Author Archives: Copperfield

About Copperfield

Since 2000, The Copperfield Review has been known as a leading market for historical fiction. Copperfield was named one of the top sites for new writers by Writer's Digest and it is the winner of the Books and Authors Award for Literary Excellence. We publish historical fiction as well as nonfiction, poetry, reviews, and interviews.

Steel

By Daniel L. Link

Grigory turned to find the source of the laughter, the pain in his knee forgotten. A man was running his way, rifle in hand. He froze. The wheels of his cart came to rest between cobblestones, but he held on, rather than raising his arms in the air.

“You there,” the guard gestured with the rifle. “Don’t move.”

A passing man lowered his eyes and hurried away.

The guard’s smile was broad, white puffs of steam escaping with each chuckled exhalation.  His exuberance puzzled Grigory, who didn’t see anything in the cold, drab day that should have him in such good humor.

“Let me see,” he said, pointing the rifle at Grigory.

This time he did put his hands up, but the guard waved the gun again.

“The cart,” he said. “Let me see in the cart.”

“It’s just potatoes.” Grigory took one corner of the burlap tarp and yanked it back to reveal half a cartload of potatoes, with a small child nestled in the middle. He gasped.

“Ha!” The guard shouted triumphantly. “I saw her sneak in there.”

He was right, it was a girl, no older than eight or nine, her dark hair cropped close like a boy’s. She looked to Grigory, her icy blue eyes filled with dread.

“Out with you, now.” The guard grabbed her by the tunic, and Grigory heard fabric tear as he wrenched. “Good job, comrade. We’ve been looking for her all week.” He turned to the girl. “Come, girl. The Cheka will want to talk to you.”

A chill went through Grigory. He couldn’t fathom why the secret police would be interested in one so young, but he knew he should stay out of it.

“Wait,” Grigory said, unsure what he was doing. “This isn’t the girl you want.”

“No?” the guard said, eyebrow raised.

“No, she can’t be. She’s a friend. She helps with the potatoes.”

He didn’t let go of the girl, just stared at Grigory, incredulous.

“Sir, believe me. She sleeps in there sometimes, but truly, she’s the daughter of a friend who died in the war. She helps me in exchange for food. We help each other.” He added, “I have a bad knee.”

“What’s her name?”

“Nika,” he said, blurting out his youngest sister’s name.

The man demanded the name of his dead friend. That was easy; Grigory had many dead friends.

“If you’re lying to me,” he said. “I’ll return, and you can both hang.” He pointed to the palace, where the nephew of the Czar once lived, that formerly proud symbol of his country now corrupted by death and ruin.

“Why?” Nika asked when they were in Grigory’s cottage. “You risked everything to save me.”

“There has been enough killing. Besides,” he said, sitting by the hearth and poking the fire, “I could use the help.”

For a solid month they worked close together and Grigory found he liked her company. Nika never offered her real name, but she told him she was wanted for theft and that her parents had been killed by the Reds.

“Where’s your family now?” Nika asked.

“Dead,” Grigory told her. “Everyone. My father, brother, and I all fought in the Great War. Alexei died, but Papa and I came home. Then, it was war with the Bolsheviks.”

“You’re a White?” Nika asked. “Like my parents?”

“I’m not anything. Red, White, it’s no matter. My father was a Cossack, and he was killed by the Reds. My mother and sisters starved, and I escaped. Now, I grow potatoes.”

On impulse, Grigory pulled a metal band from his pocket.

“This was my sister’s. It’s all I have left of my family,” he said rolling the band between his fingers. “I want you to have it.”

Nika’s eyes were wet as she put the large ring on her finger.

“Keep eating,” he laughed. “It will fit in no time.”

“Is it iron?”

“No, steel. It’s much stronger. There is an old proverb. ‘The same hammer that shatters glass forges steel.’ Have you heard it?”

“No.”

“The world needs more blacksmiths, and less broken glass, that’s what I think.”

“Can anything break steel?” Nika asked, admiring it.

Grigory nodded. “Hunger.”

The trees were bare, the wind off the Oka biting, signifying the end of autumn. On the way home from market, Grigory let Nika go ahead while he pulled the cart alone. The remaining potatoes were small and shriveled, making the load light.

He watched her run, swinging a stick, laughing. Her hair was longer and she had put on weight. She was hardly the girl Grigory had first brought home. He smiled.

At the end of the bridge, two guards approached, one grabbing her by the neck, shouting. Grigory dropped the cart and ran to her, his aching knee screaming.

“Officer,” Grigory said. “Perhaps I can help.”

“Perhaps you can,” the guard said.  He turned to Nika, tightening his grip. “Is this the man?”

“Yes,” she said. “This man is a traitor,” Nika pointed her stick at Grigory. “A fascist Cossack dog.”

“Well done, little one,” the guard said, then gestured to the man beside him. “Seize him.”

Grigory didn’t fight as the man took him by the arm. “Why, Nika?” was all he could say.

“Her name’s Anna,” the guard told him. “This girl has sniffed out more of you Whites than the Cheka. Good work, child.”

He saw no emotion on her face as he was dragged toward the palace, no sign she felt anything except the nervous twisting of the steel band on her finger.

