Tag Archives: historical fiction

A Search For Hope

It was the year 1938. I was 25 years old, happily married with a promising future filled with big dreams. My husband, David, and I lived in a small town in Poland.  Our little home was barely even on the map, and it was just what we had always dreamed of having.  Both of us grew up in the growing political climate of Germany, and decided that we wanted to escape and explore the world together. Poland was to be just the beginning of our traveling adventures. We were well on our way, but then we found we were with child. Our traveling adventures were put on hold, and instead we began a new journey together in parenthood.

David was a beautiful man.  He stood at an impressive height, well built, with ebony curly locks of hair.  I had fallen in love with him instantly.  His handsome looks were only surpassed by the beauty of his heart.  As a Jewish officer, he would come home and tell me all the news about what was happening back home in Germany.  The stories of the Nazi party attacking innocent people seemed to be too horrific to believe.  How could anyone be that evil? Little did we know that our entire world would soon learn how true that evil could be.

A year had passed, and it was now March of 1939. Germany continued to invade town after town with its evil Nazi regime.  News finally reached us that soldiers had entered Poland territory. Due to our living by the border, we were the next city on the list. As invasion began, David, our young daughter, and I constantly stayed on the move. “It looks like our adventure won’t end here, darling,” I remember David saying to me. I simply replied with a worried smile and a heart filled with fear.  It seemed as if we were living on borrowed time, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something horrific was about to occur.

In early April, we learned the gastapo was not too far behind us. We didn’t stop for anything, we couldn’t stop for anything. Our goal was to reach the sanctuary of the Soviet Union.  We knew we would be safe there due to the treaty Germany had made, which promised neither country would attack the other country during this World War. We were soon to learn that some promises were made just to be broken. Evil doesn’t care about keeping its word.

David and I had made a little home near the border of the Soviet Union and Poland. It was a beautiful spring, sunny day.  David was out on patrol and I was home with our little girl, Annaliese. I can still remember the sound of the Nazi soldiers knocking on my door. When I didn’t answer promptly enough for their tastes, they forced themselves inside and began barking questions. They asked me my name, my age, my birthplace, my ethnicity. Like bullet fire, the questions came one after another in constant repetition. Even in my fear, I was finally frustrated with their intrusion and demanded to know why they were there. How I would soon wish I had just kept my mouth closed.  Apparently, my indignation angered the soldiers. The last thing I remembered was one of them raising a fist, then everything became dark. The darkness would never leave me after that day. When I woke, I instantly looked for Annaliese. I found her in the corner in my husband’s arms.  “When did he get home?” I wondered to myself. Then the panic set in and I remembered the intrusion, the soldiers, and all the questions. I also realized we weren’t home, but in a freight train filled with other people. Most were neighbors in the tiny village near our home.  A home we were to never see again.

After a long journey, we arrived at a camp with a large gate and a sign that read “Work sets you free.” I looked at David and worriedly asked him what that meant. He responded with his usual positivity and smiled his beautiful smile. Annaliese wiggled in his arms.  He kissed her gently and then pulled me close. “Don’t worry my beautiful girl. We are together, and as long as we are together, everything will be okay.” It would be the last words I would ever hear him say.

“Men to the left, women to the right.” The Nazi’s order barked through the last sliver of hope I had. We were sorted like cattle and forced to separate.

“No sir, please. You don’t understand. We must stay togeth-” My request was met with the back of a soldier’s hand. 

David kissed me and silently begged me to obey. He cried as he held Annaliese. I think he somehow knew it would be the last time we would ever be together.  Annaliese was suddenly grabbed out of David’s arms and shoved in my direction. The Nazi that had slapped me pushed David to the left and forever out of my sight. I could only move to the right with the other poor souls as Annaliese softly whimpered in my arms, distraught after being abruptly pulled from her father’s protective embrace. Our journey to the right led to a wooden barracks with built-in wooden slabs for a bed. Annaliese and I found an empty “bed” and sleep overcame us.

The next day dawned, and it was time to begin the work. At that time, I still hoped to be reunited with David.  The thought of a possible reunion was what kept me pushing forward. The Nazi soldiers told us we would be rewarded with a shower after our work was completed. I worked without complaint, thankful that Annaliese was still with me.  Many of the other mothers looked at her longingly, and I could only shudder to think what had happened to their children. It was difficult to work and care for Annaliese. She would whimper, and I would quietly nurse her under my filthy gown, or hum softly to her. My instincts told me I had to survive. I had to push through for our little girl.

Finally, the end of the day came. Our work was completed, and the promise of a shower was ahead.  More trains had arrived with more soldiers and people. I assumed that my fellow prisoners and I would be allowed to rest, while the new arrivals would work as we did. I was so naive. Annaliese and I were in line waiting for our turn to shower when I smelled it. Gas. The air was permeated with the stench of gas and vomit.  Then the silence was shattered by the screams.  

Chaos erupted and everyone began to force their way out of the line.  The Nazis had put their youngest soldiers on post that day because they had no knowledge of how to control the mob.  I took advantage of their inexperience, clutched Annaliese tightly to my chest, and ran.  I remembered a small ditch near the outskirts of the camp.  A fence was just beyond, so I hastily made my way to it.  I quickly found my destination, glanced over my shoulder to see how many soldiers had followed, and tripped.  Down Annaliese and I rolled until we came to a stop on a pile of….something. I raised my head and realized what we had landed upon.  Bodies. Countless bodies.  All victims of bullets, the gas chamber, or the Nazi’s physical brutality.  Those that arrived weak or old had apparently been murdered instantly.  Those that were strong had been made to work until it was their turn for the promised “shower.” I couldn’t dwell on the poor souls that lay beneath me, their final resting place nothing more than mud, blood, and filth.  I had to escape.  I had to find David.  I had to protect Annaliese.  I had to survive.  I slowly began to crawl over the bodies, a silent prayer uttered for their souls.  Their sacrifice became my salvation.  Each time I would hear a soldier approach, I would lie down in the filth and stench of death, and wait for them to pass.  To this day, I do not know how Annaliese remained quiet the entire time.  One by one, we crawled over the bodies as I made my way to the fence and our freedom.  We were nearly there when I saw him.  My David.  His eyes wide with horror and his mouth forever in a scream.  I put my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out and screaming. I looked down at the child pillowed against my breast. I looked back at David and touched the side of his face. 

In those few precious moments, I quietly wept for my David, for the future we would never have, the adventures we would never take, and the daughter he would never know.  My grief almost overwhelmed me enough to give up.  I wanted to stay there with him and give myself over to the darkness that enveloped me.  It was at that moment that Annaliese chose to stir, and her soft whimpering broke me out of the abyss.  I closed my eyes and allowed the tears to fall from my face and onto David’s, covering him quietly with my final goodbye.  The rest is a blur.  I continued my crawl and somehow managed to make my escape through the fence.  My feet were covered in bloody blisters.  My clothes stained with blood, vomit, and the stench of death.  My hair was matted and my skin covered in dirt and mud.  But I was alive. For the sake of our daughter, I was alive.

I walked for two days, nursing Annaliese with the last bit of strength I had left.  I had to survive. I will survive.  Please God, let me live.  

He must have heard my pleas, for moments later I was rescued.  Polish officers saw my frightful state and took me to a nearby camp.  It was over.  I was showered, clothed, fed and allowed to sleep. Annaliese never left my side.  A day or two later, we were on a train, and then a boat. I stayed in the little cabin we had been given, alone with Annaliese and my grief, and mourning my precious David.  

After several days of travel, we reached our destination.  My first sight was of a lady, her arm outstretched to the sky with a torch in her hand.  It was Lady Liberty welcoming me to take rest and seek refuge.  A kind gentleman escorted Annaleise and I off the boat.  He had papers with him that had to be completed in order for me to be placed in a boarding home in New York City.

“My dear,” his kind voice penetrated my thoughts, “May I please have your name?’

“It’s Hope,” I replied. “My name is Hope.”  

___________________________________________________________________________________

Lauren Hudson is a 17-year-old girl living in Alabama. Lauren has a deep love and appreciation for history. She hopes that by reading her work, others will grow to share that same love with her. Lauren plans to continue writing historical fiction in an attempt to bring more attention to important events that shaped our world’s history.

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The Gospels of Innish Bawn


It is only I who am left, on this jagged rock, with guillemots and kittiwakes for company. Yesterday, I buried Brother Fintan in a shallow pit and covered him with slabs of granite in the crowded cemetery. He was my uncle and it was he who brought me here.

My parents died of fever and I, a child of seven years, was like to follow. Then Fintan arrived at our bothy on his way to join the monks of this sea tossed isle. My only kin. I often wonder why he did not leave me with some village woman. Perhaps, he feared that I should be ill-treated or sold into slavery. I like to imagine that during the weeks of my recovery my uncle grew fond of me and could not bear to be parted from my affection—although, in later years, he must greet all outward show with a blow from his staff until I learnt to keep it as hidden as myself.

He was mindful of his sinning against The Rule; it weighed heavily. He bade me take the name of Cormac and guarded me close. My hair was shaved back to a high forehead like his own. There are those who call for us to cut our locks and adopt the roman tonsure.  I hope not. I have no cause for vanity, but once, in a piece of glass, I saw my flowing auburn tresses, my eyes of deep sea-green, my moon pale face, and was startled by my own beauty.

This is a bleak and savage place. Sheer and forbidding. Blasted by storms and chill winds. We cling to steep sides with only a slender niche between two craggy outcrops on which to build the crude stone dwellings of our monastery and cultivate a small thin plot, mulched with seaweed. We catch what we can from the sea, net birds and scramble for their eggs. There are few visitors and whilst they may bring gifts of honey and mead it is the ingredients for our life’s work that the monks most crave. The lapis lazuli. The cornelian. The flecks of gold.

All my childhood was spent in the Scriptorium under the tutelage of my uncle. To become his equal in talent. My fingers are ink-stained black. We labour on The Gospels of Innish Bawn. They are the light and joy of my days, for which I endure all hardships. From the first, Brother Fintan marvelled at my quickness; how deftly my fingers fashioned and held a quill, how eager I was to gobble up each word—not simply to scribe but to understand. From rough practice on course hides, my skill flowered on to the fine smooth vellum of our gospels. And it was not simply at writing that I excelled but in the depiction of all manner of beasts and demons and holy men of god. My uncle took this as a sign that we were blessed, for his own eyes were fading.

