Many years later, once the shock had worn off and the deep cut from the sharpened bone had finally stopped hurting, Sparrow would tell the tale of how the island and the oak tree itself had protected the child from a certain death. The island covered in oak trees, full of their protective energy; the same island that would eventually bear the fitting name of Oakwood.
Her flaming dress now extinguished by the seawater, Bessie waited. She hoped and prayed that Sparrow would dare to step onto the new edge of the cliff to see, by the faint glow of the lighthouse beacon, her body on the rocks below. Next to her, half in the water was the oak tree, decimated with broken branches floating off in every direction and its dead leaves carried by the waves into the surrounding darkness.
She knew that even if she was seen by Sparrow, that the native woman couldn’t have seen that Bessie was still alive, not from this distance and in the dark of night. Her body lay battered with several broken bones and she was unable to move her arms or legs. Bessie coughed hard. Spatters of blood sprayed the front of her blackened dress and down back onto her face as she looked up helplessly at the ridge of the cliff. She watched for the woman who had stopped her attempt to save her family from starvation. She thought of her children, already so frail and small. The youngest always sick from a lack of nutrition. She had been desperate to save them, to feed them the food their bodies needed to sustain them. The food that had become so hard to grow since the drought had come.
Each year, less and less rain had fallen, and the crops had been scarce. On the third year, the drought that had plagued the island seemed to have gotten worse, but Bessie had figured out how to make the rains come again.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, she recalled what she had been told by the voice of the woman she had called upon, late one night in the dried-up fields. The woman’s voice in the darkness had said she would help the rains come, but only if she sacrificed a human life. Bessie knew there was still time left in the growing season and that she could save her family. She believed the voice that had come to her. She had no other choice. Ignoring it would mean sure death for her children and herself. However, she now knew that death was coming for her, and soon, as pain racked her body with each agonizing gasp for breath. The taste of blood was overwhelming in her mouth and in the back of her throat. Her chest burned as hot as the flames she had ignited mere minutes earlier. As much as she tried to remember the faces of her children, the noises surrounding her seemed to edge those thoughts out.
The wind howled in her ears, driving the waves that lapped at the bloody rocks she lay upon, sending cold seawater over her body, keeping her conscious. Keeping her in pain. The burns she had suffered from her flaming dress were now felt. Pieces of her skin floated in the sea. Her exposed flesh, burned and charred seared with pain from the salty water.
As she opened her eyes, she saw a shimmer of light flickering above the cliff’s edge. Her pentagram still burned.
A crow fluttered down from the cliffs above and landed on the rocks near her. The blackness of the bird made it hard to see as it cocked its head and looked at the broken body on the rocks. With a quick flutter of its wings, the crow landed on Bessie’s chest.
“No,” Bessie muttered. She coughed blood before she spoke again. “I did what you asked… no!” She spoke to the bird as if somehow it could deliver this message; a message that no longer needed to be relayed because she had failed.
The crow cawed at the sky before pecking out one of Bessie’s eyes and swallowing it whole. Bessie tried to scream but only coughed. Blood speckled the crow’s plumage, tiny beads of dark crimson splattering its feathers and beak. She tried to swat at the crow, but her arm wouldn’t move. As Bessie lay paralyzed on the jutting sea rocks, the crow pecked out her remaining eye as darkness enveloped her. The last thing she felt was cold seawater splashing her face as she heard the crow caw before it lifted itself from her chest and flapped its wings as it took flight.
In the darkness near the sea, a large wave crashed over the rocks and the badly broken body. When the water receded again exposing the rocks, Bessie was gone.
Upon arriving at the cabin with the baby girl in her arms, Sparrow found Henri sitting on a home-made wooden chair. He was sobbing while clutching his newborn son to his body. Sparrow glanced over the room and into Martha’s empty gaze. She knew the cut had been too deep. Martha’s blood had pooled on and under the table. She gathered a clean blanket from the bed, wrapping the baby girl and placing her in the simple wooden cradle that had been set up weeks ago, in anticipation of the baby’s arrival.