______________________________________________________________

Daniel Link is a writer of flash fiction, short stories, and novels. He lives in Northern California with his wife, who supports him in his obsessive writing. Twitter: @DanielLLink

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Matisse’s Lens

By Bev Sandell Greenberg

                                                                                                                        Paris, 1905.

Back at their Montparnasse apartment, the newspaper review of her husband’s first exhibit makes Amelie grind her knuckles into her eyes. They’re sitting across from each other in stiff-backed, mismatched wooden chairs, a stained, threadbare cloth on the table, a tattered, multi-coloured rag rug on the floor.

“What were you thinking, Henri?” she wails, her face red and puffy. “I’ll be the laughing stock of Paris! Everywhere I go, people will point. ‘Look,’ they’ll say, ‘That’s Mme. Matisse, the model for that bizarre painting at the Salon D’Automne — the portrait with the purple, green and yellow face.’

Henri winces in silent agony. “It’s not about you!” he says. Annoyed with Amelie’s snivelling, he rests his eyes on a decorative plate hanging on the wall behind her. Years ago, his mother had painted the plate with a lively forest scene, an antidote against the leaden sky of Bohain where he grew up. Henri finds the plate soothing to look at.

“Do we have to talk about the exhibit now?” he asks, his stomach churning.

 Amelie heaves a jagged sigh. “But it’s me in the portrait. And the article talks about its ‘feral quality.’ Shouldn’t I be upset?”

The comment wounds Henri, makes him taste the bile in his throat.

“Look, how do you think I feel? This is about my skill as an artist or lack of it,” he says, his hands flying like birds. “People still want those dark shades — like the old Dutch Masters and their French counterparts. It’s 1905, but people still won’t accept bright colours in paintings.”

“It’s true,” Amelie says, her face looking pinched. “But how can we survive?” I bring in some money from my hats. I model for your paintings, so you don’t have to pay one. But there’s still not enough income to support three children!”

“What should we do?” he asks, removing his spectacles.

But no sooner does he say the words than he regrets them. Amelie might ask him to give up painting altogether. Practicing law could earn him money, but he always hated being a lawyer. He fell in love with painting during a year of recuperation after surgery for appendicitis and never returned to law.

But Amelie doesn’t answer his question. She tries another tactic. “You were hoping to sell at least one painting. How long can we go on like this? There’s only a little food in the pantry. Yet all around us, we have art on our walls by Cézanne and Gauguin. There’s even a bust by Rodin in the hallway.”

“It’s only plaster, not brass,” says Henri, “And not so loud! Rodin’s right next door, working in his atelier.

“I hope he hears me,” she says, her dark eyes burrowing into him. “Why did you get us into debt to buy those pieces? What did that accomplish?”

Il va sans dire. It goes without saying. Seeing the creations of these artists allows me to study their techniques and helps me develop my own. Whatever happens, we are not selling these pieces! Do you understand?”

Amelie looks daggers at him, then mumbles something under her breath, too softly for him to hear, as if she knows he won’t ask her to repeat it.

“Do you remember when we got married and I said I loved you, but adored painting more? Well, I have to persevere with it and keep improving!”

She rolls her eyes, then marches out of the room, her shoes clacking sharply on the floor. Henri pours himself a glass of wine and sips it slowly.

Amelie didn’t always behave this way. Her parents’ misfortune made her more anxious. They lost everything after their employer committed fraud and scapegoated them in an ugly trial. News of the case spread throughout France, causing Amelie and her family much embarrassment. It extended to Henri, making him strive not to attract undue attention by dressing like a businessman. As for Amelie, she became less trusting, bracing herself for the worst in every situation.

The stress from that court battle cost Henri two years in time, but now he’s painting again and very proud of his latest work. Not only has it captured his imagination, but he’s convinced that it’s bound to catch on with the public. For that reason alone, he can’t quit now —not when he’s close to a breakthrough. He’ll wait things out for as long as he can and try to make do for his family. If need be, he could always give art lessons. In any case, he mustn’t give up.

                                                               * * * * *

The next morning, Matisse wakes up early and enters his studio, a closet-sized room at the back of the apartment. Better to get started right away.

For fifteen minutes, he reads the poetry of Mallarmé to calm his mind before attacking the canvas. To Henri, poetry is like oxygen; the beauty of the words inspires him and heightens his mood as he starts off the day. He feels somewhat diminished by the fight and his insomnia, but vows not to let Amelie’s remarks deter him.

Today he’ll start a new painting of a window sill, seeking to enliven it with the images of plants that he had roughly sketched. Henri has been considering this painting n terms of the interior as well as the exterior and did charcoal drawings of various possibilities two days earlier. At this point, he must decide on the time of day for the scene — a choice that will influence the degree of light and intensity of the colours. He’d also like to introduce a pattern into the painting — maybe a jacquard design on the curtains or some textured markings on the pots. He also needs to consider the angle of the painting; he thinks it should appear off-kilter.

But Henri’s imagination is jumping ahead of him. He hasn’t even mixed the paints yet. Squeezing them out onto the palette always gives him a certain tactile pleasure. Soon he has blended several shades of green, pink and red. Combining the colours reminds him of mixing paints as a child at his father’s hardware store. Even now, inventing new shades excites Henri, feels like magic.

At that point, he dips his brush in the green paint and makes his first stroke on the canvas. The sight of that first dab of colour always fills him with awe. First there is nothing, then a soupçon of something dramatic. Even so, that sense of uncertainty never disappears, no matter how many paintings he has completed.

