Between Dusk and Dawn

By Tai Le Grice

"My love is infinite. It will always remain and wherever you go, wherever he sends you... I will find you."

 

A life lived and a love lost. Waiting through lifetimes to be re-united and driven to put right the mistakes of the past, or be trapped forever in regret.

Independent and enigmatic Storm is tormented by a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cranthorpe Millner Publishers
• Release date: Aug 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781912964666

Tai Le Grice

Tai Le Grice is a study in contrasts; a woman who prefers to live in fairly isolated small-town New Zealand with her brother and menagerie of animals; a woman who is fascinated by interpersonal relationships and writes eloquently about the nuances and subtleties of friendships, intimacies and acquaintances. Her favourite saying is: ‘Every day above ground is a good one’, capturing her quintessential black humour contrasted with her practical nature and positive outlook. Tai has had numerous jobs during her colourful life but writing has been a constant grounding force, providing a creative outlook for her active and imaginative brain.

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Between Dusk and Dawn

Tai Le Grice

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Copyright © Tai Le Grice (2021)

The right of Tai Le Grice to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published by Cranthorpe Millner Publishers (2021)

ISBN 978-1-912964-66-6 (eBook)

www.cranthorpemillner.com

Cranthorpe Millner Publishers

Acknowledgments

Much as we might sometimes wish they did, books don’t write themselves. They take hard graft and dedication, beyond simply the inspiration, and without support and encouragement, they might never be realised.

Thank you, first and foremost to my sister/Muse, Vicki Reed, who kept me from quitting multiple times. She has discovered the true power of the Muse and without her wisdom, her warmth, her support, her unflagging faith and belief in me, this story would have remained untold.

Thank you to Kirsty Jackson and Shannon Bourne of Cranthorpe Millner who have treated me not only as an author in their stable but as a friend. Your acceptance of my idiosyncrasies and my undoubtedly frustrating lack of cyber-skills has made this journey one of incredible joy and satisfaction. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the thrill of working with you to see the final result.

Thank you to my newly-discovered friends in the writing community: Vianne Max (aka Anahera), Beth Bellamy (aka Keltic Angel), B.J. Frazier, and ShyLovedHeart. It has been an incredible experience to connect with other like-minded souls, even if we all write in our own unique ways and have our own unique voices. May the Universe bless you all in your endeavours.

A word of thanks also to Tony Anderson who very kindly permitted me use of his words to open this book. You’re a special kind of poet, my friend.

And finally, to those who open this book and discover the story and its people for yourselves. Thank you for vesting your time and energy in permitting me to share my world with you. You are what this is all about.

To the red threads of destiny that bind us all together in the tapestry of the Universe.

I even still don’t know

Who you are

But I love you.

Tony Anderson, The Vintner of Sorrow. (@TonythePoet)

Shards of sunlight filtered through gathering clouds, carpeting the valley with the illusion of scattered jewels and promises of Spring in a fading afternoon.

This will all be yours one day, Kael said, his hand locked within Tywll’s and his head resting on the reassuring solidity of Tywll’s shoulder. He indicated the valley laid out below them with a sweep of his free hand. What place will there be for me then? When you are king?

Tywll turned his head to Kael and laid his lips to his lover’s moonlight hair.

When I am king, who will there be to challenge your place at my side?

Sitting side by side on the rocky spur beneath the shadows of the approaching storm, they heard nothing until the knight dropped a gauntleted hand to Tywll’s shoulder.

I beg pardon for the intrusion, your highness, but the king has made request of your presence.

Tywll jumped, immediately dropping Kael’s hand, and the moment would linger in his memory, his regret, for the eternity to come.

Gerion!

The grim, armour-clad knight remained expressionless, merely indicating the riders behind him with a tilt of his head.

Your mount awaits, your highness. As does your father.

Coming reluctantly to his feet, strangely apprehensive, Tywll cast his gaze down at Kael.

I’ll be back, he said. You know where to meet me and I’ll be there as soon as I can. I promise.

In that very moment, the rain began, the storm unleashing itself with all the wrath of the gods, and he should have known not to turn his back.

But he ducked his shoulders and followed Gerion, leaving Kael behind, alone, and they were never to see each other again.

