A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine
Chapter 4 – In the Woods
September 14, 1692 – Andover Village, Massachusetts
After Sunday service, my mind be in an uproar.
Whilst our parents stand together outside of church, sharing the week's news, we daughters have some minutes to ourselves. 'Tis normally a few minutes when we laugh and tease furtively with one another, for too much mirth be immoral. Much like ankles, a woman's teeth need not be seen.
I, however, stand somewhat stiff and stupid, disoriented by the dream I have just experienced – for a dream it had to be. I must have dozed, unnoticed, for less than one minute, during Reverend Newton's sermon. 'Tis the only explanation. What I would desire is time alone with Rosalie, the one person I trust sufficiently with whom to share my dream. But we are ringed by our other friends, and so, I must wait and hope we shall have a moment before Mother and Father call me away.
This Sunday, our parents whisper fervently with one another. Hushed murmurs of "Salem Village" and "afflictions" and "fits" rise in the air, accompanied by gasps and ever-widening eyes. Normally, such words would trigger that innate curiosity in me that Mother abhors, but this afternoon, Salem village and its most recent issues concern me not. In the midst of this, Emmett McCarty, son of the tailor, approaches us with a friendly smile.
"Good afternoon to ye, Isabella," nods he. "Good afternoon to all," he extends to everyone.
"Afternoon to ye, Emmett," nod I back with a distracted sort of halfhearted smile, though the rest in our group offer broader smiles and batted lashes – for Emmett be tall, thick of the neck, of marrying age, and easy with his sociability. Rosalie, who usually joins in this happiness to greet Emmett, should he approach, is more subdued than I would expect. She offers him barely a nod in acknowledgment. Though, Emmett, always jovial, seems to take neither notice nor offense.
"Is aught well, Isabella?" asks he. "Thou appear agitated. Thy cheeks burn a bright shade."
He be correct; I feel the heat on my face, wrought by the memory of those eyes. Moreover, Emmett has read me correctly when he calls me agitated, for afraid I am not. Nonetheless, I shall not share the why with he.
"Aye, I am well, I thank ye, Emmett," I reply somewhat breathlessly. "Perhaps still warm from the church house," I dissemble, palming my cheek.
He nods, still smiling. "The warmth makes thou appear like my grandmother's favored doll, which brought she from England – with dark hair of silk under her bonnet and delicate pink cheeks."
"Aye," I murmur, this following portion of his conversation vaguely registering. So when mine eyes stray to Rosalie, and I find her watching me through narrowed eyes, I am lost. When she turns her blue gaze to Emmett, he clears his throat.
"And how fare ye, Rosalie?"
"I am well."
We all share more banal conversation before Rosalie's parents, as well as mine, call us to them. The four of them walk ahead of we, their heads close together in more hissed discussion, from which I hear Rosalie's parents mention "witchery" and "devilry," while mine parents use words such as "caution" and "innocence." I do wonder of what they speak, but more pressing concerns have I.
"Such breathlessness earlier, Isabella. And those cheeks…scarlet as blood were they. Saw I why Emmett thought ye agitated," says Rosalie, her gaze facing forward.
"Aye, agitated I be," I whisper back.
"And thou allowed thy agitation full display," nods she. "Dost thou fancy Emmett then?"
My legs cease moving for a moment, then resume their stride, catching up to Rosalie, who did not even pause.
"Fancy Emmett? Naye. I told thee this."
"I cannot blame thee if ye does," says she, ignoring my denial and forming a smile that appears to hold little humor. Still walking, she moves in closer to my ear and drops her voice to something barely above a breath. "Nor can I blame thee for thy agitation, for Emmett is the sort of man who agitates the body more than he does the soul. He be thick of neck and of happy disposition, both which signal sore yet satisfied nights for his prospective wife."
It takes me a handful of seconds to decipher her words, for she thankfully does little more than move her mouth around them, but once I register them, I do understand them. We have watched the horses and the pigs, and so we know it cannot vary much.
"Tis not why I was scarlet of face nor breathless," say I, glaring at her in the approaching darkness. "While in church, I…I thought I saw someone with red eyes watching me intently through the window. Then…he disappeared," I breathe.
She turns her rounded eyes to me. "What say you?"
"'Twas likely a dream," I add quickly. "But it was agitating, aye, and it felt quite real."