A few hours later, Henri goes into the kitchen for some paté, no one is home, the children at school, his wife with her customers.

How difficult Amelie can be at times, but what did she expect? He was already an artist when she married him. Still, her hat-making helps pay the bills and she is a good mother to their children. In fact, before he married her, she suggested raising Marguerite, Henri’s four-year-old illegitimate daughter. In that case, he needs to take Amelie’s complaints more seriously and set himself a deadline of sorts. His exhibit is almost over, and if he doesn’t earn any income soon, he may have to take on other jobs, like drawing copies of pieces at the Louvre, though he’d rather not.

* * * * *

Henri and Amelie maintain their mutual silence and the pattern repeats itself. Despite their problems, he rises early every morning, paints till lunch, then till dinner and afterwards, well into the evening. The time goes quickly and he gets an idea for a series of etchings to illustrate Mallarmé’s poetry. Henri is in his studio thinking about how to proceed when Amelie bursts through the door. What now?

She hands him an envelope addressed in a spidery scroll. It’s a bill, no doubt, one to add to the others. He rips open the envelope and finds a single sheet of thick, cream-coloured paper with embossed letters at the top. As soon as he reads the name Gertrude Stein, his pulse starts to quicken.

The letter, signed by Leo Stein, Gertrude’s brother, offers to buy “Woman with a Hat” for 1200 francs.

Henri’s initial optimism drizzles out of him; he was expecting to receive a better price. He shares this news with Amelie. But she doesn’t look downcast; her eyes are gleaming.

“What’s wrong?” says Henri, bewildered by her reaction. “Didn’t you hear the offer?”

“I did,” she says, “but we’re not going to accept it. We’re going to ask for more!”

“What? How can we do that?”

“Look, if we don’t try, he can’t say yes to paying more. On the other hand, he might say no, or buy the piece for his original offer.”

Henri heaves his shoulders. He can’t believe his wife’s gall. Nevertheless. she persuades him to ask for 2400 francs and he sends off the note.

                                                          * * * * *

They wait one day, two days. Then a letter arrives the following afternoon before Amelie gets home. Henri happens to be upstairs. His hand trembles slightly when he tears open the envelope.

It contains 2400 francs and a note asking Henri to bring the painting to Gertrude’s apartment at #27, Rue Fleurus. What a breakthrough! He’s heard that she holds an weekly open house there every Saturday. An invitation to this event might well lead to other opportunities, such as introductions to well-known artists, like Picasso. How thrilling it would be to meet him and discuss painting together!

But Henri shouldn’t get ahead of himself. He counts the bills just to be sure, a jolt of adrenalin coursing through his veins. He can scarcely believe what just happened, that their prayers have been answered. Now they can pay their bills and his paintings will start to command better prices.

When Amelie finally comes back, he shares the news. She’s happy enough about the money. She can now buy new clothes for Marguerite as well as some things for Pierre and Jean.

But Amelie doesn’t look as overjoyed as he thought she would. “You put me through a lot with that exhibit,” she says, her voice brittle. “And if not for me, you wouldn’t have gotten a higher price. But do you mention this? Not at all.”

Acid rises in the back of Henri’s throat. He didn’t expect these sharp words. He thought things would be improving between them.

She leaves the room abruptly and Henri decides to go for a walk to the market. He returns soon afterwards with a small parcel wrapped in paper.

Amelie is in the kitchen, cracking eggs. She is facing away from him when he enters the room, his hand behind his back to hide the parcel. He tiptoes up to her and firmly plants a kiss on her shoulder. Just as she turns to face him, he pulls out the parcel like a magician.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” she says, offering him a tentative smile.

“See for yourself!”

She unwraps the paper and finds a bouquet of violets. “Oh, they’re lovely! I haven’t gotten flowers for so long, not since you …”

He can’t resist finishing her sentence. “Not since I brought you violets every day for three weeks when we were first courting.”

“Oh Henri, I’m so touched that you remembered! Thank you,” she says holding out her arms. While they are embracing, Henri happens to glance over Amelie’s shoulder. Behind her lie the flowers on the kitchen table. The bold purple hue grabs his attention.

They should last at least a few days in the apartment. Maybe he’ll use their colour in his new painting of the windowsill. Come to think of it, that shade of purple would add a certain je ne sais quoi amid all the greenery.

______________________________________________________________

Bev Sandell Greenberg is a Canadian fiction writer, poet and critic whose stories have appeared in literary magazines, including Prairie FireThe Knight Journal, The Nashwaak Review and The Prairie Journal as well as in several anthologies. Her poetry has been published in journals; it has also been circulated on transit buses for the Poetry in Motion program and in an art exhibit entitled “Visual Poetry.” She is currently working on stories that re-imagine pivotal and ordinary moments in the lives of artists.

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Shannon’s Revenge

 By D. B. Woodling

May 1876

Red Cloud Reservation-Nebraska

Red Cloud sat in the dirt that served as groundcover for the majority of the Pine Ridge Reservation. Twelve children, mostly boys and mostly Lakota-Sioux, completed the circle. His wife Pretty Owl shook her head, a nearly indiscernible smile softening her typically sober expression. He knew what she was thinking. He also knew the story belonged to the children, too, and for the most part, it was a good one.

