[Eadha Deora]

This is a true story.

I remember it well, a long night followed by a swift dawn, as though my coming into the world was simply a relief of my mother's arduous pregnancy. But I was the first born and I was their pride, a shock of bronzed red hair already gleaming on my head and my American-born but still very Scottish mother cooing over me, even though her strength lay exhausted after a difficult birth. I gleamed, relieved myself to finally be born and unable to fully believe in this bright world, so full of movement, color, and sound that it all whirled around me like a jigsaw puzzle still in process.

No matter though. I would quickly pick up the pieces and learn how to make something of life. I didn't know what I did or didn't want—that was all yet to come, but I knew I was happy, as my father William Young stroked my nose and little curled up fingers, calling me his "precious jewel" with such a twinkle in his eyes. That was how I came to be named "Jewel", and as I grew, I'd discover that his eyes rarely twinkled, for he was a serious man, engrossed in farming and harvesting, buying and selling. That was how we ate and that was what mattered. For some men work steals away youth from their easy grip, and my father was never harsh or stingy. Life simply passed onwards while he walked along, engrossed in red tilled earth and golden surplus. Still, Papa was quiet, resolute and with a will power greater than any stubborn old donkey; and for all that, he was my comfort and shelter.

On the other hand, Mama, Flora, could talk for all the county and knew exactly how to make a fuss when it was least desired. But she was a good woman, full of the famous southern hospitality which really took its roots from the Welsh and Scottish settlers. Everything always had to be just so, and she was determined that we all lived better than she had as a child, although even her childhood was nothing to complain about. Her father Joel McCorquodale was also a farmer and lived just over from us. In fact, Black River was full of cousins and relatives like that, and of everyone there, we had been there nearly the longest, although of course the Williams from Wales had settled and even once owned all that land, way back before even the War for Independence. But almost everyone was related to the Williams somehow, including us. They seemed to have such big families.

I loved our farm. I first learned to walk by toddling down behind my father in the fields as he strode in the March sunshine, sowing seeds and whistling as he was want to do out of doors and when he was alone. I remember how cool the earth felt to me then, my little fists grasping the dirt and bringing it to my mouth in curiosity—just to have a little taste—although Papa turned round and ambled after me, saying what a silly girl I was to eat dirt! It was Papa who planted the love of green growing things deep into my spirit, and it was he who taught me how to smell the seasons, North Carolina's gentle Spring, heady Summer, the delicious Autumn and earthy Winter,—and listen for the weather as it could change from baking stillness, blustery brusqueness, or even the occasional hurricane, which thrilled me to bits. Our thunderstorms were ecstatic too, as the sky shot like fireworks into colors of purple-reds or green, blues and sheer white, each bolt of lightning nearly blinding and the roar of the thunder like an earthquake in the sky.

I used to peer out my little bedroom window, absolutely sure that God rode down to earth on lightning. Once I found a forlorn and blackened elm tree that had been struck, not far from the house. It was literally split in two right down the trunk like some great giant's axe. There was a space enough for me to climb between the two pieces and I used to go hide there when I played, almost as if it were my own little haven. Our home was a haven, of course, not too big but also not too small. We were a close family, close in that although Mama told Papa what to do more than she should and Papa ignored her even more than he should, there was always an undercurrent of peace running through, like a river flowing softly and unobtrusively. We were quiet people in a quiet part of the world. Nothing but birth or death could change our world, we said.

And so the births and deaths continued. When I was two, my brother Marshall was born. I never could quite say his name without a hidden chuckle because it struck me as being too old for him, such a smiling, quiet child, much like I imagine Papa was when he was little too. They were very much alike, those two. He nevertheless called me "Jule" because he said (as he told me when he was aged eight and learning to write) that I was born in July and it fit me better than "Jewel"! What he meant by that I can only guess, but I loved Marshall dearly and we had all the adventures brothers and sisters get into when they are close in age. Nevertheless, I always felt protective of him, like a mama cat over her squinty day-old kittens. Not that Marshall needed my protection, as he was always capable and sufficient. Even when he was a baby, his eyes looked up at you as if to say "Don't worry. I know what to do." Mama used to marvel at his "usefulness" and Papa would softly mention to me how pleased he was with Marshall quickly picking up this skill or that. He had a son whom he could safely entrust the farm to one day, that lovely farm with the great big pecan tree growing out in the yard.

