January 30th, 1775 - Scotchtown Plantation, Virginia.
The cellar has the walls of a castle, strong grey rock that provides the house a firm foundation. Light floods into the three windows above her pallet, freshly filled today by her doting husband when he finds free time from his demanding, contrite schedule. My eyes were drawn upward toward the sunshine that crowned the room. All about it is desolation; bleak, dismal emptiness of deserted people except for Mister Henry and I. It was also the sort of place you could go to feel cradled by the earth and yet still under the sun.
“Throw another log on.”
I did as I was told and toss a cord of wood in, then walk until I am standing next to him.
Mister Henry’s perfect, straight, ramrod posture is, I see, another one. Slouching may be considered disrespectful, and allude to aloofness, but with his hands covering his face, I know better.
I rest my hand on his left shoulder and pat it. “May I sit on your leg since there is not any furniture in here?”
“No, you may not,” Mister Henry answers in a muffled tone.
I whirl around in front of him, and tear away his hands because frankly I am in no mood for rudeness right now. His wife is two ticks of the clock away from death. I see he was crying, and judging by damp cheeks, he must have stopped recently.
“You should let your children see her before she dies,” I say bluntly.
“I cannot,” Mister Henry squeaks. He stands and sits at the edge of her bed. “Here, you may sit in my chair if you wish it.”
I said my thanks and sat. “I did not know you would be here. Pure coincidence when I trudged down the stairs,” worrying about invading his privacy.
I incline a little, curious. What I notice is Mister Henry’s eyebrows are angled up. The corners of his lips are drawn downwards. The tops of his knuckles are beginning to turn pink.
I suppose his grip is not to be trifled with.
“Should I leave? I will if you want.”
He shakes his head, struggling to swallow down a still-beating heart. This raw emotion forces fidgeting on my behalf. Still, I tilt farther. Would it be rude if a part of me also wants to see how an older man mourns? There is a translucent-like mucus dribbling down Mister Henry’s lower lip. It is almost passed the finish line. The display peeks my interest but it is disgusting to watch. The thick liquid slurps in a thin, diagonal line, as if his mouth was a straw. I hand Mister Henry a cloth from a waistcoat pocket. He accepts and blows, and then folds the rag into a symmetrical triangle with one or two of the seamed edges unfurling, peeking out.
Mister Henry stands up and scuffs his shoes along a couple of inches and perches himself on my left knee.
“Why cannot I sit on your leg but you can on mine?” I jab, hoping he sees the teasing and will chuckle. “Sir,” I try again to at least get a rise out of him.
“I composed a letter. There are parts I would rather keep private. Personal.”
“Could you at least move to the other leg? This one is numb.”
“No.”
“At least move up a little.”
He wiggles higher. “Does this suffice?”
“Some. What is the letter about?”
“It is my good-bye letter.”
“When you die, come sit with me in heaven as long as you wish.”
Mama . . .
Deaden. Deaden. Numb yourself.
“Then, there will come a time when you want to choose a new enterprise, and you will have your pick of any. Then we do it all again. It is a fine way to spend eternity, yes?”
Brother . . .
“Grief has a way of removing someone from the world and it takes a real strength to reconnect and weave themselves anew into the fabric of living,” I say.
All this emotional recollecting is creating the eye itch.
I grasp Mister Henry’s hips and guide them to my left leg so the other can recoup. There were no objections, although it took tugging to get him there. He raises an arm and wipes something off his face.
“You could say I am acquainted with death. I learned to harden its beacon, not let anger, sadness, confusion, guilt, all of it, enter in quantities, but right now, they are nudging through, piece by piece. I understand if there are passages you must keep quiet, Patrick.”
“Damn you, Nehemiah,” he chuckles softly, and then coughs afterwards.
“You love me anyway.”
“You must not repeat a syllable. Not one.”
“Even to your children?”
“They are the exception, of course.”
“Of course,” I repeat him.
“Some paragraphs are graphic.”
“And, would you have censored them from your wife?”
I see shoulders sag. He pulls out creased paper from a waistcoat pocket, flips the pages open, and then reaches up and sets his spectacles in place.
“To my darling Sally,— Nehemiah.”
“Hmm?”
“I am allowing vulnerability. I am not sure how I will react while reading.”
“Remember my philosophy regarding grief.”