Once, when I found the sharp gaze of our abbot narrowed on me, I flushed and trembled that he had pierced my disguise. I felt his salty breath on the soft down of my cheek.

Your gift honours the Lord, Brother.

I sighed with gratitude.

My gentle brothers are gone. Taken by the pestilence. My eyes strain out across the roiling waters to catch sight of the boat which must one day come. And yet, even as I yearn toward the sliver of land which lies shrouded on the slate grey horizon, I dread approach. Without protection I may be discovered and undone. Worse, my holy brothers shall be defamed as I am branded their sinful temptress.

And who should then credit the artistry of my hand? My decade long of toil? Or permit me to continue?

I pray to finish our glorious Illumination. The days pass in a fury.  No one comes. Then, of lapis lazuli mere grains remain, of gold a few specks and of the cornelian—which makes such a brilliant red, there is none. 

I contemplate the final page. The last sacred words outlined in charcoal black. It is not enough. Here should be both terror and ecstasy.

I know what I must do.

I stand on the cliff edge, pale with coming death. My life blood has seeped from the slits in my wrist but I have used it wisely. The iron red juice bled into a mix which swirls and dances across the parchment. Shades which conjure fire and death melding into colours which rise in radiance to speak of unbridled life.

And one last; in the margin I have signed my name and it is not Cormac.

____________________________________________________________________

Rosie Cullen was born in Dublin and now lives in Manchester, England. Her career has included theatre, front of house, and puppeteer but principally writing for theatre, film and TV. She was Programme leader of MA Screenwriting at Bournemouth University. In recent years she has concentrated on prose, both short form and longer and is developing a series of historical crime novels.

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What is The History Quill?

If you write historical fiction, you’ll want to know about The History Quill, which provides editing and other necessary services specifically for historical fiction authors. Here’s Rachel Smith, the executive editor of The History Quill, to share her thoughts about our favorite genre.

Meredith Allard: Why are you fascinated by historical fiction?

Rachel Smith: I’ve been fascinated by history and stories since I was very young, helped along by my dad, who is the most brilliant storyteller. It was almost inevitable that I’d fall in love with historical fiction.

When I was ten, I got a set of My Story books (which I’ve recently learned are the UK equivalent of the Dear America books). These were fictional diaries of young characters living through key moments of British history, such as the Great Exhibition, the Titanic, and the Blitz. I devoured these books. I’d always loved learning about history in school, but reading it brought to life in this way, through the eyes of such believable, relatable characters, was a revelation to me.

I think that’s the key reason why I love historical fiction: it’s one thing reading about history in a non-fiction book, but for me, nothing brings the past to life better than being drawn inside a historical character’s mind, sharing in their thoughts, feelings, and perceptions, experiencing the sights, sounds, even the smells of the era with them. I love gaining a deeper understanding of the past through observing how characters behave and interact with one another, but more than anything, I love experiencing characters’ inner lives – the bits that would otherwise be kept hidden.

What I also love about historical fiction is the voice it can give to those who were marginalised at the time – the people whose stories didn’t make it into the history books. Not only that, but it can expose patterns and parallels between then and now, illuminating the ways in which the past has shaped the present and reminding us of the price of not learning from our mistakes.

M.A.: Who are your favorite historical novelists and your favorite historical novels and why?

R.S.: As a child I loved Philip Pullman’s Sally Lockhart mysteries, which I think cemented the Victorian era as my favourite. Those books sparked in me a love of mysteries that has endured to this day. I read in a variety of subgenres and historical periods, but some of my favourite authors include Carlos Ruiz Zafon (his Cemetery of Forgotten Books series is breathtakingly good), Laura Purcell (I’m drawn to gothic fiction; I’ve loved everything she’s written), and Sarah Perry (I thought The Essex Serpent was excellent (and not just because I’m from Essex), but Perry’s partially historical novel Melmoth will stay with me forever).

I’m a huge fan of historical chillers, like Sarah Water’s The Little Stranger, or Neil Spring’s The Ghost Hunters (about Borley Rectory, ‘the most haunted house in England’), or Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black. I’m very drawn to the idea of the past coming back to haunt us.

On that theme, I also love dual-timeline novels, such as those by Barbara Erskine, Kate Morton, and Lucinda Riley. Those are great for demonstrating how past deeds can echo through time. Recently I’ve been enjoying Elly Griffiths’ Stephens and Mephisto series, featuring a detective and a stage magician in 1950s and 1960s Brighton, and I also enjoyed Sara Collins’ The Confessions of Frannie Langton. Finally, I must also mention Andrew Taylor, whose books The American Boy and The Anatomy of Ghosts I loved, and Ken Follett’s epic Century trilogy.

I appreciate historical fiction that focuses first and foremost on telling a good story. It should never just be about showing off the author’s extensive research. The authors I mentioned above know how to weave in their research in a way that serves, rather than stifles, their plot. They create rich, immersive historical settings, peopled by authentic characters, with themes that resonate in the modern day.

M.A.: What do you find to be the particular joys and challenges of writing historical fiction?

I think the biggest challenges are striking the right balance between history and story (choosing which bits of research to incorporate; deciding how far you can bend the truth), using historically authentic language (creating the impression of authenticity without being so accurate as to be incomprehensible to a modern reader), getting the finer details right, and knowing how much research is enough.

I know from first-hand experience that writing historical fiction can feel hugely daunting when you’re just getting started. The fear of making a whole host of anachronistic blunders is very real. But immersing yourself in another time can be incredibly rewarding. If you’re drawn to historical fiction, chances are it’s the challenges that initially seem intimidating that will give you the greatest satisfaction once you get stuck in. The key things to remember are that everyone has to start somewhere, and nobody can get it right all of the time. You just have to give it a go. It’s important to remind yourself that you’re a fiction writer, not a historian. By all means strive for authenticity, but never forget that your aim is to tell a good story.

By writing historical fiction, you’re giving the gift of time travel to yourself and your reader. It’s incredible, really, when you think of it like that.

(We also have a blog post here that explains in detail the top challenges of writing historical fiction and how to overcome them.)

M.A.: What is The History Quill and how can it benefit writers of historical fiction?

R.S.: We provide dedicated support to historical fiction writers at every stage of the writing journey. This includes specialist historical fiction editing services, coaching programmes, beta reader and ARC services, and a wealth of free resources specifically tailored to the genre, such as our comprehensive guide to accuracy and authenticity in historical fiction. Our blog features regular posts on aspects of writing craft and historical research, and we also have a book club aimed at helping historical fiction readers discover books they’ll love and, in doing so, promoting the works of historical fiction authors to an engaged readership.

M.A.: How can historical fiction authors get in touch with you?

R.S.: By visiting our website, joining our mailing list, or liking our Facebook page. You can also follow me on Twitter. I love it when writers get in touch to tell me what they’re working on!

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The Fall of Burhan

Liam Fani was born in the year of 572, under a dark, starry night in the middle of the rolling plains of the Arabian desert. His ancestors, like those of the Jews and the Babylonians, had been desert folks, knowing every inch of the sand dunes and the canyons of their land. They’d lived in the desert for many years, among trackless hills, but they knew how to track anything that moved and how to trace the lineage of the noble blood.

Rumors had it, as old folks had often retold, that immediately after Fani opened his eyes, he looked towards the sky, extending his hands as far as he could, as if to reach the stars. The hot, scourging desert sun had roughed his skin, but softened his heart. He used to be starving for days and would finally go hunting for gazelles, but he’d cry by his own kill. At times, he’d decide to just herd them into a corral he’d built, but their wild nature, tickling the soft part of his heart, would urge him to set them free. He’d rather choose to exchange cattle milk with some dates to eat, from the villagers nearby.

Occasionally, he’d go trotting freely on his white horse, foreseeing the scary, unknown orchards, far beyond the desert he had known. He’d be happy to meet those villagers, but the concentration of the green palm trees, dancing in the fires of heaven, always blinded his eyesight, hindering him from seeing as far as he could. And he hated it. The villagers’ land didn’t feel so open, relentlessly inviting as the barren land of the desert — a feeling that had often strangled him, suffocating his brotherly words towards those ancient villagers.

His four decades of desert life had been peacefully the same, until Burhan, the Persian, and his companions came along.

Fani had once deserted his woman for failing to bury their differences, but to turn his back again on another helpless creature, leaving her completely vulnerable to the pricking pickles of the desert, with no justifiable reasons, was a foul act, painfully chastised under his own, personal rules of the desert.

* * * * *

When Burhan gained power, he proclaimed himself to be a prophet, and built a fortress, hidden between the mounds of sands, in the middle of the desolate desert. The fortress he erected was built with the blood of the locals, whom he convinced to rule the region. They fell for his presumed truthfulness and kindness. His eloquent tongue made them kneel at his feet, furnishing before their eyes, a virtually-created heaven, full of virgins, wine and hashish.

The motto, he propagated and in which every fighter believed, was all heathens were wrong and however you do with them was justified.

His blind fighters willingly fought, sacrificing their lives, for achieving their reckoned paradise, where they’d satisfy their lust with the nymphs of heaven. Their foolish credulousness, coupled with their passion for the sheer and mere lustful desires, had helped him acquire his power over them — they were his living daggers. He manipulated those naive fighters, who were certain that obedience to him, was the key to the gate of paradise.

One day, Burhan along with his fighters set out their ruthless plan to conquer an oasis, lying in the middle of the village nearby.

* * * * *

In the village of the oasis, Merav had once had a dream of fire, burning between her legs. Her household collapsed, tumbling to the ground. She saw herself alone and no one around she knew to be found, but a group of strangers trooped around, surrounding her. She woke up petrified. Upon examining the lines of fate on her palm, she wondered about her unknown destiny.

Her frightening dream came true. On the sand dunes of the desert, she stood woe-stricken and heart-broken. She was a captive of war, stranded, not knowing where to go and what was going to happen of her. She grieved not only her brutally murdered father, but also her darling husband. They barbarously killed her kins, wiping out her community entirely. She looked back at her demolished, burning village, with tears falling down her cheeks, her mascara smudged across her smooth, white, and creamy face.

