where a mere

generalization would not be allowed to go unchallenged.  This was fine when it came to 

things like facts and figures, but as far as her emotions and motivations went…

“Do you know,” she began afresh, “how you can look at the stars to see them shine 

and you see them shine because the space around them is so very black?  Well, right 

now, with all that’s gone on in the last week, all I can see is that blackness.  I can’t 

see the stars any more.  I feel like that blackness.”

“And this hurts, I can see,” Volos intoned.  He didn’t wear glasses, but the tilt of his 

gaze made Rachel think of a long beard and eyes peering at her over a large 

manuscript.

“In ways you can’t even imagine,” she sighed.  “I was sitting here letting my thoughts 

wander…I don’t know,” she laughed, self conscious, “I think it’s because I’m so very 

tired, and I will have more of the same tomorrow…I was looking up at that black and 

I thought I saw…” she trailed off, making a face.  All too often the way her thoughts 

translated out loud made the listener make faces of their own, as if she were a lunatic.  

“The black looked like it was squeezing the stars.  I know, it sounds ridiculous, but I 

think it's how I feel.  I feel like I’m being pressed, that I’m under this tremendous 

pressure from forces I can’t fight.”

“Twinkle twinkle little star, 
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky…”  Volos chanted.  

This time Rachel knew she was the one giving the ‘you’re silly’ face, and tried to return 

her expression to a more polite one, but Volos tapped the end of his nose as if he had a 

point to make.  

“They look like diamonds, don’t they?”  He asked.

 
Rachel nodded to humor him.

“And you know how diamonds are formed, don’t you?”

The memory of what she said to Cort on their last night in Rome came echoing back to 

her.

“There was a miner,” she repeated aloud, half to herself, “who couldn’t afford a diamond 

for his beloved, so he gave her the crude material that would become one.”

 “There have been times,” Volos continued, as if he had known she would say that.  

“When I become all too aware of what crude material we are made.  And how this crude 

material can look up and see such brilliance.  Where does it all begin?  How do we get 

from here to there?  Do we ever, I ask myself?  It seems impossible.”

“All we are is carbon,” Rachel argued, thinking she ran parallel to his logic.  

“Stars are different. Light, heat, distance…”

“Are we so different?  Coal is merely organic matter pressed into a form that can 

burn.  Life, in simple raw form, pressed by heat to become heat.  And when pressed 

further, that base matter becomes a brilliance that is harder than any other stone, 

glittering with a fire of its own.  That crude matter becomes precious because it has 

been transformed…by alchemy!” Volos added, pronouncing the word with a tone of 

awe. “Perhaps you are, indeed, seeing the truth of it: the blackness pressing inward 

to create those stars, and the stars popping forth to show us how we, too, can be 

transmuted.  Perhaps you feel that pressure because something…or some One…

wants to bring forth an inner light that will shine like that star?”

Rachel stared at the elder man, unable to speak. 

Volos then winked at her and rose from the lounger, scratching his mop of hair until 

it became spikier than before.

“I think I will send another elixir to your room, one that will refresh you for 

tomorrow,” he told her, looking down at her.  “You must humor me.  Subterfuge 

delights me to no end.”

It was Saturday  and Mikol had gone down into Hromada again to the construction

office. Cort talked Henri into showing him the rest of The Quick and the Dead. "I can

handle it now. I know it," Cort said.  Just the knowledge that there were others like him

had made him feel differently about seeing himself in his movie. He and Henri sat together

on the long couch and Henri started the DVD playing. Cort wanted to see it from the

beginning.

Henri kept a close eye on the young man as the scenes passed by.  Cort reached a hand involuntarily to his neck during the attempted hanging.  "That's a feeling  you never

 forget, Doctor," he said quietly. 

It was different, seeing it from outside himself, seeing his own face.  When he lived it, it

was all through his own eyes. The new perspective of it, the scenes he wasn't in, all of it

together gave him a much larger overview of the events.

It was when Cort was walking down the street toward Foy, though, that Henri noticed

the young man was tensing.  At first, his hands began to rub down his outer thighs as

though he remembered sweaty palms.  "Not a fun walk, was it?" Henri commented sympathetically.