“Shh!” he snaps, wincing afterwards. “Forgive me,” comes a quiet, gentler tone than before. Mister Henry coughs, straightens his slumping posture into a more ridged position.
“You will have to forgive my lack of coherency. I wanted to write such a scholarly piece, but my poor head came up with nil. I spilled out what I feel on the inside.
Upon the wood that was once the timbers of a barn, the wood that was once a part of the chattering forests of the hills, I write a letter of the kind of love that gives birth to entire worlds, of the kind of love that protects all the stronger in times of need. Sally, I love you. Three simple little words, and yet I will never love another as I love you. I will never cherish another as I cherish you. I will always love only you. I fear falling asleep and waking to find you gone, of finding myself alone. You sleep quietly in bed while I cannot sleep at all. For you I strive to be a better man; to live a better life; to know its joys and its pleasures; to never disappoint you; and never will I squander a single moment of the life that is left to me—without you.
The evening of our marriage, when the ceremony finally over, and everyone finally gone, at last you were my wife, and I, your husband. When you said once we shared a bed you could no longer sleep without me. I flatter myself because truthfully, I would not consider myself, shall we say, adorable.
Do you recall the secret sworn upon my bosom to keep?”
“Lad, as much as I am impressed you’ve remained, somehow, the next few passages are particularly descriptive. Quite honestly, to think you will know, part of me is a little embarrassed. But, Nehemiah insisted.”
“I did.“
Mister Henry clears his throat.
“Dear, even considering scribbling these few sentences makes my stomach twist and flip. No, do not think I have regrets. The little book became a source of abash, as I am abashed now. You made me promise to not say we read, Fanny Hill, and I have not, but I kept a copy hidden. Here I jotted my favorite lines because they remind me on that summer evening when all the bugs retired and went back t’where they came from, and under a thickening of grey clouds, we paid no attention, sipping our lemon water, these excerpts bring me to our happier days, and I feel connected as we once were.‘His thighs finely fashioned, and with a florid, gloss roundness, gradually tampering away to the knees, seemed pillars worthy to support that beauteous frame; at the bottom of which I could not, without some remains of terror. Some tender emotions too—I had it now, I felt it now, and, beginning to drive, he soon gave nature such powerful summons down to her favorite quarters that she could no longer refuse repairing thither; all my animal spirits then rushed mechanically to that center of attraction, and presently l, inly warmed and stirred as I was beyond bearing, I lost all restraint, and yielding to force of the emotion gave down, as mere woman, those effusions of pleasure which, I’m the strictness of still faithful love, I could have wished to held up.’”
“I do not want our friendship breeched because I was . . . nosy.”
“Friendships are not allowed. For that matter, my siblings and extended family will not know a sentence. Consider yourself worthy my foolish son.”
I was about to object, but after careful thought I chose swallowing selfish pride.
Mister Henry returns sitting at the end of the bed.
Lips are moving, but I simply cannot understand whisperings that was said. With shaky hands wobbling the letter, it is remarkable Mister Henry could read at all.
He looks up.
“What is wrong?”
Frowning, he shrugs.
“You are reddening.”
“Please, Nehemiah.”
“Recollect, it took bravery, but I assembled enough of it to write when I tried discreetly breaking wind, there was a brown lump in the seat of my breeches instead.”
I almost choked but managed stifling a giggle.
“No laughing.”
“Apologies.”
“When the stars came out to play and the evening took on that aroma of the night, when the crickets sung for the joy of living, our bed awaited. My thoughts slowed as a beautiful sunset, each new color danced as ribbons cascading the sky. Its colors embraced those lofty heights and invited dreams that wore festive costumes and were formed of music. In my arms, you were, nuzzled under, there was scenes of jubilation all around; my heart roared like the tide going out to sea.
Till death do us part.”
I watch him recline, and as God as my witness, did he just—? Suppressing a gag reflex with one hand, and the other fans my nose because the aroma of day-old, moldy cheese, festering in the hot sun, broke free from under his backside. Pages sway a little until they settle near his right foot. I expected loud, horrible-sounding screeches, and just grieving acutely. A tremor ran down him with quivering shoulder blades. Silence is an agonizing scream as tears are poignant and piercing. Soundless weeping is more of a suffering.
“Sssstttaaah . . . ah . . . ah . . . op,” Mister Henry stutters, “plugging your nose.”
I say, “No.”