Though dismayed and devastated, she continued to spark like an elusive sea pearl, misplaced by the hands of God in the middle of the desolate desert, attracting her enemies. Her ancient beauty killed, it sent them hankering after her. They savagely argued, fighting over her. Each and every one wanted to claim her as his own. Her formerly prestigious and royal status rendered her free from them, but not from Burhan.

* * * * *

In the thirsty plains of the desert, they began betting on her, as a precious piece of land, as a deep well, full of an endless source of water.

“I found her first and she’s mine,” shouted a long bearded, wretched soldier, riding on a dark-brown horse. “So, you all stay away from her,” he went on.

“I’d get her from you for ten heads of sheep,” shouted another slim, ragamuffin soldier.

“By God’s will, I won’t give her away for fifty heads of camels,” shouted the one who found her first. “Look at her beautiful hips and hair. Her beauty surmises all I’ve seen in fifty years.”

“Kill her!” A call echoed from a wimpy soldier in the back.

“I’d give you a hundred of them if allowed for a nightstand,” said a fat soldier in the front line, with a sword embroidered with gold, in his hand.

“God forbid. She’s already christened for me. So, you stay out of it, too.”

They fought and bled, killing one another for her. They all wagered on her, save for Fani who approached her cautiously, asking about her name and that of her kins.

“I am Merav, the daughter of the assassinated sheik of the village and the wife of his assassinated deputy.” She asserted while her head was still held up high.

Upon hearing this revelation, Fani rushed to his leader, to inform him of the turmoil, preoccupying his entire army. He told him of her angelic appearance and of her royal lineage.

Fani, the only fighter questioning the truthful identity of Burhan, kept nagging his comrades with questions, “What if there were no nymphs in Heaven? What if this man weren’t the truthful, Godly-sent prophet? What if he was lying? Will you drop your weapons, abandoning the idea of going to paradise? Or will you continue to shed the blood you crave?” He wasn’t convinced nor was he lecherous enough so much as his colleagues were for the nymphs of heaven. Nevertheless, he was faithful, not to Burhan, but to the word he gave to him.

“Let me consult God on that,” Burhan said as he walked into his tent. God was made to be ready at his own discretion.

A few moments later, Burhan crawled out of his tent, wreathed in smiles. He instructed Fani to bring her to him, putting an end to the misery that engulfed his prominent army members.

* * * * *

A slim, hopeless figure, with hands bound behind her back, stood before him. Her black hair was straight, but wavy across her forehead. Her wide eyes flushed with tears, welling across the corners of her eyes. Once Burhan took a glimpse of her graceful beauty, he whispered to himself, by God, some people were born lucky; some strove to achieve luck, while others had had luck thrust upon them.

“Would you like your freedom granted?” He asked as he reiterated inquiring about her name and that of her kins. “Loss kills every pleasure in life. Only black suits me,” she said, choking with tears.

Eros danced above the clouds of his thoughts. A daffodil, waiting to bloom, stretched in the horizon of his mind. The worm in his brain began to crawl. With a brittle smile on his face, he blurted out, “I’d grant you happiness and freedom if you marry me.” “Shame on you. Between winning hearts and mending them lies a thin line called manner. Don’t you know you and your vagabonds just killed my father and my husband?” Burhan blushed as she uttered those words, totally unaware of her eloquence and potency.

But as mesmerizingly charming as she was, he couldn’t resist claiming her as his own. He flatly told his soldiers he’d marry her that same night. “Her dowry would be her granted freedom from enslavement,” he asserted. “Try applying it to your daughter before nailing it into the heart of others.” She said.

Burhan’s reality was hard to grasp. He unconsciously wished it were a dream. His comrades stood perplexed as she kept berating him, unleashing tongues of criminal prisoners behind the teeth, who if released when angry, would throw one in a cell of remorse, where one would only be freed, under the mercy of conscience.

Her circumstances were hard, but there was always hope as stars shone brighter on darker nights. She never experienced such an authoritarian desert prick in her life. She continued castigating him, till she unbridled a falcon, soaring high into the sky. She was stronger because of what she’d gone through. She was smarter because of his silly mistake. When she looked at her palm, terrified by her nightmare, she’d prayed, imploring she’d be happier, knowing the horror she’d experience. She was sure should she be free, she’d be wiser because she’d learned.

* * * * *

“My Lord, you can’t marry her tonight, for her father and husband just died,” Fani protested.

“That may not apply to captives of war, especially to those of heathen!” He snapped a justification for himself.

Aeolus enraged and furious, inside the cavernous interior of his cave, blew heavy winds, stirring a scourging hot, dusty storm that eclipsed a soaring hawk, circling the eye of the sky. Hard rocks eroded, boulders broke, harnesses pulled while horses reared and neighed. Swords swung and clanged, pounding with the howling storm. Fani whipped out his sword, thrusting it into the heart of his leader, whom he once followed, under the night disguise. He crushed his brain whose twin tumors were impossible to eradicate, one of which was the blood, manifested in the abode of mortals, while the other was the lechery for the nymphs of the abode of the just. Burhan tumbled down a cold corpse, underneath Fani’s feet. He had climbed the desert plains with many, but came down with none. Fani thought to himself who didn’t drink from the sea of knowledge would die thirsty in the desert of life. Life was a lesson taught by experience.

As Fani wiped his sword clean with a white cloth, bright clouds danced softly, blowing Zephyr’s winds. A white dove flew above Merav’s head.

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Abdullah Aljumah is bilingual and bicultural. He received his Master’s degree in Linguistics from Eastern Michigan University sponsored by the Fulbright program. Some of his short stories are published by various literary reviews and journals. He writes short stories and poems revolving around hypocrisy, religion conflicts, and forced or arranged marriages.

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Copperfield’s Anthology of Historical Fiction Submission Guidelines

The Copperfield Review seeks to publish the best in historical short fiction and historical poetry. We proudly announce our second anthology of historical fiction.

Anthology Submission dates: April 1, 2021 through August 31, 2021

Anthology submissions should be sent through Submittable. There is a $3 reading fee. The word Anthology should appear in the submission title.

submit

  • Fiction: Submit one short story of historical fiction of up to 4000 words. The story must be historical fiction, though it may also be a sub-genre such as historical romance, historical mystery, etc. We do not accept alternative history submissions.
  • Poetry: Submit up to 3 poems in one document. Poetry should be either historical fiction or based on a historical subject.

Publication Information

Copperfield’s second anthology of historical fiction is scheduled for publication in October 2021.

The anthology will be published in ebook and paperback formats. Authors whose works are chosen to appear in the anthology agree to have their stories or poems appear in marketing materials to promote sales of the anthology.

Payment

Authors will receive an honorarium as well as two contributor paperback copies and a copy of the ebook. The honorarium will be $25 USD.

Licensing

Authors who agree to appear in the anthology grant The Copperfield Review the right to publish their work in ebook and paperback formats in the anthology. Otherwise, authors retain all rights to their work and they are free to license or sell their work however they wish. Future publication of work that appears in the anthology should be noted as first appearing in The Copperfield Review’s anthology. Copyright of the anthology collection itself is owned by The Copperfield Review.

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The Strangling Angel

When I first felt sick, my parents hoped it was an ordinary sore throat and headache, but when I couldn’t swallow and the fever hit, they knew it was serious. Our country doctor was in Waupun, only 10 miles away, but my brother, Herman, had to ride there on our old horse, Buck, and it was a slow journey. As much as Herman tried to coax Buck to move faster, it took a long time to get to the doctor, and my breathing was becoming more and more labored.

I have no clear memory of what happened, but I do remember my body going from drenching sweats to relentless shivers, making my muscles ache and clouding my already frazzled mind. My breathing was raspy, and I was in serious pain. I saw the anxious look on my mother’s face, pale and terrified, fearing the outcome of whatever imminent danger awaited me. The rest of my family kept their distance, as my father would not let anyone close for fear of my unknown condition.

The year was 1879, and I was nine years old, the sixth of 11children of August and Louisa Gauger. We lived on a ten-acre farm near Brandon, Wisconsin, where we raised cows and chickens, along with a multitude of dogs, cats, and any other animal wandering onto our land. Recently, we had added more cows to our herd so we could produce and deliver milk to the nearby Hazen Factory, which had been built by Charles Hazen solely for the production of cheese. Prior to this, cheese-making was considered women’s work to be done at home, but now the factory was making Brick cheese, and it brought us extra needed money.

My life on the farm was enjoyable, in spite of the rigorous physical demands required to make a living off of the land. During harvest season, my dad would let me ride on the horse-drawn grain harvester he’d recently purchased in Beloit, Wisconsin, from the Deering Manufacturing Company. They invented a reaper to incorporate a twine binder and automate the operation of bailing hay. I was proud my father was always on top of the latest developments, which made us proficient at getting our crops to market. One day I would own the farm and follow in my father’s footsteps.

Our neighbors were a short distance away, and after my chores were complete, I would walk over to their farm to play with my best friend, Charlie. He also came from a big family, so to avoid the other kids, we would hide in the hayloft. We pretended the bales of hay were stonewalls when we played army; mountains when we played cowboys and Indians; and massive trees when we were explorers in an unknown world.

One afternoon, as I approached the farm, I could see Charlie’s parents building a bonfire by throwing toys and clothing into the flames. “What are they doing?” I asked. “Those toys can still be fun, and Charlie and I can still play with them.”

A shirt dropped from their pile of clothes and I picked it up and brought it to Charlie’s mom. “Get away from here and stay out of our house!” she screamed as she grabbed the shirt away from me and through it into the fire.

“But I want to see Charlie.” I was shocked by her outrage and couldn’t understand why she wanted me to leave. I thought she liked me.

Confused, I turned and ran away from the bonfire, through the fields of corn and soy and rushed into my house where I crumpled to the floor. My mother was preparing dinner and when I told her about the way Charlie’s mom yelled at me, a look of dread passed over her and she too started to yell. “Did you touch anything?” Tears formed in the corner of her eyes, turning them liquid and angry.

“No, I don’t understand why they are throwing away perfectly good things.”

“There is sickness in their house, and we must protect ourselves by staying away. I don’t want you playing with Charlie until this danger passes.”

“Why not?!” I said, challenging my mother. “Charlie is my best friend, and we’re building a fort in his hay loft. We need to finish it before the next harvest.”

