MY HEART IN STONE

PART 16:

Henri  found Gerta in the control room deep below Kamen.   She was watching a view 

screen intently when he entered and only looked at him briefly before returning her gaze 

to the image of Cort sitting on the floor of his tower room, his head on his knees.

"He's been like that for the last two hours," she said.

"I'm not surprised," Henri commented, leaning to look over her shoulder. 

"You're not? Why?"

"He encountered young Miss Rachel in the kitchen this morning," he sighed.

"He did?  Good! But...why is he sitting there like that then?"

"It didn't go all that well, I fear."

"Whyever not? She loves him.  He loves her.  It should have been...marvelous.  Especially  

with Mikol out of the castle so much of late."

"She may love him, yes, but he has no memory of loving her."

Her head jerked around as she turned a startled face up to him. "What? What are you 

saying, Henri?"

"Mikol's warp.  The last he remembers is  walking down the street in Redemption and  

the explosions starting.  He doesn't even recall the ending of his own movie."

Gerta looked back at the screen. "Oh, God," she moaned.  "Poor Rachel."

Looking back at the doctor, she asked, "Where is she now? Do you know? Perhaps I 

should go talk with her."

"She was devastated, Gerta.  Utterly devastated.  I drove her back to the village with 

the excuse she'd fallen in the kitchen and hurt her shoulder. That's what I told Mikol." 

He lay a brief hand on her shoulder.  "Do what you think is best. I'm going up to the 

tower now."  He gave the screen a last, long look, shook his head, then left the room.


The door slid open and Henri quietly entered Cort's room.  The young man sat just as 

he'd last seen him on the view screen and did not lift his head at the sound of the doctor's 

footsteps. Henri stood about 10 feet back from him, just looking for a while. What to do? 

He knew he could have a long talk with Cort, explaining about the young woman who 

loved him. But was that the right way to go about this?  So much had been heaped on him 

and the doctor was worried about a fresh rush of new information being too much, being 

enough to tip Cort's delicate balance. No, he thought it best to do this in stages, to let 

Cort come to what he could with just gentle nudges.

"Cort?" he said softly. "It's Henri."

Cort slowly lifted his head. "I thought I heard you come in," he said.  Again, he was glad 

it was the doctor standing there and not Mikol. He wasn't sure he could handle Mikol 

just now.

Henri came closer, extending a hand to Cort.  "Come, my friend. Sit with me at the table a 

moment.  I'll not stay long."

Cort  looked at the hand a while before finally reaching  his own out to take it.   Silently  

he followed Henri to the table, taking a chair opposite him, trying to avoid looking at the 

coal dust on the wall behind the doctor's seat. 

"How are you?" Henri asked.

"I've been better," Cort allowed. "A lot worse, too."  He didn't really feel like 

conversation.

"I've got something for you," Henri said, "something this room can use.  Something...you...

can use."

Cort looked at him almost dully, not terribly interested.  Henri reached into his breast 

pocket and withdrew something wrapped in a bit of cloth.  He lay it on the table between 

the two  of them, keeping his hand resting atop it for a moment as he studied Cort's face. 

"God," he found himself asking silently, amazed he was actually addressing the Deity for 

the second time, "if You are there, please, please let this touch something in Cort's mind." 

"I'll leave you alone with it," he finished, rising to his feet.

Cort looked at the cloth and then at Henri.  "Is it from you?"

"No," Henri smiled.

"Then who?"

"From yourself, Cort," Henri said, then disappeared down the steps.

Cort heard the hiss of the sliding door closing, but he sat still a long time, staring at the 

small bundle in the center of the table. He sighed raggedly and covered his eyes with his 

hand.  So much.  So much he did not understand.  Now this.  Was this just one thing more 

to add to his pile?   He really did not want to open the cloth, especially not after Henri's 

cryptic reply to his question. Whatever that meant, at least this... thing...was not from the

woman who had put the coal in his pocket.

At least ten minutes passed before he let his hand fall and looked again at the cloth. How 

could it be from...him? How could anything here be from himself? He sighed again and 

began stretching his fingers toward it.  He needed to know what it was. Slowly he pulled 

it across the tabletop until it  was right in front of him,  still loosely wrapped.   His teeth 

bit hard into his lower lip  as his fingers moved over the cloth, trying to get some idea of 

what lay within without actually unfolding it. He started, his eyes opening wide for a split 

second.  He knew the shape.  Still not unfolding the cloth, he lay his palm flat atop it very 

much as Henri had done, and closed his eyes.  Using his left hand, he unbuttoned two middle 

buttons of his vest, then his white shirt, and slid his fingers inside, finding the cross that 

hung from the slender chain around his neck. He curled his hand around it, still not opening 

his eyes.  Father Michael had given it to him and he'd worn it ever since.  He sat there and 

quietly breathed, his left hand on the necklace, his right atop the form he felt within the 

cloth.  He just...breathed and let a feeling of connectivity flow through him.

