“Demons” by Heather Frost
Patrick O’Donnell
May 10, 1797
Wexford County, Ireland
My
lower back was beginning to ache. I’d been hunched over far too long, but I
wasn’t about to move just yet. I was finally getting it right. The shading
wasn’t too dark around her eyes, and the gentle planes of her small face were
sloped almost to perfection.
This
in itself would have been reason enough for me not to move. I was a
painter—sketching had never come easily to me. When I worked with paints, it
required no thought. The canvas called to me, guiding my strokes. The art of
drawing was an entirely different experience, however. I would agonize over
every line, second-guess every mark I tried to make. Sometimes I enjoyed the
challenge, while at other times I had to force myself through every second.
Today was surely a mixture of both.
There
was another reason I refused to acknowledge the muscles screaming in my body,
the reason for my taking up the sketch at all, even though I would have rather
spent the day working on the painting of my mother’s garden—a painting I’d
started a few days ago. I’d recently finished a painting of my father’s
cherished church, where he was the local pastor, and my mother loved it so much
that she insisted I immortalize her flowers.
That
is how I would have spent the day, had I not remembered the dream.
It
was simple, as dreams go. Just a face. At first, I believed it to be pretty,
though upon further staring I realized the deeper beauty. Small, delicate, and
perhaps more rounded than most people would consider attractive. But there was
something so warm, so real about that face. She had a small smile playing about
her lips, and her hair was long—a combination of blonde and brown. It looked so
soft, and I remember wanting to reach out and touch the subtly waving locks,
though I couldn’t. In my dream, I stood frozen. I simply watched her, and
although she didn’t seem to notice me, I had a feeling that she knew she was
being watched. Her eyes were green at first glance, yet a deeper look revealed
thin flecks of gold. It felt like I stared at her all night. Her image was
burned into my mind, and I was sure that it would be forever. Still, I was
working feverishly to finish this unjust portrayal of her unique beauty. And though
it did not capture her completely, my drawing was one of the best sketches I’d
ever managed to create.
“My
brother, the genius!” a boisterous voice called suddenly, breaking into my
thoughts.
I
glanced up quickly, my pencil pausing instinctively against the paper. I smiled
as I watched my younger brother approach. He had just celebrated his sixteenth
birthday two days ago. I would be eighteen soon, but I knew he would still take
pleasure in the fact that he was “gaining” on me.
Sean
strolled across the yard, stepping through the long green grass with full,
leisurely strides. He looked a great deal like me, though many claimed he had
inherited more of my mother’s attractive looks. He was certainly the stronger
personality between us. Where I was often seen as shy and studious, Sean was
always smiling and thoroughly involved. He was the first to begin a dance, and
the last to leave any social event. Many praised his quick wit, and he was
acutely aware of this admiration. Though I had plenty of reasons to be jealous,
I was not. He was my brother, and I loved him. As he loved me.
“Your
dedication amazes me,” Sean continued, his hands deep in his pockets. It was
the characteristic pose the men of our family took, except he always made it
seem natural rather than nervous. “I’ve never finished a thing in my life,” he
said with an oddly satisfied grin, jumping easily over the small stream that
trickled through our back pasture.
Our
modest home of gray stone and brown wood dominated my view, a dirt lane and
rolling hills the only other things in sight. It was a backdrop I loved, and
one that I often called upon to help fuel my creativity. The old stump that I
sat on was at the back edge of our land, though it wasn’t close enough to the
rudimentary fence for me to recline against. Nevertheless, sitting here
afforded me the most inspirational view, so I suffered through the slight
discomfort.
I
watched Sean close the remainder of the distance between us, and I finally
spoke. “You’ve never regretted that before.”
“Ah,
but I don’t regret it now. I merely state fact.” He stooped before me, and I
quickly lifted my pencil as he snatched my unfinished drawing away. He brought
it closer to his face, so he could inspect it critically. While he did, I
stretched my knotted back muscles and flexed my stiff fingers. I didn’t stand,
though. I didn’t rush him to speak—I knew he would give his opinion with
minimal urging, once he was finished appraising the piece.
I
expected a jibe of some kind, but instead his voice was mildly surprised. “This
is good, Patrick.” He paused, then added playfully, “What is it supposed to
be?”
I
frowned at him, and he laughed as he caught sight of my face. “Merely teasing
you, big brother. Really, it’s quite good. Who is she?”