Although our lives were happy, it was not always so, for death too had its place in our quiet lives. When I was four and Marshall two, a little sister was born. Mama had been agitated and upset while she carried Elizabeth, because one of her closest friends and loved ones had died suddenly during childbirth and it made Mama very nervous. She hadn't necessarily had an easy time with either Marshall or me, and the thought of going through it all a third time made her fret morning, noon and night. Papa just stayed out in the fields longer, thankful that he had the excuse of a busy harvest to bring in, or he'd sing hymns and county fair songs to his horses when he thought no one was around, even though he had told Mama that he had work to do in the barn. I liked to hear him sing, a deep, mellow voice, full of all the rich things in life I thought he deserved, and so I'd excuse myself from Mama who was usually in the kitchen and slip out with the feed bag for the horses Penny and Whistle, and let them nuzzle me with their fuzzy wet noses, asking politely if I had brought them an apple perhaps from Grandpa's orchard, or perhaps a long gangly carrot from Mama's store house, all the while listening to Papa upstairs stacking the packed hay as best as possible, although I always thought it was much ado about nothing.

And finally, Elizabeth arrived when the Indian Summer had just died and frost was already beginning to stay hard on the ground. Elizabeth seemed to hold in her all the things Mama had felt, a nervous pale thing whose bright blue eyes viewed us all as if we were strangers. I suppose in some ways, we were, but she was not a very happy baby, always in rashes and painfully thin. Marshall doesn't really remember, but I can recall waking up in the night to hear my mother weeping down in the kitchen, trying to coax Elizabeth to eat. I suppose then it was a wonder that the little pinched thing managed to survive past her first birthday. But then suddenly, right before Mama's October birthday, nearly a month short of her own birthday, Elizabeth suddenly shriveled up and died, perhaps of dehydration because of such a bad case of diarrhea, that whisked her away from us without even a proper good-bye.

Death never seemed too far away after that, and once Elizabeth had gone, each of us became even more as we had been before, Mama complaining more, Papa withdrawing more, Marshall speaking less and I dreaming more. I always felt bad for Mama. We children took more after Papa's nature, although I certainly had a side to my nature that was very fiery and fierce, but Mama always seemed to be the odd one out, her opinions the strongest, her voice the firmest and yet, she was the paste that kept us together. Elizabeth's death did quiet her busy tongue, for she seemed more and more often out of the house fishing (her favorite pastime) and walking on the Black River's banks, like someone seeking relief in solitude. But when she was with us, it was Mama who always knew exactly what she wanted and she never hesitated in telling you exactly how it was done. In some ways I think Mama liked that, as she was such a lively person who loved community functions and entertaining, and that I think she must have been bored with our quiet lives in rural North Carolina. It's no wonder then that she complained as she did or that she secretly enjoyed the havoc she caused, just to bring a bit of excitement to our repetitive days.

No more havoc did she create in my life than when one lazy Sunday after church she started chattering about me, aged 14, marrying, hinting about that "fine fellow" over there or "Mrs. Starling's nephew" who lived just a bit from us. On and on she went, how important a girl's role is as a mother and wife, and why marriage can be such a happy existence. Of course I was too young to marry, but Flora came from a long line of young mothers with large broods and saw no reason why I couldn't start looking now and be settled down after a couple years of courtship by the time I was 16 or 17. On the other hand, my father's face never flinched, but I knew he was smiling inside, for he did always secretly find my mother's babblings amusing, although many a time I'd watched him glower at her for her words. Marshall too seemed oblivious to her comments, his careful gaze elsewhere at the most pertinent times, especially when I would look at him for rescuing or succor. But despite Mama's advice which was wholly new to my ears, what I didn't know was that she had been discussing my possibilities with all the local mothers, while what she didn't know was that I, in particular, had my eyes set on one such fellow, although he lived what felt miles away.

His name was William Stewart, a proper respectable Scottish name to match my middle name of McLaren, as was my grandmother's family and my grandfather's McCorquodale. William was distantly related to us through that famous Williams family connection (which he was named after; his mother Elizabeth was a Williams), but that simply made him feel even more like "home" to me. I had loved him upon first sight when he came to visit his relatives in Black River. He looked so strong to me, someone I could depend upon and who would not be offended by my, in true fashion, red-headed behavior. After that, I didn't see him again until I was 16. But by then, I had come to realize my youth and the attractiveness of many other young ladies in the area. He was, you see, older than me, already nearly 25, and I began to bethink myself a very silly little girl to have fallen so much in fancy with him.

Meanwhile, I began to bud into the "little lady" as the neighbors called me. Quiet as we were, my head was not full of town amusements or frivolous dresses, not even boys, for I put them out of my head all together, except for William. Instead, I became a little nursemaid to all the children. Mothers blessed me mightily, although it always left me hot with embarrassment, for it was I who was blessed, being allowed to tend to so many little lives, each tender and beautiful in his or her own way. I truly felt a deep abiding love for the people around me and for the goodness I saw in them. All I ever hoped was that one day, perhaps I too could settle down and have children like these small ones to sing to and laugh with and treasure in my soul.