The former great tactical warrior waited for the children to stop squirming. “Our ancestors crossed the great divide many, many suns ago.”

“How many suns, great-grandfather?” Walks with a Stick asked.

“Long before the first of many Great Fathers in the east spoke his lies and many winters before the large White House defiled the beauty of the river nearby.” Red Cloud pushed a palm the boy’s direction, fending-off another question. “There were many dust storms, many blizzards, many enemies pretending to be brothers.”

“The washichus?” a nine-year-old girl with frightened eyes asked.

“No, my child. It is not the whites of whom I speak but the Omaha, Otoes, and Iowas. These tribes came with tomahawks raised after our people took the land from the northern Cheyenne. Then these tribes were no more.” The sixty-five-year-old paused, lifted his chin and squinted into a harsh sun. “The coming of the white man with his disease made easy work of the Arikara.

 Many suns rose on our hunting grounds from Nebraska to Wyoming as the white man lied and stole. My lodges were many and then they were few, and I told your fathers and your grandfathers ‘the white man must fight and the Indians will die where his fathers died’. The white men came like grasshoppers, covering our lands with castoffs and the bodies of animals too weak to follow.” He listened as the children whispered and figured more explanation was required. “The washichus knew nothing of the long journey, and they had filled their wagons with things that would not warm them on cold nights, things that would not quiet an empty belly. When their mules protested a heavy burden, the white man discarded his possessions like a tree discards its leaves.”

“Tell us of Crazy Horse!” a few of the older boys called out.

 “Was his horse crazy?” Walks with a Stick asked.

Red Cloud threw his head back and laughed. “A brave’s horse is all that he wishes it to be.” 

Another boy leaped from the ground, his face flush with excitement. “My father said Crazy Horse would race his pony in front of the white man’s guns like this!” The child charged around the circle while many of his cousins fired at him with imaginary weapons.

The exuberant chatter continued until Red Cloud raised both hands in the air and lowered them. He didn’t speak again until a gentle breeze blowing from the south was the lone sound. Sitting cross-legged, his thighs began to cramp. The story was much more difficult to unfold then he had anticipated, as many children on the reservation had yet to witness the slaughter of both washichus and their own people firsthand. Perhaps certain accounts required thoughtful suppression. The proud warrior scanned the circle of children and thought to send the smaller ones away. Instead, he covered his ears and instructed them to do the same. 

“It was then we traveled many paths to collect the white man’s promise of payment.” Red Cloud shook his head emphatically and stern eyes flew to his lap. “We should have insisted the Miniconjou remain behind for many in the tribe had hands that did not obey their heads. One Miniconjou killed a settler’s lame cow, and the White Chief Grattan came with the big gun and twenty-nine soldiers. His heart would not allow him to accept the atonement of Chief Conquering Bear and the washichus killed many warriors, women, and children.” 

“Vae Victis,” the little one with frightened eyes muttered.

“Woe to the conquered,” several of the others mimicked in English and covered gapped-toothed smiles with dirty palms. 

“Vae Victis,” Red Cloud muttered. He remembered the retaliation clearly: after his many warriors had launched arrows, so many they obscured the sun like a swarm of locust, others raised tomahawks and sliced white skin and bone. As the blood from the soldiers colored the grasslands of the North Platte, Red Cloud’s warriors counted thirty coup.  

Red Cloud swept his long hair over his shoulders and waited for the group of older children to join the circle, which had grown twofold its original size. He had spent the better half of four days deciding which things better left unsaid and, in the end, decided he would not play the cowardly historian. 

“There were many Sioux,” Red Cloud said waving his right arm in all directions, “the Oglala, Miniconjou, Brulé, Sans Arc, Blackfeet, Two Kettles, and Hunkpapa. You see we decided there was great safety in numbers, and the Wakan Tanka – the Great Spirit ? told me it was our duty to protect the Black Hills. But after the passing of many winters, the prairies became barren because of the ponies’ appetites and the tribes went their own ways, each staking its own hunting ground. I chose the Powder River for the Oglala. 

All along the Oregon Trail, the white armies marched, forcing our tribal enemies closer: the Crows, Shoshones, the Nez Percé, and the Arapahos from the north. But the wicasa wakan – the holy man – need not tell us when washichus were nearby.” The aged warrior touched his nose and scrunched it. “I have never known a people in need of so little who gathered so much. The land could not support their great herds of cattle and sheep, yet more came, many driven until they dropped, left to die and rot under an unforgiving sun.” Red Cloud shook his head. “The white man wastes and still asks for more.” 

Running Mouth jabbed his brother Snow Follows with an elbow and interrupted the chief’s introspection. “Snow Follows’ heart bleeds for the Cheyenne and Arapaho,” he whined exaggeratedly. “Because he has heard the story of Sand Creek.”

“There is no humor in the washichus’ senseless slaughter of Indians, particularly those who seek only peace,” Red Cloud admonished.

“I am sorry,” Running Mouth said deceptively and stole a mischievous sideways glance at his brother. 

The old chief sighed long. This was a story still painful to recall. “The White Chief Colonel Chivington sent many men to Black Kettle’s lodges. Although the Cheyenne Chief waved his white flag to signify peace, the washichus attacked. Black Kettle escaped, but two-hundred Cheyenne women and children did not. But the washichus would soon learn this unprovoked attack was their greatest mistake because the Indians of the Plains united as one.”