“I divulged intimate, sacred words to a ca . . . ca . . . confidant, and you decide to ba . . . ba . . . be rude. Are you indicating—?”
“Yes, the air stinks,” I murmur.
The tops of Mister Henry’s shoulders slump. I notice him shiver too.
“Would you prefer privacy now? Shall I exit?”
He shakes his head.
A crash. Carriage flipped over. Town folk with ashen expressions. Children whine, and rushed to their parents. A sickening realization.
I take my turn and straddle his right knee.
Two well-built arms grab me quick, and then I feel a mighty embrace. There is the hug of gentle arms that still gives the space to breathe; then there is the hug of strong arms that tells everything he is— a living corpse.
“Your hug has woven our souls in a way that is a forever bond. There is no finer praise. Love is free, and priceless.”
“Oh, Nehemiah!”
“Stop it. You’ll make me cry too,” I sniff. “And you will wake Miss Sarah up,” I remind him.
“What sha. . . all, all . . . I da, da . . . Nehem . . . hem . . .,” he snivels. “What shall, shall, I . . . da . . . da . . . do?”
“Where is that handkerchief?”
I hear phlegm snort in, and then there is a hoarse cough.
“Ya . . . ya . . .,” he hyperventilates. Mister Henry scrunches his nose, holding its brim, so much that it becomes the palette of salmon’s scales.
The hug relaxes. I watch him snatch that almost perfect, wonderful, cloth triangle he created earlier, and then sets it in my lap.
When I take it, I blow. “Well, since both our mucus is on this thing, we should probably burn it, or bury it, methinks frame it. For prosperity.”
Mister Henry loops his arms around, and I find my forehead compressed into his chest, in hug number two, or is it three?
“Nehem . . ., I am so . . . ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . happy,” he wheezes.
“Shh,” I coo, like a mother does to a mewling newborn.
“. . . happy Ezra brought you,” Mister Henry finishes.
“As am I.”
“Fly,” Brother gagged, “fly, fool!”
“Crying too?” Mister Henry croaks.
“I was. In control now.”
“No, cra . . . cry . . . with me.”
I didn’t. I stayed put.
The blood left where it belonged in surges, beating out by a slowing heart. In a suspended moment was spent watching Brother die.
Slip rocks in. Set every twig, pebble, chunks of soil, anything, in. Raise that wall. Turn it into a fortified stone wall.
“What if I have not the ability to quit?” My bottom lip twitches.
“Then . . .,” he says, scrunching up his nose, dabbing each eye with a thumb, “we will cry together. I did not,” Mister Henry sniffs, clearing his throat, “realize you were so attached to her.”
Now, I am the one slumping.
“It is not just your wife.”
“This is . . . special,” Father said.
I jerk my neck.
“Come see, Mama,” he demanded.
“I . . ., I do not want too,” I mumbled.
Mama’s arms were outstretched. I watched Father lean forward. Mama squeaked.
I sigh. “They say Patrick sadness is behind anger, yet anger never comes unless in direct self-defense, and so perhaps I can credit this natural passivity with my willingness to cry and feel pain, to let the sorrow teach me more about my true nature and how fragile we humans are.”
“Truth.”
I lean, checking on Miss Sarah. Still sleeping, still unrestrained. On her back as flat as a plank of wood.
“Miss Sarah reminds me about bad memories because Mama died in a bed,” I croak.
I angrily shove tears brimming at the edges away with a thumb.
“Want to hear a secret?”
“Sure.”
“She used,” he squints. “She . . .” Mister Henry writhes.
Standing, I take my mentor in my arms. He holds onto my neck. “Here for support,” I say, beginning to blubber too.
“She . . .”
“Shh.”
“Thank,” he squeezes, “you.”
“You received . . .,” I swallow, “your wish. We are cra . . . crying na . . . na . . . now in one big, stu . . . stupid display of manliness.”
I hear a snort-giggle despite ourselves. Mister Henry steps backwards, and would have tripped if not for catching his balance in time.
“Why are you sobbing,” I ask, wiping cheeks dry.
“A thought for every happy dream,” he smiles shyly, looking down.
Reaching, I pick up the pages. “May I read the letter, Mister Henry?”
“Patrick,” he mumbles.
“Patrick, may I read them?”
“My answer has not changed. Private.”
“You just said your children were exempt from censoring.”
