Silver White

He remembered that night despite the years; whenever distant thunder rolled across the fields, he could recall every detail.

Lewis Conroy was many things, with a house staff and countless friends to attest to that; kind, intelligent, industrious, successful and perhaps rather lonely. When he had first come to Riverton he was a young man with a handful of dreams and not much else. The scars of the Revolution had yet to fade and the new country was ripe with endless possibilities. With hard work he turned those dreams into a business, then into a fortune. He had wed Miss Sarah Terhune, had a family and for a time found some happiness. Losing them all to smallpox left him a broken man but for the memories.

He always found comfort in memories.

Thirty five years since his arrival he was now the wealthiest man in the county-- probably the state, if rumors were to be believed. That sort of fame never appealed to him, especially now as time was running out. Dr. Slocum had advised him to make his peace and preparations, as it was unlikely he would see out the year.

Thunder echoed faintly as he leaned on his cane at the window. The promise of rain came on the breeze, a scent that thrilled him. He felt a rush of life and vigor that made a certain cherished memory all the more bittersweet.

“Will that be all, Mr. Conroy?”

Gibbons’ familiar voice plucked him from his reverie and he smiled.

“There’ll be nothing more, Gibbons. Thank you.”

“Very well. Good night, sir.”

Conroy had not turned, merely nodding his head in reply just before the door closed softly in his valet’s wake. The landscape of night was too intriguing to ignore, where familiar shapes became strange shadows, lit briefly by the flashes of lightning muted in distant clouds. It made one see curious forms moving in the dark. He felt his way into a chair, never diverting his gaze.

He called to mind that night long ago and especially the Woman— met before he had ever seen Miss Terhune. Of all the people and pretty faces that had passed through his life, it was that singular beauty he could recall in every detail and the one he loved even now.

He never even knew her name, only the taste of her lips and the way her body felt warm and so alive against his. There was a time when Conroy felt ashamed that She held such a special place in his life when it should have been his wife. The guilt had dissolved with time; a dying man may be excused such indulgence
Over those long years he had come to believe that storms had a mystical power, their fury not unlike ancient Gods fighting for mankind’s attention once more. If he concentrated hard enough, those Gods would notice and pity him-- and deliver him back to a happier place.

“You’re getting foolish in your old age.” He chided himself with a smirk. It would do for now to watch the storm roll in.

In his mind he was young again, unmarried with a thriving business to fill his days. He was sitting at the tavern-- Donahue’s place, the Black Stag—enjoying the evening with the Keep and several friends. A few of them left when the sound of approaching thunder warned them home. Others stayed to recount the recent news of a wolf terrorizing the local farms and flocks.

“Mahoney’s seen it.” Jack Schulmeister commented and took a swallow of ale before continuing. “Big old silver thing, he said. Took down a heifer and dragged it off, right in front of him.”

“A whole heifer?” Perkins wrinkled his nose in disbelief. “Ah, Mahoney was probably in his cups!”

“Mahoney’s always in his cups!” Conroy freely made the observation at their friend’s expense.

“I hear some of the boys plan a hunt tomorrow,” someone else observed.

“They’ve been talking about it for days.” The ever skeptical Perkins scoffed at the notion, and drained his cup. “Over in Galloway there’s already a bounty—”

“Now, why haven’t I heard about that before?”

Conroy’s interest was immediate. The news of a bounty was appealing even to a man who did not need the funds. It might have been the drink, or the challenge but it wasn’t long before the friends stirred up enough enthusiasm for a hunt of their own.

Grown men, a few of them quite inebriated, armed and with a storm soon to arrive, did not seem a likely formula for success—or even survival. Donahue watched them with a frown as they barreled out the door, laughing at their own bravado. They would all be back tomorrow he knew, licking wounds, spinning tales and most importantly, buying rounds for the house to recoup their pride.

On that night they were bolstered by ale and thoughts of bounty, but not for long. Larson and Schulmeister were the first to go; someone saw a silver shape dart into the woods, but Larson twisted his leg over a stone wall in his haste to follow. Schulmeister agreed to help him home, leaving the others to chase shadows.

The storm was getting closer, lighting the world with sharp white flashes as lanterns bobbed their way through the wood. Conroy, the least troubled by drink, pressed forward, certain he could see something gray sliding further off through the trees. It seemed that the form would frequently pause and with a flash of amber eyes look back, taunting his pursuer—or waiting for him?

Voices faded behind him as the lantern lights grew small and dim. Lewis Conroy continued alone, the wind rifling his hair as it blew through the pines and branches. The smell of rain and damp earth awakened something primal in him-- something ageless and animal that made this pulse race. It became more a matter of pride than public good that his quarry did not escape.