 “But your actions caused a great retaliation! It is said the White Chief General Dodge ordered the extermination of all Indians!” Snow Follows shouted.

 “It is also said the washichus called this land by another name,” Running Mouth said slyly.

Red Cloud knew Running Mouth was referring to Red Cloud’s Country and fixed hard eyes on the pitiful menace. “A man who brags has little reason. You of all people should know this as truth.”

The boy not only quieted but also sulked away. 

Snow Follows sullen eyes followed his brother. “Our mother will not dry his tears of anger.”

Red Cloud chuckled to himself. If he knew Walks Behind, Snow Follows was right; she would instead give her younger son a valid reason to cry. A harsh sun nearly overhead, the chief briefly entertained the notion of disbanding the children and relishing a long nap. “By this time the Great Father’s intentions were clear: The annihilation of the Kiowa and Comanche making war on those washichus ignorant enough to pass through Bozeman Trail. But this would prove very difficult for the soldiers as the trail spans many miles. Soon I will tell you of the days when the white man’s blood reddened the snow on Lodge Trail Ridge.”

“Now! Please tell us now!” the children chorused, the young ones and the old as well.

Red Cloud squinted and trained his eyes on Walks Behind’s cabin. Just as he’d suspected, Running Mouth stood near the opening with angry eyes locked on the circle. The old chief smiled to himself and debated what to share next. “On a day when the trees stood naked, I sent the Cheyenne-Chief Roman Nose, Crazy Horse and Young Man Afraid of His Own Horses away with two-thousand braves on their heels,” he told the children. “But they had no ears for my teachings and resorted to the old ways of fighting. Because of this and the snow with fierce winds, there were no conquerors on either side. Soon after, the Great Father grew tired of wasting bullets, realized our number, and hollowed-eyed men with forked tongues came to us with another promise of peace. But my ears were tired of the washichus lies. I cannot say the same for the others. 

Near the mouth of the Cheyenne River, the Hunkpapas, Yanktons, Blackfeet Sioux, San Arcs, Two Kettles and the Brulés of the Missouri River came together to smoke the pipe of peace. There the white man promised more land, tools for farming and seed, and protection from other tribes that would not pass the peace pipe.” 

Were they lies, Great-Grandfather?” Walks with A Stick asked.

Red Cloud smirked and flicked his wrist. “Just another trick from the white snake.” Then, deep in thought, the old chief tipped his head back: a few evenings after the other tribes had signed the treaty, he remembered he was sitting around the campfire at the back of his tepee, cross-legged and surrounded by his braves, particularly the Shirt Wearers – Crazy Horse and Young Man Afraid of His Horses. As they inhaled a mixture of tobacco and bearberry, his dark eyes locked on Crazy Horse’s hazel ones and the Shirt Wearer shared his typical long sideways glance. Red Cloud was stunned, as he usually was, by the dejection emanating from the young man’s soul because few warriors were as fierce. Crazy Horse’s quilled, fringed, fleece shirt with its 250 locks of hair testified his bravery, each lock representing a coup counted, whether it be a scalp taken or a comrade rescued. Yet the young warrior seldom held another man’s eyes. 

Even now, so many years after, Red Cloud remembered extending the long red pipestone toward Crazy Horse and telling them all, The White Chief Sherman appeases us with this new promise of peace while he prepares cunning soldiers. If the white men come into my country again, I will punish them again.

His great-grandson interrupted the crisp recollection. “The Ridge, Great-Grandfather! What of the Ridge?”

Red Cloud was about to begin when Walks Behind timidly approached, Running Mouth nearly on her heels. “Forgive my son’s words. They often bring him great misfortune.”

The old chief scowled and attempted to lay eyes on the boy hiding behind her. “I see no Lakota with you. I see only a burrow creature afraid of its own shadow. These legends of the brave Sioux are not for the ears of cowards.” Red Cloud flicked his wrist the woman’s direction, dismissing her. Walks Behind nodded solemnly, turned, and ushered her youngest son toward their cabin.

The old chief studied Snow Follows until the boy’s eyes met his. “If your heart lies only with your brother, not your people, go and follow him.”

The young man jutted his chin. “My heart is big enough for all.”

Red Cloud smiled, closed his eyes, and prepared for a difficult oration. Several more minutes passed before he spoke. “One-thousand, eight-hundred, and sixty-six years after the Great Spirit gave us his Son I warned the washichus again that I would fight them for the last hunting grounds. And, again, they would not listen. Not long after the snows flowed into Piney Creek and the chole cherry bloomed, a traitor was among us; a Cheyenne called Black Horse. He had the White Chief Colonel Carrington’s ear and told him of my plan to ‘cut off the body of the trespassing white snake.’ Not so long after, I persuaded Black Horse to tell me of the White Chief’s plan. Upon learning of the white’s intention to build three forts on our lands, I prayed to the Great Spirit for guidance.

Many Lakota, fearful their people would starve now without the gift of the buffalo, surrendered to the washichus. They left their broken souls on sacred land and dragged their shells of flesh to the reservations.” Red Cloud punched the air with his index finger. “But this was not the path for many like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, and they came to me —Blotahunka Ataya—for guidance and protection. Many brave warriors followed them, some from faraway lands, and from many tribes: Miniconjou, Sans Arcs, Brulés, and Arapahos. Even our enemies the Crow lay down their weapons and traded with their Indian brothers; our pelts, buffalo robes, and horses for their guns that shoot many times.