He discovered the truth much later. Begging leave to return to the stables for his horse, his only thought to find Kael, his father’s expression told him everything.

No, he whispered, falling to his knees. Please, Father. Tell me it isn’t so.

His father’s expression was grim and unflinching and his dark eyes bore hint of neither empathy nor remorse.

Your destiny is to inherit my kingdom and my throne, not to wander distracted by the fickle playthings of your youth, he said, his words slipping into Tywll’s heart with all the power and finality of royal steel. It is done.

Chapter One

Sunlight bled down the mountaintops to merge with rising shadows, the afternoon fading to the oncoming night and rapidly approaching storm.

Planting his feet firmly to either side of the big black motorcycle, Storm raised his face to the wind blowing in from the north to feel its chill fingers running through his coarsely-cropped black hair.

Rolling himself a cigarette and cupping his hands to light it before swinging smoothly from the bike, he shed his leather jacket, all he wore above jeans and boots, and drew deeply of the smoke, letting it escape his mouth in a thin stream to the darkening sky before lifting his arms, throwing back his head, and closing his eyes in a primal salute to the heavens. Pinching out the smouldering butt and tossing it aside, he jogged in long, sure strides to the rock outcrop overlooking the valley to stand, legs akimbo, staring out at the lights appearing one-by-one in the town below.

Unwanted thoughts scurried through his mind and tension rippled through his body. He’d come here to escape not to remember. He’d come to push the past away, to forget, to absolve himself of the pain. Why did it always rise to challenge him?

An image of his mother rose into Storm’s thoughts and his fists involuntarily clenched. Suicide, his father had said. She’d betrayed him and been caught and her guilt had consumed her so that her only option had been to take her own life. Words. Lies. Storm knew better. Anger and resentment rose to match the tempest building around him, and he bowed his head to hold at bay bitter tears.

Already the racing clouds obscured what had but a moment before been the muted shadows of the dusk, the crescent moon a whispering spirit in the remaining intermittent spaces. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed across the turbulent sky and when the rain finally descended in sheets sufficient to completely obscure any remaining view of the valley, he howled his rage, his frustration, and his loneliness to the unheeding heavens.

Having at last screamed himself hoarse, he dropped to his heels and remained, and not until the storm had worn itself out and the first hint of dawn tainted the sky with blood did he finally rise to his feet. Glancing one last time at the distant horizon, he returned to the bike, taking it at reckless speed back down the mountain.

The familiar image flowed in swift, sure strokes of charcoal onto the page, gradually taking shape: the dark and enigmatic figure standing on an outcrop of rock, face lifted to a storm-cast sky, muscular torso bared, screaming in pain and sorrow and rage. With equal confidence, Indy added the silhouettes of the trees which lay behind and the barely discernible crescent moon caught between the rolling thunderheads and the first subtle suggestions of rain beginning to fall and, when he was done, he leaned back on his heels and studied it, his brow furrowed.

It was always the same instantly recognizable figure, even if the setting varied. It was only ever this image which flowed most freely from Indy’s mind, though the identity remained a mystery no matter how much thought he gave to it. Rising slowly and gracefully from where he’d been kneeling beside the bed and folding the cover of the art block over the page, he tucked the whole back into its waterproof folder and this, in turn, under the mattress. Picking up his charcoal to place it with its companions in the old cigar tin and slipping that, too, under the mattress, he surveyed the simple room he’d come to call home.

For the briefest of moments, it crossed his mind to wonder when his mother would return, before reminding himself she wouldn’t. He’d left her behind, coming to the realization that if he stayed, she’d inevitably drag him with her into the pit to which she’d descended and he’d never escape. He bowed his head and searched within himself for some hint of regret, or at least remorse. All he felt was relief. He’d finally escaped and there was no going back. Wherever she was, and he imagined she was exactly where he’d left her, wallowing in the bottom of a cheap bottle of bourbon or high on drugs, she likely hadn’t even noticed he’d gone. She’d not noticed his presence for longer than he cared to remember and, if anything, she was probably grateful for his absence. Overall, the feeling was mutual.