Cort shook his head, keeping his eyes on his own face, remembering every single thing

he'd been thinking as he'd made his way down that endless street.

"You sure you want to keep watching? You don't have to," Henri offered.

"I do. I need to. I've got to see this," Cort replied.

As the movie continued, Henri could see the crease on Cort's forehead growing deeper, 

a change in the set of his jaw line,  a certain cording of the muscles in his neck.

It was hard, much harder watching it than Cort had thought.  Still a half-hour from the

ending, he was rubbing his forehead.  This was his life he was watching and the fact of

 seeing it from the outside was, though different, still far from easy.  Then it came to

the part with the explosions and he saw himself in the street, saw him fling his hands

up in what was his last memory before waking up in Kamen. 

Henri was uneasy. He knew the movie was not over for Cort.  He made a move to

turn it off.

"NO!" Cort said firmly.  "Let me see it!"

And so he saw that he was not buried under the rubble.  He saw Ellen walk through

the smoke, but he also saw himself step back into view some distance behind her. He

 saw himself shoot Herod's henchmen so they couldn't kill Ellen.  He heard his last

words to Herod, saw Herod die.  Then Ellen tossed the marshal's badge to him and

he saw  himself standing there in the street, rubbing his thumb pad back and forth

over the engraving as she rode out of town. When it was done and the screen went

black with the credits, he turned his gaze onto Henri.  Mikol had plainly said that

he'd pulled him out from under the rubble.  What, then, was this he'd just seen

himself doing?  He had no memory of any of that, yet he'd seen himself doing it.

"How...?" he began, but grabbed his head with both hands, almost bending double

where he sat.

"Oh.....God!" he moaned. His head was exploding! White lights were flashing at the

edges of his vision and even with his eyes squeezed shut, they remained.  This was worse

than previous headaches.  The pain of it consumed him, blocking all ability to think,

drowning him in the black pool of itself.

This time Henri didn't ask if he could give him something for it.  He simply reached

quickly around the side of the couch where he'd left his bag open and pulled out a

syringe.  Within seconds he'd plunged the needle into Cort's arm and then moved to

squat in front of him, grasping his upper arms in support, waiting. Cort raised his head,

not able to focus through the pain,  then in moments began quietly to slump forward. 

Henri guided him gently so that his upper body settled onto the couch, then lifted his

feet and legs.  "Sleep, my friend," he whispered,  arranging a pillow under Cort's

head.  The heavy sedative he'd given him would let him rest for at least a couple of

hours, probably more.  By then, the worst of the headache should have passed. 

Absently, he picked up the syringe and set it on the nearby table.

 
Crossing the room, he put the DVD back into its box.  He sighed.  Mikol.  He would

find out Cort had seen the end of the movie.  What then?  Putting the box back in its

place on the shelf, he headed toward the room next door, sat down at the desk there

and buried his face in his hands.

The note tied to the bottle read “a bottle of stardust,” in script not unlike that of 

an eighteenth century flourish, the ‘s’ a quaint looking ‘f’ and the perfection of its 

symmetry like something out of old manuscripts.  Rachel found it sitting amid a 

breakfast sent to her room while she dressed to begin her second day at Kamen, a 

green glass vial with the whitish patina of age.  The contents tasted of elderflower. 

Beside it sat a lump of coal with another note, a simple statement: 

“Potential”  

She tucked it into the pocket of her uniform apron.  It would serve as a good reminder 

for those moments when she wanted to break down the gate and run away.

Gerta met her at the front gate, stiff with formality, but her hands upon Rachel’s 

shoulder squeezed encouragement and soon they were entering the rooms where they 

had left off to dust, clean, straighten, vacuuming, polishing windows, mopping….

The elixir had its effect.  Rachel felt energetic, the soreness she had felt upon rising 

dulled to a mild ache, and the pressure of the dark locked away for now.  But mid-day 

had her wondering if the day would ever end, and if Mikol expected her to rub and 

rub away at things until they were no more and he could dispense with her for her 

neglect.  Gerta led the way through most of it, not severe, but unyielding of her 

directions, of her emotions.  They could not indulge in the confidences they had in the 

days of preparations.  Rachel began to feel like she was in a surreal dream.