My mother softened her gaze and relaxed, touching my shoulder. “Charlie’s little sister, Emma, just died of diphtheria. It is dangerous for anyone to be around her. We don’t know how she got sick, but it can strike anyone, especially young children. I don’t want you bringing it into our house. Stay away from Charlie and his family for now.”

My mother hugged me and started murmuring about being safe and keeping the evil winds away. I still didn’t understand, but thought I should reassure her that I was safe and would not play with Charlie until she said I could. I didn’t believe in evil winds and couldn’t imagine anything bad being at Charlie’s house, so I was sure I was alright.

“What is diphtheria?” I asked.

“It is an evil sickness that keeps you from breathing.”

Four days later, I became sick, and my mother could no longer protect me. It started with a sore throat and fever, but by the end of the day, my breathing was labored and painful. Our family doctor made a house call and prescribed whiskey to try to clear the membrane forming inside my windpipe. He said it would help keep the air passage clear, but he recommended a special doctor to treat the disease.

The following morning, I was worse. The special doctor was making rounds near us, and my parents brought him to our house to treat me. I tried to focus on what he was saying, but I was in pain and kept drifting in and out of consciousness. I couldn’t concentrate enough to listen to him, but I did hear things like “infection has progressed,” “little can be done,” and “experimental tracheotomy.” I heard my mother crying and begging him to try anything, and then I lost consciousness completely.

When I awoke, the doctor was still whispering in hushed tones with my parents. I stared at their grim faces and waves of hopeless sobs formed in my stomach and streamed through my body. When it reached my throat, I felt fire and tried to scream, but no sound emerged because the pain was too great.

I remained still and strained to listen to the doctor talking to my mother. “We are not out of the woods yet,” he said, his voice trembling. “There is a high risk of infection around the tracheotomy tube, and Henry must be kept isolated and away from his siblings. There are a lot of theories about how this disease is spread, but nobody knows for sure. Diphtheria tends to strike families, especially younger children. Keep him away from the others.”

My mother was barely able to speak, but she choked out a few words. “I will always hold you in my heart,” she said.

The following week was an uneasy pattern of wakefulness and deep sleep. I was hungry, but it was so painful to eat or drink that I avoided food and only ate when my mother forced me to swallow small amounts of liquid. Every day she cleaned and dressed the wound in my neck, and I wondered if I was going to have to spend the rest of my life with a tube sticking out of my neck. Talking was impossible, but I was able to breathe.

The progress was slow, but gradually I improved and became aware of what was going on around me. I hadn’t seen any of my siblings in over a week, and I had no idea what was happening on the farm. Did somebody do my chores for me? I bet they were really mad, especially my older brother, who always complained I never did enough work. The fort Charlie and I were building in his barn had probably been taken over by his brother, who always wanted to play with us.

My mother told me the special doctor was coming soon to see me and check on my progress. I really didn’t want to see him again, but my mother said it was necessary to remove the tube so I could get better.

I tried to speak as best as I could but it took so much effort to push the air out of my lungs and with the tube in the way, I couldn’t use my vocal cords. “What happened?” I managed to create some sound and pointed at my throat.

“Do you want to know about the surgery?” my mother asked.

I shook my head yes.

Slowly, my mother described the procedure with the precision of a trained nurse and a calmness I didn’t know she possessed. “The doctor started the surgery without anesthetic, since you were already unconscious. He used only a few tools from his pocket instrument case, a scalpel and a tracheostomy tube. He sterilized everything in boiling water and scrubbed them so they were free of germs. The only light we had available, besides that window over on the wall, was a kerosene lamp that your father held over the bed. I tried to assist wherever I could, but I was so scared I could not offer much help.”

“You had diphtheria,” my mother continued with the same measured calmness. “It’s serious because a membrane grows over your breathing tube and eventually stops you from breathing. The doctor made a cut in your throat where the infectious membrane was growing.” My mother pointed to her own throat as I felt the tube inserted in mine.

“That’s right,” she said now struggling to continue. “The doctor inserted the tube into the cut and, with his own mouth, sucked out the choking membrane. As soon as that happened, I could see your breathing was easier, and the pale, bluish complexion of your face almost returned to normal.”

The longer my mother talked, the more distraught she became. I was confused by her grief, because I thought I was getting better, and she should be happy. Yet, my mother seemed to be getting worse. When my stoic father walked into the room, I was relieved because he held her tight and she was able to relax.

A few days later, the special doctor came back to our farm. “Henry is my first success with this method of treatment. You did a good job keeping the wound clean, and no infection set in. Very few children ever recover from this illness.”

“Will he survive?” my mother asked.

“I think so. I have to remove the tube, and we will see if he can breathe on his own. At least this time I have an anesthetic with me.”

Focusing on the doctor, I tried to pay attention to the instructions he gave my mother, but they spoke in low, mumbled tones. I felt they were keeping secrets from me, maybe things I shouldn’t know or something that would scare me. The doctor poured a liquid into a cloth and approached me. He said something about being asleep, or maybe it was my sister Ida who was asleep, but I could sense something was wrong, and my body stiffened in anticipation.

The doctor moved the cloth towards me, and my hands flew to my face for protection. Without thinking, I yelled at my mother, not caring about the stabbing pain in my throat. I smelled something sweet, like paint remover, and thought of the afternoon my father and I had painted our barn door. That image quickly vanished, and I struggled to push the cloth away, but soon everything became black, and I sank into the void.

When I awoke, I was alone in the bedroom I shared with my older brother. My head hurt, my throat was on fire, but my breathing seemed almost normal. I tried to touch my throat, but it was covered with a large cloth, and when I searched for the tube, it was gone. Could I actually be breathing on my own? I swallowed and still felt pain, but I was able to breathe. Maybe I was going to live, after all.

I stayed motionless for a while, dozing periodically, until my mother came in to check on me. She didn’t look happy. Maybe I was wrong in thinking my breathing was normal, and this was only a brief reprieve before my body succumbed to the strangling angel. 

“How are you feeling?” my mother asked.

Struggling through the pain of talking, I pointed to my bandages and said, “My throat hurts.”

“You have been asleep for a long time, but the doctor said you are doing well.”

After another silence, my grief-stricken mother composed herself and said, “Ida is sick. This epidemic is stealing my children, and I don’t know what to do.” She began to shake, giving in to great waves of emotion that consumed her. “I think strong winds are spreading the disease, and I can’t do anything to stop them.”

“Yes you can, you did for me,” the grief I saw in my mother filled me with sorrow and I became determined to alleviate her pain in any way I could.

“The doctor did a tracheotomy on Ida,” she explained, calmer now. “Just like the one you had, but Ida is not as strong as you, and I’m not sure she will survive. I fear the younger children will also become sick.”

Guilt floods me. What did I do to give Ida my disease? We didn’t share the same bedroom and rarely played together. During my free time, I was always at Charlie’s. We had some of the same chores, but my jobs were primarily outside, while hers involved helping my mother with the household work. Ida and I didn’t even get along well, because she liked to do girl things, and I had no interest in her activities. I wanted to believe it was not my fault, but I had doubts.

As the days went by, I regained some of my strength, and my voice slowly returned. Both of my parents came to comfort me and tend to my needs, but the visits were short. The rest of my siblings stayed away. I had no idea what was going on with the farm or my family.

“Henry.” It was my father, coming to check on me. “How are you doing today?”

“All right,” I responded, but I sensed something was wrong. Fear bubbled up inside me; not the fear of danger, but the fear of not knowing what the danger was.

“Ida has been taken from us,” my father simply stated.

“What?” I shouted ignoring the searing pain in my throat.

“The tracheostomy tube caused an infection, and Ida was too weak to fight it,” my father said. “You were strong enough to survive, but Ida was not.” Pain brewed in my father’s sad blue eyes but outwardly, he remained calm.  

 “There will be no funeral,” he continued. “We’ll take her body to the graveyard next to our church. If you feel strong enough, you can ride along to say goodbye to your sister.”

I was devastated by my sister’s death. Why did my family keep me so isolated? A dark feeling started to invade my thoughts, and I wondered if my family blamed me for Ida’s death. I was the first one to get sick, after all. I was the one who became feverish. I was the one who brought the strong winds into the house, and I was the one who survived the doctor’s treatment only to spread the disease to my sister.

The following day, our entire family formed a procession to the Lutheran Cemetery. It was a sad sight to see my older brothers walking alongside the wagon, with the rest of us sitting next to the simple wooden coffin that was Ida’s final resting place. Mother held Baby Augie in the front, and Father spoke only to the horses, urging them to pull harder. There was no funeral service, and no one came to the internment. Families who knew of our situation were too frightened to attend, not knowing how long the epidemic would last, or who would be the next victim. Some families, already devastated by the disease, simply could not bear the grief.

It was the summer of 1879, and my family would have to go through this scene four more times before autumn set in: Ida, age 11; Emilie, age 8; Helene, age 6; Marie, age 4; Emma, age 3.

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Karen Shapiro is a retired school psychologist and teacher with a Master’s degree in Educational Psychology. She has a strong interest in Genealogy and bases her stories on actual events discovered while researching her family tree. She is a life-long student of continuing/online education, with an associate degree in web design and workshops in travel and fiction writing.

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Beneath the Yellow Aspen Trees

We are excited to share our first audio short story “Beneath the Yellow Aspen Trees” written by Chad Lester. The story is a well-written piece of historical fiction, and the narrator, stage actor Jeffrey Machado, does a great job bringing the story to life. We loved listening to it, and we think you will too.

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Chad Lester has a degree in Writing Studies from the University of Washington. His short story ‘The Lounge’ was a finalist in the 88th Annual Writers Digest Competition. He’s currently working on a novel which he hopes to traditionally publish.

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What Makes a Witch?

Susan North stood, shaking, in the Common House of Salem Village.  She shook so hard her clothes quivered.  Her life was at stake, and if she were not careful it could also be the life of her husband and child.  So, Susan shook with cold even while sweat stained her unadorned, brown, wool dress. 

It was hot in the room. 

The packed Common House had two stories with a door and two windows centered on all four sides of the split board, saltbox building.  It was overly warm from the summer heat and press of bodies but that did not keep cold fear from centering in the very core of Susan and those accused with her.  She had already seen Bridget Bishop hung and her dear friend, Rev. George Burroughs, die as well, even while reciting the Lord’s Prayer. 

