Savage shouts and flames lick the night-time sky. Torches held tightly in villager's hands. The orange glow from the fire is reflected on the dew-stunned grass across the fields and farms. Inside a little cabin, not too far from the forest's edge, a young girl cowers in her mother's arms as her father keeps watch out the window. The door is locked and a gun is ready. All the gas lanterns are turned off so the residence looks to be empty. The young girl sobs and gets the top of her mothers' dress soaked. Such a hard life for those people. And now the time they most feared had come. A rebellion against their own people.
"I'm scared, Papa, really scared." The young girl cried.
"It'll be okay, Misty. Don't worry." Her father comforted by the window, patting his hand down on the air.
"But Papa, they'll get us! They'll get us for sure!" Misty says full of worry.
"It's nothing to be frightened about, Dear." Her mother rocks. "We're safe. As long as we're a loving family under our Father's mighty arms, nothing can harm us."
"Don't you worry, Mama." Misty assures in her slight Irish accent. "I'm prayin', I'm prayin'."
It was a bad time in Ireland. Some people weren't trusted for their religious beliefs. Most of all, Christians. And Misty's family was strong Christians. And afraid as ever of being caught by the other people. The rich people that own large plantations and factories. You'd be beaten, scorned, tortured, put through back-breaking labor, and even killed if you didn't watch your mouth around them. They captured any Christian that was acting under God's will in public. Even in private they feared capture, for sometimes, the villagers broke into homes, looking for workers. This was the largest rebellion they have ever seen. So much blood shed. But the other villagers thought it was a good thing. Profits for them were soaring through the roof with all the new workers they had on the plantations and in their factories. More slaves mean more materials to sell, which means more income…which is more money. They'd do anything for more money.
"The shouts are getting closer, Papa." Misty said. "The fire is getting brighter also. I can hear their flames rippling already."
"It's okay! It's okay!" Misty's Papa yelled hoarsely. But the grip on his gun was getting tighter every minute.
"Mama," Misty began. "I've asked the Lord, I've even begged. But no help has come yet."
"Sometimes it takes a while for Him to answer our prayers, little one. Just be patient, be patient." Mama smoothes her daughter's rustic and puffy orange hair.
"I'm too young to die, Mama. I'm only 14." Misty cries. "I don't wanna."
"You're not going to die."
The angry villager's bellows become more thick and vivid of words. They get louder and more treacherous as the seconds click by slowly. Misty's Papa quickly dodges out of the window's sight as a Man's face pears inside. His torch handy. You can hear a small conversation going on outside. Then, it was silent. Too silent.
"I'm scared." Misty barely whispered. "They know we're here, Mama. They know of our Lord. His cross hangs outside our door."
Glass shatters as a flaming torch is thrown through the window. Misty's Papa quickly grabs his gun but is too late for the men who bombard the door until it crashes to the floor. They knock him out of the way and take his gun. Misty screams and stands up with her Mother who still holds her in her arms. They head for the back door but again were too slow. Two men came towards them and wrenched them apart. Misty screamed and kicked and failed. Her Mama didn't do much to speak of. Just yelled her husband's name over and over. He lay motionless on the wooden floor.
"Papa! Papa!" Misty could barely shout through a mouthful of tears. "Papa!"
"Get up." Misty's Mama told him. "Get up!" It was then, she cried.
Misty and her Mama were taken out of the house where they then saw a large carriage. The back was like a gigantic cage that already had a few men, women, and children in it. Misty and Mama were thrown into the back along with the rest and got one last look at their country house. It wasn't a very good sight for a last memory. For right then, the other men were dragging Papa out of the front door. He was still as limp as a rag doll. His shiny, black boots thumping against the small door step, and then gliding along the damp grass. The sound was disgusting. Like a serpent on water. It was the silent slither of death. Misty and Mama both knew it. They fell into each other's arms and cried. Cried for Papa, cried for the rest of the people in the wagon, and most important of all, for the Lord's help to save their lives. Dawn was just coming up for the endless hills of corn and meadow. A deadly orange glow that eclipsed everybody's faces making them look even more sorrowful.
"Mama." Misty looked up.
"Yes, dear. We still must." Mama said referring to their daily routine. "Thank you, Lord, for another day. And helping us through…the night."
"Amen." Misty finished it, but with an unexpected hic-up from her tears.