 Long before the snow stopped falling, the scouts’ many eyes saw the long cavalry dotting the trail. As the moon waited in the sky, the white men set their trap. But we were too smart to steal their waiting mules. The soldiers gave up and returned to their soft beds made for soft men. We waited until the sun was nearly awake and stampeded their cattle.” Red Cloud’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “So it was the washichus destiny to eat mule meat the long winter or nothing!”

“Did this not anger the Little White chief, great-grandfather?”

Red Cloud met Walks with a Stick’s gaze and shrugged. “Perhaps his heart, but his backbone thought it a small price to pay for another day of life.”

Walks Quietly wrung her hands, as she searched the perimeter for her mother. When Red Cloud reached out to her, she asked, “Will you soon tell the story of the bloody bluffs?”

He nodded and, seeing the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, he too searched the perimeter for her mother while several of the boys quietly chorused, “Yes, Yes!”

“While the creeks flowed beneath the ice blanket, I mounted my finest war pony, the wind stinging my face like a hundred angry hornets. In the flat valley, carved by Peno Creek, I led many hundred warriors whose hearts had grown hot with rage. While some heartless palefaces dreamed of gold and those with more intelligence woke in a cold sweat, the war cries of our people still drumming their ears, our ponies danced on the bluffs of Lodge Trail Ridge. From there half of our braves and their ponies skittered west, circled behind the ridgeline, and hid like ghosts in the timber surrounding Piney Island. Then they attacked the wood train. Soon after, the Big White Chief’s scouts alerted him and Little White Chiefs Fetterman and Bingham and fifty soldiers pursued us.” Red Cloud smiled, remembering the day he had outsmarted the whites at nearly every turn. 

“I watched from the hillside as White Chief Carrington and his little chief Grummond galloped their tired horses from the fort with twenty-four infantrymen. Their plan was to trap the warriors in Piney Creek Valley. But as their horses crawled up the south bank of Big Piney Creek, many of our warriors waited at the top. Running scared, Big White Chief signaled his men to cross Big Piney and, with their horses dancing the dance of death, they somehow managed to climb the steep, icy slope where four more of our warriors waited to welcome them.” 

Red Cloud grinned menacingly and Walks Quietly squeezed her eyes shut tight.

“Carrington fired his gun that shoots twice and four braves evaporated like spirits. Warriors hiding in the thick stands of scrub oak galloped from the timber. Just as planned, the Little White Chiefs had fallen for our trick. Many braves heard the Big White Chief order his men to stay together, but one, much like the Miniconjou with hands that do not do the head’s biding, decided to make his own destiny and rode hard to fulfill it. The Big White Chief thought he had left his sorrows in the timber, but he was wrong.” Red Cloud smiled and shook his head repeatedly. “It was like catching fish in a puddle. Knowing the washichus would pick the thin trail for their escape, the warriors soon cornered them. But we forgot about the shiny metal that makes noise . . .  and more soldiers came running.”

 “Vae Victis!” the children chorused. 

Red Cloud clapped his hands once and attained silence quickly.  

“Our people were not ready to lay down our crossbows or temper our arrows’ rage,” Red Cloud went on, “for too many had waved the flag of peace yet the blind soldiers refused to see and cut our people down one after the other . . . men, women, children. It was time the washichus knew of our sadness. And we taught him well. When the ice blanket freed the creeks and river, the Great Father in the house of white had had enough and sent more forked tongues to Fort Laramie who pleaded with the Indians to come back and smoke the pipe of peace.”

“My grandfather speaks of the white general,” one boy said. “He came with offerings of peace and talk of the good trades. But my grandfather tells no more.”

Red Cloud nodded, his finger etching a crude map of Fort Laramie and Fort Randall and the large expanse between. “Our people traveled here for the necessities of winter,” he told them and scrawled a trench around his depiction of Fort Laramie. “The general told them they must now go here,” he said, dramatically demonstrating the distance between the two forts. “But I had a plan of my own.”

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The author of Shannon’s LandFinal Claim, Write Off, Slices, The Turning of Nick Torok, and Shannon’s Revenge, D.B. Woodling currently resides in Missouri with one dog, two cats, two horses, and a husband who often resents a keyboard.  Prior to embarking on her writing career, the author was a celebrated entertainer throughout the Midwest.

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Gretchen Meixner

Notes on the Death of Henry VIII

He fell so heavily

Our hearts can barely hold

His holy mass, the divinity

Of his mighty flesh.

How does a man cease

When once he commanded

An army and all its wives?

How to silence a mouth

When once it bade our piety,

And the rising of our arms

Such inhumane tragedy!

Pustules leaking, staining

A glorious bed that birthed

Princesses and their brother.

Sour knob of flesh that

Tormented, and influenced

A trusting king to sew

Bright yarns of suspicion,

Threaded cloths of envy.

Pain, such agony to

View an empty crown

Stuck with bristles of hair,

Lightly touching the head

Unable to wrap around

And protect the brain,

How could he hope to

Resist the thrall of courtiers?

Scurrying around his mane,

Sticking needles in his bone.

A defender of faith and

The sanctity of marriage,

So much that he persevered

With those less inclined,

To marry again and again

Four times more with

Almost wives in between

To practice his fidelity on.