So it took a few moments for a new sight to register and only then when Gerta forgot 

her formality and gripped her arm with a sudden bright expression.  They had entered 

the living room, a final room of the keep that Gerta reserved because it had the most 

to work with, with windows that stretched from ceiling to floor, and large curtains 

to shake out and a multitude of surfaces Mikol often complained about as catchers of 

dust – and indeed, the castle seemed to shed dust every day, it seemed, and Rachel 

knew she would spin her wheels traveling from nook to nook wiping away.

But all that was forgotten the instant both she and Gerta closed the door behind them, 

frozen in place by the sight neither one of them had discussed since before her first 

day: Cortland Wells asleep on the large brocade couch, his head pillowed so that his 

head tilted toward them.  He lay as if he had been draped: his left side against the back 

of the couch, left forearm across his torso, right arm along his side, hand halfway off the

couch.  Rachel focused on his face: he was sleeping as though he had never been snatched 

away, a dream of utter forgetfulness softening his features; an angel partaking of respite 

in an ancient crumbling hall.

Gerta's eyes darted to the side.  Henri was plainly visible at his desk, though his back was

turned as he sat, head in his hands.  He had not heard them enter. And there was Cort,

spread out as though waiting for Rachel. Could she take the chance, after all that Mikol

had said? She clutched the young woman's arm, her mind racing with the danger of the moment.  She needed to...she must...let Rachel have time alone with Cort.  Thank God

it was the Doctor and not Mikol in that office.

"I'll go talk to Henri," she whispered urgently to a transfixed Rachel, "to give you

some time.  Just be...careful...watchful...if you hear anyone coming.  If Henri starts

to leave his office, I'll talk loudly so you'll hear.  Be on guard at all times, Rachel.

Mikol isn't due back for a while, but you never know."

With that, she left Rachel standing alone in the doorway to the living room and

walked purposefully into the office, carefully closing the door behind her.

"Henri?" she said, stopping just beside him, briefly touching his stooped shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

"Not so good," he mumbled, slowly dropping his hands to the desk top and tipping his face

to look up at her.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Him," he replied, jerking his head slightly back toward the living room. "He's

what's going on."

"What do you mean?" she asked, walking around the mahogany desk and taking

a seat directly across from Henri.

He rubbed his hands wearily across his face.  "I just didn't expect...."

"Expect what?" she prompted when his pause lengthened.

"To like him so much," he sighed. "I didn't expect to like him."

Gerta repressed a smile. This was more than she'd hoped to hear. "And why do you

like him, Doctor? "

"You've not gotten to be around him, Gerta, not like I have.  He's so...so...," he spread

his hands on the desk top, searching for words.

"He took communion, Gerta," he finally continued, a strange, yearning look on his

face.  "All by himself, he took part of his dinner and made it into communion." He

closed his eyes, remembering.  "It was...beautiful."

Gerta sat back further in her chair. "I should have liked to have seen that."  She

truly meant it.

"But he...suffers...so," Henri went on.  "He's so...alone, so lost." His eyes locked on hers.  "Sometimes I fear for him. I really do."

"For his life?"

He nodded. "He gets these terrible headaches.  I know they're part of the lingering

effects of Mikol's warp, but I think he's under a terrible stress that brings them on.

"He glanced over his shoulder toward the door. "One started just a bit ago. I thought

he would split in half with the pain of it." He looked back at Gerta. "He's sleeping now. 

 I gave him a strong sedative."

Gerta couldn't help it. Her eyebrows climbed a bit at the news. Rachel would not be

able to talk with him after all. "Very strong?" she asked.

"Extremely," he nodded. "I wanted to get him asleep as quickly as possible...for as

long as possible."

Gerta sighed.  Poor Rachel. So near and yet so far. "You care, then, about his pain?"

His hands went to his face again. "God help me.  I do."

"Did you not care about the...others?"

