Monday, October 20, 2014

From the Marsh Hen


Sunday morning 19 October, 2014

This morning on my way to the barn I spied a large presence sitting on a fence post at the back of the horse paddock, surveying the land round about.

At first, and from a distance, I thought it must be an unusually big cat or some other sizeable animal with a white head and tail.  On retrieving the binoculars, I saw the noble white bust of a magnificent eagle with his white leggings below. 

The chestnut thoroughbred, always curious, stood a few feet away, mightily intrigued.  He backed away, then re-approached, uncertain of his visitor.  As I watched, the eagle flew down to the ground and alighted right before the horse, not four feet away, as if to say, “You want to look at me?  Here I am!”  For a time they engaged in a seeming stand-off, no combat, rather a kind of show and tell.  Had it become a contest, I have no doubt the bird would have won.

Eventually the eagle had enough and took flight, soon joined by his mate.  Together the pair soared high overhead against a clear blue sky beneath a few white puffs of cloud, circling, riding the currents.  What a glorious, joyful sight they made!-- majesty in the air, winging eastward toward the woods and the creek on a sunny Sunday morning.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

From the Marsh Hen

    Anna of Corotoman is the story of a young girl, kidnapped in Africa and transported on an English slave ship bound for the American Colonies. She is destined for Corotoman in colonial Virginia, seat of the prominent planter and statesman Robert Carter.  Loaned out to assist a related family over the Christmas holiday, Anna takes part in a jubilee held on Christmas night, the slaves' own celebration after their work is done.  She meets a stranger who offers her hot cider to drink and invites her into his boat for a moonlight ride on the water. 
   Here is the beginning of the chapter.  It can be read in its entirety on the website marshbooks.com.
    
  Chapter 7.                              The River

       Anna followed Sultan through the woods and down to the river bank.  Near the dock where she stood to look out toward the sea not many days before, she saw a boat tied and rocking softly, the chill night air stirring the tree branches all around them.

     From high above she heard a call, the hoot of an owl, hunting in the moonlit woods.  She continued chanting in a low voice, moving her body as though dancing still, but she allowed him to hand her into the boat and to wrap an oilskin cloak around her shoulders.

     She grew quieter and sat very still while he pushed off, drew himself adroitly over the side and took up the oars.  How beautiful it all was, she whispered to herself, watching the sparkling ripples falling away from the side of the boat in the moonlight.  A strong tide was running out toward the bay in the direction of the sailing ships she could see downriver, their lanterns strung and bobbing in the masts.

    One of the tall ships appeared closer than the others, and she also had more lanterns aloft, in addition to one lighting the cabin.  The seagoing vessels would have been visible even without their lanterns, standing as they did in bold outline against the water and the sky between the densely wooded riverbanks.  The bright white glow of the full moon made it nearly as light as day.

      Sultan pulled hard, and Anna kept her eyes on the three tall masts of the ship as they drew nearer. The wind caught a corner of the cloak he had draped around her, lifting it high.  She reached out to recover it.

      “Be right cool out here on the water,” he said, taking his hand off the oar for a moment to draw out a dark colored cap from the pocket of his jacket. He pulled it on, grinned at her, and returned to hauling mightily on the oars, bringing them nearer the ship.  They moved speedily and easily over the small waves, the boat running with the tide.

     Anna sat stone still, staring at him.  In an instant the fog lifted from her mind, and she could see as clearly as though it was high noon and she had just awakened from refreshing sleep.  Every pore of her skin tingled, while her eyes widened in comprehension. 

     This was the same man who had peered down at her and Esther as they slept.  This was Dabinett’s man, and that was Dabinett’s brightly lighted ship they were heading for out there in the river harbor, and closing fast.

     She sized him up carefully.  He was compact and strong, with heavy, thick thighs that would bolster him when he fought, and his arms would be even better weapons.  She could not win if she challenged him physically, and she had no illusions about being able to talk him into turning back.  She had to act, and quickly.

     She bent down and put her head between her knees.

    “Feelin’ pekid,” she said. “Maybe you slow up a little.”

     Head bowed, she fumbled with the heavy leather shoe clasps running across the top of her high instep, succeeded in loosening them, and slipped off her shoes.

     He slacked the oars for a moment, and smiled at her as she straightened up again.

     “I stand up a little while,” she said, the cloak slipping from her shoulders. 

     As he shook his head vehemently, forming the protesting “Nooooooooo” with his lips, she balanced carefully, crouched to spring, raised her arms, and, arcing her body expertly, dove headfirst into the cold inky water of the York River. 
     

Monday, October 13, 2014

From The Marsh Hen

     Ferolene of Tincup is a story of discovery.  A lost sign or symbol from a forgotten past turns up during an incident in a children's game.  Here is the opening passage.  The entire chapter can be read on the website. www.marshbooks.com


Chapter 3.                            Rosewell

     In the high heat of the Georgia summer, Ferolene and Lilun regularly hauled Carey’s galvanized metal washtubs outdoors, filled them at the pump, and dragged them by their handles across the sandy yard to a shady spot beneath the sage trees.