For a long moment, she merely holds my gaze, searching my eyes. She appears almost as confused as I feel. Our eyes then trail back and forth between our parents ahead of us, who are thankfully too consumed in their own issues this late afternoon, and one another.
"Take care, Isabella," Rosalie finally says, "that thy red-eyed lover does not come for thee in the middle of the night and ravage you in thy bed. For ye have told me often thou foregoes thy nighttime prayers in favor of more time to think for thyself."
I blink at her. That she should fling such a secret back at me at this moment! Moreover, when she has confessed she does the same-
When she grabs my hand and squeezes it, stifling a bout of laughter, I squeeze her hand back, forcefully suppressing mine own frivolity. Together, we walk behind our parents, attempting not to display too much enjoyment for two young women. All the way to where the road forks and our paths diverge, Rosalie teases me about my red-eyed lover.
So, when I trail behind my parents, who have not ceased whispering since we departed church, and I…feel mineself observed…followed…breathed on…I shudder and assume 'tis all the talk we did of my dream that now adds fire to the burning flames of my imagination.
OOOOO
With the fall harvest upon us, all we in Andover village are occupied in various endeavors. 'Tis incumbent upon one and all, from the youngest who have only recently learned to walk to the oldest who can barely manage it any longer, to ensure that once winter arrives in earnest, we shall neither starve nor freeze to death. Only those babes still suckling on their mothers' teats are spared from providing assistance.
Father quietly shares with us, in the privacy of our home, that should we as a village fall upon hard times, the natives shall no longer assist us, not as they once did, not after how we repaid them. Which is why he trades in secret with the Wampanoag – gives them such things as they need in exchange for skins and dried meats and such. But these are things Mother and I know never to speak of, for such trade would be seen as treason against our own.
With such bustle and commotion, I have little time to dwell on my dream of the red eyes watching me in church. 'Tis only in the evenings, when I be alone with mineself in my room, in my bed, that I am able to stop and think of the peculiarity of the dream – at least until I fall asleep. 'Tis also where, I admit to myself, if to no one else, not even to Rosalie, that in those few seconds in which I observed him as he observed me, the red-eyed creature was not so much a creature as much as he resembled someone from mine past. Someone whom I only saw once before in my life but whose image burns in my memories nightly.
Now, they both – the being with the red eyes and the native with the peculiar-shaded hair and strong thighs – share my evening thoughts. For perhaps the first time I can recall, I am glad Mother and Father never had more children. My bedroom be mine and mine alone. My private prayer time as I kneel before my bed be cut even shorter now, as many thoughts fill my mind, and I have little time to think them. I find myself imagining that…that I fall asleep nightly, and nightly does he visit, stand by my windows…watches me.
One evening, almost a fortnight after I slept in church and saw those red eyes, Mother is mending in the front room by the light of the hearth whilst I clean up the kitchen after supper. Father walks into the kitchen and quietly bids me to sit at the table. When I sit, he hands me something while concurrently placing a finger to his lips. I look down at what I hold.
"In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess Queen Elizabeth of Happy Memory," read I the title. Then read I further the author's name, mine eyes flashing up to Father.
"Anne Bradstreet? A woman wrote this?"
"Shh," Father reminds me, smiling through his whiskers. "Aye, daughter. 'Tis a book of poetry penned by a Puritan woman who lived right here in Andover, though she died prior to thy birth."
I admit I stare slack-jawed. Then I begin leafing through the book in joyous disbelief as if I hold a long-lost treasure.
"Where found you this, Father?"
He chuckles lowly. "Tis a somewhat strange tale. I traded with the Wampanoag for it – with a young warrior whose eyes…" Father frowns.
"What of his eyes, Father?" ask I, my heart racing.
"His eyes were…a peculiar shade that…appeared to mimic the color of the flames dancing in the hearth within his tent. Impossible, I know," smiles he, mistaking my look of shock. "A trick of the firelight. But, what is more, his hair and skin betrayed blood not all native."
My mouth opens but cannot work. My voice is lost.
Father continues misinterpreting my reaction.
"You may be excused to go read for a short while before thy prayers, daughter," Father whispers.
"Thank you, Father," say I with much feeling, pressing my book…my gift from him…to my chest.