Turning her back to him, Henri jumped up when he saw the bone protruding from her shoulder blade.
“You’re injured! Who did this?” He shifted his pain and focused his attention on her. “I need to remove it, Sparrow.”
She turned her head and nodded.
“That woman did, the one that helped deliver the babies...” Her voice trailed off as Henri began to remove the carved bone, shaped like a dagger. Wincing from the pain, Sparrow took a few deep breaths as Henri cleaned the wound and covered it. Once he was done, she walked over to the table and picked up one of the wool blankets that was on the floor nearby. She closed Martha’s eyelids and pulled the blanket over her cold and stiffening body.
“Henri. Give me the boy. He will find comfort with his sister.”
Henri looked up at her, his eyes searching hers for some kind of answer, some sort of comfort. Sparrow knew she could never provide him with the answers he deserved, but she promised herself in that instant that she would never stop trying.
“Please, Henri. I want to help him. I want to help you.” His tears returned as he handed over the newborn to her. He put his hands up to his face, sobbing hard. She carried the boy twin to the bed, where she swaddled him in a blanket, trying to keep him warm. Placing him next to his twin sister in the wooden cradle, both babies cooed at each other as they gazed into their eyes for the first time. A calmness spread over Sparrow that she had not felt in a long time, especially not tonight. She pulled a small wool blanket that was at the foot of the cradle to cover both babies and turned to face Henri.
“I know you are heartbroken. But these babies need you, Henri.”
He raised his head to meet her gaze.
“Do you know why that woman took your child?”
Henri stared beyond her, at the outline of his wife’s body laying cold on their table. He shook his head no.
She thought about what to tell him. He had been through so much already. She did not want to add to his worries and trauma, but she wanted to know if Henri knew why the woman had tried to steal his baby.
“She stole your baby girl, Henri. She ran off with her into the woods. For whatever the reason, she wanted her. I managed to get her back though, and your babies are both safe now.”
Sparrow examined Henri who showed no sign of knowing anything about the mad woman’s motives.
Henri looked at the cradle, where the twins were sleeping peacefully. He turned back to look at Sparrow and asked with a hint of worry in his voice.
“What if she comes back? I don’t know that I can stop her. I don’t know how I can take care of these babies without…” His eyes welled up with tears as he looked towards the table where his dead wife was covered. Sparrow took one of Henri’s large hands in both of hers as she spoke.
“She will not be coming back. That I am certain, Henri.” She stared at him with a serious look. He nodded his understanding.
Henri, clearly in shock, couldn’t take care of the babies in his state. She suggested he go to the nearest neighbour, the one that had come to fetch her with his horse and wagon. She offered to clean up the babies, but most importantly, the pool of blood on and under the table. Henri agreed and stumbled outside, not able to stand the heavy unease of death in his home. The death of his beloved.
It was the next morning before Sparrow notice
d the burn mark on the front of her dress. The darkened patch began at her left breast and reached her shoulder. This burn mark confused her. She couldn’t recall fire having singed anything other than the hem of her dress. What confused her even more was Bessie. The white woman had been performing what looked to be some sort of devil-worshiping ritual and wanted to kill an innocent baby. A baby who was now motherless and with a father who blamed himself for Martha’s death.
When Henri returned home it was almost mid-morning. Although he seemed less in shock than the night before, she knew he had not slept much, if at all. Sparrow wanted to talk to Henri, to try to get a better understanding of why Bessie did what she did. She also feared that she would be blamed, as Bessie was white and she wasn’t.
She also knew that only Henri could ever know the real events of that evening, as she felt he deserved the truth. Henri was in a fragile state, though, and so she knew she had to be careful to not make matters worse.
Henri sat down in the wooden chair and looked at Sparrow.
“Where are they?” he said without expression.
“The babies are sleeping.” Sparrow replied. “Henri, I think we should talk about last night.”
“What is there to talk about? My wife is dead, Sparrow. My babies have no mother.” His voice was flat.