Often I would find my way to my old haunt, the split elm tree, and curled in its enfolding hallow, I'd mindlessly play with my hair and sing songs I'd heard my father whistle, while inside holding close the thought of William and babies, all the things a young girl dreams about. I didn't want to be famous or handsome, nor did I want to travel the world or work a job or even to move away. I simply wanted to live in this quiet place as happy as I ever could be. That was the desire of my heart.

Mama had the same desire, to see me married and producing children, for she was beginning to feel past her prime, and Elizabeth's death had stolen any desire of giving birth again. Shortly after her conversation with me about marriage, I soon found her trying to arrange "accidental" meetings with eligible or soon-to-be eligible young men. One after the other she contrived for her daughter, but it shamed me to no end. We had many heated arguments, she and I, for I was the only one in the house willing to speak out to Flora. She would have her own way though, and she very nearly succeeded in getting me courted and engaged, save that was when my illness began. I had begun to feel unwell, to say the least. Not often, but it would come on very slowly and my hands and feet would swell up until they were useless, blinding headaches would then make any kind of concentration impossible, followed by difficulty eating, dizziness, and more than anything else, a tiredness I could not shake off. These periods of illness did not last long and would soon disappear as soon as they had begun. Doctor Willis was worried about the swelling and the headaches, but he believed that perhaps my heart was not at its strongest, and prescribed herbal medicaments to hopefully reduce the onset of these symptoms. The prescriptions did little good though, and Mama and Papa grew more and more worried as they watched their only surviving daughter seemingly shrink before them.

Then, when Mama had finally abandoned all thoughts of marrying me off, and I was just turned 16, the hot July melting into a hotter-still August, out of nowhere, William came. He had heard about my father needing an extra hand on the farm, for although Marshall was 14 and able, Flora still was determined that her only son should have the best learning school could offer. No missing school to work in the fields for him! I remember the first time William noticed me. I was painfully thin and wispy, but to William, I must have seemed like a fairy, slender and pale like some woman in a dream. That was how he first saw me, sitting on the front porch swing in shadow, wrapped up in blankets and cushions and yet smiling as I watched Marshall exercising one of the horses out in the field.

He cleared his voice, startling me, and said in such a soft voice, "Hello, ma'am. I thought you might be able to direct me to where a Mr. William Young could be. I'm here about the farm hand position." My ears could not believe this voice was speaking, nor could my eyes believe themselves at the sight of him. He was so much more handsome than when I had first seen him, and he too had grown, of course he had, though to me it was new and marvelous. I realized my dumbness might worry him and so I spoke, barely able to contain my glee at the sight of him except that my body's weariness held me down like a relentless chain. "Why, why yes. He will most likely be in that big barn over there," I said motioning to it, "Yes, that one," and adding, "I imagine Papa shall be happy to have someone so fine a-looking man as you to help him."

He grinned at me, evident pleasure in his eyes, and in turn, he said, "Well, Mr. Young has a fine looking daughter as ever I've seen, if I may say so, and I do." I blushed under his compliment and I imagine it must have looked very becoming against my white pallor and vivid red hair. Then with a nod of his head, he turned away from me into the bright sunshine and sauntered over to the barn, his steps so easy and free. That moment stands out to me above all others in my life, as I remained shrouded in shadows and he strode out into pure light and life. My father must have approved of him nonetheless and soon, William was living under the same roof as me, nearer and more tangible than I ever thought possible, though I have dreamt it many times. The better I got to know William, my old love for him began to flame up again, now stronger and deeper than before, for youth and also time passed.

This was the time when I was happiest, my days filled with dreaming and watching, listening and talking, and all involving William in some way. Three months passed and our mutual regard for one another was impossible to hide. He asked my father permission to start courting me, and the two of us would go for walks around the farm at dusk, surveying the soft dying of the day and the way the shadows slowly began to emerge from their sleep. William had to sleep up in the loft of the barn though, which was partially converted for this purpose. Flora was determined that we remain respectable and that no such tale-talk could spread that might detract from our coupled happiness.

Those were grand days, an autumn full of such color and beauty as I can ever remember. And by November, William had asked me to marry him, promising that he would always look after me and make sure I should never want, and also promising me, with his protective hand around my little frail one, that we would live long together, and happily. In my happiness I believed him, and we began to talk about marrying around my 17th birthday, the next July. Mama wanted a June wedding though, and she could not be put off, so it was settled for us to be wed in the merry month of June.

Christmas came soon for us in our happiness together, as it was such a happy season, the happiest of all. I found the withdrawing light hard to bear though, and I remember the sudden terror that struck me one morning, a week before Christmas, when I found the dreaded swelling and migraine had returned, of all times of year! It felt like a knell of doom in my bosom, sweet and low. There was no great wash of tears or unending misery. I simply felt shaky, as if I had just slipped on ice and the shock still with me. I knew not what to do or say to William, for I could feel myself suddenly growing weary, so weary. Mama came to my room and saw, crying out in dismay and fell into a flutter of worry, which was the last thing I wanted, for I knew my state, especially at Christmas, would be so unhappy for everyone, especially William, poor William.