"But take care that ye show no one thy book, for though a Puritan woman penned it, Father Newton considers such writings immoral devilry which can only serve to pollute a young woman's mind and soul." He pauses. "He has forgiven neither thee nor I for your refusal of Michael, and Heaven forfend should he discover the book in thy possession." Another pause. "Isabella, there is much uproar occurring currently in Salem. I do not understand it all…but take care of thy words and actions, daughter."
"Aye, Father," I sigh. "I shall take care."
OOOOO
We run through the forest, having been granted a reprieve for a short hour, allowed a breath before Reverend Newton stifles us once again the following day, the Sabbath. My cloak waves in the wind. I pick up it and my skirts, moving faster between the barren trees, grinning in exhilaration at the breeze on my face and seeping up my skirts, at my hair escaping from its bonnet and slapping at my cheeks. When I pull off the bonnet, I shriek in joy as if I have unbound chains from 'round my head.
Once I have exhausted myself, I drop to the ground, dry leaves and bracken crackling under me whilst I laugh and move my arms and legs, chest heaving. My limbs be sore, feel as if they may tear off, but 'tis my only opportunity to move with such abandon. I shall not cease for mere aches. Rosalie and the others soon follow, and we form a circle as we lay on the wintering meadow.
I shut my eyes and see him behind my mind's eye. My love who hath won my heart with words writ by a strong woman who lived before I was born; my love who somehow knew…knew me enough to know how much such words would mean to me.
"Isabella, you be an animal!" Jane cries accusingly when she be the last to arrive. "No mortal woman should be capable of such running!"
Ignoring her accusation, I open my eyes and roll them to the sky. I catch a bronze leaf that flutters and finds its way into my hands, almost as if the skies swayed it in mine direction.
"Thou art envious of Isabella's strong legs," Angela chuckles.
Jane is silent.
They all begin picking dry leaves from the ground, tearing off pieces.
"Recite thy poem again, Isabella," Angela requests.
"'Tis not mine poem," say I, though I smile proudly all the same, "'tis the poetry of Anne Bradstreet."
"Either way, do please recite it," Angela requests.
"Very well."
For a quarter of an hour, I recite passages from my poetry book, ending with one of mine favorites:
"'Now say, have women worth? or have they none? Or had they some, but with our queen is't gone? Nay Masculines, you have thus taxt us long, But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong, Let such as say our Sex is void of Reason, Know tis a Slander now, but once was Treason.'" (Citation at the end).
Once I have done, all be silent.
"Explain again the meaning," Angela whispers.
"'Tis a repudiation of the belief that we women are worth less than men. For Queen Elizabeth was woman, was she not? And she neither cooked, cleaned, took care of children, or took care of a husband. Yet no man dared speak such inferior talk before her."
Silence.
"Isabella, wherein did thou come across this book?" Angela questions.
"I cannot say," I offer apologetically.
"Tis all right. Regardless, such beauty in words," Angela barely breathes.
"'Tis heresy," Jane suggests.
"'Tis not heresy," snap I, "but merely our right to-"
"Enough of this," Rosalie interrupts. "'Tis not heresy, but what care do we have for the words and thoughts of a dead woman? What effect do they have on us?"
I am caught off-kilter by Rosalie's brusque tone. Nonetheless, smile I at my friend.
"They have every effect on us," say I, "for she proves that women know inherently of their worth, and perhaps if we speak of it aloud-"
"If thou speaks of it aloud, ye shall find thy self in the stocks. Or worse. I say enough. Have you all your leaves ready?"
While they all hold up their leaves, I remain still, bewildered by Rosalie's manner. Nonetheless, they have all moved on.
"Read yours first, Rosalie," Angela suggests, "since 'twas your grandmother who taught ye to read leaves."
Rosalie grins proudly, for aye, she claims her grandmother was a seer, and that she passed on her gift of sight to Rosalie. I be tempted to point out that what we are about to do be more an act of heresy and deserving of punishment than reciting poems from my book – at least according to the standards by which we be governed. Nonetheless, I bite my tongue.
Rosalie holds up her leaf. "It resembles a horseshoe."
"Ye shall marry a blacksmith!" Angela declares. "Emmett!"
"I do not want Emmett," Rosalie declares. "What of yours, Angela?"
"Observe! Mine resembles a stalk of corn!"
"A farmer," Rosalie predicts with a sort of jaundiced ennui in her ton. "What of yours, Jane?"
Jane holds up her broken leaf.