Glorious, gone to soon,

Despairing children continue

His massive dynasty,

How shall they know

Their own unstoppable value

Without his paternal instruction?

How shall daughters marry

Without the perfect image of

Body, soul, and enduring faith

To measure their betrothed?

A man of peace,

Painting pictures of war.

His enemies sought to

Bring him into battle

He responded so that

His children would have suitors,

And soldiers could die of

Glorious, gaping wounds

Rather than the merciless sweat.

No one alive shall regret

His rule, the corpulent kingdom.

Tower walls sigh happily

At their constant occupation

All men have employment

Whether it be sorting through

Adorned crosses and icons

Or plucking jewels off hands.

Someone must be paid to

Secure the woman in velvet

Separate her little neck from

Her wispy, gold-stained head.

Remorse is impossible!

Like forgetting the sun.

Sisters grew up humble

Unpolluted by tenderness,

All the better to obey

Their wet, wise prince,

Kept firmly hidden

In the house of glass.

All love runs dry,

By sword or by silence

And all progeny must learn

To deny their inheritance,

All crosses and oaths broken,

All devourers, eventually devoured.

Anne, Elizabeth

Wild to hold,

Easy to cut loose.

This, I learned from you.

To speak passion without provocation,

To form hungry enemies,

These things I must avoid.

Untouched means undigested,

I will not be devoured.

 

You do seem tame,

The mother replies.

And had I not your blood

Drying up in my veins

I would trust your stoic wrath.

But God-sent or God’s divined,

You still come from me,

The shrew, the whore, the

Apple-cheeked lie.

Your fire rages underneath

Your scalp, covered by a

Mane of false ruby.

 

How do we inherit pain?

I tried to spare you,

I tried to die with the

Dignity my crown denied.

But you still carried the blade,

Restlessly on a narrow shoulder.

Ugly men touched you,

Wept their ails upon you

Then lost their wooden heads.

 

How painful is death?

Worse for your heart than mine,

I had but one, daughter to lose

And you had four mothers,

Perhaps your father hurts

More than we could imagine

For the cost of each bride.

 

The daughter frowns at

Her mother’s sad dryness.

How can I love? She asks.

How dare I embellish

One mysterious soul to

Make him my own match?

God’s ordained and untouchable,

I come with a heavy price

No courtier can willingly pay.

What am I but dust,

A contradiction made of gold?

 

Legal, than subdued

Beloved, then reviled.

What fates could have waited

Were they not extinguished

By the aches of kings?

Happier in poverty than

In power, I do not seek

To question my own breath.

We are what we are,

You bones and I bread.

 

A mother wants her daughter

To be a daughter, and not

Only the bride of an island.

My dear, my darling one,

She speaks, how can I

Have lost you so completely?

It is not veins and lungs

That separate our souls

But the decay of decades.

I grew up proud, you ashamed.

The difference has made us

Sad strangers. I am not angry

For your disloyalty, who would

Claim a witch as a sovereign

Much less a mother?

You have been brought up to

Love the wives of your king

Then weep quietly when they die.

Law dictates your fealty

To the man that kills them.

Where would I fit in this story

But underneath the brick,

With all the forgotten?

 

I know their secrets, my love

I know how we all came to be.

A different turn, another line,

We would all be anonymous.

Portraits of unknown women

Holding hands, unknown author.

Look at our simple, tranquil faces.

 

The daughter feels an affront

To her status, to all the rules

She has broken and remade.

Mother, she commands,

Stop repainting our fates.

You want me to be a wife

Not a queen, not a gem.

Where then would our

Fellows and conspirators be?

I know, they condemned you,

But we still must pave their way

To Heaven. Our keepers

But also our flock. How could I

Have abandoned them to the bloody?
It is me, not my sculpture, not my

Skin and eyes, but my own self.,

That they call Gloriana.

 

And that is your own self as well

So no more nostalgia, no more

Desire for unknown timelines.

You died for me to breathe.

I have your picture, kept sacred

In my ring to remind me

How easy it still is to fall.

You are not dust as long as

I reach out my hands and

Purge all the depraved,

Empty hearts of our realm.

 

Our, I say, with conviction,

For we never stop colliding.

I carry you through an armada,

A host of swords and swears,

I bury you, I harbor you,

We speak with one painted mouth.

Whiten my face to make it not

Just mine but a blank template

For you to invade, and blur

The distinction between us.

No endearments left for men,

My heart is too full of memory.

______________________________________________________________

Gretchen Meixner has lived in Providence, RI since 2008. She has a degree in English Literature, but also took as many History classes as possible. She is most interested in World War I and II, as well as the English monarchy. Many of her poems are about these topics and specific historical figures. She has a long commute to work in Boston, which fortunately gives her plenty of time to read.

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The Essex Serpent

Written by Sarah Perry

Review by E H Young

 

Sarah Perry’s The Essex Serpent is one of those darkly ominous historical novels that proves quite difficult to define; it’s not quite fantasy, but is nonetheless imbued with a sense of magic and dark whimsy.

I picked it up (as is my wont) entirely because of the cover. And a fitting cover it is too: at first glance all I saw was an attractive William Morris design, and didn’t notice the serpent winding sinuously through ornate leaves. That’s a good parallel to the book itself; the fictional Essex Serpent is as elusive as the one on the cover, wending its way through the minds of the characters and making itself known through strange, portentous events in many ways more frightening than any physical beast with snapping beak and leathery wings could be.