Looking back on it now, he realized he’d taken an inordinate risk in leaving the way he had. It had been a spontaneous decision, with no thought nor plan beyond leaving and simply being anywhere other than in the company of his mother and the past. Taking the money his mother had slipped into his pocket as a bribe to make himself absent after she’d brought yet another stranger to their trailer, he’d jumped on a bus and paid for wherever the money would take him, and only after he’d gotten off the bus had it occurred to him how foolish he might have been.

He’d arrived only with what little he’d been able to pack into his duffle and satchel: some clothes, his personal papers, his portfolio, and his art supplies. And there he was, a complete stranger, alone in a strange town, with no money, and no idea what to do next.

He’d still been standing there, exactly where the bus had deposited him, when the battered old Ford pick-up rattled alongside him and pulled to a stop.

His first impulse had been to turn and run. Harsh experience had long ago taught him the value of retreat and yet he’d found himself hesitating, even if still tensed for flight. A weathered old man leaned across the long bench seat of the truck to call at him through the open passenger window.

You ok, son? the old man asked. Yeh look a bit lost.

He couldn’t say even now what had possessed him. Completely contrary to both instinct and habit, he’d confessed the truth to the old man.

I’ve no idea where I am, sir, and to be honest, I’ve no idea what I’m doing.

The old man looked him up and down before nodding, seemingly to himself, and making a beckoning motion towards the truck.

Hop in then, son. Yeh might as well at least come on home with me and git fed.

At a corresponding rumble from his stomach, Indy had decided he didn’t need to be asked twice.

Shit!

The curse spat from Storm’s lips, echoing within the concrete and steel of the workshop, and he withdrew from under the vehicle he’d been working on, clutching one arm in the other and blood seeping between his fingers to drip to the oil-stained floor.

Damn it! he hissed between his teeth, assessing the gash he’d given himself and concluding it wasn’t going to stop bleeding of its own accord.

Pinching the wound closed, he stomped impatiently to the restroom to grab paper towels from the dispenser, roughly staunching the flow of blood before checking the injury more carefully.

It was a long, ragged tear running the length of his forearm and he shook his head in frustration at his own clumsiness. He should have been paying more attention; this was not only unnecessary, it was downright embarrassing, even if only to himself. Brow furrowing, he focused his attention upon it, more than a little bemused by how quickly there was a response. The torn edges blurred and moved, knitting seamlessly together before vanishing entirely, and he stared a while at where the injury had been before rinsing off the residual blood and dirt under cold water. It was a talent he exercised extreme caution to keep secret and it never ceased to amaze him, no matter how many times he experienced it.

With a final glance at where even a scar no longer remained, he wandered back into the workshop and bent to pick up his discarded spanner.

There was a heavy knock on the workshop’s pilot door. In no haste to respond, Storm tightened the nut upon which he’d slipped to injure himself earlier and stood, wiping his hands on the rag hanging through his belt.

Door’s open, he called out, crossing the workshop floor to scoop two bottles of beer from an old and yellowed free-standing fridge.

The single visitor entered and Storm offered him a bottle while popping the cap on his own with his thumb.

Bit early, isn’t it? the visitor, a short and stocky man liberally tattooed wherever skin was visible, asked.

Storm pulled back the beer.

I didn’t say no, the visitor grumbled, reaching out to claim the bottle from Storm’s hand. Don’t you ever sleep? he added, seemingly in afterthought.

Storm stilled the beer at his lips. Strange question, Demo. Why do you ask?

Demo rubbed a beefy hand across the polished dome of his bald head. I heard your bike go past sometime just before the storm broke, couldn’t have been much later’n seven last night, and then I heard you comin’ back right on dawn this mornin’. And what’s it now? Eight? And you’re already workin’, which tends to suggest you never slept.

He wasn’t far from the truth, Storm thought. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept more than a few hours at a time and, even then, his sleep was constantly troubled by the recurrent dream, for want of a better word, which insisted on pursuing him. But he said none of this. It’s ready, he said instead. Keys are in it.

Demo grunted, pulling a lighter from a pocket to flip the cap from his beer. You happen to be free tonight? he asked.

Why?

Scowling, Demo chugged back half his beer. Some of the younger of that damn Scorpion crew have been hangin’ about lately and I suspect there’s trouble brewin’. Tonight, most like.

Oh?