Old Conroy banged his cane on the floor in a moment of anger.
“Fool! Running through the dark after a dangerous beast, one shot to my name, with the others lost behind me, too far for help! It might have turned at any time, ripped my throat like I was a sheep, instead of toying with me--- damned wolf! Ha! Damned fool!”

A near crash of thunder followed close on the heels of a bright flare, shocking Conroy back to the present. He gasped, certain in that brief shot of light he had seen movement below on the grounds—in the shadows.

Another breeze billowed the drapes and ran its airy fingers through the remnants of his hair. It was cool and soothing enough to push an errant moment of dread from his thoughts. Eyes closed, he smiled and drew a breath so deep it flooded his memory with the scents of the wild wood, the decayed leaves of autumns passed and of course the coming rain.

Now a new fragrance could be detected, partly masked by the others yet familiar; a sweetness that could only be Her.

His thoughts flew back in time, once more racing through the woods after silver shadows. The first drops of rain pattered the leaves as he climbed a slope. There it was again, a silver flash in the lightning, breaking from the woods to lope across the fields beyond.

Conroy rushed from the tree line and paused to catch his breath. The object of his search was gone by the next flare of light--- but there was a woman was there.

He stumbled back against a tree and stared in disbelief. In the middle of a stormy night, in the wild—a woman, beautiful by what the lightning proved, stood alone and unafraid. Tendrils of her long hair danced in the breeze, hair so fine and fair that it ghostly. She wore a ragged skirt and robe, and had it not been for her coloring Conroy could have thought her a gypsy.

She looked at him calmly, her strange dark eyes catching a blue spark of light in the next flash. She seemed as serene and undisturbed as if they were facing each other across a dining room table, and for this reason Conroy’s surprise turned quickly to anger.

“What are you doing here? Who are you??”

“Who are you?” She countered with drawing room coolness.

“I’m Lewis Conroy! My friends and I are hunting!” Why was he explaining anything to this person? “There’s a wolf on the prowl, don’t you know? Didn’t you see him??”

“A great gray creature?”

“Do you want to be killed??”

She raised her eyebrows as if the thought had never occurred to her. This only incited his temper, even as the rain began to fall at a steady pace. Conroy shook his head in disbelief. He had lost his prey and was now confronted with an obstinate stranger who had less business being there then he.

“I don’t intend to be killed.” Her answer sounded confident enough to draw more curiosity than rage. She seemed oblivious to the rain, or anything else for that matter. Conroy felt his tension ease and she cocked her head with a question. “Won’t you go after him?”

He was for the moment at a loss for response even as she gestured with a sweep of her hand.

“The wolf.” she clarified. “The big silver beast?”

Strange thing, the more she spoke, the more Conroy felt at ease. Her tone, the words and her behavior—all more tranquil than the situation allowed, and all quite peculiar. She was no gypsy, not even someone from Riverton, with that voice and those clothes. The wolf came briefly to mind and he shrugged in frustration

“Little point to it. It’s gone for good.” He paused to shake the rain from his sleeves and hair with a chuckle. “Quite like my dignity, I’m afraid.”

This made her laugh with a gentle peal that she tried to hide with her hand. What man, young or otherwise, could fail to be charmed by such a sweet sound? That and the fact they were both taking on the appearance of drowned rats brought them to cordial terms and some amusement. Foul weather and failed hunt were oddly forgotten in favor of conversation.

Miles and years away, Lewis Conroy rocked back and forth in his seat, still wondering about the finer points. The storm was with him now, whipping rain against his face through the open sash. He was never certain which one of them had suggested shelter in the cottage down the hill, but he knew they raced for it together. Extraordinary! She was ahead of him the whole way, on lovely, long, white legs that now and then emerged beneath the sway of her skirt. Try as he might, he could not equal her speed and naturally she reached the old stone hut before him. He found enough dried leaves and wood inside to start a fire in the hearth; apparently the place was used on occasion by shepherds or travelers.

While he knelt to strike a flint and light some tinder, he mused aloud about drying their clothes and keeping warm. His companion thought much the same, dropping her sodden robe to the floor. By the time the flames had caught enough for a proper blaze, she had disrobed entirely.

Young Conroy was not prepared for the sight that greeted him when he turned away from the hearth. An angel stood before him, naked and serene, with soft unblemished flesh, and hair shining silvery white in the fire glow. He blinked in disbelief and slowly rose to his feet, unable to speak. She remained silent as well, their eyes more than willing to speak for them.