When he knew he was quieted, he opened his eyes, using both hands to unfold the cloth.  

He pulled them back into his lap and gazed at the object that lay now uncovered.   It was 

a  cross,  simply carved from wood.   He picked it up, turning it slowly.   It had been 

carefully fitted together, smoothed, a starburst carved at the intersection of the crosspieces.   

He brought it to his nose.  Pine.  The unmistakable scent of pine.   He ran his thumb pad 

over the starburst.  Doing that made him remember seeing the end of his movie with 

Henri.  He'd stood there, rubbing his thumb over the engraving on the marshal's star.  

He closed his eyes again, continuing to move his thumb. Almost...almost...he could smell 

the dust and the burning wood.   He felt as though  he  were standing on the edge of some 

deep canyon, his toes hanging over the brink, looking down into pitch blackness. He knew 

answers to his questions lay there in the dark and all he had to do was...let go...lean 

forward and let go and he would fall into them.  His eyes snapped open.  Falling into 

bottomless blackness was not easily done. 

He studied the wooden cross.  Henri had said it was from himself.  How could that be?  

He knew he didn't have one like this at the mission, nor at his Grandmother's house.  

How could this have been his?   And why the  starburst at its center?   He looked at  the  

coal smear  on  the  wall.  Stardust. He looked back at the cross. Starburst.  Was there a...

connection?  At the thought, that horrid feeling of his nerves being sandpapered started 

again.  It was very like having a layer of ants under his skin.  He could not sit still with it 

but began his quick pacing about the room, his eyes darting from time to time between 

the coal smear and where the cross lay on the table.  He felt like he was flying into pieces 

and the sensation of being in the warp swirled around him.  He stopped, folding his arms 

tightly around his head. Perhaps he should just let it take him?  Where, though?  Where 

would it take him?  Would he go back to where he'd been before...before all this? A 

desperate yearning for...something...clutched him, squeezed him, pressed him from 

without until he thought his bones would collapse under the weight of it.  He fell hard on 

his knees, his arms still about his head.   "Thou art all beautiful, my love.   There is  no  flaw 

in thee."   The phrases flew through his mind like heated darts. He toppled onto his right 

side, still  holding his head, pulling his knees up to his chest. "Thou art all beautiful, my 

love.  Thou art....," over and over the phrases seared through him. Aqua lights streaked 

around him.  Oh, God!  Something was just beyond the lights!!!  He wanted it...he wanted 

to be...there!! "WAIT!" his mind called out. "Don't go!!"  Green swirled by through the 

glowing aqua. He saw a door opening.  Saw his grandmother. But she was gone.  He knew 

the door had closed.  He remembered that sense of losing her. But then he'd gone 

somewhere else. "Thou art all beautiful, my love."  "I have loved the stars too fondly to be 

fearful of the night."   His fingers sank  into his own hair,  gripping, holding on.  

"Nooooooo!" he moaned.  He used every bit of will left to him and forced himself to 

a sitting position.  "NO!" He put his forehead again on  his knees, pounding with his 

fists on the back of his head.  "Stop!" he moaned to the words. "Please...just stop!"  

He would split in half if they did not stop.  He gasped for breath and one last phrase shot 

quickly through his soul.  "If it were not so I would have told you."   

First message : “Jedi, its Dee…hon, I know you’re probably knee deep in some kind of 

issue right now…or maybe you have found Cort and you two don’t want to be disturbed…

either way,  you need to give Terry and me a call.  We’re worried about you.”

Second message : “Rachel, its your Dad.  Terry’s been calling if I’d heard from you and 

I’ve had to tell him I have not.  Call and let one of us know you’re still alive.”

Third message : “Well, well, my little broom-sweep, found your doe-eyed, love-stricken 

hero yet?  Or is he trying to eat the wallpaper and you’re too busy picking up after him?  

(pause) Don’t you wish you had listened to me?  (another pause)  Terry’s got this whole 

place torn up, so don’t fret yourself in checking in on him or that hillbilly of his.   I doubt 

he’d be able to offer much  in the way of assistance, anyway.  Oh, yes, I almost forgot: 

Brianna says better you than her with Mikol, although I doubt Maximus will agree.”