Demo appraised the dark, young mechanic with a frown. Don’t you follow the news, Storm? he asked. You know, at least keep an ear on the local goings-on?

No. Should I? Storm asked, rubbing absently at the site of his most recently healed injury. I hear what I need to.

Demo muttered something indecipherable under his breath and Storm raised a single eyebrow. Go ahead, Demo. Spill.

Havoc got out yesterday. Chances are he’ll be at the bar tonight and, even if not, the Scorpions will expect him to be.

Storm gave this some thought.

He’s the one who put several of their top dogs in hospital, isn’t he? he asked, more observation than question.

Yeah, though that’s not the reason he ended up in the can, Demo replied. In any event, there’s prospects thinkin’ they’ll get themselves some extra cred if they work him over, payback and all that, and it might pay to have extra hands on deck. Especially if those hands happen to be yours.

Draining the last of his beer, Storm tossed the bottle towards a drum across the workshop floor, the bottle spinning unerringly out of sight. I’ll think about it, he said, picking up his toolbox and heading towards the big sliding vehicle doors.

I’ll take that as a ‘you can go now’, Demo grumbled. But, he paused, turning his bottle between his fingers, about tonight…

Storm turned to fix him with a hard stare. I’ve already said I’ll think about it so - I’ll think about it. Don’t ask me again. Don’t send anyone else to ask me again. I’ll either be there, or I won’t.

Lowering his gaze, Demo sighed. Quietly. Right, well, thanks, and I’ll pay as soon as I get the bill.

It’s in the glove-box.

Conversation most definitely over, Demo finished his beer and placed the bottle on the bench before climbing into the Challenger Storm had serviced and repaired for him. Driving carefully from the workshop, where a second vehicle, his ride from earlier, was waiting for him, he gunned the engine and both vehicles disappeared quickly from sight.

Drawing the doors shut behind the roar of the Challenger and its escort, and pointedly slamming the giant padlock into place for good measure, Storm leaned his forehead against the cool steel. He was tired, and it wasn’t merely due to lack of sleep. There was something bothering him, something barely resonating on the peripheral edges of his mind and therefore beyond his grasp, and it was giving him a headache.

Fuck! He slammed a fist against the door in frustration and immediately regretted the action when the steel reverberated against his already aching head. Oh, for the love of a motherless goat!

Pulling back, he rubbed at his aching temples and wished his self-healing skills worked against his insomnia and his headaches, which they didn’t. He’d long ago discovered there was no effective cure and that the best he could hope for was management. Still muttering curses to himself, he rolled a smoke and tried again to catch hold of the uncomfortable burr of prescience nagging at the corners of his mind.

Christ, what if he’d slipped up somewhere? What if, despite all his precautions, he’d been made? He was comfortable here, had worked hard to build a reputation for himself, and he was in no rush to give it all up. Not yet. Any more than he was ready for an all-out confrontation. He drew deeply of his cigarette and cursed some more. Regardless of how he felt about it, he had to be ready to face the possibility that trouble was coming.

Crushing the smoke between his fingertips, he scattered the residue to the floor, rolled his aching head on his shoulders and was rewarded with a satisfying crack. Perhaps helping Demo out tonight wasn’t such a bad idea. He could probably use the distraction and, with any luck, there’d be the trouble Demo anticipated and he could relieve some of the anxiety building within him.

Decision made, and feeling immeasurably calmer for it, he rolled himself yet another smoke before strolling to the fridge for a beer to accompany it.

Indy? Indy, are you ready yet?

He half-jumped, glanced across at the clock the old man had given him, and swore softly. Shit! Time had once again slipped away on him, wasted on yet another drawing of the figure both familiar and unknown, the meaning of which continued to elude him. He stood, his slender body pale in the light filtering through the curtained windows and threw on one of the flannel shirts the old man had also given him.

Sorry, Jed. I’m coming!

Jed was seated at the kitchen table, a large enamel teapot in a colourful knitted tea-cosy, a porcelain milk jug, and two sturdy cups waiting in front of him.

I were beginnin’ te think you’d lit out on me, he said, pouring milk and tea into both cups and sliding one across to Indy when he sat. Made us a rustler’s tea, though, ‘nuff te make the hairs stand uppen yer neck. Thought yeh might need one before we head out.