     Dressed in their bathing suits, they slid down to their shoulders in the cool water and splashed as much as the tubs’ confines allowed, while discussing future enterprises and current projects, the acquisition of a new jump rope, investigation of a recent news bulletin concerning used, high-top roller skates for sale at the Tincup grocery. 

     The tubs full to the brim, each dared the other to duck under all the way, to practice for the future swimming pool where they would dive and perform ballet movements beneath the water in emulation of their aquatic heroine from the picture show.

     Ferolene perfected a shoulder stand that allowed her to balance precisely with her hands pressed against the bottom of the tub, her head and face fully submerged, her long, skinny legs lifted straight up into the air, toes straining skyward.  She told Lilun she could see high clouds through the lens of the tub water.

     Lilun’s own shoulder stand was precarious, far more wobbly than that of her friend, and compromised by intense fear of accidentally inhaling water, something that happened time and again, resulting in coughing, spluttering, and tears.  Ferolene patiently coached and encouraged, advising Lilun on just how to hold her breath, how to exhale slowly, praising again the unique beauty of the outside world viewed from beneath the water.

     Carey sat in the kitchen beside the open door, her mending in her lap, listening to the conversation in the back yard.  She had just made up her mind to intervene lest Lilun finally drown in a washtub full of water, when an entirely different accident drew her outdoors.    

     All at once Ferolene drew her head up out of the water and shrieked, high and loud.  She splashed her feet straight down into the washtub, jumped over the side, and, clapping one hand to her bottom, danced up and down, whimpering in pain.

     Carey dropped her needle and ran quickly to draw the wet bathing suit down over the child’s hips.  Immediately, she spotted the tiny, guilty stinger hanging fast in the swelling flesh.  Ferolene had been stung on her backside as she raised it up into the air where the buzzing bees were working the purple sage blossoms nearby.  The bee attacked the upper thigh just below the edge of the protecting garment.

     Above the sting, on Ferolene’s otherwise smooth round buttock, Carey’s eye fell on a sight that took her breath away.

     A scar, a concave rope of pink flesh, shaped in a perfect curve like the bottom of a small boat, three miniature knots resting above and within its interior space, like three peas in a row, marked the child’s body, carved into her skin. 

     Ferolene heard the sharp intake of breath and looked around over her shoulder at Carey.

     “I’m, I’m, uh….., I’m just gone run in and get the tweezers for to take out that bad stinger,” Carey stammered.  “An I’m gone bring some salve to make the burn go way. You be a brave lil’ gal and you stand still one minute – I be right back.”

     She reeled toward the kitchen door, grasped the edge of the table inside, and lowered herself into the chair, her knees trembling.  The face of an old woman, framed in a thicket of snow white hair, hovered before her eyes, her great-great-grandmother, born into slavery in Gloucester County, Virginia.

     Carey was twelve years old in the summer of 1902, when her mother took her to visit the old woman at the great plantation called Rosewell.  Home of the Page family, it was the finest, most beautiful house ever built in Virginia, she was told.  Mister Thomas Jefferson himself had often come over to stay with Mister John Page, ferrying across the York River from Williamsburg, where they were both studying at the College of William and Mary.  They used to sit up on the great lead roof between the glassed-in turrets, all in the dark, watching the stars through the telescope they kept up there, talking long into the night.

     Pictures crowded into her mind, memories of the smoky cabin, the strong smell of greasy tallow, the sad look of the enormous brick house, the largest she had ever seen, unhappily altered by time and an irreverent owner, many of its window panes broken or missing, like eyes put out and left to stare into a void. 

     No recollection, however, remained as robust and resilient as that of the old woman’s admonition, or of the hoarse but imperative tones of her voice.  Carey must swear an oath to remember everything she was told that day, her twice great grandmother had said.  It was a sacred trust to know about the sign, and the knowledge of it a responsibility not to be taken lightly.  It was the mark of a great queen, one of marvelous saving power, a sign passed down from one generation to another since the beginning of time. Carey would surely see it one day.  She was bound to see it.  She must know it when she did. 
     And Carey had just seen it here.  In Tincup, Georgia.  On the backside of Ferolene Ann Banks.

    

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

From The Marsh Hen


1 October

Last month I lost an old friend.  He was a thoroughbred/Hannoverian cross born in May of 1991, a beautiful dark blood bay with no white markings.  He stood large-boned, strong and tall at sixteen hands two inches.  He was the pasture manager here at the farm, in charge of it all, and he was also my confidant.  Every secret I told him he kept close to his chest, sharing with no one.  He usually rested his chin on my shoulder while we conversed.  He suffered mightily from flies and bug bites – his complexion seemed to invite them.  On a very warm Sunday shortly before he died I gave him a long bath, a process invariably pleasing to him.  He lapped water from the hose and stood in contentment while the grooming went forward.  Little did I know it would be the last time.  We do not know why he became so ill so suddenly, could not find his legs on a sunny Monday morning, that terrible day. The other two stood at the fence and called to him as he was hauled up to his grave on the hill above the pasture and for a good hour thereafter.  They still look for him and wonder where he has gone.  I look for him too and can often see him there, his large form just visible in the morning fog, steady and comforting, keeping all under control, just as always.