"Not like this, Gerta," he moaned, spreading his fingers enough so that he could see

 her before finally dropping them into his lap. "I'm afraid he's quite...gotten...to me." 

He stared out the large window behind Gerta, adding softly as though more to himself

than to her, "And I don't know where it will end up taking me."

Gerta's ears perked considerably.  "What does he want? Cort. What has he said he

wants to do?"

"He wants to go back to America."

Well, Gerta thought.  That made sense. Of course he would want to go back there.

He thought his Rachel was there. "How much of this does Mikol know?" she asked

carefully.

"None," he sighed. "We speak of such things when Mikol is gone."

Ah, goodness!  The man was doing things behind Mikol's back. Very interesting. 

"You do not wish Mikol to hear what you say?"

He was tired. His own head ached considerably. He was too worn to be terribly

guarded with her. "I do not."

She locked her gaze with his. "I understand," she said levelly, her eyes intense.

"You do?"

"More than you know, my good Doctor. Way more than you know."

"What does that mean, Gerta? What are you trying to say?"

"Would you....if you could...if...there were some way...any way...would you...help him?"

He licked his dry lips, heaving a great sigh. "I would."

Gerta smiled. "You mean that? You really mean that?"

"More than I've ever meant anything."

"You are willing to risk...much?"

He nodded again, feeling like he was in some tunnel and the sides were moving inward.  Sometimes,  though, destiny was like that. He knew that much. That if one were

supposed to be at a certain place at a certain time doing something particular, the

closing tunnel would make sure one got there. "Much," he whispered.

"Despite Mikol?"

"Despite even him." He lowered his eyes.  "This man is worth it."

"Can I trust you, Doctor? Can I trust you with my life, with Cort's?"

"What's going on, Gerta? What do I not know about?" He nodded vigorously. "Yes,

yes, you can trust me.  I swear."

She decided to go for it. Rachel needed all the inside help she could get. "You know

Katryn was killed?"

"I do," he agreed. "But what does that have to do with Cort?"

"Plenty," she smiled grimly. "I've hired a...replacement."

"All to the well and good, I'm sure," he said. "But what about Cort?"

"The replacement," she continued, fixing his eyes again with hers, "the replacement

is an... American."

Henri's eyes widened. "An Ameri.... but why?"

"She's his fiancée."

"WHAT?" he gasped, almost falling out of the chair. "She...she's...here? In Kamen?"

Gerta looked toward the large, closed door.  "She's with him now."

"But...but...he's asleep!"

"I know. She'll just have to deal with that right now. But she needs help, Henri.  I've

decided to help her because she's touched my heart. Will you do the same because he

has touched yours?"

He blew out a long breath.  "Mikol...," he began.

"I know.  I know how dangerous it is for her, for all of us. But there are times when

what must be risked...must be risked.  Are there not?"

His mind was darting madly from side to side in his head.  He had told Cort that if

only he had some place to go, some other person to go with, go to.... Now it seemed he

had.  "You realize, Gerta, that if we help him get out of Kamen, our lives are forfeit?"

"Probably," she said, her expression not changing. "But if I can set things up, will you

help?"

"How?"

"I don't know that yet. I'm still playing all this by ear. But when the time comes, can

I count on your support?"

He breathed slowly in and out several times. "You have my word."

She smiled. "Good! Now let's speak of Kamen business to give her a bit more time

with him, shall we?"

Rachel scarcely heard Gerta’s directive, moved by a multitude of feelings: joy, relief, 

surprise, even disbelief; moved to fall to her knees at the side of the couch, breath 

shallow so as not to wake him up. Then she heard the soft snap of the office door as

Gerta closed it and blinked.  What was she thinking? Of course she wanted to wake 

him up!