“You wish to read about Mister Tongue then?”
“What?! Positively disgusting,” I grimace, repulsed at the mental image forming.
I reach out, grip Patrick’s wrist firmly, twist it with one hand, and then place the letter into his palm. My mentor coils the sheets into a secured mitt.
“As I said, some passages are descriptive.”
“Anyway, where are Martha and the others?”
He shrugs. “Outside, upstairs, some . . . somewhere but here.”
“You are correct; this is an awkward experience.”
“I feel no shame breaking down,” he squints, “with you.”
“It was touching to witness. I feel attached. There is something, well, more. It’s complex, confusing, I cannot explain it.”
Mister Henry winks. “I think you love me.”
I twirl my big toe upon the dirt floor. “Your feet must be truly marvelous to keep on glaring at them,” I say, flustering, unsure how to respond.
Mister Henry lifts his neck. “Knave.”
“Mule.”
“Some afternoons a swing upside the head would do a great service to an emp . . . empty noggin.”
“Charming,” I huff.
There was a softness to his appearance, a kind of warmth married to a shyness. It was the look of an honest soul and in that moment I knew I had found a special friend.
“Listen. Nehemiah.”
Before Mister Henry finished his train of thought I am wound up in, yet, another hug.
“You certainly are affectionate,” I muffle.
“To a small few.”
“Explain?”
“Every person would be embraced if I were outgoing.”
“Hmm. Do I detect a hint of sugarcoating the truth?”
“Fine. I am lonely. Happy?”
“How long am I to be in your arms?”
“Forever, and ever.”
“That is an eternity. Never had I witnessed a person sob such a torrent of agony.”
“You seem unusually captivated I wept.”
“T’was heartwarming.”
“Never am I afraid showing my heart to ones I genuinely love. You should know that by now.”
“Are you going to release?”
“When I’m good and ready. Why?”
“A little awkward, standing here.”
“All the more reason to keep you ensnared.”
“There is not much tenderness with my father. He generally ignores his last son.”
“Last?”
“My older brother was killed.”
Patrick’s embrace strengthens. “I did not know. I also was unaware about your mother’s death. I only have met Ezra.”
I push him off.
He reels me in like a fish.
“Forever, and ever, Patrick?”
“Forever, and ever.”
“You will have to let go eventually.”
“When I’m good and ready,” he repeats.
“How are you feeling?”
“Lonesome, obviously. But, suffering equal pain aids consolation. Sally, my name for my wife, will die, I concede . . .”
There is a choked sob.
Gently unraveling his arms, we eventually make way, kneeling below Miss Sarah. Mister Henry nudges my right shoulder with an elbow.
“When will her color come back?” I ask bleakly.
Mister Henry puts an arm around my shoulder, pulling me even nearer to his left side. Now, I can feel his breathing.
“I want to take away the power of the painful memories of hurt.”
“I know . . . I know . . .,” he says quietly, massaging my back.
On that spot we made a great memory. Now when my brain goes back to Brother and Mama’s demise, I divert it only to this memory, the healing one. It is as if I wrote a good story over the top of a bad story, and in time the ink of the bad story fades away until only the great memory remains.
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125,024 Literary Works • 672,762 Reviews
Hey again Fishr! Popping back for a quick review on part two.
Another tense nitpick just to kick off
Should be I do as I am told
I find the reaction here a bit excessive - was saying no really rude, or just a case of having personal boundaries?
I find the transitions in their relationship very hard to follow. They seem not to be close - Nehemiah in one moment seems to be interestedly observing him from afar but this line suggests more intimacy?
I also couldn't quite understand why the letter is being read then. Mister Henry seems to both want Nehemiah to stay and also leave in one go. I like the trust that's built between them here, but I'm not too sure on Mister Henry's motivations in this part.
As before though, I liked the style and the characters, and also the slice of life manner in which the story is being told. It was an enjoyable read for those reasons.
Happy Thursday!
Icy
Hey @Fishr
I'm here to leave you a review on the second part as well. Your stories are very nice and lucky for you I love historical fiction which makes things even more fun. I'm going to get started now.
I think It's great that you've chosen a specific date to start your second part as well, because that way it's more historical and relatable. I mean readers can then put themself in the protagonist's shoes and relate to the time when the story is being told. Very smart!