She wondered how much she should tell him about what Bessie had done. She knew he was in a fragile emotional state. She didn’t want to upset him, but she needed to understand why Bessie had tried to kill one of the infants in some sort of ritual. She worried perhaps there was more to this than just Bessie. Worry drove her to speak to Henri about the matter. Hesitant, she approached him where he sat, eyes sullen with dark circles below them.
“I want to know if you know why Bessie would try to take one of the babies.”
“How should I know why? I didn’t even know she took one of them until you told me she had.”
“She was going on and on about having to take her and that someone had told her she had to do it. Do you know who she was talking about, Henri?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know who would say such things to her. All I know is that if that crazy woman or anyone else comes near me or my children again…” Henri’s voice trailed off as he turned his back to her. “Why did I trust her? I trusted her blindly. She brought about evil in my home, and I welcomed her in...” Henri’s voice grew louder.
“Henri, you had no way of knowing what would happen. No way of knowing she would do the things she did!”
“What exactly did she do, Sparrow?” Henri asked.
“Henri, I don’t know that we need to go into the details of what happ—” Sparrow was interrupted by Henri’s booming voice.
“WHAT did she DO?” he demanded.
“She had a symbol, in the ground, and she had set it ablaze. She had put the baby in the center and she was speaking words I’ve never heard before. She seemed to be going mad, or she was possessed by the devil.” Sparrow felt she had told him too much, as she saw Henri’s face turn red and his lips pressed together. He was taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. She tried to change the course of their conversation. Sparrow swallowed hard before her next question.
“Was Bessie ever around Martha before yesterday? Did she perhaps mention anything of the sort while she was here?”
Henri slammed his fist down on the table hard, waking the newborns in their cradle. They began to cry.
“I don’t know, Sparrow! Don’t you understand, I don’t know who Bessie is or why she wanted the babies! I just know Martha is gone and it’s all my fault.”
The babies were crying louder in the small cabin. Their shrill cries intensified as the two spoke, the tension mounting within the walls of the home. “I should never have let her in this house. If only I hadn’t, Martha, my beautiful Martha, would still be here.” His expression turned to anguish, as he continued blaming himself for his wife’s death.
“It’s not your fault, Henri.” Sparrow tried her best but Henri was not hearing her. His thoughts were fixated on blaming himself. Sparrow knew she would not get answers from Henri. If he had known something, anything, he surely would have told her by now. She tried to console him, to explain that it wasn’t his fault.
“I never should have let that insane woman near my Martha. It is all my fault and you can’t say otherwise. It was my job to protect her, to help her. I...failed her.” His voice trailed as his eyes glanced back to the table where his wife had been murdered less than twelve hours earlier. Though the blood was gone, the stains on the table and floor would remain forever, a constant reminder of his loss.
With time, it became less a point of focus, but every once in a while, he would notice the stain and his jaw would harden. No tears would flow, his anger with himself much too strong to allow that to happen.
As the news of Martha’s death and the twins’ birth spread, Sparrow altered the tale she told the locals so they wouldn’t try to blame her. She felt that she owed the truth to Henri, for having failed to save his wife. She was the one who was supposed to be there to help deliver the babies. But the rest of the people of the island would never be completely convinced that Bessie had been the one doing the devil’s work. They would blame her, this she knew. So she had made up a story about Bessie and how she had tried to run for help but that she had stumbled and fallen over the cliff. The island residents believed her story and mourned the loss of Martha as a community.
Sparrow had made sure to leave out the part to both Henri and the islanders about how she thought the island itself had caused the tree to fall and had taken Bessie with it. She also omitted her belief that the island itself had protected the child. This tale she would only tell her own daughter, eventually but this wouldn’t be for a long time yet.
Chapter 5
Lurking in the Darkness
Late June
On her day off from work at the hospital, Miriam sat at the kitchen table peeling potatoes while Bradley and Samantha helped by peeling carrots, turnips, and onions. The kitchen in mid-morning was bright with natural light coming from the large windows and sliding patio doors. This room was always full of life. It was the center of the home’s main activities, be it with meal preparation, eating, homework or playing board games. It was always full of lively discussions and laughter and that was why it was Miriam’s favorite room in their house.
