hey there
im here to leave you an review on the final part of the Nehemiah story.
Spirits of all elevated to some higher divine, into the black heavens, upon this clear night, comes the grace of a white-gold moon. In her dappled beauty spun, ever in perfect synchrony with the Heavenly Father, she comes to the sky as a mother comes to sing a soft lullaby to ease her children into a star-filled night, stoic, yes, the moon casts rays along a kneeling person.
“Sit beside me.”
Removing my coat, I search for fingernails that would otherwise imbed themselves into the cloth's fibers. It was such a hassle plucking each one of Patrick’s jagged nails out of one of my wool layers. The weave is taut and of the finest worsted to be had, a gift from Father. The floor shows mainly thumbnails, which suffered the worst damage to the nervous week-long gnawing and chewing, especially at their corners. Using a shoe, I bury them under the dirt, unbutton my coat, and lay it next to him.
“Your apprenticeship ends next week.”
I cringe hearing those words.
“Hold my hand.”
I gave his left a comforting squeeze.
My mentor raises them to his lips and kisses the top of my knuckles.
“I love you, Nehemiah.”
“As do I.”
I look at him. As if the soul could bleed an ocean through the eyes, that was the enormity of Patrick’s grieving.
The night of the procession, through a narrow little lane in the skirts of the city, I was stopped by a grand procession of a hearse and one mourning carriage drawn by two horses, accompanied by a great number of flambeau and attendants. I naturally concluded that all this parade was to pay the last honors to an eminent person whose consequence in life required that his ashes should receive all the respect which his friends and relations could pay to.
Whatever outward signs of mourning I should have given, none was shown. Upon inquiry, I said the corpse (on whom all this expense had been lavished) was none other than my brother or what was left of his crushed body, and he is to be deposited in Aspen with our family’s deceased.
The recalling about a hearse, a mourning carriage, watching at the sidelines, and the inquiry about the corpse, all in actuality, is a lucid dream. Naturally, I was one of the ball bearers, clad in black, and my hair clubbed and freshly powdered.
I reach over and dab Patrick’s lingering tears with a thumb.
“Hold me. Hold me, dear boy.”
Great start, but I did had some difficulties trying to start where I left off. Because I left off on a very other piece than we start right now. But never mind. Your writing style is very nice and diligent, almost poetic. Very well trough trough your beginning, I can see you took your time writing.
I wrap Patrick’s arms around me and hold his breast against mine. Despite Patrick’s loose shirt starting to cling in sweaty areas, his breath rises and eddies in cold wintry drafts. The brim of his bony nose causes me to grind my teeth so much that I adjusted his head to have it lay flat instead. Such grief is perfectly understandable following the loss of a precious person. I recline enough to see a face. I gently grip Patrick’s jaw in my thumb and forefinger, bringing it towards my lips, but before I can offer a small peck above his brows, he clasps my wrists firmly and yanks them down.
“Whatever was about to be done cannot precede. I would sob,” Patrick says.
“Sobbing is healing,” I retort.
“It hurts.“
“I can fetch the children for added support.”
“They’re long, fast asleep. I have only you right now.”
“When Mother died, I ate not a morsel. Father said I looked obsolete. That was well before Brother was killed.”
“Please, Nehemiah, no more talk of death. I cannot handle morose storytelling.”
“But, I have experience with it.”
“Unless you want to see me weep and carry on like earlier, that subject is null and void.”
“Patrick,” I say.
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
“You just want me to have a good sob, do you not? You are very well determined.”
“I think a good conversation about Miss Sarah would be wise. Nighttime will not last, and soon as we know, the slaves will stir at first light. No one should see her body. Surely,—“
“Point made. Allow time to think.”
“No. Speak spontaneously. In your bereavement—“
“All right! You talk too much.”
“You love me anyway,” I say.
“Again, there is much to ponder.”
I said no more. Often thoughtful, frequently lengthy, and always considered, I beg my dear mentor to examine options for a speedy reply. Two weeks earlier, Patrick developed peculiar quirks, such as sleeping with a secret plaything. One day, I wanted to do a kind favor for my adopted family. I thought fluffing everyone’s pillows was decent enough. Big, comfortable pillows awaited them. When I lifted Patrick’s pillow, a little lamb of many years that passed must have been a great source of comfort, tumbled backward. If it once looked white, the poor thing’s wooly coat is more of a sepia hue now. It was easy to see the toy was a very loved lamb. When I rolled the object around in between my fingers, I felt abrasions, or some raised rough stitching. Blue cross-stitches spelt in all capital letters, LAMMY, on the inside, the lower part of its right leg. For some of us, it was a ‘blanky,’ for others, it was an imaginary friend, and for Patrick, it was a stuffed lamb. At the time, I did not know whether to laugh or cringe at the absurd notion of a grown man cuddling a toy. I swore he went daft.
WHoaaa! Your descriptions just hit me in the face like a Splash! So vivied and so imaginary realistic historical. I love it very much. You make your story feel so wholesome and alive. I think you did a great job showing the strong bond between Mr Henry and Nehemiah. Great job!