William Stoughton sat in the center of the panel of judges and looked down at Susan with the pinched, disapproving look of a man who sees all women as vessels of the unclean.  He addressed no questions to the accused; it was assumed that whatever she said would be a lie.  His questions were instead addressed to the cluster of teen-age girls sitting in the front row of the meetinghouse—a place usually reserved for the most important and respected members of the village. 

The girls appeared more bored than engaged.  They would stir themselves soon, one or the other would begin a histrionic vision and the rest would join to a greater or lesser degree.  But for now, Ann Putnam picked at a fingernail, Abigail Warren was braiding the hair of Bette Parris and Deliverance Hobbs appeared to be staring out the window, but could have been nodding off as the warm sun hit her full in the face.  Mercy Warren was the only one paying attention to the judicial row.  This was to be her morning for questions, providing evidence against one more woman from her unhappy past, and it was she, if she so chose, who would provide the pre-arranged cue to the other girls to begin thrashing in spectral anguish.  All Mercy needed to do was say the words, “None of us want to see the vision of that great, black dog ever again.” and her friends would fall into screams, moans, and contortions. 

It is so simple, Mercy thought, to convince these silly, stupid adults that a witch was in their midst.  Mercy and her friends, bored, ignored, given little education and less respect, now controlled the life and death of every person in the village.  Such power was intoxicating.  And no one loved the heady feel of it more than Mercy Lewis, the orphan.

“You say you were afflicted, girl.  By whom?  Under what circumstances?  Who tempted you and how?”  Magistrate Stoughton was always harsh when addressing her and Mercy knew why.  She was a servant girl, living only at the pleasure and command of her distant kinsman, Thomas Putnam.  It was not lost on Mercy that the tone of the judge was more moderate and respectful when questioning Ann Putnam, Betty Parris or Mary Walcott.  Those girls had fathers with position and power.  They were called “child” in a warm and encouraging voice, not the cold, abrupt “girl.”

“Speak up, girl!”  Mercy flinched to hide her anger.

“I was afflicted, sir.  I hesitate only because I fear to see the same demon again.”  She hesitated, looking warily at her hands, which were clearly trembling.  Then she raised her head, in perfectly timed defiance of her fears.  “But I say it now, Sir, frightened though I am.  I was afflicted, tormented, and tempted by the Devil himself, and those that serve him.”
A rustle of concern moved across the crowded common room. 

“What form did these tormentors take?”

“It was last Lord’s Day, sir.  I was walking to this very House, to worship.  I was late, as I sometimes am, because of my household duties.”  She paused, but did not look at her employer, Thomas Putnam.

“We do not care about the reasons for your tardiness, girl.  Continue.”

“I am sorry, sir.  As I hurried to my worship, I saw a sky filled with birds, but there were other animals as well, dogs and pigs, and cats that seemed to be ordering the other animals in their flight.  The beasts told me to come away with them.  They barred my way to the Common House, so I could scarcely move forward.”

More murmuring. 

“I tried to cry out, but a man appeared, waved his hand across my throat and I could make not a sound.  But I saw the man well, and I know his name.”

“Name him, then.”

“George Burroughs.”

“The same Burroughs who was executed last week?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure.”

“I know him well, sir.  I worked in his house in the months after my parents were killed in the Wabanaki attacks.”

The story of Mercy Lewis’s orphaned state was well known by the whole community.  Mercy, the daughter of Phillip Lewis was born in Falmouth, Maine in 1675, at a time of constant unrest and violent conflict between the colonialists and the Wabanaki nation.  At three years of age her parents, along with Rev. Burroughs and many of the people of Falmouth fled to the islands in Casco Bay as the Wabanaki slaughtered those left behind, including Mercy’s grandparents, cousins and neighbors. 

At age 16 the Wabanaki mounted yet another offensive and killed both of Mercy’s parents.  It was then that she took temporary refuge with Rev. Burroughs, himself having lived and ministered briefly in Salem.  As soon as arrangements could be made, Mercy moved to the home of her married sister, who lived in Salem Village.  An orphan with no family or fortune behind her, the future she faced was outlined in full when she became a servant in the home of Thomas Putnam.  She would spend her youth, middle years and old age as a menial servant, bowing to all, and regarded by none.

“We already know of the evil works of Burroughs.  Were there any with him that still walk unknown in the Village?”

“There were, sir, they grabbed at my clothes and scratched my arms and snatched at my hair and bonnet as I ran into the Common for services.”
Stoughton briefly conferred with those present and they did indeed affirm that Mercy was present, though late and disheveled at worship the past week, though one of the men did comment dourly that she frequently appeared under similar circumstances.

“Name these apparitions.”

“One was Captain Alden, the man who sold guns to the Wabanaki and slept with their squaws, making babies with heathens, though certainly that did not bother him in any way.” 

Captain Alden had been named by Mercy before and had, in fact, been jailed and well on his way to the gallows until he had mysteriously escaped the jail and run to New York.  Mercy resented his escape, since it had obviously been abetted by people who did not believe this gunrunner from Maine to be a wizard.  Mercy had had Alden in her sights from the beginning.  It was well known that he had sold arms to the Indians he loved so much.  These same Indians had then used those arms to destroy Mercy’s family and her hope for a life that did not include emptying the chamber pots of kin who should treat her like family instead of the hired help. 
“The other was a most fearful witch, standing in a circle inside a five-pointed star, all made of fire.  She stood there and directed the birds to attack me, pecking at me and screaming in my face.  She laughed at my misery and then turned to Alden and used a soft voice to tell him I would be turned to the Devil or suffer horribly for naming the Captain before this council.”

“Give us her name, girl!”

“Susan North—is was Susan North.”

A rumbled moved through the assembly.  Goody North was well-known.   A healer.  A midwife.  A friend and a devout worshiper.  Her husband was a respected miller and their baby a bouncing, pink, bundle of health.  Susan doted on the child.  Certainly, Goody North was smarter than a woman should be.  She could read and write and vowed that her children, even the girls, would know those arts as well.  But there were times when her knowledge had saved the life of a good man, a deserving woman, or an innocent child. 

You could almost hear the thoughts of the women in Common House.  Was knowing how to heal a gift from God?  Or a bargain with the Devil?  Surely Goody North had saved the life of the unworthy as easily as the worthy.  There was even talk that Susan had helped more than one unwed young girl who might come to her with child to leave without one.  The loss of a child in the womb was neither here nor there, it happened all the time, but the thought that the punishment so richly due any harlot should be skirted by eliminating the proof of her sin was repugnant.  Sin was supposed to be punished.  Fornication was a sin. 

And here was Mercy Lewis, a supposed strumpet, pointing her finger at Susan North, naming her as a witch and agent of the Devil. 

“She comes to me almost every night.  Tormenting me in my bed.”

It was at this moment, cold and frightened, shaking and almost deaf from the pain in her head that Susan North turned from the judges’ bench to Mercy Lewis.  A small flicker of anger had managed to warm Susan’s core.  It did not balance the fear, but it gave her enough strength to do something she was not allowed to do. 

Susan North spoke.

“Mercy…” it was almost a whisper, but those close to her heard it and stopped talking.

“Mercy” louder this time.  “It is not me that torments you in your bed.”

“The accused will stand silent!” Stoughton shouted.

Mercy Lewis, shocked into silence for the first time in these proceedings looked about, almost as if searching for a place of escape.  Then she saw the faces of the other girls, attentive now, frightened, looking to her for the leadership she had offered from the moment this game of blame, theater, life and death had begun.  It gave her a moment and she seized it.

Mercy’s finger jabbed fiercely toward Goody North. 

“She torments me even now, even here.”

“Mercy,” Susan’s voice carried across the hall, “I stand here as the woman who helped you in your time of need.  You begged me to assist you, putting on a face of fear and sadness and betrayal.  You have many faces Mercy.  I think it is that which torments you.”

“She has faces!  She has faces!”  Mercy screamed, starting to thrash about, biting at her own arms, drawing blood and tearing with her fingernails at her own face and hair.

“The accused will not speak…” 

Spit from Stoughton’s mouth sprayed Susan and those around him on the bench.  “Order!” he screamed, not sure at whom he was directing the imperative.  Then louder, “There will be silence!”

The room was broiling with activity.  In all this Susan North was the only one who now stood silent.  In the instant when all attention had turned to the girls she had panicked and wondered if she could run—making good an escape as Alden had.  She had moved away from the thrashing girls and turned toward the door, but too many angry, screaming faces stood between her and freedom.  At almost that same moment two men charged as bailiffs grasped both her arms and she gave in to them.  Her death sentence was sealed by the histrionics of the girls.  But she knew the truth and she knew she would avow her innocence to the end.  No one would accuse her without her protesting the claim.  But, oh, the fear of it.  The pain, the panic, and her child…

Susan North slumped to the floor, not in a feint, but powerless to hold the weight of what she saw ahead of her.  The hands still held her fast but let her collapse between them.  She could not think of her daughter, Hannah.  That would be a pain that would break her.  Instead she concentrated on the hate she suddenly felt toward Mercy Lewis and the spoiled, selfish girls who casually stole life and reputation from so many good people in Salem Village and beyond. 

Rough hands brought her back to her feet.  Her head lolled but was drawn to the one face that could give her strength.  Her husband, John, stood against the back wall.  She had begged him not to come, but he had and in his drawn face she saw a mirror of the impotent rage she herself felt.  The injustice of it all!  The futility of argument!  The rejection of reason.  Their eyes met and she mouthed one simple word. “Go.” 

Susan and John had discussed the worst that could happen, and their plan, to be acted on only in that extremity, was now to be executed.  There would be no more affirmations of love, whispered hopes for the best and prayers to a merciful God.  Now there was only action.

John left the Common House and sped to his house, stopping only to get Hannah from the aged neighbor who was watching the child.  He bundled his daughter in the wagon which was already packed with most of the sparse furnishings from their home.  All of Susan’s things were left behind, by choice.  There would never—must never—be a way to use her possessions to accuse him of witchcraft. 

The father and daughter left Salem Village immediately and were in Boston by nightfall.   

