John Saul - Nathaniel

Then, out of the smoke, a great weight hurled itself against her, and she fell to the floor. She recovered herself and got to her knees, then once again regained her feet.

But the weight was pressing at her now, pushing her toward the door, while the insistent hands still pulled.

And then she was out of the burning room and on the stairs. Her mind began to clear, and she recognized Michael in front of her, pulling her along. Behind her was Shadow, barking furiously, prodding at her, his large body preventing her from going back up the narrow stairs.

Then they were out of the house, huddled together in the yard, watching as the flames consumed the tinder-dry wood. Once, as she looked up, Janet thought she saw a face at Michael's window, but a second later it disappeared as the house crashed in on itself.

Then people began to gather around her; first the Simpsons, then the Shieldses, and then others, until soon most of Prairie Bend was there.

No one tried to save the house, no one tried to save anything that was in it: as the house burned, Janet's labor began.

"We'll take her to our house," Leif Simpson said.

Janet lay on the ground, her head cradled in Laura Shields's lap. Her face, glistening with a film of perspiration, was a mask of pain made grotesque by the orange light of the fire. The first violent contraction of her premature labor had wrenched a scream from her lips, and only Buck Shields's strong arms had kept her from collapsing. But now she drew on what few reserves of strength she still had. "No," she whispered. "Anna's… I want to go to Anna's."

"But there's no time, Janet," Ione protested.

"There is," Janet gasped. "I'll make time. But I want to have my baby at Anna's. Please… please." Another contraction seized her, and she moaned.

"I'll take her," Buck Shields said. "We'll put her in the back of the Chevy. It won't take more than an extra minute or two." He glanced at Ione Simpson. "Can you meet us there?" As soon as Ione had nodded, Buck leaned over and picked Janet up in his strong arms. "It's going to be all right," he told her. "We're taking you home." Janet sighed, and let her eyes close, blotting out the sight of the smoldering farmhouse, giving in to the pain that was wracking her body.

As Buck carried her to the car, she numbly tried to remember what had happened that night, how the fire had started.

But all she could remember was being at the kitchen table, then going upstairs to bed. A few minutes later, the house had burned.

She had no memory of going out to Potter's Field that night, no memory of what she had found there.

She had no memory of seeing Nathaniel that night.

For in dying, Nathaniel had taken her memories of him with him.

Ten minutes later, Ione Simpson arrived at Anna Hall's house, a determinedly cheerful expression masking the dread she was feeling. Janet's baby, she knew, was at least a month early, possibly more. And from the look in her eyes, Ione had known that Janet was in shock even before she went into labor. Nonetheless, she did her best to ease the fear that was plain in Michael's eyes as he sat in Anna's parlor, staring up at her. "Isn't this going to be exciting?" she asked. "Just like Magic foaling last spring, except this time you're going to have a baby brother or sister." Then, when Michael failed to react to her words, her tone changed. "Where's your mother?"

"Upstairs," Michael replied in a dazed voice.

"All right. Now, I want you to do something for me. I want you to find all the clean towels you can, and bring them into your mother's room. Okay?"

Michael seemed to come out of his trance, and nodded.

A few minutes later, his arms filled with folded towels, he appeared in the doorway of his mother's room. He stared at Janet, who was propped up against the pillows, her face drawn, lines of pain etched around her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with anxiety. "Does it hurt?"

Janet said nothing, but Laura Shields took the towels from Michael and eased him out of the room. "She's going to be fine, Michael. She and the baby are both going to be fine."

Michael gazed at the faces around his mother, but in none of them could he see anything to give him a hint about what was going to happen to his mother. His grandmother was sitting beside his mother, gently wiping her face with a damp cloth, while his uncle hovered in one corner. At last, understanding that right now no one had time for him, Michael went back downstairs to wait.

It was just after midnight, and Michael was in the parlor doing his best to shut out the sound of his mother's labor as it echoed through the house. Outside, the wind had begun to rise. He was alone-had been alone for hours as everyone in the house gathered upstairs to help with the delivery. Michael had wanted to be there, too, but his wishes had been denied. It would be easier for everyone, particularly his mother, if he stayed downstairs.

He was lying on the sofa now, staring out the window into the darkness, listening as the wind rose, howling around the house. Then, slowly, in the back of his mind, he felt something reaching out to him. It was a voice, and though the words were unclear, he understood the meaning.

Someone, somewhere, needed his help.

There was something oddly familiar about the sensation. It seemed like something that had happened before, but that he had forgotten about.

Then, as the wordless pleas for help became more insistent, the sounds of the wind and of his mother's agony began to grow dim. Unconsciously, Michael folded his arms over his chest, then drew his knees up, curling himself into a tight ball.

There was something surrounding him. Something damp and warm, and very comforting. And then, slowly, he began to feel pressure on his head, and the damp warmness around him began to move, producing an undulating rhythm that seemed to rock him gently.

The pressure on his head increased, turning into pain, and suddenly Michael moaned, a soft cry muffled by the damp folds that bound his limbs. The pain sharpened, and he felt as if his head was being crushed. Then the moist strictures of his bonds suddenly tightened around him, squeezing him, moving him…

"It's coming," Ione said. "I can see the top of its head now. Bear down, Janet. It's almost over-just bear down hard."

Janet, sweat running off her body to soak into the already damp sheets, groaned softly, and tried to comply with Ione's instructions. But it was hard-so hard.

Suddenly Michael's bonds closed tightly around him. He felt as if he were being crushed, and he tried to fight against the restraints, but he had no strength. He screamed now, a long, high-pitched howl of agony.

Shadow, who had been asleep on the floor, suddenly awoke and rose to his feet. He moved to the couch, paused a moment, whimpering, to lick at Michael's face, but if Michael was aware of the big dog's presence, he gave no sign. Then, with Michael's next scream, Shadow turned and trotted upstairs to lie by the door to Janet's room, his ears laid back against his head, his tail twitching nervously, an odd sound halfway between a whine and a snarl drifting up from his throat.

In the parlor, the terrible pressure on Michael's head suddenly stopped. He tried to move his body, but couldn't. And then there was something else.

Something seemed to be twisting itself around his neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

He began struggling, fighting against the new restraint, but he couldn't get loose, couldn't throw it off. He could feel himself choking, feel himself beginning to gag.

Then, in the distance, he heard a voice.

"Here it comes," the voice whispered. "Here comes the pretty baby." Then: "Once more, Janet. Just once more."

Suddenly the pressure on Michael's body increased, squeezing, squeezing him ever harder, and he could feel himself being moved forward.