I was told my apprenticeship concluded because Patrick had to travel to the House of Burgesses in March and could not be an instructor anymore.
“You must not go indeed you must not; the very thought of living without you so totally sinks my spirits that I am sure the reality would be more than I could bear . . .,” Patrick says.
“The floor thanks its master for the kind words towards it.”
Patrick gives a snort-laugh. “Dear Nehemiah, always the fool.”
“Best to be the fool than the, oh, never mind.”
“As you wish it. I cannot bear to look at my wife.”
“Then, do not.”
“Hold me as tight as possible.”
I tenderly push a few strands of matted, cold hair out of Patrick’s eyes.
“You are not embracing me enough.”
To remedy his protest, I tug the shirt’s collar and guide him to my lap.
“I have examined myself and know I can better abandon friends, country, and everything than live without Sally. To be parted, I can not accept.”
I rub the nape of his neck, giving it a proper massage. Despite a good chill in the cellar tonight, I cringe, touching clammy, moist skin.
“My love, John and William wrote letters. They said I could not read them. I set them on your pillow. Martha said it would have made her too sad to compose a page for a most loving and excellent mother; I did not force our daughter. Nehemiah, I love you.”
“As do I,” I say.
I feel him nestle deeper, nearer to my lap. I watch as his body rises and then falls, taking in deeper breaths.
“For my part, I have told my passion, my eyes have spoken it, and my pen declared it; I have signed it, swore it, and subscribed it; my heart is full of you.”
There were minor movements. I halfheartedly look down, watching my mentor curl up, bringing his knees tucked under his arms.
Last week in the evening, it seemed after every hour that passed, Patrick was combing debris and lint out of all clothing using a coarse brush. And yet the garments before him could have scarcely been unpleasing to the most fastidious eye. The ritual was a testimony to Patrick’s obsessive and scrupulous nature. Now, he is lying in soot and debris.
“About how long has it been since Miss Sarah died?”
Patrick sniffs. “A while, Nehemiah.”
“When my apprenticeship is completed, how will you cope?”
There is a pause, and then, “I remember a thousand things that give me leave to tell you that my passion is so violent that it ’twill give me cause to curse the existence of living in this very world without you.”
And so, Patrick infuses warmth, a kind of warmth privy to all members of the Henry family; and between parent and child, Father and I are disconnected. We share no intimacy. Although, in truth, I am dead, and if I am dead, there is no logical reason for Father to demonstrate love to his last remaining son because, to him, I am air, invisible. Patrick’s tender-heartedness, oh, how I wish to remain at the Scotchtown Plantation indefinitely! I crave attention and sup it with gusto whenever there are opportunities to receive it.
“If you will be so just to my passion as to believe it sincere, tell me so, and make me happy, visit often. Indeed, my dearest angel, the whole happiness of my life depended on you. Adieu.”
“Damn you, Patrick.”
“Damn me, what?”
“I am beginning to cry now.”
“It happens.”
“Ya . . . Yes.”
“Nehemiah, I love you, truly, I do.”
“Stop it,” I say.
“Talk to me.“
I glance at the pallet with the corpse of Miss Sarah concealed under blankets.
“We must put your wife’s body in a place where temperatures are freezing.”
Sounds of cursing and sniveling enter my ears.
“It is all right. Shh. Shh,” I say, patting him.
My eyes grow hot, the tears welling so fast it is little use blinking them back. I wipe mucus dripping from my nostrils. Searching for where to clean my filthy fingers, eventually, I smear them on Patrick’s shirt sleeve. No complaints were said.
And another creature broke, a specter of Patrick’s former self, no longer a disciplinarian, a strong, steady, reliant figure of strength I depended on. Now there are writhing contortions of twisting and squirming movements. We are too fragile; we humans are like porcelain. Throw a stone, and our once beautiful picturesque physique is shattered and shall never be the same.
Great choice of words here! Your dialogues fit nicely which each Nehemiah and Mr Henry. You make them not to long, but short neither, just perfect. Also here your descriptions are very vivid and your pacing is nice. Awww...is Sarah dead?? WEll thats sad, but I know she was sick because you mentioned it in the second chapter so yeah that makes sense. but still its sad.
I am fractured too. Three people I love are dead. And the last I could turn to for guidance and reassurance that everything will be fine is discarding me, and he also resembles a gross, rather pathetic ball of grime. Not much to feel proud about.
I hate to cry. I return to those rabbit holes of guilt and rip myself to pieces. Guilt is worse than grief. It is a terrible weight to carry. Loneliness is a burden too. Both are an emptiness, a fitting marital union because guilt starts as a wound then loneliness punctures it, creating systemic organ failure. No balm or elixirs is potent enough to cure a cracked heart. There is always the guilt reinforcing that at Mother’s deathbed, I should have said I loved her. I should have tried lifting the carriage’s wheel to free Brother. I watched every single last drop of Brother’s blood exit. I could have done something.