Forsaking the dust rags to the floor, her hands fluttered to touch him, but he lay so 

still, his chest rising and falling in the breath that deep sleepers breathe, his features 

in such a beautiful state of repose, Rachel waffled in decision.  Had it really been a 

week since she saw that same state of grace so near to her?  It felt like eons ago.  How 

could she embrace him and not make that peace go away?  Tears blurred her vision, 

then cleared as she looked him over.  He was wearing…wearing the same clothes he 

wore in his movie!  The same pants, boots, jacket, much less dusty, but every fine hem

and tuck the same as it had been, the same white collar at this throat. Swallowing back 

the emotion filling her throat, Rachel’s eyes traveled the length of his body and 

back to his face again.  Why was he dressed like this? What did Mikol think he was 

doing?

It didn’t matter, the unreasoning part of her screamed.  You’re with him!

Succumbing to that shout, Rachel slipped her hand into the one that hung off the 

edge, nearly weak from the feel of his skin against hers, the familiar geography of 

his palm along her fingers.  She twisted her hand to give his a gentle squeeze and 

leaned in to put her mouth near his ear.

“Wake up, Cort,” she whispered, and unable to hold back, let fall a kiss full upon 

his mouth.  She lifted somewhat, for he seemed unmoved, so she pressed her lips to his 

again, pouring what thanksgiving and joy she could into the bond.

“Wake up, my love.  I’m here,” she urged.

His breathing changed slightly but there was no movement, no flutter of the eyes to 

fly open, no responding impulse of muscle to welcome her. Just…sleeping peace.  

Rachel felt her bottom lip pull down, the corners of her mouth jerking under the 

violence of her disappointment.  Could he be playing a game?  Could he be angry with 

her, ignoring her?  She placed a hand upon his chest to tell him she was sincere, nuzzled 

his jaw-line with her nose to find the sweet space she knew was there.

“Cort, don’t do this.  I’ve come and we’re going to get you out of here,” she whispered 

again.

Cort seemed slide further into sleep, his face tilting toward hers and Rachel felt her 

heart leap for one split second, thinking he was coming around; but his hand was still 

limp in hers and his breathing became more dreamlike.  

Rachel sat back on her feet, her own breath sharp in her lungs from dismay.  She 

tried to shift positions and swayed a bit, dizzy from emotion.  Her hand fell to the 

coffee table behind her and knocked against a bottle. A small hypodermic needle next 

to it rolled off onto the floor.  

Frowning, Rachel picked it up and looked at the label on the bottle.  No wonder he 

wouldn’t respond!  

But why was he sedated?  She took a hold of both his hands, fearful that Mikol had 

re-broken his fingers.  If the bastard was willing to dress Cort up in his movie-clothes, 

what else would he do?  Rachel could not help the somewhat loud sigh of relief to see 

that Cort’s hands were still whole.  She planted kisses upon his knuckles, reflecting that 

she would have gladly given up all pretense of disguise to kill Mikol if the ogre had 

replicated every aspect of Cort’s previous life.  Then, she looked at the medicine bottle 

again, recognized it as similar to what she had used in Redemption.  It troubled her that 

he would need it at all.  First the clothing, and now, sedatives.  What hurt was Mikol 

causing Cort?
 
After a few moments, remembrances of similar moments crept across her thoughts, of 

long hours of pain and the soporific release of medicine, of quiet moments watching him 

float in escape of the pervasive pain. This only brought more tears to her eyes and she 

brushed away stray strands of Cort’s hair, her palm falling to curve along his cheek. 

“Seems like old times, doesn’t it?  Back to square one,” she said and sighed.  “I’m 

just glad you’re safe.” 

After a few moments, Rachel forced herself to remember the precarious situation, 

glancing at the door and wondering how much time had passed and if Gerta was having 

difficulty distracting the occupant of the office.  Mikol could walk in any moment.  

Sniffing and wiping her face to regain her composure, she dragged herself to her feet, 

soaking up as much of the picture of Cort upon the couch as possible before she had to fall 

into dumb disguise again.  She was nearly to the door when a thought occurred to her and 

she flitted about the room in hopes of finding something that would gratify the idea.

If he was so deep in drug-inducement, he would not remember anything, and now that 

she had made genuine contact, she knew he would need some indicator that she had been 

at his side.  She remembered what he had said to her about their time in Redemption, 

that he often panicked if she was not in the room, had been truly upset when he first 

thought she had only been a dream.  What could she leave with him that would disprove 

such a thing now?

