Page 11 of Whispers of Helena
I hesitate, then nod, gathering my Bible and blanket. As I pass him, his scent lingers, earthy and sun-warmed, with a faint trace ofsweat. It’s something solid, grounding, and I can’t deny that it wakes up something inside me.
“Goodnight, Mr. Hayes,” I say quietly, pausing at the door.
He doesn’t look at me, but his reply is steady. “Goodnight, Helena.”
I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as my heart thunders in my chest. Outside, the porch creaks gently under his weight, and I know he’s still standing there, staring out at the land.
Hands
Silas
The kitchen humswith a steady undercurrent of routine. Most of the hands are still out moving the herd. A hush hangs over those who are left behind, broken only by the clinking of forks and the rare murmured word. Eli leans forward, talking about some new store in town, his tone too bright, too eager. Kiran listens beside him, his small legs swinging beneath the bench.
I grab a plate, moving with purpose, keeping my focus on the food. Helena stands at the sink, washing dishes, her back straight.
“How did he do this morning?” I ask without looking up.
Helena pauses, her hands resting in the soapy water. “Good,” she says after a moment. “Eager to learn, like you said.”
Drying her hands, she walks to the stove to stir the pot. The clatter of the serving spoon against metal as I dish out my food is the only response I give. I take my usual seat at the head of the table, separate from the rest. I like the noise at a distance. It reminds me I’m still here without demanding anything of me.
Kiran glances my way. “Pa, can we go into town soon? Eli says they got toys at the new store.”
I set my fork down. “We’ll see.” I have no use for town. People there talk too much, watch too closely. Here, I’m just a shadow that keeps the land in order. I prefer it that way.
The room settles again until a sudden crash from the kitchen breaks it apart. A pan clattering loudly on the floor fills the room.
“Ouch!” Helena’s voice is sharp.
Without a second thought, I’m up and heading for the kitchen, my boots pounding against the wooden floor. The pot lies on the floor, contents splattered, and Helena’s holding her hand close to her chest. Her face pales as her eyes meet mine, wide and glassy.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’ll clean it up.”
Ignoring her words, I step close, taking her hand. The burn is already rising, red and angry. I guide her to the sink, turning on the lukewarm water, and press her hand beneath it. Her hand feels small and fragile under mine.
“You burned yourself.”
She doesn’t reply, her eyes fixed on me as the water runs over her hand. The kitchen feels wrong; too still. The sounds of the men at the table fade to nothing, silence taking its place.
Then, quiet as death, I hear it.
Silas.
It’sa voice I barely recognize. Just a whisper, soft and summoning, licking at my ears, echoing loudly in the back of my mind. A searing chill electrifies my spine, forcing me to let go of her hand as if it burns me. I step back, my chest tightening as the sound of the rushing water grows deafening.
“Did you say my name?” My words are rough and uneven, as if torn from my throat.
Helena shakes her head slowly, her dark hair swaying with the motion. Her lips part, forming a silent “no,” but her expression is calm, almost unnervingly so.
I study her face, every line, every flicker of movement, searching for something, anything, to tell me she’s lying. Butthere’s nothing there, just the steady rise and fall of her breath and the faint sheen of sweat on her brow.
That voice was real. Ithadto be real. And she’s the only woman here.
Helena reaches for the kitchen towel. Slowly patting her hand dry, she never takes her eyes off me.
The space between us feels oppressive now, like the air is too thick to breathe. The kitchen itself seems smaller, darker, as though the shadows have grown longer and the corners deeper.
“Do you have burn cream?” she asks timidly, yet it cuts through the silence like a knife.