For the first time this summer, Miriam had opened all the windows in the kitchen, as the weather had at last warmed up enough to do so. The three of them peeled, sliced and diced to make scalloped potatoes, stew and shepherd’s pie; meals for the next few days.
Scott had taken three of the more energetic foster kids with him to get haircuts and run errands. Plus he wanted Clay, Peter and Colin to go with him to the library. Scott had promised Samantha he’d get her a few books she wanted, including the next in the Potter series. He had taken the boys in hopes of getting them to read more instead of playing video games all the time. That left the three youngest kids at home along with the two eldest who were helping their foster mom with meal prep.
“Hi, Patrick,” Miriam said as she noticed her smart little boy, walking into the kitchen, his left hand following the wall, as usual. He was abnormally bright for his age. “Did you want to help us prep?” Miriam’s smile was obvious in her voice, the soft tone of her words such a delight to the kids ears. Hearing her talk was almost as nice as the long, loving hugs she often took the time to give to each of them.
“No, mommy. I’m just looking for a puzzle. The one with the animals and trucks and cars.” He approached the table with a slow and steady step. Miriam got up from her chair and looked down at him. She brought her face closer to his. She peered into the large sunglasses and saw her own reflection in them, a funny and distorted image of herself, a bit like the fun mirrors at the carnival.
“I’ll get it for you, sweetie.” Her voice
was soft and this made Patrick smile. Unlike others, his foster mom was very soft-spoken around him. She knew loud voices could sometimes upset him due to his keen sense of hearing. She always made sure to speak with a soft tone with him, and this he appreciated, in his own four-year-old way.
Opening the pantry, she bent down and sorted through a large basket with several puzzle boxes, board games and various decks of cards. Finding what she was searching for, she pulled it out and brought it over to Patrick.
“Here you go, kiddo.” Patrick reached out and with his fingers he found the edge of the puzzle board. He took it in his arms and turned around.
Once he made his way back, Patrick sat in the middle of the living room, still finding comfort behind his large sunglasses. He placed the large wooden toy puzzle board down in front of him. The board had various shapes cut out where puzzle pieces fit, pieces that had shapes of animals and things with Braille words written on each piece. Patrick took a piece from the pile, felt its shape and proceeded to feel the board to find its place.
His twin sister Lily stood at the window sill, playing with a dismembered Barbie doll. The doll’s arms and legs were scattered on the sill while Lily tried to comb the doll’s matted hair. Gavin played on the couch. His toy dump truck and toy loader were busy moving pretend gravel. He mimicked scooping it up with the loader, dumping it into the truck and moving it from one side to the other all while making his best impression of the roar of engines.
Lily put her small hand to the window pane as she looked outside, watching the man on the roof on the house across the street. The house had been empty for months. The last occupants, an elderly couple, had only lived there for three weeks when poor old Mr. Ketchum died of a sudden heart attack. A week after that, his wife, Mrs. Ketchum had a stroke. The house had been for sale since. Today there was someone working on redoing the roof. Lily, only four years old, didn’t quite understand all that. What she did remember was watching the ambulance take Mr. Ketchum on a stretcher. That had been an exciting day. She also remembered the day Mrs. Ketchum ran outside. She had burst through the front door while Lily stood at the same exact spot she did now, watching and smiling. Mrs. Ketchum had run as fast as her old arthritic-filled legs had allowed her. She had stopped midway on the sidewalk, only to spin around and stare at the two story house. Lily remembered watching for a moment before Mrs. Ketchum slowly fell on her side. She lay in the grass for a long time as Lily watched. Eventually Scott had come to see what had Lily so wrapped up, but it had been too late. Mrs. Ketchum had suffered a stroke and was pronounced dead by the paramedics upon their arrival.
The Awakening Page 5