Rachel clicked off her cell phone, too drained of emotion to get angry with Sid’s swipe 

from afar.  It was far too accurate to elicit  much more than a groan of defeat.   He  always 

seemed to know when she was at her lowest.  That’s your one and only ‘I told you so,’ she 

mentally noted.  She had spent much of the day doing exactly as she had planned, disrobing 

and hiding under the covers of her bed, trying not to replay the morning in her head, 

mulling over Henri’s explanation of why Cort  didn’t remember her.   But the swift curse 

she laid upon Sid’s head and nanotech soul  (or lack thereof) was forgotten as she thought 

about Terry, Deidre, and her father.  Of course they’d be wondering about her.  She hadn’t 

called in several days, because her thoughts were so geared towards making that first 

contact with Cort; the faraway happenings of friend and family had to be relegated to 

‘find out later’ status.  She knew she would have to respond soon.  

No, later, she told her guilty conscience.  A girl has a right to play Scarlett O’Hara every 

now and then. I’ll think about that tomorrow.

She looked  at the rumpled sheets around her,  at the dimming light coming through 

her window.  It was approaching early evening,  and her stomach let her know it really  

didn’t care if she had suffered an emotional blow: it wanted food NOW.  Cort’s shirt lay 

in a lump on a nearby  pillow, unmolested for the most part,  even though she had curled 

up near it and stared at it for several long periods,  finally turning away to stare at the 

lace curtains.   It hurt too much to think that perhaps, if he never regained his memory, 

he’d never wear that again, for her…or take it off for her, for that matter…  

She sat upright,  forcing herself to answer the more immediate call of her appetite,  

shoved the covers off and stomped to the bathroom to shower, suddenly sick of the 

roiling thoughts she had been indulging.  Henri said not to give up, and he’d been 

watching Cort the closest, had expressed his own protection.  She had to believe that 

everything was going to be all right…had to believe….

She was dressed in a fresh set of clothes and trying to arrange her hair in a ponytail 

at the nape of her neck when there came a knock at the door.  Rachel hesitated, hating 

the thought of interacting with anyone, even if it was only the housekeeper; hating even 

more the fact that she wished to shut anyone out. To her own surprise, though, Rachel 

felt a sense of relief when she saw Gerta, looking as if she were afraid to find Rachel 

hanging from the rafters.

The smaller woman took a visibly deep breath and smiled.

“You were worried, weren’t you?”  Rachel asked, gesturing for Gerta to come in.  

“Oh, I…” began Gerta, stammering somewhat and never finishing the response.  She 

looked a bit abashed. 

“It’s okay,” Rachel assured her, and began looking for her purse.  “I’m getting out of 

this room for a bite to eat.  You’re lucky my body has other ideas about how to handle 

blows to the ego.”

“Henri told me about this morning.  I am so very sorry.  I had no idea, Rachel, otherwise 

I would have warned you.   And Henri  didn’t know what I knew about you.   I just  hope 

this  will all straighten itself out,” Gerta said, wringing her hands together.  

Rachel  reached out and put her own hand over them,  smiling with genuine gladness.   

This was what she needed after all: to talk to someone, not hole herself up in a useless 

pity party.

“You want to come eat with me?  I could use the company,” she said.  Gerta nodded and 

soon they were walking through the streets toward a café on the other end of town, a 

distinctive restaurant housed in what used to be a medieval church.  They sat on a terrace 

overlooking the dark waters of the Chlad River, scalloped by great boulders beneath its 

surface , surging onward toward  the loops and bends ahead.  As they ate, Rachel detailed 

more of what had happened.  Gerta listened with grave attention.

“I saw Henri take him toward the tower,” Rachel said,  unable to think of a less direct 

way to broach the  subject of where Mikol kept his prized possession now.   She’d been 

burning with curiosity, especially since she thought she had caught a glimpse of Cort 

looking out of one of the high windows.  “Is…is there a way to get to it?”  She faltered, 

not quite sure how to ask the one thing she thought would give her some hope of access.

Gerta shook her head vigorously, knowing exactly what Rachel was aiming for.  

“You do not want to attempt to approach the tower without knowing the right means.  

Mikol used to be  accused of being  over-cautious.  Paranoid even.   But he knew exactly 

what he was doing when he rebuilt the castle.   He installed an entire maze within that 

house that sits at the tower’s base.  Henri and I know how to get past it, but no one else.  

Once Cort is up there, he is well set in place.   And even there,  he is  watched to make sure 

he does not decide to find a way to escape.  Mikol takes no chances.”

Revulsion made  Rachel pause in  her chewing,  remembering what  Henri said about 

hidden cameras and the hours Mikol would watch his subject.  Revolted even more by 

the thought that Cort,  a man working from the  mindset of the late 19th century, would 

have no idea of being monitored in such a way.   A pang of desperation took away  the 

hunger to finish  her meal.