He would sit by my bed as often as he could, holding my hand and stroking one of the long locks of my hair. His voice often broke in obvious grief (he had never really seen me unwell), but he tried to remain hopeful, speaking of the wedding and of my recovery, bringing me flowers and sweets whenever he was able and always, forever always, repeating to me his love. We both felt my illness deeply over Christmas, and in January, his own mother was taken ill. He did not want me to see how much dilemmad he was, but I knew William better than he knew himself, and every time he was near me, I sensed his growing fear, his torn allegiances and his sense of helplessness—the two women he loved most in the world, lie at death's and God's mercies. But his mother was calling him to her bedside, and it was too much for his filial love and duty to deny her his presence. So he went with ardent goodbyes and all his love, not shortly after a week had past since New Years. The strain of hiding my discomfort, my moods swinging from depression to hopelessness to a strange, unbidden peace, it all took its toll on me and for all my love of William, I felt better without him.

Then the blood came. I had it sometimes before, but only a bit pinkish colored. This time, it was like my menstrual cycle, but I quickly grew anemic and tired, any kind of movement was painful, except that then my nerves started to feel dull, as if I had been drugged. My normally pale skin started to darken in a sickly yellow-brown, and I felt dirty all over, itchy and dirty, as if I could never be clean, could never drink enough water or be pure. The world concerned me less and less. Marshall would sit with me sometimes, reading poetry I loved so well or simply saying nothing at all, but it was Papa who comforted me the most, singing in his soft low voice just as he did with frightened horses. His songs would leave me in peace, my mind free from the vice of half-terror, half-anger at my dying body. January sleet and hail hit the fields, but I began to feel nothing save a growing mist moving into my mind, darkening my thoughts and freezing my muscles.

The only thing I really remember is that one night, it began to snow heavily outside, and when I opened my eyes to the darkness of my room, I felt a little hand go into mine and the warm kiss of small lips, before a voice said, "It's alright, Mama. It's alright. We're very happy to see you." That was the only time I cried, cried because I suddenly remembered how much I wanted to marry William and give birth to this child sat with me at the edge of my bed, and I knew that life was moving away from me, into another time and place.

With the thought of my child, death came into my room and waited. I had a few more days, but this was the end for now. Perhaps I could say my farewells and make myself dignified for death. That was the best thing to do, to go out with grace. So I told my mother in the morning, who went out weeping uncontrollably, and then my Papa came in, so strong sitting there next to me. He said nothing but looked into my eyes, and I read everything in his heart there. Like an oak he was for me, letting me know that I could go. And when Marshall came, he held onto my arm with one hand and scrubbed away the tears with the back of his other hand. How could I die when he was still only a boy? How could I comfort him before I went? So it was that I lifted myself up with my quickly dissipating strength and charged him with certain things he must do for my sake, like taking care of Mama and telling William how much I loved him and wanted him to find love again, if it comes to him.

Evening was fast approaching on February 1st, and I felt in my bones a swift quickening, a relief, as if there was no cause now to fear. In my mind, I saw my child again, now cradled to my body, and I felt my organs shutting down, first an undeniable coldness that entered me and would not leave, then an unquenchable thirst. Papa brought me a glass of fresh milk and he helped me drink it. In that milk, I could smell spring and refreshment, mayblossoms and young lovers' hopes, a releasing of all the sick, dying parts of life so that we can continue on. In that drink, I was happy, deeply happy. My father kissed me on my brow and said, "You will always me my jewel." And in a breathless voice I falteringly asked him to sing to me. So he did, his voice cracking as he tried not to cry in front of his dying daughter. He sang to me about Spring and as my breaths grew harder and harder, I knew with all my heart that this Spring would be glorious.

And Spring finally came, the daffodils nodding over my grave and the grass lushly green and the sun kind and warm. The spot where I was buried was a quiet one, and that I do not mind. My life was a gentle, unassuming one and to be buried in a quiet place most fitting, for this is the place that is in my soul and in my heart, where I return over and over again when I search for peace. And where else can you discover how true a gift life is, a jewel far beyond price or value, than in a quiet place?

[jimmyjammy]

stunning. very effective story telling with a very distinctive voice i could really hear narrating. felt by the length of it i'd never get to the end of it when i started but i hung on to every word and gotta say i really enjoyed reading that

s

[Eadha Deora]

Thanks, .... this is short compared to most of my "short stories" LOL. That's why I don't write them that often and stick with poetry! Jewel was my great-grandfather's sister and Marshall here is my great-grandfather. All the people and places and events are real, based on stories I've heard or discovered through research.