"Ye shall marry an undertaker," Rosalie grins, jaundice morphing into pure spite. "Isabella?"
I hold up mine leaf, which is in the shape of a…a spear.
Rosalie looks at me, her brow furrowing. "A hunter?"
My face is aflame, and Rosalie narrows her gaze, studying me and mine reaction.
"Why would I be envious of Isabella?" Jane retorts, continuing a conversation that ended a half hour earlier. "What husband desires a wife with strong legs? A husband needs a wife who can cook, clean, mend, and bear hale and hearty sons! What need have he for a woman with strong legs?"
"Jane, ye expose thy ignorance of man and woman if ye does not know why a husband would desire a wife with strong legs," Rosalie says calmly.
We all laugh, except Jane.
"'Tis a Jezebel sort of woman who would seek to seduce her husband," Jane mutters. "Mother says 'tis the sort of woman that currently runs rampant in Salem - Jezebels communing with the devil."
"If that be true, doubt I any husband in Salem be currently unhappy," Rosalie replies.
By this point, we are rolling above the grass and crackling leaves with our bodies, such is our amusement. I have forgotten Rosalie's and mine argument of earlier. We are friends. Friends sometimes argue. 'Tis in the handful of heartbeats that transpire when we have all spent our laughter that I hear it. Instinct forces my back up, an awareness, an icy yet hot sensation crawling up my spine. Mine eyes round in the direction from which I heard…something like a branch splitting.
"What is it?" Rosalie asks.
Mine eyes flash between the trees.
"I…I thought I heard…"
All three girls have ceased their laughing and muttering, all glaring at the spot where mine eyes search. For one long moment, none of us move anything besides our eyes.
"An animal?" wonders Angela.
"A bird?" adds Jane.
"There is no one there," Rosalie declares.
"Perhaps…not."
"Thy imagination," Rosalie grins, a grin quite similar to the malignant one she recently offered Jane. "Thy hears thy fears made flesh and running rampant."
"Yet afraid I am not," I reply. "So I cannot hear mine fears."
Rosalie sneers. "Thou be agitated by thy creature with the scarlet eyes then. Possibly, he and thy hunter be one and the same?"
Mine heart stops.
"Good Lord, Rosalie," Angela says, "of what scarlet eyes dost thou speak?"
I be too stunned by Rosalie's sudden acerbic manner toward me to utter a word, even as her gaze remains on me, though she replies to Angela.
"I speak of nothing," Rosalie finally says. "Be thou the clever one betwixt us, Isabella, yet thou doth not know when I tease." She laughs. "I begin to suspect thy cleverness be somewhat contrived."
"And I begin to suspect thy cruelty of the day shall be permanently etched into thy handsome features."
Rosalie's eyes flash. Jane laughs. Angela chuckles, but there be a note of fear in the sound.
"Tease not one another in such manners and express not those descriptions before Reverend Newton, nor his son and daughter-in-law, lest thou desire a flogging. Or worse."
Rosalie scoffs. "Here…in the middle of woods, we be free to do as we like."
"We be not free to do as we like," say I.
All three look at me.
"That be what we learn from the words of a dead woman. That we are not, nor have we ever been…free to do as we please. We are imprisoned by our own ignorance, and if we never speak, we shall never break free from it."
Mine chest heaves. Aye, we be best friends since youth; confidants of thoughts girls such as we be not meant to have…be not allowed to have. One with a blackbird's mane, the other with hair of corn silk, yet both painted with the same strokes of curiosity, brushed in shades no other woman of our acquaintance appears to possess. We would both be flogged equally were our curious ways ever to be discovered.
'Tis why I fear now what shall come next. Because as much as I begin to realize I do not know Rosalie as well as I had believed…there are still features of her I do know.
A contest of wills hath begun, and neither of us desires to lose.
"Aye," Rosalie smiles. "Isabella, thou are correct. We are as bound as be Goodwife Jessica Newton, who pays for her honor as a wife nightly via a prick from her sebaceous husband's flaccid member-"
-Jane and Angela gasp-
"-and 'tis the fate that awaits us all. And so, what are we to do?"
I shiver, though I am unsure why. Rosalie speaks the truth. "That…I do not know," I admit.
We are silent. An owl hoots in the distance, and the breeze whips up our hair. He be nearby. I know not how I know…but I do.
Rosalie's gaze holds mine. "Perhaps…there be a way…a manner we can be free…at least for a little while."
