MY HEART IN STONE

PART 18:

If her disastrous day in the kitchen had been taxing, the day after with its chores piled up and 

surly comments made by the others in the household made today doubly wearisome.  At times, 

Rachel had to stop and do breathing exercises, not because she was winded, but because she kept 

reviewing the minutes she had spent with Cort, trying to balance her heart against her head.  

The disappointment made the organs in her torso tremble, causing her to take breath in shallow 

sips, her heart beating as though running a marathon in place.  

Cort had looked so shaken himself, by her references of home, by telling him she had been the 

one to retrieve him.  Going through the motions now of folding, wiping, dusting, Rachel felt 

heartsick.  No longer did she have some idea about a possible course of action, not since the ones 

she had chosen so far had led to disaster.  There were no more reserves of chance to be found, 

and she was having a hard time confronting that fact.

This isn’t pressure, she thought.  This is torture.  This is madness protracted, extended, frozen in 

place.
 
She had finished folding the towels and other laundry items, placed them in the basket to be 

taken to the various rooms later in the day.  Now she must do the usual sweeping and dusting.  

Top floor first?  No!  Mikol was bound to still be up there.  He never said which floor she would 

have to do first.  Just that she did it.  So she would start from the bottom….take her time.  Which 

felt like a huge rebellion in itself, but she didn’t care.  She rarely hated anyone, even if they were 

to scream in her face, but a hot bloom of ire and simmering hate had been forming in the pit of
her stomach since Mikol had scraped her dry of dignity that morning.  She couldn’t get rid of it, 

knowing what Mikol had done to get Cort trapped in Kamen, knowing what Mikol would do to 

keep him there.  Knowing what Mikol would do once he got what he wanted.  

Because of that hate, she was beginning to appreciate what Ellen had said to him : “some people 

deserve to die.”

No, no.  She couldn’t afford to think like that, not now, not when patience called for fortitude, 

when valor called for dignity, when courage called for persistence.  Cort had the cross and she 

had…what?  She had given him the last bit of whatever trigger she could think of, the last signal 

she could muster to let him know that it would be all right.  But he had looked so torn asunder, 

as though everything that should have comforted him had been words of doom.  She had wanted 

to fling her arms around him, beg him to remember the azaleas in the night, the little stream in 

the mountains of Spain.  Give her something in return that would comfort her in the knowledge 

that he would not remain locked in confusion.

But now she had nothing left.  Not a hope, not a promise of a life together, not even the brooch.  

She knew she must feel something of guilt about giving away a present from Deidre, but there 

was nothing there to feel except a numb acceptance.  

Dear Christ.  I’ve failed.  I can’t take this.  If he never remembers me, I just know I won’t be 

able to live with it.  

She paused in sweeping the dining room floor to lean against the broom, to look out a window 

that opened up onto a vista of undulating forest, the full strength of the sunlight turning the 

variegated greens to dull spires.  No shadows gave the hills depths.  All color washed out by a sun 

in raging noon.  Birds knew not to fly at this point in the day.  The bare sun would sap their 

strength.  Heat streamed in through cracks in the window frame.  

This is an ogre’s castle and I am now part of its fossilized and forgotten backdrop.  

Rachel found she couldn’t even cry.  The sun was burning away that form of relief as well.

Henri, watching Cort move in his almost trance-like state, did not want to leave him alone.  He 

started across the room toward where Cort was standing, staring up at the padlock, and stopped, 

truly startled when he got close enough to see the lower end of the wooden cross Cort was 

clutching so tightly. Several small drops of blood were sliding down it,  one poised to drip off its 

bottom tip.  He bit his lip at the sight.  "Cort?" he said so softly it was nearly a whisper. Cort 

gave no indication he had heard him.  "Cort?" he tried again. "Can I help you?" 

Cort shook his head, slowly, negatively, then murmured, "Please go now, Doctor."  His eyes had 

not left the lock. 

With great reluctance, Henri went back to the doorway, lingering partway down the steps, 

watching Cort. Finally shutting the door, he hurried to the elevator, intending to get as quickly 

as possible to his monitors in the lower regions of the castle. As he went he prayed that Mikol 

would not be there. 

Cort  felt...familiar.   Yes, that was the word.   What he  felt as he stared at  the keyhole  was 

definitely familiar.  It was that same feeling he got when standing in a street, watching the eyes 

of a man with a gun, waiting to draw.  He was deadly quiet now, settled into some deep resource 

of ultimate, concentrated determination.  His fingers, gripping the cross and the brooch so 

tightly, now flexed with the muscle-memory of repeated action.  He looked down, then, at his 

hand, a wry smile quirking one corner of his mouth.  His weapons were different for this battle. 

He knew, though, that just as in the street, he was fighting for his life again, that the battle was 

just as real, the outcome just as important. 

Something had begun.  Deep in him some gear had started into motion.  He could not stop. He 

would die if he did.  He knew that. 

So he bent his knees, settling onto the floor, then lay on his back, his eyes on the keyhole...that 

one dark spot so like the dilated pupil of  a man he must kill or be killed by.  Briefly, he closed 

his lids, saying as one knowing death might be near, "Father, into Your hands I commend my 

spirit." 