Her hands dug into her apron pocket for a pen she carried…a note…she could at least 

leave him a note…and her fingers encountered the lump of coal.  There could be no 

better item!  On the coffee table, she found a stray piece of paper and she scribbled 

the one thing that had been rolling around in the back of her mind since the night 

before: “star dust contemplating star dust.”  An obscure reference, to be sure, but he 

should understand.  Surely he would remember their stars!  She tucked both it and the 

coal into Cort’s jacket pocket.  He would find it later.

She couldn’t leave him without one more kiss, either, once more while she embraced 

him with one arm and smoothed the beloved hair back with the other.

“It’ll all be over soon,” she promised.  Then with a small groan of effort, picked 

up her cleaning rags and pulled herself to her feet, ready to continue her duty as

housemaid.  At that moment, she heard Gerta’s voice rise in volume, so she slipped 

out of the room.

She saw him once more as the doctor, whom Gerta named as Henri, led a now-awake 

Cort across the courtyard toward what was ostensibly his cell in the tower. Rachel could 

see that beyond a lingering grogginess, he was still sound in his carriage, without injury; 

and it became difficult to finish her tasks for the day, for all she could think about was 

him and his state of dress, his sedation, and the pure joy that he seemed unharmed.  

It seemed forever before she could start back on the trail to her room, and all her 

emotions and worries were reduced to a mere prayer:

“Thank you, God!  Thank you!”

He was rising up through layers, knowing he'd done it before.  Or, at least, that it was 

familiar. He was dreaming and yet knowing he was.  He was remembering something 

and yet not. There was a movement of green.  Somehow, some way, there was green in 

the layers he floated through. He felt a yearning toward it without a reason for such 

yearning.  He reached his hands out toward it, but it curved, flowing away, and he 

could not grasp it. "Come back!" he called out, but the flow washed his words into 

nothingness and they were gone. He ached as though from some great loss. 

Henri came back into the room and stood quietly beside the couch. Several hours had 

passed and Cort was restless as he began the long process of waking from medicated 

sleep. His head turned on the pillow and sounds like soft groans escaped his lips. 

"No," he murmured. "Don't go." 

He moved his arm and his hand slid off the couch, his knuckles thumping hard 

against the floor.  That seemed to jerk him upwards from some depth and his lids 

fluttered open.  Henri bent over him, checking his pulse. "You're all right, Cort," 

he soothed. "Just waking up." 

Cort propped himself upright on the couch with his arms, waiting for his head to 

clear. "I...I was dreaming.  I think." 

"What were you dreaming, Cort?" 

"Green," he replied, cocking his head in wonderment at his own words.  "I was 

dreaming about...green." 

Henri smiled. "Perhaps that is the heaven of a desert-dweller, my friend." 

Cort closed his eyes, trying to bring it back. "Something was...green." He shook his 

head. "But I don't remember what." 

"Your headache, is it better?" 

Cort nodded. "Nearly gone. What did you give me?" 

Henri held up the syringe.  "Some medicine. In this." 

Cort reached out, taking the syringe in his hand, turning it, examining it.  "I've seen 

something like this before." 

"I'm sure there was nothing like that in Redemption, Cort." 

His brow creased. "I know I've seen this before. It had to be in Redemption. I've not 

been any place since then but here." 

Henri looked toward the window. There was much he wished he could tell Cort, but 

he was afraid the young man would confront Mikol with it and everything would end 

badly.  "I've given you injections here, Cort. Down in the section under the castle.  

When you first arrived.  Perhaps that's what you're recalling?" 

Somehow Cort didn't think it was, but decided to let it go for  now.  "I think I'd like 

to go back to my room."  He was never comfortable for long in the huge keep and 

despite the sense of confinement in his round tower, liked his solitude there, liked 

being able to think. 

"All right," Henri assented. "But let me walk with you. You're still a bit wobbly from 

the medication." 