"How?" I dare ask.
Rosalie's ensuing laugh be as brittle as the falling leaves.
"Aye, we be imprisoned by our own ignorance," Rosalie mocks me, "so let we not be ignorant of all. Observe me…and cast your mind to thine visions of the perfect person, whomever it be."
Rosalie's tone changes. It becomes deeper. A long moment transpires while Rosalie and I watch one another, each scrutinizing the other across the arid landscape. At first, I cannot comprehend, cannot even begin to guess – even if, just a short while earlier, I felt safe in the knowledge that no one knew Rosalie better than I did.
When Rosalie's right hand reaches for the hem of her long skirts, my brow furrows. Her hand then disappears under her own skirts, while from the cold ground we watch her – at first, confused…then enraptured…
Jane shrieks and crawls backward on her bottom, like a spider running away. "Rosalie, what do you do?"
"If it be true that our imagination is all we have to us…" Rosalie murmurs, a languid smile spreading across her face as she throws back her head and trails off. She supports herself with one hand while the other move between her legs in a disconcerting, incomprehensible…and mesmerizingly rhythmic manner that none of us – not Jane, not Angela, and not I – can look away from. "If 'tis all we have…"
A heavy branch breaks and falls hard upon the ground. Birds scatter. We shriek. Rosalie ceases her actions as the four of us jump to our feet.
"Someone is there!" Jane screeches.
"No one is there!" Rosalie hisses.
"But-" Angela begins.
"Say I no one be there!" Rosalie shouts.
I remain silent.
Trembling, with hearts racing, and avoiding conversation and one another's eyes, the four of us return home.
I tell no one what eyes I saw.
OOOOO
That evening, I shut my eyes, alone in my bed…in my room…as my hand travels up my evening gown, and I picture his eyes…his hair…his thighs…
He did not want to see Rosalie do this.
The first brush of my finger elicits an unknown sensation – the closest to which I can compare is the gratification obtained from rubbing an itch. Except, the more I rub, the more I itch. My sensitivity to the sensation grows with each delve. I turn to the window with desperation, but he is not there.
"Please, please, please…come to me. I vow I shall not be frightened by thee…nor by thine eyes."
I shut my eyes and open them, yet still, he is not there.
But I feel him.
When that strange sensation builds…builds…then crests, tightening my core, I clamp my arm over mine mouth and stifle the screams wanting to escape. Wave after wave of a pleasure almost painful invades my very soul. I vaguely wonder how such a perfect sensation can be so secret. So forbidden. There would be no sadness, no fear, no anger in the world if everyone felt such a sensation.
As I shut my eyes, exhausted and sated in a manner I never imagined…I find him once again; this time in the dark corner of my room.
A/N: Thoughts?
"HAUNTING" Chapter Song Rec: I Think We're Alone Now, as covered by Hidden Citizens (though originally by Tiffany)
Children, behave
That's what they say when we're together
And watch how you play
They don't understand
And so we're
Running just as fast as we can
Holding on to one another's hand
Trying to get away into the night
And then you put your arms around me
And we tumble to the ground and then you say
I think we're alone now
There doesn't seem to be anyone around
I think we're alone now
The beating of our hearts is the only sound..
It's late, and the hubs is circling me like a shark, so we're going to keep tonight's history lesson short though Anne Bradstreet is a fascinating figure simply for the fact that she was a published female Puritan author during those repressed times. So I've cut and pasted from Wikipedia. Sorry! If you're so inclined, do look her up! She's super interesting. :)
Anne Bradstreet. (2022, October 16). In Wikipedia. wiki/Anne_Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet was the most prominent of early English poets of North America and the first writer in England's North American colonies to be published. She is the first Puritan figure in American Literature and notable for her large corpus of poetry, as well as personal writings published posthumously. Born to a wealthy Puritan family in Northampton, England, Bradstreet was a well-read scholar especially affected by the works of Du Bartas. She was married at sixteen, and her parents and young family migrated at the time of the founding of Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1630. A mother of eight children and the wife and daughter of public officials in New England, Bradstreet wrote poetry in addition to her other duties. Her early works read in the style of Du Bartas, but her later writings develop into her unique style of poetry which centers on her role as a mother, her struggles with the sufferings of life, and her Puritan faith. Her first collection, The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America, was widely read in America and England.
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