Looking at the lock, he simply breathed for several moments, willing the tenseness in his muscles 

to relax.  He'd set both the cross and the brooch on his chest, his hands lying quietly at his sides.  

Then he reached for the star pin, lifting it so that it blocked out his view of the keyhole.  Was it 

the key?  He studied it, tipping it slightly so that the light reflected in different ways off its many 

facets.   She had said, her voice desperate, urgent,  "Remember the stars,  Cort!"    He did 

remember stars, but they twinkled into being in Arizona skies.  "No," he whispered.  That wasn't 

right. 

He returned the star to his chest, lifting the cross in its stead.  "You?" he said to it. "Is it you?"  

For the first time, as he held it high above him, he noticed the red smear of his own blood down 

its lower piece.  He recalled asking Henri who it was from and being told "You, Cort."  So, it 

was appropriate that if this were his cross, that his blood should be on it.  Father Michael had 

talked with him at great length about the cross each of us must carry.  He could hear again the 

sound of the gentle priest's voice.  "And what is a cross, Cort, but that thing upon which we can 

die?"   Now, lying there as he was, he looked up at the bloodied cross, knowing the surety of that. 

His cross? He turned it as he had turned the brooch, studying the cuts  that formed the central 

starburst.  Had...he...made this?  Why? For whom? If he had, when? And why was it made of 

pine?  He brought it to his nose, inhaling its distinctive scent, closing his eyes.  Suddenly he could 

see pines!  An endless forest of them. Snow sifted down through their  needled canopy and lay 

deep on the  ground beneath.  He was....where? Going somewhere?  Yes!  He was...following 

someone. He knew he was.  He knew he was trying not to be seen.  My God! When had he ever 

done anything like that! 

He quieted  himself again and inhaled the pine scent once more.  He waited, eyes closed.  Cold  

air seemed to drift past his face. He was on horseback...in the midst of pines. Someone was with 

him.  He could feel the presence of someone pressed close to his chest, feel the warmth of their 

body against his.  Who?  Who would be riding with him like that? Had it been...her? 

His left hand moved to his cheek, touching the spot where the young woman had briefly pressed 

her lips.  She knew him well enough to do that.  He remembered the flashing look in her large 

eyes.  She had wished she could do...more.  Tears stung him as he  remembered her eyes.  She 

caused a movement in his soul. He needed to find out why. 


He opened his eyes again, looking at the unyielded keyhole.  Perhaps he was doing it wrong?  

Perhaps neither item...alone...were the key? So he held up the cross with his right hand and with 

his  left,  positioned the star  brooch not far in  front of it.   Was that  it?   He stared  at the 

combination a long while, but the lock held fast. A great, long sigh escaped his lips and both 

hands fell limply back onto his chest. 

He wasn't getting anywhere.  Oh, God. He wasn't. Just snowy pine forests that didn't seem to 

help all that much, but left  him with even more questions unanswered than before. Was there 

anything left to try? Anything at all? When he had smashed the coal, had he also smashed what 

he needed for the key? He'd tried everything...hadn't he? Despair flooded through him. Knowing 

there was so much out there that he had no memory of was more than he could bear. And he had 

hurt the young woman again.  He knew he had. He could not keep on doing that. Every time he 

would encounter her, he would just hurt her again. She needed something from him that he did 

not have...not  now...to give.  He  couldn't keep on doing that to her.   Maybe if  he just...left? 

Managed somehow to get out of Kamen and just...disappear? Perhaps Henri would help him? 

Yes. He would do that. 

He started to sit up, determined to go find the doctor, but his movement caused both the cross 

and the star to slide off his chest. Leaning on his right elbow, he stared at them. The cross had 

fallen atop the brooch. He blinked. That was... right. Suddenly he knew that was right! Quickly 

he gathered them up, lay  back down, then  held the cross up with his right hand.  Holding his 

breath, he slowly moved the brooch with his left hand so that it was beyond the cross. He didn't 

blink. He didn't breathe. A star beyond the pine. Pine branches in front of a starry night sky. 

The clear memory of peace came to him. Peace like he'd never really known, lying upon him as 

tangibly as the moonlight. His breath came out, long and slow, as he sank into the lost moment. 

His thoughts came, clear, vivid thoughts. If this were all he ever had...this moment...what more 

could he think to ask for? He saw the dark pine branches, their edges limned in silver moonlight. 

He felt himself gliding out and away into the mystical, quiet night air, centering himself in the 

perfect silence of the stars. Yes. These...these were the stars. "Remember the stars." These stars. 

He heard himself saying to someone, "I love to watch the worlds wink into view." Then he told 

them about lying on his Grandmother's haystacks, told them about loving the stars so much you 

could have no fear of the night. He remembered sucking in a long, slow breath and turning on 
his left toward...someone. He said more.  What was it? Ah...yes.  "I fear, though,"  and he was 

twining long, dark curls through his fingers as he spoke, "that He has made you too beautiful, 

my Love. My soul is all but out of me tonight." He had leaned down, his lips finding...hers...then 

he'd pulled back, lips hovering near, just far enough from hers to speak. 