John had sought refuge in his brother’s house when he heard the worst of the news.  Magistrate Stoughton, sure that the obstinate North woman must be an extraordinary witch, and therefore worthy of extraordinary punishment, decreed that Susan should burn instead of being hanged as her predecessors had been.  Execution was only a night and a day away. 
 The night before her death Susan North received a whispered message through the low window of her cellar jail.  Four words only: it will be quick.  Dumb with fear she did not ask for more, or who the speaker was, but she held the words in her mind and repeated them silently over and over.  The words became her mantra and they did not fail her.  The wood, piled higher than the magistrates had remembered from the day before, was extremely dry.  When the torch was put to the brush it flashed instead of smoldering, sucking oxygen from the air. 

Susan seemed to take one huge, sobbing breath, but there was no oxygen left to be breathed.  Her head snapped back, seeking air, and then collapsed on her chin, unconscious of the almost immediate explosion.  A small keg of gunpowder exploded under her feet.  The messenger was true to his word.  It was quick.

Outraged beyond grief at the loss of his wife, John North filed a civil suit against Mercy Lewis, and her fellow accusers. It would be the first of dozen of such suits filed against the Salem Village accusers—and it would help bring the dreaded Court of Oyer and Terminor to an end.   

A decade after John fled to Boston with his child; a decade after he watched his wife die horribly but swiftly in the blast of gun powder that he had placed under her scaffold; a decade after he had vowed eternal retribution against Mercy Lewis and the rest of the “afflicted” girls, John North faced his moment of truth.  He saw Mercy walking down the streets of Boston. 
He knew Mercy had given birth to a child the year before and had then fled to Boston to marry a teamster from her hometown of Falmouth, Maine.  The ne’r-do-well and drunkard, Samuel Alder, now led Mercy down the middle of the street.  As they passed each other, North realized that Mercy Lewis Alder had neither noticed nor recognized him.  She was dirty and ragged, shuffling along behind her much older and clearly intoxicated husband.  Her child was held carelessly on her hip and she was muttering to herself.  North thought of calling out to her, castigating her as the slattern she was, but was stayed by his daughter’s tug on his arm. 

“They are a sad family, aren’t they, Father?” 

John North looked at his daughter.  Hannah was growing in every way her mother would have wanted, and now she was showing a charitable concern toward the woman who was the instrument of Susan’s death. 

“They are.”  He started to add, “God bless them” but the words stuck in his throat.  To all his other faults and failings, John was not going to add hypocrisy.  Instead he moved his daughter along the street and whispered, “God bless us.” 

Mercy Lewis, absorbed in her own unhappiness, never heard the benediction. 

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Louise Butler is a writer of science, economics, and historical fiction.  She was examining ergot fungi as a cause for the “afflictions” of children thought to be possessed by demons or victims of witchcraft when she recognized the name of an accused witch that also appeared in her own ancestry.  The following is an excerpt from her third book: That Blaisdell Blood: a Novel.  Ms. Butler currently lives in the deep Rio Grande Valley of Texas. She enjoys good books, good friends, and good scotch. 

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Tamara and Natiao

This is the most beautiful land that human eyes have ever seen.

~Christopher Columbus, Bariay, Cuba, November 27, 1492

The beats of the magueye drums increased their pace and the maracas rattled with a steady rhythm, drowning the sounds of the early summer night.  Everyone had gathered in the batey, the open area surrounded by the bohíos where the population of the nameless Taíno village resided. They crouched, forming an irregular circle around Uncle. He sat on the bare ground snorting a ground tobacco drug that brought him, with each inhalation, into a deeper trance. Taking one final puff, he closed his eyes and turned his head towards his niece, who held the squirming baby in her arms with difficulty. Uncle cleared his throat of the lingering vapors of the weed and intoned the words of the ritual:

“O sacred Nonum, who circles the heavens and sees all, the past, the present, and the future that lies hidden to us!  We present to you this child – grant us a glimpse of his future, whether he will grow to work the fields with strength, and fish the rivers with skill, and hunt and trap with cunning, and father many children that will increase our numbers and make us rich and powerful.”

No sooner had the words left the seer’s mouth than a dark cloud began blotting the sky where the moon had stood a moment ago. Darkness swallowed the village. Yet, before the full horror of the omen could be felt, the cloud shifted slightly, allowing a sliver of moonlight to struggle its way out, casting a dim light on the batey

Uncle shook his head with regret. “The goddess has spoken” – he declared. “This boy’s life will be brief and end in sorrow, but some good will come out of it. Welcome, Natiao. You shall be loved by us for as long as you are in this world.”

2

It was the same batey, the same clearing in the forest, the same full moon casting light and shadows on the faces of the villagers. It was colder, though, late in the year, at the end of the huracan season. Uncle again sat in a trance, his half-closed eyes directed at the baby, as she rested quietly in her bibi’s arms. He recited the words of the ritual and everyone turned their eyes towards the moon, which sat huge in the heavens. Nothing happened for a while. Then, as Uncle was getting ready to announce that the goddess did not deign to speak, a small hawk darted out of the forest and circled slowly three times over the assembled crowd, all the while uttering its piercing challenge, and coming near to where the baby was being held. Then it gave out one last shriek and was gone.

Uncle got to his feet, came over to the mother, and said gravely: “This child will see many moons, and will know many cycles of pain and misfortune. But at the end she is to prevail, for she is strong and her will shall conquer adversity. Welcome, brave one, I name you Tamara and, as the butterfly whose name you bear, you will soar above the evil and good that life shall offer you.”

3

Between the time of Natiao’s birth and that of his sister Tamara, the world had gone through a catastrophic change, but in the Taíno village nobody knew of it. One day late in Natio’s first year, fair skinned men sailing in floating houses came ashore at a place not far from the village. Leading them was an auburn-haired giant called Cristóbal Colón who later became known as the “Guamikeni” (Lord of Land and Water) by the Taínos. Colón soon sailed away and never came back.

Later, Taínos began arriving from distant villages, some coming from as far as the island of Haytí. Some traveled overland across the steep mountains, others arrived by water in canoes, but all brought disquieting tales about those pallid men. According to their stories, the Guamikeni and his men came ashore and established their own villages, not unlike the Taíno yukayekes. Soon thereafter, though, they sought to master the land, forcing the local inhabitants to become their servants and making all males, young and old, pan the rivers in search of gold nuggets. Those that resisted were whipped or had flesh-tearing dogs unleashed on them.

At first the villagers gave no credence to these tales, and viewed them as excuses by people wishing to leave their impoverished lands for a better place to call home. But then a larger group of Taínos appeared in the village. They arrived in piraguas, war canoes, all the way from Haytí.  They were led by a crazy-eyed old man who called himself Hatuey and said he was a Taíno chief. They had escaped from the hands of the Spaniards and wanted to warn all people about what to expect when the white men came.

Tamara was fourteen and had had her first blood, but was not yet paired with any of the young men in the village. She listened to Hatuey in horror as he addressed the village and exhibited a large basket full of small gold ornaments like jeweled yaris and taguaguas. “Here is the God the Spaniards worship,” he said, “for all they want is gold, and will kill us for it.” He went on to say: “We must make a common front to resist them, and throw them back into the sea from which they came!!”  

The Taínos could not believe the apocalyptic message brought by Hatuey, and only a few joined him. Then Diego Velázquez, at the head of a conquering Spanish expedition, landed with about three hundred armed men and set to subdue the native population.

Hatuey led the Taíno resistance against Velázquez. His strategy was to attack, guerilla fashion, and then disperse to the hills, where the Indians would regroup for the next attack. For three months Hatuey’s tactics kept the Spaniards on the defensive, afraid to leave their fort.

4

With the help of a traitor, Velázquez was finally able to surround and capture Hatuey. Hatuey was tied to a stake at the Spanish camp and was burned alive. Just before lighting the fire, a priest offered him spiritual comfort, showing him the cross and asking him to accept Jesus so he could go to heaven. “Are there people like you in heaven?” he asked. “There are many like me in heaven,” answered the priest. Hatuey answered: “I want nothing to do with a God that welcomes people who inflict such cruel deeds on others.”

Natiao’s village had been at the core of Hatuey’s resistance. After his execution, the villagers sought to appease the Spaniards by holding a feast in their honor. Once the feast was over, however, the conquistadores set upon the Indians, slashing, disemboweling and slaughtering the males until their blood ran like a river. Except for those that managed to flee into the hills, the only Taíno males left alive were the old, the sick and the very young.

Natiao and three other youth escaped the massacre and hid in one of the caves on the mountains that surrounded Baracoa. They kept harassing the conquistadores, destroying their crops, killing their work animals, setting fire to their huts, and on one occasion slaying two white men who they found unarmed in the fields.

Then their luck ran out. Hunting dogs traced them to their cave and led a full armed force to their hideaway. As the barks of the dogs alerted them to their peril, Natiao told his friends: “Run to the other side of the hill, behind the waterfall, and maybe they will lose track of you. I will distract them in the meantime.”  His friends resisted his command, but he shoved them out: “If you die, all resistance is lost. Live and carry on with the fight.”

The others had barely disappeared into the woods when the party of Spaniards appeared on top of the ridge:  five men armed with arcabuces and three vicious black dogs that sprung at Natiao ahead of the humans.

Natiao brandished a macana, a long thick club with sharpened edges, and dispatched two of the dogs in quick succession; the third turned tail and joined the Spaniards, who raised their arcabuces and shot at Natiao.

Three of the shots fired by the arcabuces missed Natiao and he thrust a lance at one of the soldiers, impaling him against the trunk of a tree. He ran rapidly at the others, screaming Hatuey’s war cry:  “Aji Aya Bombe” (“Better Dead than a Slave”), and clubbed another soldier, dropping him dead. He was reaching for a third soldier when the two remaining arcabuces were discharged at him simultaneously.

Natiao’s body was flung backwards from the impacts, and the youth fell to the ground shaking convulsively. Soon he was dead.

One of Natiao’s friends witnessed Natiao’s death and told the story to his companions and to every Taíno they met. Natiao became a hero but his fame was short-lived, for the Spaniards ultimately annihilated all the indigenous population of the island.

5

Tamara did not learn of her brother’s death until much later. The day of the feast, she and three other women were herded into a bohío where half a dozen drunken Spaniards gathered around them.

Like all young Taíno women, Tamara was bare breasted and wore only a thin cotton skirt that ran to mid-calf. She was bronze-colored and had black, flowing hair, and large and slightly oblique dark eyes. Her young body was beautiful and exciting to the eyes of the soldiers, who began lining up for a gang rape. The first of them, a stinking mountain of a man with a disfiguring mole on his cheek, roughly tore away Tamara’s skirt, threw her on the floor and mounted her.