Life is born. Life dies. What does it mean to live? To die?
“La . . . lad, why sa . . . sa . . . so silent?”
“Because.”
Patrick pulls himself up into a seated position, leans in, and licks a thumb; all the while, I am silently crying. Patrick gingerly wipes each tear along my cheeks and eyes away. With a hand at the nape of my neck, he inclines his, pulling mine down, and then our foreheads touch.
“Worry not about my wife. Her body will be buried in secret before it begins decomposing. Tomorrow night.”
“There will be no ceremony?”
Patrick shook his head. “She will be put in an unmarked grave. It is the best solution possible for her protection. I must preserve honor. I cannot allow denigration.”
“You meant to say denigration of your honor, not hers,” I sniff.
Patrick shoves me off.
“Watch yourself.”
“No, I will not.”
“Nehemiah,” Patrick sighs, exasperated. “There have been whispers, murmurs, gossip about my wife. They think some Godforsaken evilness attacked, no, wormed itself under her skin. They think the Evil One drank every ounce—“ A choked sob rises in his throat. “My reputation could be ruined! What if they force me to relinquish from the courtroom?”
“You are scheduled at the House of Burgesses soon,” I say.
“I must go. Nothing less than a question of freedom or slavery, the subject ought to be the freedom of the debate.”
I blink. “What?”
Thats so sad. Nehemiah lost his entire family. God, why is life so cruel! At least he has Mr Henry. THats a good thing and his kids like Nehemiah too so that a little sunlight on a rainy day with dark clouds. Noohh, was Sarah really possesed? 😔😔😔😔😔 RIP Sarah.
“That snippet is memorized in correlation war is upon us sooner than we know. I must convince the assembly at the House we are no longer to sit idle and let the storm pass. In regards to Boston, we must react and respond immediately.”
“So, you are not tired of me?”
“No, my foolish son. There is no grudge against you. I hear the early birds chirping. Help my wife’s sweetheart dispose of the body until I can secretly bury her. No, you will not know the location, so do not bother asking. No one will know it, not my children, no one. The risk is too great if my bride is located.”
Something occurred to me.
“Patrick.”
“What is it?”
“Not once have you said Miss Sarah’s name.”
“Because.”
“Because,” I nod.
“I love you.”
“As do I.”
“For Heaven’s sake, say it.”
“I love you, Mister Henry,” I smirk.
“Idiot,” he snorts and then wipes his cheeks dry.
I lean in and kiss Patrick on his lips. After a few seconds, I wink at a very baffled man looking surprised. Astonished would be a better, more suitable description of Patrick’s expression.
Few words describe how intense platonic love is. The connection is an eternal love, one where the presence of one another is central to each person's well-being.
“We should all love each other more than ever.”
Patrick clears his throat. “Indeed.”
“Do you sleep with a toy lamb still?”
“Yes.”
“You are not embarrassed?” I ask.
“Why should I be? Lammy belonged to Martha. She insisted I have it.”
“But the lamb was hidden.”
“To prevent nosy Norton’s inquiring about my business.”
“I just do not know what to think anymore,” I sigh.
“Help move my wife to a place where I can store her remains until all are dead to the world, and I can bur— just get up.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Nehemiah.”
Thats true. The fact that Patrick isnt afraid nor ashamed to sleep with Lammy. Older people usually forget that kid thats inside them and im happy you appreciated that part 😊😊😊 So, Patrick and Nehemiah are a coup now..Great
Patrick began sleeping on Sarah’s side in his bedchamber. When he retired late, he always slept well. One night, however, Patrick moved back to the cellar. He imagined his childhood sweetheart’s ever-thinning body taking up less space beneath the blankets.
The chair is nearby. It was a shift of maybe two feet from the chair to the old pallet whence he attempted to lay in it. When he looked across at the space where he used to sit, his sense of loss was so acutely overwhelming he closed his eyes, but the imaginary spikes dug deeper. He remembered whether this would be the day the pain would worsen, or the latter, saw her for dead.
Like the drunk whose world spun when they shut their eyes, his despair broke further through the wall that kept grief at bay, which allowed him to maintain the facade of, Patrick, you are coping so well.
What happened next?
Patrick moved upstairs again and slept at Sarah’s side of the bed. Grief gone, solid walls of coping back in place.
With trial and error, he spent longer minutes laying in the cellar bed, like someone training for a beautiful, marvelous endeavor. Each time the darkness threatened to engulf him, Patrick returned to safety, moving back upstairs to familiar territory.
OEHHHHHH........... this part makes me wonder....Is there coming a part 4??? What happened to Nehemiah by the way? Did he go studying abroad or something like that? Did he just dissapear? I wonder...
Overall, you did a GREAT job, your writing style is of master class. And your descriptions are fantastic with awesome sauce on top. I really like your story but i do was confused at the end. (I know my review is a bit rushed and im sorry.)
Have a nice day/night further on! Keep up the amazing work!
Magically yours,
- Rinisha
Points: 31478
Reviews: 219
Donate