"I love you, my Rachel, with my breath, with my tears, with my smiles. I love you with all that I 

was, all that I am, all that I may ever be." 

He stopped breathing again. Rachel. He said the name silently, only in his mind. Then his lips 

moved and he whispered, "Rachel."  He felt his being imploding, folding in on itself as literally 

as though all his cells were being rearranged. He rolled onto his side, ball-like, shot through with 

great stabs of memory, greater stabs of love suddenly remembered. He felt he might burst apart 

with it, so suddenly was he filled with the totality of it all. The end of Redemption was there, the 

badge unimportant, all that mattered was that she had come, come in her green dress and pulled 

him out of the drowning pain. Rachel. Yes. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Tears ran down his face. The 

blue house, Bud, Terry, Dee...and Sid. Strength and Honor. Maximus. "I will have my vengeance 

in this life or the next."   Zucchabar. Rome.  The tunnel. The awfulness of being sucked from 

Rachel's presence into the swirling aqua that had brought him...he gasped. Here! It had brought 

him...here!! Oh, God...it had! 

"RACHEL!" The cry broke through him and he sat up, the sound of her name still echoing in his 

ears. She. She was...Rachel! His Rachel! My...God!! 

He scrambled to his knees, started to stand, fell to his knees again, still feeling as though his cells 

were churning. Rachel! He had to get to her, had to let her know  he...knew! Managing to gain 

his feet, he staggered to the little window, looking out at the keep.  She was there! His  Rachel. 

She was there. He was wild with the need to find her. Running across the room, he flung open the 

entranceway, and raced down the curving stone steps, flight after flight,  falling more than once. 

He burst through the door that led into the courtyard, taking two running steps across it before 

he saw Mikol standing just outside the keep, regarding him like a hunting falcon. 

He stopped, panting hard, trying to reassert control over his body, his mind.  Not Mikol.  Not...

now.  He began walking, a more normal pace, crossed the courtyard and approached  Mikol. 

There was no getting around it. He stopped again, inclined his head slightly, saying, "Mikol." 

"In a hurry, were we?" 

Cort licked his lips.  It took every ounce of self-control he could muster not to  punch the man. 

But he could not let him  know  that he remembered.  His mind raced, searching  for some 

explanation. "I...I have not eaten yet today," he said, the words sounding lame even to him. "I 

was suddenly...very hungry. Thought I'd go round up something in the kitchen." 

"Henri failed to bring you a tray?" 

Oh, God. He didn't want to get the doctor in trouble. "I...I asked him not to. Wasn't feeling too 

spry earlier." 

"No? What was the matter?" 

Cort tried to keep his eyes on Mikol, not let them wander to the keep, to where he needed to be. 

"Not sure," he shrugged off-handedly.  "Stomach was off for a while."  His eyes met Mikol's. 

"Fine now, though." 

"I'm glad to hear it," Mikol replied, his face expressionless, not letting Cort read his thoughts at 

all. "It has been a while since you and I had one of our conversations, Cort. I'd like to do that 

shortly. Please make yourself available as soon as you have...dined." His ice blue eyes moved over 

the young man. Cort was lying. He would find out why. Reaching out his right hand, he cupped 

its  fingers over Cort's shoulder, squeezing bruisingly hard.  Suddenly releasing him,  Mikol 
walked toward the smaller building Cort had just left. 

Cort watched him until he disappeared inside, then he hurried up the steps of the keep to its main

entrance. Where would she be? He wanted to call her name, but knew he shouldn't. He looked in 

the living room and was preparing to move on when a thought slammed into him.  He had been 

warped here, but her...how had she...? She must've gone back to Emerald City with Sid and the 

others. What then? She was here in Kamen...alone? Where was Terry? Why was she risking so 

much by herself?  The muscles of his face tightened at the thought of what  she must have gone  

through, all that she must have done. And she had gotten work here in the castle? My God! Right 

under Mikol's  very nose!   How  had she managed to get away with THAT?  Then he smiled, 

remembering her as he'd seen her in the kitchen...a waif in every sense of the word. That brought 

the memory of  her eyes  back to him...the look  he had caused to form in them,  the hurt,  the 

disappointment, the pain. He had to find her!  Where WAS she!? 

He  hurried through the dining room,  Henri's office, the other rooms on the main floor,  then 

dashed up the stairs to the next level. He poked his head into Mikol's office. No, not there. He 

even checked the bathrooms. No. All that was left on this floor was Mikol's bedroom. Quietly he 

opened the carved door and stood there, one hand on the door, one on its frame. 

There she was, backlit by one of his large windows as she bent forward, dusting a low table beside

his bed. He couldn't speak, but only look at her. Yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes! She started to straighten, 

started to turn, a feather duster in her hand. 

He swallowed hard. His heart had risen so that it was blocking his throat. He swallowed again, 

tears welling in his eyes. But he looked at her, everything he was glowing in them despite their 

tears. Then he said her name. 

"Rachel." 

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