Tamara shrieked and pummeled the man’s chest and scratched him, but was no match for her attacker. The violation was about to be consummated when the Spaniard was forcibly yanked away from the prostate girl.

“Leave the Indian alone!” was a peremptory shout from someone that Tamara could not see. The soldier swung back behind him in an attempt to hit the interrupter and was struck in the face with the pommel of a sword.

“Get out of here before I hit you with the front end and not the back” warned the intruder. The soldier got up slowly, muttering something incomprehensible, and tottered away.

Tamara could now get a full view of her savior. He was tall, bearded and dark, and fairly young. He wore a shirt, a doublet, breeches and leather boots and gloves; nothing that signified a high rank or position. He was handsome, in a rough sort of way.

The man picked Tamara off the ground without effort and, carrying her over his shoulder, took her to another bohío. There, he ran his hand slowly over her face and said: “Child, you are pretty. I will have you, but in a more dignified manner.”  

Tamara did not understand the man’s words, but his tone was soothing and the sensations she was experiencing as he caressed her were pleasurable. He went on: “My name is Iñigo Valdés, although everyone calls me Nacho.”

Nacho laid Tamara down on a straw mat on the dirt floor and began kissing her insistently. Tamara squirmed and tried to fight him off, but not as fiercely as she had a few minutes earlier.  Finally, as Nacho fondled her secret place, the one that only her bibi had touched when she was a baby, Tamara sighed and her resistance ceased.

6

Cuba’s conquest from the unresisting Indians was completed in 1515, the same year of the foundation of Villa de La Habana on the southern coast of the island. Nacho and Tamara were among the first settlers of the village. Tamara gave birth to a pretty girl that Nacho had baptized as Juana, in honor of the reigning Queen of Castilla. Tamara called her Guaní, humming bird, a name that presaged a restless life ahead.

By that point, Tamara had learned enough Spanish to be able to hold rudimentary conversations with her master. She mostly applied her new skills to upbraid Nacho for his failure to defend the Indians from the abuses by the Spaniards. Velázquez had instituted in Cuba the encomienda system developed in Spain upon the Christian conquest of Muslim territories. Under it, a Spaniard was issued control over several native families. The encomenderos were allowed to require labor from the Indians in exchange for their “christianization.”  While the Indians were considered free subjects of the empire, the encomenderos used their Indians as slaves, and their brutal treatment caused the Indians to begin to die from forced labor, disease and suicide.

Nacho had been granted an encomienda that placed two Taíno families under his control. These became virtual slaves that performed all the work in Nacho’s holding, except cooking that was Tamara’s domain. As Nacho’s concubine, Tamara ruled the house as a Spanish wife would have.

“You should not hit them” she complained, when Nacho whipped the encomendados for some infraction.

“Shut up, wench, unless you want me to hit you too!”  he replied gruffly.

“I not afraid. I Taíno. We people, not animals. You better not hit us.”

“Shut up or I will give you to my captain,” he said half-jokingly.

“I scratch his eyes out” she promised, with a hatred that lent credence to her threat.

Nacho burst into laughing and that was the end of the discussion.

Two years later, it became obvious that La Habana’s southern location was unsuitable and an alternate site was chosen for the city in the north coast. A trip to the proposed new location convinced Nacho that he could do better there.  He figured that in a year he would be able to establish himself more comfortably in a suitable place.

The work in erecting his new house would be performed by the Taínos in his encomienda. On morning in early 1517 Nacho gathered the two families under his ward in front of his bohío and said that two weeks hence he would lead them to the new location he had chosen for his house in the northern coast and leave them there to work clearing the property and laying the foundations for the new home.

The news was received with consternation by the Indians. They lived in deplorable conditions; nonetheless, they were appalled at being forced to move north to start building their master’s home while at the same time finding a way to make a living.

Tamara confronted Nacho and chided him for his heartlessness. “How you treat people like animals?  Taínos not cows or pigs, you no can move them around!”

Nacho gave her a hard slap on the face that sent her reeling. “They are my property, and I do with them as I damn please. I don’t give a hoot if they live or die. So, watch out, or I will send you along with them to build my house!”

Tamara had a bleeding split lip and a terrible headache from her repressed anger. She cooked dinner to avenge herself.

She made an ajiaco, a savory stew that included bits of pumpkin, sweet yuca (cassava), corn, okra, and salted pork. In this particular ajiaco, she used yuca brava instead of sweet yuca. Yuca brava, when cooked, releases nailboa, a poisonous juice that could kill a man if ingested in sufficient quantities.

Nacho had a hearty appetite and downed three bowls of ajiaco, accompanied by cups of rough wine. In no time he dropped in his hamaca and fell, groaning, into a stupor.

Tamara considered slaying the man, but he was the father of her daughter and not too terrible a person, for a Spaniard. She hoped that the nailboa would not kill but only sicken him, but that was in the hands of the gods. All she wanted was to get away.

She picked up Guaní and, with the baby in her arms, ran to a bohío and slammed her fist twice against the door. The family was already asleep but woke up with the commotion. “No time to explain” she told them. “Gather what you can carry and meet me at the batey.”  She proceeded to the other bohíos and made the same demand.

Soon, the entire population of Nacho’s encomienda was gathered around Tamara. “I have put Guaoxeri Nacho to sleep, maybe for a long time. He insists on your going north to build his house. If you don’t, he’ll have you killed. Your choice is simple:  Either flee or obey his demands.”

“Flee?  Where?” demanded someone.

“Not far east of here is the big Southern Swamp, where the Spaniards do not go for fear of poisonous snakes, caimanes and other perils. We must settle there, at least for a few months.”

“But how is that better than going to build Guaoxeri Nacho’s new home?”

“You will have to decide that” replied Tamara curtly. It’s your choice. But you must act quickly, or miss the chance.”

There was a brief discussion, and one of the men spoke to Tamara in a voice that trembled with emotion: “Sister Tamara, better in a swamp, fighting the caimanes and the jubos, than on the hands of the Spaniards. We’ll go.” 

Tamara pressed Guaní against her body and turned to the congregation. “I may be a foolish girl by doing this to my daughter. But we have little choice. Guaní will grow to be a slave. I do not wish such a life upon her.” 

One of the women walked with Tamara as the group began moving eastward. “Are you sure the white caimanes won’t get us?”  Tamara quickly retorted: “Our Zemís don’t make war, like the God of the Spaniards. But they have always protected me and will ensure that I make it through this, and more. And with their help I shall.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Matias F. Travieso-Diaz is a Cuban-American engineer and attorney, retired after half a century of professional practice.  Following retirement, Travieso-Diaz has taken up creative writing and authored many short stories of various lengths and genres. Travieso-Diaz’ stories have appeared or are scheduled to appear in two dozen paying magazines, including New Reader Magazine; Dual Coast Magazine; Lite Lit One Journal; Theme of Absence Magazine; Night to Dawn Magazine; Jerry Jazz Magazine; Dream of Shadows Magazine; Jitter Press; Bethlehem Writers Roundtable; Emerging Worlds; The Patchwork Raven; Czykmate Productions – How HORROR-able Anthology; Four Star Stories, and Aurelia Leo.

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Found Letters of Roanoke

1 September 1587

Dearest Mother and Father,

My humble duty remembered unto you, trusting in God you are in good health, and I pray, remember my love unto my sister, Catherine.

Today marks a month since we landed in the New World and a fortnight since Governor White departed Roanoke for England, but I already imagine him bringing my letters to you.

Never more have I missed the greenness of home. There has been scant rain since we arrived, and our crops are withering in hardened fields. God be praised, Manteo’s tribe, the Croatans, have showed us how to properly farm and trap fish.

Our dwindling supplies has forced Mr. White home to secure more goods. He was reluctant to leave his new grandchild, but the Council of Elders insisted. I cannot make sense of their logic. Surely, Mr. White is a better artist than governor but besides Chief Manteo, he is the most familiar with this strange land. Part of me yearned to return home, but ’tis mad to think Sir Raleigh would listen to a girl of only eighteen.

Sadly, the bloody flux has overtaken many. Papa, I am grateful for the time helping you with your patients as I have become the settlement’s nurse. Often, there is nothing more than a cool rag and soft words to offer as they pass into God’s hands.

I would not survive without my friend Jane, who has taken me under her wing since our days on the Lion. She spooned soup in my mouth when I was laid low by the stormy waves of the ocean and ever since has lent her faith in my darkest hours.

The entire colony has come to rely on her. She fills her day with whatever needs to be done whether it’s chopping wood or fashioning roofs. Yet she is never too tired to teach the children their letters. I suspect our shipmate Henry has taken a fancy to her and that she returns his interest.

’Tis the thought of Mr. White returning across the mighty Atlantic with your letters that brings me hope. I promise to write often, though it may be a long time before another ship will pass our way.

As always, I remain a servant to God and pray for the strength to spread his word to these heathen lands.

Your humble and obedient daughter,

Rose

19 September 1587

Dearest Mother and Father,

My humble duty remembered unto you, trusting in God you are in good health .

The drought is over! After days of dry rumblings and lightning in the sky, God has blessed us with a much-needed downpour. ’Tis the first since our anchoring and a sure sign of the Almighty’s love. I danced in the fields, my skirts soon caked with mud. There is nothing sweeter than the smell of newly fallen rain.

The burning fever that had taken so many has finally receded. More would be dead if it were not for the advice of Achak, the Croatan healer. And I believe Achak has cured our colonists of scurvy as well! Papa, you taught me to watch for signs of the affliction whilst at sea, but did you know it can occur on land as well? (Mama, allow Father to read this part alone as ’tis not suitable for such a fine lady.)

Papa, at first, many came to me complaining of aches that seemed a natural consequence of hard work. But soon their gums swelled, bled black blood, and turned putrid. Spots of red and purple appeared on their bloated arms and legs and burst. The wails of mothers who had lost their children haunted my dreams. I was desperate and turned to Achak, and asking nothing in return, he agreed to help. Papa, how can such a man be called a savage?

He boiled the needles of an evergreen and had the afflicted drink the tea. As I bear witness unto God, the pain resolved within three days, and all were better in a week. I have enclosed some of the needles as I don’t know the tree’s name. Perhaps you will inform the seafaring folk of this remedy?