This is great start off, I'd like to say. You start instantly with describing the setting where Nehemiah is standing. And your words of choice is also very precise, for example this sentence: " My eyes were drawn upward toward the sunshine that crowned the room." The fact that you said that the sunshine crowned the room, I can just create an image in my head and see it. I love your descriptions, they're very vivid and diligently written. Great job!
In this part you can also see that the bond between Mister Henry and Nehemiah has grown stronger than before. I think it's nice that they have a little discussion wether Nehemiah can sit on Mister Henry or Mister Henry can sit on Nehemiah. (A little conflict hurts no one
This part shows that Nehemiah really cares for Sarah as for Mister Henry. And we can also see that Mister Henry trusts Nehemiah more than before, because first of all he sits on him, second of all he shares his good-bye letter to his wife, Sarah, with Nehemiah. I can also read that Nehemiah is a bit unsure wether to read the letter or not, but that's great. That makes Nehemiah an even more relatable character. You also do a great job of showing mister Henry off as Nehemiah's teacher, this sentence says that a lot, “Remember my philosophy regarding grief.” I think it's nice that you don't repeat, Yes, Mister Henry, Nehemiah's teacher for two years now, or something like that. I like that you do it this way, trough dialogue. Awesome!
I think you do a clearly amazing job showing Mister Henry's unconditional love for his wife. Your letter almost sounds poetic and that is very nice to incorpret. After all it's historical fiction. This is my favorite part, "When the stars came out to play and the evening took on that aroma of the night, when the crickets sung for the joy of living, our bed awaited. My thoughts slowed as a beautiful sunset, each new color danced as ribbons cascading the sky. Its colors embraced those lofty heights and invited dreams that wore festive costumes and were formed of music. In my arms, you were, nuzzled under, there was scenes of jubilation all around; my heart roared like the tide going out to sea.
Till death do us part."
The ending, it's just so sweet and this last line, is the bom in there. Nehemiah does seems a bit uncomfortable while reading it, I wonder if something is/was wrong. I guess I'll have to find out later.
This is a very emotional piece you've written here. I can just feel the thickness of sadness in the air. They both know Sarah is going to die, no matter what is going to happen or what they're going to do. Seeing Mister Henry go weak like that not being able to talk properly is very sad. (BUT you do a great job of showing that he's sad instead of telling it. I learned a lot from you how to show and not tell my stories. Thank you!) Poor Nehemiah. His mother died too. The fact that he has to relive it all again is very sad. I'm happy Mister Henry and Nehemiah have each other to grieve with. Nicely written, friend!
I think you did a great job with the dialogue's to make this story so wholesome. You have something with words that I can't quite explain, but it's awesome. Your works reflects that too. In this scene I can see that Nehemiah doesn't really like the fact of Mister Henry hugging him so much, he thinks it's rather awkward. I like that, making characters awkward. It makes characters more relatable. And as protagonist, it's great to have an awkward, bold and fierce character, not to perfect not to fooly. Mister Henry really looks at Nehemiah as his son and he is proud not to be ashamed infront of him, what I mean is. He doesn't mind crying, sobbing, screaming or even hugging him. He's like his father with his son. You did an amazing job here!
This ending is great. You've just ended the scene with a phrase what I'll make me think: "MMM, this was quite an interesting tale here. I wonder what happens next."
Once again, Great job. I really really really admire your writing style, describing skills and showing but not telling your story. It makes your story relatable and even more realistic. I love it very much and I'm surely going to check out that part 3. Keep up the amazing work, Fishr! Have a great day/night!
- Rinisha
Thank you so much for your kind words! I hope when you read part 3, you will still be engaged? Haha
You're welcome. I'll check out part 3 very soon, I'm very excited! You do a great job keeping the story in a nice pace. I love it very much and I <3 your descriptionsssss, they're so great.
Ku2 2 u!
I wanted to ask if you could, when you have time review my novel MaryAnna. I really don't care which chapter or chapters you want to review. As long as you can tell me honestly if the story keeps you engaged.
Hope to hear from you soon!
- Rinisha
I%u2019ll take a look. Is there a link?
Thank you so much!
This is the link to part 1 of MaryAnna: MaryAnna (S1, E1)
I really don't care which chapter or chapters you want to review. As long as you can tell me honestly if the story keeps you engaged.
Hope to hear from you soon!
- Rinisha
I%u2019ll take a look and let you know.