But it’s not clearly a gothic novel or a horror story either. The prose is beautiful and rich. It especially comes to life when Perry describes the Essex countryside: each page is full of the natural beauty of a region it is clear the author knows well. Though the protagonist might not approve of such a description, the way in which Perry describes the natural phenomena around which so much of the novel revolves—the Fata Morgana, the loamy undergrowth of English forests—is nothing short of magical.

Just as elusive and wonderful are the relationships between the characters. Their development does not progress in expected ways and none are neat and tidy enough for the book to be classified as a love story—unless, perhaps, one expands ones definition of ‘love’ outside the traditional sense of the word. The women, too, are an especial highlight of the book: there are wives and mothers but at no point is any woman in The Essex Serpent reduced to such a role. All, Stella especially, prove to have untold depths, often as strange as any natural phenomenon. Their stories, especially those of Cora and Stella, tangentially connected by their shared—though different—love for William, interweave to form the toothsome fabric of a deep, layered story.

Overall, The Essex Serpent is an esoteric, whimsical text that joins the ranks of generations of Victorian and Gothic novels from Doyle to Shelley, at the same time as it defies the very traditions these books have set down.

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E H Young is a writer and bookblogger from Southern California currently living in Edinburgh.

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Marianne Gambaro

Halifax Elegy

I.

Leviathan cruise ships glide

above salt bleached bones and splintered docks, 

revelers deaf to century-old spectral screams.

 

The Mi’kmaq called it Chebucto – “big harbor” –

so deep that even harsh Maritime winters can’t freeze it.

Perfect for cruise ships

and convoys.

 

Those not preoccupied with bingo and buffets may learn

how during The Great War, The War they promised would End All Wars,

a cowardly captain and crew abandoned

a floating bomb causing

an explosion unlike the world had known.

 

December 6, 1917, 7:30 a.m.: The French munitions ship Mont-Blanc left her anchorage at the mouth of the harbor to join a gathering convoy and collided with the Imo, a Norwegian ship bound for New York to collect relief supplies for Belgium. 

 

Not a pane of glass left intact on either side of the harbor

yet an ocean away from an enemy gun.

 

dead: nearly 2,000

homes destroyed: more than 1,600

homes damaged: 12,000

 

II.

More than 500 miles, nearly a century later

a white spruce towers above the Boston Common. 

 

More than 500 miles, nearly a century ago 

they came by train in less than a winter’s day

among the first to arrive,

among the last to leave.

Nurses and doctors salved burns, bandaged wounds

sawed off limbs and excised eyes.

 

limbs amputated: 25

eyes removed: 250

injured treated: more than 9,000

 

Each Christmas the progeny of the maimed and injured

send a majestic evergreen to Boston to honor those 

who tirelessly did what they could to help.

 

 III.

They’re all gone now.

Until a few years ago you could see them 

in nursing homes around Halifax. Some missing an eye.

Others totally blind never again to see 

storms coming in over the sea

or heron gulls slicing through summer skies

or rampant purple lupine bivouacked on June hillsides.

 

Children, settling into their morning school work,

heard the explosion and ran to windows,

imagining fireworks and festivities. Glass shrapnel 

pierced young corneas shattering hopeful visions.

 

IV.

Aye, the harbor was a sight to see in those days.

Supply ships from all over

and troops waitin’ for warships

to take ‘em across the sea to the front.

Some days it looked as though you could walk across the harbor

on all those boats and never wet you boots.

I tried to warn him, about the Mont-Blanc.

A floatin’ bomb she was, with that cargo – 

 

wet and dry picric acid: 300 tons 

TNT: 200 tons

gun cotton: 10 tons 

benzol: 35 tons 

 

right outside his little railway office.

 

Only a few of us knew her cargo,

top secret war stuff. Damned fool mixture

if you ask me.

 

Coleman, his name was. Vincent Coleman.

Kissed the wife and three bairns when he left that morning,

walked the five blocks to his office like any other day. 

So dapper in his suit and high starched collar, 

perfect pompadour, full mustache. 

No doubt pulled his muffler a little tighter against December.

 

I’d seen him through the window

when I was workin’ around the docks,

always at that telegraph key of his.

His boss left as soon as I told ’em.

Coleman stood up to leave

then turned back to that telegraph key 

thinkin’ about those 300 souls aboard 

Passenger Train No. 10, 

the overnight from Saint John

due in Halifax at 8:55 directly in front of that floatin’ bomb.

 

With those little dots and dashes

he saved ’em all:

Hold up the train. Ammunition ship afire in harbor 

making for Pier 6 and will explode. 

Guess this will be my last message. 

Good-bye boys.

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Marianne Gambaro’s poems have been published in several print and online journals including The Aurorean, Oberon Poetry Magazine, Pirene’s Fountain, Avocet Journal, Snowy Egret and The Naugatuck River Review. Following a career as a journalist and public relations practitioner for nonprofit organizations, she now writes for the sheer love of the word. She is a member of the Florence (MA) Poets Society and serves on the editorial board for Silkworm, Florence Poets’ annual journal. She resides in Western Massachusetts with her talented photographer-husband and three feline muses.

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