Conroy let his gaze travel over that perfect form, too afraid to do more than observe. Long neck, full round breasts with tantalizing rosettes, slender waist, a small pale thatch of hair at the top of her legs—an ideal image of Woman was standing there within reach if he would only move.

Sensing his reluctance, she leaned forward, eyes closed and lips parted, to kiss him. He met her lips with a sudden passion that shocked him and took her in eager arms, more roughly than intended. The storm raged outside the cottage, as well as the storm within.

Never before in his life had there been—or would there ever be—a night like this.

Conroy lost his senses to a greater, more powerful urge of the pure animal. The Woman embraced him briefly as they kissed until her hands sought and found the waist of his breeches and tore at the buttons. Her fingers slid over fabric that kept them apart, stroking the promised pleasure hard beneath. He groaned and broke away from her attention long enough to pull free of waistcoat and shirt.

Her hands ranged over his body, stroking tight lean muscles of chest and back with a strange hunger, delighting in every inch. He stroked her breasts, their points growing firm as he bent to taste them. She thrust these forward, filling his mouth while pushing down his breeches at the waist. The moment he was free her hand took its willing prisoner.

Again he groaned as she fondled and caressed his full, hard length, until suddenly dropping to her knees and taking him whole into her mouth. Gripping her hair, Conroy cried out in ecstasy—this was a new pleasure to him and he would not be able to contain himself long. His pulse pounded in his ears as the ancient Gods shook the walls with their thunder. Her hands stroked his thighs, toyed with his ballocks and then gripped his buttocks to pull him in deeper with each thrust.

He cried out with pleasure and would soon reach his peak, but the stranger had further plans. Without warning she pulled away, poised herself on hands and knees and offered another delightful option. Conroy mourned the loss of that luscious mouth briefly; he was kneeling behind her instantly, plunging into her with renewed passion.

She moaned and writhed as he pulled her backward by her hips, to deepen every lunge. Conroy the man was gone, and in his stead was a primal beast, living for base animal lusts. He cried out and snorted like something wild, his partner growling and groaning with every exquisite motion. Hands slid up her sides and then to her breasts, savoring every sway.

It was no surprise that his resolve could not last. He burst hot inside her with a cry so loud even the storm could not cover it. Her own ecstasy followed before he had finished a final shudder and could collapse exhausted on her smooth, shapely back.

He had never known such complete and exquisite pleasure and was certain that before their time together could end, there would be more delights to explore. For hours and after the storm had passed, their lovemaking continued—for that is what Conroy would forever call it; lovemaking. It was at one moment tender, at another frenzied. When at last he could no longer rise to the occasion, he dozed on the rumpled tangle of their discarded clothes.

When Conroy awoke, it was after dawn. The fire was out and he was alone. Except for reliving the memory of that extraordinary night, he would never see the woman again.

A woman who had not given a name or any word of a past or even present might not have existed at all. She had been a long limbed beauty, with a voice as intoxicating as the look in her eyes like something wild watching from another world—certainly others would remember her. Conroy spent days and nights searching, even spending hours at the cottage during storms, but to no avail. It appeared the wolf, whose attacks had started it all, had likewise quit the area.

Life eventually intruded, and he was forced to keep pace. There was business, marriage and the rest, but the memory of that night would follow him to the grave.

At last he turned from the window and raised himself on trembling legs; the storm was over and high time he retired. A sudden anxious knock at the bedroom door fouled this intention,

“Mr. Conroy? Mr. Conroy!” It was Gibbons, soon pushing his way into the room. “Sorry to bother you, sir—” The man was pale, half dressed for bed, and clearly upset. “---but there was a man, at the door—” Gibbons thought his employer must have heard the hammering.

“At this hour?”

“Yes, sir. Lost in the storm I suspect. But he insists on seeing you.”

“Do you recognize him? Is he from Riverton?”

“No, sir. I’m sure I’ve never seen him. But he refuses to leave.”

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs, sir. Left him in the foyer, it’s dry at least.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“No, sir, not exactly. He’s a stranger, but I—I don’t know, sir.”

“Very well, calm yourself, Gibbons. I’ve not been to bed yet. Make yourself presentable and get your pistol, should we have to convince him to leave.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

With his cane to brace him, Conroy made his way along the corridor to the stairs. Standing below, as Gibbons had promised, was a young man who looked up at his approach. There was a familiar amber glint in those dark eyes, and a cascade of long silver white hair to his shoulders. A pleasant smile came to the stranger’s face when he spoke.

“Hello, Father.”






contest entry, Honorable Mention
10/1/16