Cort slid his feet off the couch and Henri gripped his left elbow.  Side by side, the 

two men  left the keep, heading across the long, narrow courtyard. Longing eyes watched 

from a window as they disappeared into the smaller building adjoining the tower. Henri 

guided Cort to the elevator, unsure that he was able to climb so many steps.  At the top, 

he paused on the last flight, letting Cort enter his room alone. "I'll bring a tray for you 

soon.  Just rest a bit now while the medication finishes wearing off." 

Cort nodded absently and wandered to the window, letting his chest press against 

the sill. "Ow," he  said when something hard caused a quick pain.  He stepped back, 

reaching inside his jacket. "What have we here?" he mused, taking out a small dark 

lump and a piece of paper.  He carried them to the table and sat, holding them in his 

hand. Setting the paper down, he turned the lump over and over. Coal? Why was 

there coal inside his jacket? He set that down and picked up the paper. Only five 

words, hand-written.

 
"Star dust contemplating star dust." 

He stared at the paper. "Star dust?" he repeated to himself. What did it...mean? 

He knew it had not been in his jacket earlier in the day.  Where had it come from? 

Had Henri put it there while he slept? There had to be some reason, no matter who 

had put it there, some reason for the paper being with the coal. He picked up the 

coal again. Did the note mean that the coal was the star dust? He rolled the lump in 

an intricate pattern of movement through, over, and around the fingers of one hand 

then smiled slightly at what he was doing...the limbering motions of one good at cards...

and with guns. 

He tossed it up several times, catching it easily, then scratched it with a thumb nail, 

a little chip falling off on the table top. It was coal all right. "Star dust? Star dust?" 

he said twice, trying to find some meaning. Coal burned. Stars burned. Was that the 

connection? Was there some... message...for him to be found here? Somewhere 

beyond conscious thought, he seemed to feel there was. But he couldn't put his finger 

on it. He turned it more in his hands, looking for clues, finding none. Why did he feel 

disturbed by it? He set it down, picked it up, and set it down again. "Damn it!" he 

exploded, throwing it against the wall where it shattered. He got up and walked to 

where its impact had made a black mark on the pale stones. His fingers of their own 

accord reached out and touched it. "Damn it," he whispered, feeling that odd sense 

of loss again. 

Going back to the table and sitting again, he picked up the note. The script, though 

hurried, was delicate, as though a woman had written it. "Not Henri," he muttered, 

peering at it closely. What the heck did it MEAN... 'contemplating'?? One lump of 

coal staring at another? Was that it? No, that couldn't be right. Coal, in itself, other 

than being a fuel, was not that important. It had to be something...more. Star dust? 

WAS the coal star dust? He read the words over several more times. Coal did not look 

at coal. HE was looking at the coal. Was he, too, then the dust of stars? Is that what the 

note meant? Him...looking at the coal? Him looking at the dust of stars? But where was 

the meaning in that? What was it supposed to mean TO him? Or was it supposed to 

mean something? Maybe not. He simply didn't know. But he felt the tension of the not 

knowing beginning to knot the muscles in his neck so set the note down and went to lie 

on the bed a moment, trying to let go of the disturbed feelings the coal was causing in 

him. 

He tried looking at the ceiling, but his eyes kept wandering back to the black mark 

on the wall. Coal black. Like the night. Night as dark as coal. He sat up quickly. 

Wasn't there some line Father Michael had taught him? About the night? Yes! 

"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light. I have loved the 

stars too fondly to be fearful of the night." He'd liked that line. He lay back down, 

thinking about it, looking at the ceiling again then closing his eyes...seeing the stars as 

Father Michael pointed out Orion's Belt. Pine needles blocked part of the 

constellation. He wanted to see it all. In the desert, he could always see them all, 

unobstructed. Why was he seeing pine needles? Then he remembered that earlier he 

had smelled the scent of pines. He tried to bring back the smell of them now but couldn't. 

Then the soft waft of green floated quickly by his inward sight. And he knew without 

knowing how he knew that the green and the pines were connected. Was the coal 

connected, too? 

Connected to...what? He folded his arms over his face. He needed to know. That much 

he did know. That he needed to know...more. 

ON TO PART 15

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