He
returned the thin book that held my drawings, and as I took it back I quickly
ran my eyes analytically over the sketch. “I don’t know. I saw her face in a
dream.”
“She’s
pretty.”
“Yes,”
I whispered, gazing into her eyes. “She is.”
He
cocked his head, coming around me to look at the sketch over my shoulder. “You
know, she’s almost familiar.”
I
glanced over at him, interested. “Are you sure?”
His
brow furrowed in thought, eyes drawn to her face. “Yes. Still,
I
can’t imagine where I might have seen her. Surely not your dreams, though.”
We
shared a quick laugh at the absurdity of that thought, and then Sean slapped a
hand against my shoulder, pulling me out of my thoughts before I could become
submerged again.
He
knew me well.
“Mother
wishes you to come inside.” His blue eyes—an exact repetition of mine—grew
knowing. “Sarah McKenna came to call on her, and we’re to entertain her until
mother can finish listening to Father’s preparatory sermon.”
I
hesitated, my eyes darting back to the page in front of me. “I’m nearly done.”
Sean
sighed loudly. “Patrick, you are the epitome of hopeless. You are aware that
Mother arranged this for your benefit, surely?”
My
brow furrowed in confusion. “But Sarah called on mother.”
“Diabolical,
isn’t she?”
“Who?
Mother or Sarah?”
Sean
shrugged. “Both?”
I
chuckled with him, scooping up my work under one arm so we could walk together
back to the house.
Sarah
McKenna waited in the small parlor. She was wearing a nice dress of pleasant
blue, and her red curly hair caught my artistic eye as it always did. The color
was just so bright, so vivid. It was piled carefully on her head, in a way only
a woman could accomplish. She was sitting near the window, thumbing through one
of Father’s philosophy books. She looked up as we entered, and a smile spread
across her face. She was my same age, our birthdays mere weeks apart. We had
played together as children, and she had teased me through adolescence. And now
as we approached adulthood, she always seemed to find an excuse to visit my
parents. Her eyes were a beautiful blue, and her face was pale and lightly
freckled. Her face was very feminine, and somehow managed to be smoothly
angular.
She
was perhaps the most beautiful woman in the province; she knew this, sometimes
to her detriment. Still, though her quick tongue could often get her into
trouble, her dazzling eyes always seemed to repair any damage.
She
laid the book aside and stood. “The O’Donnell brothers. What a pleasure.”
“The
pleasure is strictly ours,” Sean rejoined at once, offering a quick bow.
I
added my own nod and a not so graceful, “Good day, Miss McKenna.”
She
smiled at me and then noticed the brown leather book under my arm. “Your
drawings. Have I interrupted the master at work?”
“You
flatter me,” I said honestly, following her glance to my book.
“May
I see your newest masterpiece?”
“If
you wish.”
She
smiled. “I do.”
I
shifted the book to her hands, and she opened it to the last drawing in the
sketchbook—almost in the exact middle. I watched her face as she studied my
drawing, and I felt my stomach tighten when she frowned. Sean stood next to me,
silently watching this exchange. I was grateful that he didn’t leave, because I
knew that I’d soon run out of things to say to her; his wit would come into
play beautifully, as it always did. Finally, Sarah looked up at me, her eyes
impressed. “You’ve improved. The last sketch of yours I saw was . . .”
“Horrible
beyond comprehension?” Sean supplied, his tone exceedingly helpful.
I
sent a warning glance toward him, but Sarah was laughing lightly.
“It
wasn’t like your paintings,” she admitted. “However, this . . . You have
captured emotion. Except it is almost a nameless one. Who is she? And what is
she thinking that creates that smile and so captures your attention?” She shook
her head lightly. “Whatever it is, I would certainly like to learn it.”
I
nearly blushed but somehow managed to keep calm. “I don’t know who she is. And
what she is thinking . . .” I shrugged slowly. “Perhaps I’ll never know.”
Sarah
smiled at me. “Why, Patrick, you speak so mysteriously.”
“I
don’t mean to.”
Sean
grunted. “Of course he does. Miss McKenna, he is just so superior, isn’t he?”
“Yes,
he is.” Watching the way her eyes drifted back toward me—so intently, so
easily—I suddenly realized a startling truth. Sarah McKenna was genuinely taken
with me.
Perhaps
even more startling, I realized in that moment that I might genuinely be taken
with her.
To read the second half of this exclusive from Heather Frost head over to (moonlightlacemayhem.blogspot.com/)
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