(Mama, you may safely read again.)

Alas, we fear the death of Henry. He was last seen going into the woods to hunt by Elder John, who blames his disappearance on the savages. We continue to pray for Henry’s return.

My palms are as rough as tree bark, my skirt hems tattered, but fret not. I embrace these hardships that make me stronger in my faith and our mission.

Your humble and obedient daughter,

Rose

31 October 1587

My Dearest Catherine

If you be in good spirits, I am glad. Thanks to be given to God, I am in good bodily health. Yet, sister, I am quite unwell in mind. I try to live in this day and not in my worries, but much has transpired that leaves me unsettled.

’Tis been near two months since Mr. White departed. I pray for his safe passage and speedy return as our supplies dwindle. In his absence, Elder John has appointed himself governor. I pray that God grants him the wisdom to lead sensibly, but I fear his temperament and love of money. All he speaks of is raiding the native’s village for secret stores of food and gold they don’t have. By God’s grace, my urgings, and a shortage of munitions, his plans have been thwarted. As the larders grow barer and men’s hearts darker, I fear reason may no longer prevail. Truth be told, much of the savagery attributed to the natives rests in us. Please pray that God will give us the strength to conquer our worst enemies of famine and faithlessness.

Since Henry’s disappearance, Jane has become a ghost of herself. She refuses all but bites of food and sleeps fitfully. At dinner tonight, she filled Mr. John’s plate with her doubts, saying, “My Henry never would venture past the gates alone. Something’s amiss.”

The governor banged his fist on the table and told her that she was stirring up deadly distrust when our survival depends on unity. How can he be right? Jane is worth more than ten governors.

Our troubles continue to multiply. Chief Manteo is missing as well. He was never the same after our men mistakenly slaughtered his mother, the Croatan chief. Yet, he still managed to broker peaceful relations with the many of the surrounding tribes. As it was always the intention to move the settlement inland, the council decided Manteo should travel northward as a scout. He promised to return before the new moon, but it has been more than two months since he left. The governor refuses to send out a search party.

Manteo’s absence has emboldened several elders in their encounters with the unmarried women and girls. ’Tis a matter too salacious for young ears but rest assured, we women never work alone.

I thank you sister. Putting these overwrought fears into words reminds me that these doubts are Satan’s distraction from the work of our heavenly Father. I must place my faith in his plan, even one that I do not understand. I leave you to the protection of Almighty God.

Your loving sister,

Rose

P.S. Please don’t share this with Mama and Papa. They need not fret over a daughter’s silly musings.

3 November 1587

Dearest Mother and Father,

My humble duty remembered unto you, trusting in God you are in good health.

Only writing can steady my tremors. Dearest Jane has disappeared. In the days before she vanished, she had become unusually despondent, even cross. I thought her only overworked and mourning Henry. The last I saw her, she was standing on the beach, staring at the twilight sky. She looked like an angel as the evening breeze fluttered her cape behind her, held in place by her mother’s brooch. She assured me she would soon retire. If only I had stayed with her.

The governor believes she was kidnapped by Indians and may be alive, albeit a slave. He remembers cries for help that night but by the time he reached the beach, she was gone, and the sand marked by many footprints. I will continue to pray for her. Please add the good Jane to your nightly petitions.

As always, I remain a servant to God and true to my mission.

Your humble and obedient daughter,

Rose

11 November 1587

Dearest Mother and Father,

My humble duty remembered unto you, trusting in God you are in good health.

Much has transpired since I last wrote. In truth, I tried to spare you some of the more unpleasant circumstances, but this dishonesty weighs heavily.

Today, we number less than thirty women and children and the seven Elders. Weakened by the lack of food and brackish water, we are bereft of hope. Ragged clothes cannot hide skin that sags on the hard corners of our bones.

However, Nature is not responsible for all our misfortunes. ’Tis the dearth of water that has laid bare our own turpitudes. The elders care nothing of God’s work or our survival, only the search for gold. As provisions decline, they have cut rations to scraps. How is it that they can silence the pain of constant hunger?

This assault of death and despair has hardened my soul. By the grace of God, I am not the only one unsettled. A time ago, Goodwife Agnes and I were washing up after supper, and oft, she would sigh loudly. She claimed that the nursing babies would not survive the winter, and that the elders had ordered the gruel even thinner for the nearly dead. I greeted each pronouncement with a shrug. Then she told me that the governor had declared the widowed as the property of the elders—with marital privileges. I could no longer contain my anger for this abomination against God. It seems ’twas the only encouragement needed to secure Agnes’s faith in me. She whispered that the women wanted to join the Croatans in their winter migration and asked me to approach them. I agreed at once.

I sought the council’s approval to meet with the natives under the guise of fostering better relations. The elders accused me of being a turncoat, but their concerns run shallow. I convinced them that I could trick the Indians into revealing their secret stash of gold.

I tell you of my encounter with the supposed savages to temper your anger at my decisions. God be thanked, they welcomed me to their assembly, a place where all were allowed to speak. We sat on the ground and not a voice was raised. When they disagreed, they went back and forth, each time one gave a little whilst another took, and a middle ground was coaxed from small concessions and gains so by the end, everyone was at least partly pleased.

When it was my turn, Achak introduced me. He did not hide the destruction our settlement had brought upon them. But he spoke kindly of my ministering to the sick and my efforts to learn their language. I greeted them using their own words and asked for forgiveness and permission for our people to join them.

’Twas a lively debate, and all seemed lost when they asked if I would try to convert them. As if guided by their example, I conceded I would only speak of Christianity if asked. At last, they agreed to take us inland.

Our plan is simple. We will leave under the cover of night with no more than prayers and the clothes on our back. Although we have found refuge in the kindness of the natives, to this I promise, my salvation will belong unto God alone.

Alas, ’tis unlikely these words will ever reach you, but ’tis a salve on my heart to write them. Though we may not meet again until we are in the Kingdom of Heaven, know that God’s love will keep me safe in this earthly home. ’Tis this love that girds my resolve. I will protect those who have put their faith in me as I put my faith in God.

Good Father and Mother, pray for me,

Rose

23 November 1587

Dearest Mother and Father,

Sometimes the lowliest of pursuits can lead to the most perplexing of discoveries. ’Twas laundering day, and a pile of clothes awaited. Something sharp stabbed my hand whilst scrubbing pants. From the pocket, I fished out Jane’s unlatched brooch. How could this be? Anyone who found the brooch surely would have informed the settlement, as it could be a clue to her whereabouts. Confronting the elders would only lead to false denials so I slipped the pin back into the pants and hung them to dry, waiting to see who would claim them.

I did not wait long. Elder William soon appeared and grabbed the pants. I kept busy with my work so as to seem unaware of his distress. He had to be connected to Jane’s disappearance, but I knew not how. Fear made me cautious. I told no one.

I maintained a cheery countenance during dinner though Mr. William’s glances felt like hands tightening around my neck. When the other women retired after evening prayers, I ventured out to spy on the nightly council meeting.

The elders built the usual fire on the beach, a beacon for passing ships. ’Twas not long before the governor arrived and made straight for Mr. William. He drew a knife from his belt and stabbed Mr. William in the chest over and over until the man collapsed. The governor fell upon him, thrusting his knife into the still body until the others pulled him off. What happened next— ’twas clear that the men knew exactly what to do.

They flayed Mr. William from stem to stern and gathered the stripped muscle and innards into a pile and tossed skin and bones into the fire. I gagged on the acrid smell but dared not move.

The flames sputtered to crackling embers. The governor shoved his knife into the pile of remains and pulled out a piece. He crouched by the fire, held the piece over the coals, and rotated the knife. The other men soon joined, for what purpose I refused to believe.

After a time, the men sat back and gnawed at the charred bits hanging from their knives. Soon the woods were filled with the barbarians’ laughter. My body went cold then hot, and I felt the bitter taste of disgust in my throat. I could stay no longer, no matter the cost, and fled.

Do you see how these times might wreck a person’s soul? Just the thought of the lot of Jane, Henry, Manteo, so many others who had mysteriously disappeared. I could not turn the other cheek, even if it meant I must turn my back on God.

I raced to the swamps on the other side of the fort. There I would find the cowbane that Achak had showed me. I stayed up all night, harvesting the roots and seeds, careful to keep my hands covered with a rag.

The next morning, I ground my doubts and cowbane into a paste and sent a message to Achak that we were ready to depart that very night.

I cooked my disgust into the evening’s soup. With ladle in hand, I waited. Like every night, the elders pushed to the front of the line and picked up the bowls I had carefully prepared. The brutes would never notice the dried paste at the bottom.

We had nearly finished tidying up after supper when the slightest of the seven men began to stumble and drool, to the delight of the other elders. But their laughter was brief. Another soon doubled over and screamed in pain; a third vomited, and the other two started to twitch. The men grunted and convulsed, their eyes turned black, their skin burned red, as the devil they courted came to claim their souls. They writhed for what seemed hours but finally each one’s breathing slowed, then stopped. I felt no remorse and made sure my face was the last the governor saw as he crossed over.

Finally, the moans were replaced by an even deadlier silence. I had but only a moment to regain the other women’s trust. I searched the pockets of Governor John. Fortunately, he had kept the proof of his treachery. The remaining women gasped when I showed them Jane’s brooch.

’Twas not difficult to convince them of the men’s utter corruption. They were eager to leave. We surrendered the bodies to a watery grave and not a tear was shed or a prayer offered for the true heathens.

There are only moments before Achak will take the rest to a better place but without me. I cannot burden their new life with the weight of my transgressions.

Please forgive me this last missive. ’Tis my confession unto God and a final account of the Roanoke colonists’ fate for whomsoever finds this. I daren’t dishonor God by justifying my actions. I accept that my evil deeds are not absolved by good intentions. As for this and the other letters I have never sent, I will put them in a sturdy jug and entrust them to the heart of a nearby cave so that the stain of the council and my own sins will not dishonor those we hold most dear. I trust in God to allow their discovery when the time is proper.

As for me, I care little. I will strike out for the woods to await Nature’s justice. But first, I must carve a message on the large oak so Mr. White will know where to find the survivors.

Farewell,

Rose

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Fran Nadel is a pediatric emergency medicine doctor at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia and an emerging writer. She graduated from Vermont College of Fine Arts Writing for Children and Young Adults in July 2020. 

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