The Widow's Husband by Ansary Tamim

Author:Ansary, Tamim [Ansary, Tamim]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Numina Press
Published: 2009-09-04T04:00:00+00:00

27

Rupert Oxley came out of his first-story quarters, pulling on his jacket and adjusting his spectacles. “What’s all the commotion? Eh? What’s going on out there?” He peered about with a queasy grin. He had fretted about this possibility all night. Not that he could blame himself, that much he had settled in his mind. It was Hudson who took things over the edge, and even Hudson could not be held to account. The wench offered herself so willingly, up to a point. So willingly! And yet—again—the whole episode left Rupert feeling slimy with remorse.

Now he stood buttoning his fly and hoping the man in the courtyard wasn’t her husband, or father, or some blasted thing. He could not make out the fellow’s features, but the darkness seemed to magnify his size. In fact—good lord. He loomed like a horse! Rupert moved hesitantly into the yard. Perhaps he could set matters right with a few words of explanation. The girl’s willingness—that was the point to stress. Her almost frightening willingness. He might offer a bit of advice, too: rein her in, he might say. Oh, where was the damned translator when he was needed! “See here, old man—”

But the beggar pushed past Rupert with the wordless force of a boulder dislodged from a mountain slope and moving on a course set by gravity itself. Rupert remembered some story about a mad old hermit who lived in the hills. He caught a flash of molten eyes. The intruder swept upstairs to the second story and flung open the middle door of three. How did he know that Hudson lay in there, asleep? The madman strode right to Hudson’s bedside and without a word of warning brought his staff down—thwack!—on the poor man’s belly. Hudson let out a scream. Jerked out of slumbers, he balled up and clapped his arms over his head to defend against he knew not what.

The hermit raised his staff again. Rupert had to do something. He rushed to the old man from behind, wrapped his arms around him— “Hoy! Here now!” —and tightened his grip to squeeze the fight out of the lunatic, his mind fluttering with punishments he would order once the brute had been subdued—beating! imprisonment! Attacking an English officer in his sleep, good God!— hanging, perhaps! An example must—

But the hermit broke his grip and flung him away like a discarded jacket. Rupert slammed against the wall and dropped to the floor. How—? He watched Hudson scuttle on all fours toward the open door, trailing bedclothes. Rupert jumped up to grab the hermit’s cloak and keep him from giving chase. “Get my pistols!” he roared to Hudson.

At that sound, however, the hermit turned and came at Rupert, swinging his stick. He held it by the thin end. The other end was knobby and looked like a mace. Rupert made a grab but the knob hit his palm with such force it left his bones tingling, and then he couldn’t close his fingers! The hermit yanked the stick back and reared it for another blow.

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