Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine
some emerged as colourful characters who enthralled and amazed him. But for days now they had been working with routine ill-defined personalities who replied in dull monosyllables to all the questions put to them and who did little to further their research. The only different thing about this girl – as far as he knew – were her looks: those put her in a class by herself.
The snow was thickening, whirling sideways, blotting out the buildings on the far side of the street, muffling the sound of car tyres moving north towards the city. He did not bother to listen to the girl’s words. Her soft English voice sounded tired and blurred under hypnosis and he would have to listen again and again to the tape anyway as Cohen transcribed it and tried to fathom where her comments, if there were any, came from.
‘And now, Joanna,’ the Professor’s voice rose slightly as he shifted on the high stool to make himself more comfortable. ‘We’ll go back again, if you please, back before the darkness, back before the dreams, back to when you were on this earth before.’ He is getting bored too, Sam thought dryly, catching sight of his boss glancing at his watch.
The girl suddenly flung out her arm, catching a pile of books on the table beside the couch and sending them crashing to the floor. Sam jumped, but she seemed not to have noticed. She was pushing herself up onto her elbow, her eyes open, staring in front of her.
Cohen was all attention. Quietly he slid from the stool and as she stood up he moved it out of her way.
Sam recovered from his surprise and wrote hastily: Subject somnambulant; moved from couch. Eyes open; pupils dilated. Face pale and drawn.
‘Joanna,’ Cohen spoke softly. ‘Would you not like to sit down again, lassie, and tell us your name and where you are.’
She swung round, but not to face him. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the middle of the room. She opened her mouth as if trying to speak and they saw her run her tongue across her lips. Then she drew herself up with a shudder, clutching at the neck of her sweater.
‘William?’ she whispered at last. Her voice was husky, barely audible. She took a step forward, her eyes still fixed on the same point. Sam felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as he found himself looking at it too, half expecting someone or something to appear.
His notebook forgotten, he waited, holding his breath, for her to speak again, but she stayed silent, swaying slightly, her face drained of colour as she began to stare around the room. Disconcerted, he saw that huge tears had begun to run slowly down her cheeks.
‘Tell us where you are and why you are crying.’ The quiet insistent voice of Professor Cohen seemed to Sam a terrible intrusion on her grief but to his surprise she turned and looked straight at him. Her face had become haggard and old. ‘William,’ she said again, and then gave a long desperate cry which tore through Sam, turning his guts to water. ‘William!’ Slowly she raised her hands and stared at them. Sam dragged his eyes from her face and looked too. As he did so he heard a gasp and realised with a shock that the sound had come from his own throat.
Her hands had begun to bleed.
Electrified, he pushed himself away from the window and reached out towards her but a sharp word from Cohen stopped him.
‘Don’t touch her. Don’t do anything. It’s incredible. Incredible,’ the older man breathed. ‘It’s auto-suggestion, the stigmata of religious fanatics. I’ve never seen it before. Incredible!’
Sam stood only feet from her as she swayed once again, cradling her hands against her chest as if to ease their pain. Then, shivering uncontrollably, she fell to her knees. ‘William, don’t leave me. Oh God, save my child,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘Let someone come. Please … bring us … bring him … food. Please … I’m so cold … so cold …’ Her voice trailed away to a sob and slowly she subsided onto the floor. ‘Oh God … have mercy on … me.’ Her fingers grasped convulsively at the rush matting which carpeted the room, and Sam stared in horror as the blood seeped from her hands onto the sisal, soaking into the fibres, congealing as she lay there emitting dry, convulsive sobs.
‘Joanna? Joanna!’ Cohen knelt awkwardly beside her and, defying his own instructions, he laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Joanna, lass, I want you to listen to me.’ His face was compassionate as he touched her, lifting a strand of her heavy dark hair, gently stroking her cheek. ‘I want you to stop crying, do you hear me? Stop crying now and sit up, there’s a good girl.’ His voice was calm, professionally confident as the two men watched her, but there was growing anxiety in his eyes. Slowly her sobs grew quieter and she lay still, the harsh rasping in her throat dying away. Cohen bent closer, his hand still on her shoulder. ‘Joanna.’ Gently he shook her. ‘Joanna, are you hearing me? I want you to wake up. When I count three. Are you ready? One … two … three …’
Under his hand her head rolled sideways on the matting. Her eyes were open and unblinking, the pupils dilated. ‘Joanna, do you hear me? One, two, three.’ As he counted Cohen took her by the shoulders and half lifted her from the floor. ‘Joanna, for the love of God, hear me …’
The panic in the man’s voice galvanised Sam into action. He dropped on his knees beside them, his fingers feeling rapidly for a pulse in the girl’s throat.
‘Christ! There’s nothing there!’
‘Joanna!’ Cohen was shaking her now, his own face ashen. ‘Joanna! You must wake up, girl!’ He calmed himself with a visible effort. ‘Listen to me. You are going to start to breathe now, slowly and calmly. Do you hear me? You are breathing now, slowly, and you are with William and you have both eaten. You are happy. You are warm. You are alive, Joanna! You are alive!’
Sam felt his throat constrict with panic. The girl’s wrist, limp between his fingers, had begun to grow cold. Her face had taken on a deathly pallor, her lips were turning grey.
‘I’ll ring for an ambulance.’ Cohen’s voice had lost all its command. He sounded like an old man as he scrambled to his feet.
‘No time.’ Sam pushed the Professor aside. ‘Kneel here, by her head, and give her mouth-to-mouth. Now man! When I say so!’ Crouching over the girl he laid his ear to her chest. Then, the heel of one hand over the other, he began to massage her heart, counting methodically as he did so. For a moment Cohen did not move. Then he bent towards her mouth. Just as his lips touched hers Joanna drew an agonising, gasping breath. Sam sat back, his fingers once more to her pulse, his eyes fixed on her face as her eyelids flickered. ‘Go on talking to her,’ he said urgently under his breath, not taking his eyes from her face. Her colour was beginning to return. His hands were once more on her ribs, gently feeling the slight flutter of returning life. One breath, then another; laboured painful gulps of air. Gently Sam chafed her ice-cold hands, feeling the sticki-ness of her blood where it had dried on her fingers and over her palms. He stared down at the wounds. The cuts and grazes were real: lesions all around the fingernails and on the pads of the fingers, blisters and cuts on her palms, and a raw graze across one knuckle.
Cohen, making a supreme effort to sound calm, began to talk her slowly out of her trance. ‘That’s great, Joanna, good girl. You’re relaxed now and warm and happy. As soon as you feel strong enough I want you to open your eyes and look at me … That’s lovely … Good girl.’
Sam watched as she slowly opened her eyes. She seemed not to see the room, nor the anxious men kneeling beside her on the floor. Her gaze was focused on the middle distance, her expression wiped smooth and blank. Cohen smiled with relief. ‘That’s it. Now, do you feel well enough to sit up?’
Gently he took her shoulders and raised her. ‘I am going to help you stand up so you can sit on the couch again.’ He glanced at Sam, who nodded. Carefully, the two men helped her to her feet and guided her across the room; as she lay down obediently Cohen covered her with the rug. Her face was still drawn and pale as she laid her head on the pillow. She curled up defensively, but her breathing had become normal.
Cohen hooked his stool towards him with his toe, and perching himself on it, he leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. ‘Now, Joanna,