Indy wrapped his hands gratefully around the cup. Thanks, Jed. I’m sorry. I was… distracted, I guess.

The old man patted at a few stray wisps of white hair which refused to lay flat on his head and gave Indy a searching look. Thoughts of home, per’aps? It wouldn’ be surprisin’, yeh know.

Indy shook his head. No, not home. There’s no home to remember. No, just, I don’t know…

He gazed out the kitchen windows at the pale blue skies visible beyond and shrugged, his narrow shoulders barely lifting the heavy flannel of his shirt. Without knowing why, his eyes filmed and he blinked back tears.

Son…? Jed began.

It’s nothing. Nothing. Composing himself, Indy forced a smile. It’s a good cup of tea, he remarked cheerfully. So, what’s the plan?

Jed gave him another curious glance, but didn’t probe any further. I figure if you ride on up’n bring them steers in from Pine Ridge, he said, I’ll meet up with yeh at Lofty’s Bridge ‘n help yeh bring ‘em in from there. The agent ‘n the truck’re due in at four so there’ll be plenty of time for ‘em to settle before then.

Indy nodded in agreement.

Life had undergone some dramatic changes since he’d met Jed. He’d never set foot on a ranch in his life before coming to Jed’s Double J. He’d never ridden a horse, or worked stock, or milked a cow, or driven a tractor. And yet, despite his ignorance and lack of experience, Jed had offered him room and board and a small wage in exchange for basic labour. Indy had accepted with little hesitation. The old man asked little and, with his help, Indy had even been able to enrol in a Fine Arts course at the local college, Jed willingly passing Indy off as his grandson from the East at his enrolment interview.

Family troubles, he’d told the Dean. Stayin’ till the dust settles.

They’d subsequently settled into a simple, comfortable routine.

Need a hand saddlin’ up? Jed asked while Indy rinsed their cups and turned them onto the drainer.

Indy was pleased to admit the question was no longer necessary. No thanks, Jed. I’ll take Rusty, if that’s ok?

Jed nodded, patently pleased. Sure, but if yeh change yer mind or that ole bronc gits ornery, I’ll be in the barn. Thought I might trim Misty’s hooves ‘n slap on a new set o’ shoes before I come meet yeh.

They strolled out side by side, parting company for Jed to turn towards the barn and Indy to head for the corrals and, a short time later, Indy was riding out to fetch Jed’s small but well-tended herd of steers from the back of the equally small and well-tended ranch.

The afternoon was fading, though it was more sensed than seen, the lengthening shadows slowly creeping through the limited number of dirt-encrusted windows of Storm’s workshop. Perhaps it was nearing time to finish up and begin preparing himself for the night ahead.

Running a last check over the Jeep Cherokee he’d been servicing, Storm packed away his tools before making his way to the shower he’d installed off the restroom at the rear of the shop.

It came to him while he was standing there; the dream that was not. Hands pressed to the wall, head hanging and eyes closed, it seemed more a memory than imagination and, despite his misgivings, he permitted it to run its course, the tattoo of the water running counterpoint to the images unfolding in his mind.

He is sitting on a rocky spur overlooking a deep and misty valley and beside him sits a barely discernible figure in white. His arm is wrapped around his ethereal companion’s shoulders and the body that leans against him is warm and achingly familiar though he can see no identifying features and no name comes to him.

And then a cold, steel hand falls to his shoulder and he stands to inarguable words of command.

The storm descends and he turns his back and walks away. The sense of loss he experiences tears his very heart from his body and his soul along with it.

Though he’d already known it was coming, Storm was shocked anew by the pain and jumped, slamming his head into the shower rosette. A trickle of blood ran over one eye. Cursing, he washed it clean, the healing taking no more than a moment’s thought, and reached for his towel.

It drove him crazy, this dream, and he wished, not for the first time, that his mother was still alive. He missed her, and not only for her presence in his life. There had been about his mother a deep sense of connectedness with the Universe and with the spirits of her ancestors. Though she’d imparted little, telling him only that his time for the truth hadn’t yet come, he nevertheless believed she would have known exactly what the dream represented and how to overcome its effects.

Thinking of his mother only added to the agitation the dream had left him with and he barely kept himself from heading for the bourbon bottle that