Gerta saw her expression and patted her shoulder.

“Henri has been given charge over him much of the time, watches him the most.  Watches 

for his health.  He was in a bad way when Mikol  brought him.  Trust me.  Henri does what 

he can for Cort.”

Rachel found herself at a loss for words,  feeling as if her one last  chance had been dashed 

by Gerta’s assertion there was no hope of access to the tower.  Her gaze followed the flow 

of the waters, watching leaves and twigs flutter along with the current until she saw the 

broad band of a bridge spanning the river.  There was still enough sunlight in the sky to 

fall upon a statue installed at the  midpoint of the bridge, a  tall cross,  the slumping figure  

of  Christ  just visible from her vantage point.  Suddenly possessed with an urge to leave 

the café and explore the bridge, Rachel tossed aside the remains of her meal and stood, 

ready to go.

“I’m not ready to go back to my room and I’ve not had much of a chance to look around 

this part of Hromada. Will you show me?”

Gerta  looked a bit taken aback by her abrupt decision, but set  aside her leavings  and 

stood as well.  She would go with Rachel to look around.

They walked past many  houses and structures,  most of which had undergone or were 

going through restoration.  Quite a  number of them were surprisingly old;  at least 

surprising for Rachel, whose general experience with antiquity had been relegated to 

her own state’s history.  Not too many houses in Texas could claim to be more than 200 

years old, so listening to Gerta speak of houses who first saw the medieval rise of the 

Rosenberg family was enough for Rachel to appreciate history even more.  

It was  when they began toward the  bridge that Rachel started to tune  Gerta out,  her 

sight traveling to the broad lines of the metal cross mounted on a large concrete block in 

the middle portion of the rail, the northern sky behind it heavy with night and river mist.  

A suffering and stricken Christ hung from the simple beams of metal, the detail of his body 

muted now by the streetlamps nearby, so that the shadows struck from the many angles 

of the figure’s expression gave it an air of utter devastation.  Rachel forgot to give Gerta 

her attention and stopped in front  of it to stare up.  Something about this figure 

demanded she forget the world around her.

She felt Gerta place a hand on her shoulder.

“I will walk to the end.  I see some friends that I have not spoken to in a while.  I will 

wait for you there,” she murmured.  Rachel nodded, grateful. 

There was no sunlight left in the sky now, so all the light that remained were the 

numerous street lights, turning the cross into a stark, cold frame.  She felt the breezes 

waft through the vale of the river, gently pushing her toward the base, until she stood 

inches away from the soldered foot of  Christ.  

She  tried to  contemplate the meaning of the cross,  tried to remember all the 

contemplations before, those at Easter, and those in quiet times.  But her mind wouldn’t 

rest.  It replayed, like a broken record, the shape of the pine cross Cort had carved, 

replayed her sadness.  She reached out to touch the  cross before her.   Its metal was cold,  

where the pine  cross had  retained the warmth of resin and fingerprints.  Still, the stricken 

Christ gazed down at her.  Were His eyes closed, or open to viewing her?  She couldn’t tell 

in this light.  Rachel bent her head until her cheek lay against the concrete that felt slightly 

damp to her skin.  She held onto the base of the cross with one hand, wishing it were the 

pine cross once more, wishing it was her hands giving it to Cort instead of Henri's.

Did he remember it?   She asked the gazing Christ.  Was it of any use?  I cannot pray 

anything else, she told it.  She closed her eyes, trying to shut out all other senses but that 

of the stone and metal at her touch.  I’m so lost.  I don’t know what to do next.  And he’s 

as far away from me as he had been when Mikol first took him.  

Did it do any good, dear Lord?  Will he ever remember me?  And will You give me the 

strength if he doesn’t?  Is that too much to ask?

She lay there for long moments, unable to do anything but let her thoughts flow into the 

fragments that came to her.   She could only pray in flashes of  feeling now,  and even those 

felt useless and weak.   She raised  her head and looked up at the cross once more.  It would 

be something Cort would like, she thought.  Simple.  Grand.  Powerful.  Saying nothing 

more than what it had always said from the moment Christ breathed his last. “It is 

finished.”

Rachel shivered, her fingers tightening against the metal.  Don’t let it be finished.  

Her eyes  wandered to  the hands nailed to the branches of the cross,  to the slump  of 

the body.  Those hands had felt the pressure of the nail, the pressure of trying to remain 

upright so His lungs could take in air.  She lay her cheek back upon the cement, wondering

…wondering if she could let go like Christ did, knowing that all that could be done, had 

been.  Wondering if she could withstand the pressure.

ON TO PART 17

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE

BACK TO PART 15

BACK TO INDEX