The Seventh Miss Hatfield

by Anna Caltabiano

  ‘Good, you’re awake!’ Miss Hatfield emerged unexpectedly from the floor through an old wooden trapdoor she’d pushed open with one hand while balancing a tea tray in the other. Her heels thumped against the wooden floorboards and made them creak in protest. ‘Here you are, English breakfast,’ she said, pouring tea into a cup decorated with flowers that resembled those on the peeling wallpaper.

  I couldn’t take the cup from her. Not after what had happened last night. The events of the evening had mostly become a blur, but the shock of finding myself in a different body with someone else’s face still haunted me.

  Miss Hatfield smiled what she probably thought was a sympathetic smile, but it didn’t work on me. I remembered that she was the one accountable for all this.

  ‘Take the tea,’ she said. ‘I didn’t tamper with it. Besides, you’ll need the caffeine. You slept rather fitfully.’

  I was tempted to remind her that it wasn’t every day that a stranger puts something into your drink that turns you into someone else.

  ‘I can’t trust you.’

  ‘And with good reason,’ she agreed. ‘But remember, I’ve never lied to you.’

  ‘You never told me the whole truth, either.’

  She went mute at that, but after a moment of silence, she responded, ‘Would you like me to start now?’

  I wondered what kind of question that was. Of course I wanted to know the truth about what was going on and what all this had to do with me. I nodded, curious but still untrusting.

  ‘Have you ever heard of Juan Ponce de León?’ she asked me.

  ‘The man who discovered Florida?’

  ‘Yes. On 27 March 1513, Juan Ponce de León had his first glimpse of Florida …’ I didn’t understand why Miss Hatfield was giving me what sounded like a dull history lesson, but she shot me a look that silenced the words that were about to spill out of my mouth. ‘On 2 April, he landed and took possession—’

  ‘Why do I need to know this?’ I blurted out, risking her anger in my frustration. ‘It sounds like something from a history book. It has nothing to do with me, or with what you’ve done to me.’

  ‘And if it did, would you listen then?’ It was a puzzling question. How could something that happened in 1513 have anything to do with me?

  ‘Yes,’ I said, reluctantly.

  ‘Then listen,’ she said. ‘While he was there, Ponce de León explored the coast of Florida. He found many islands, one of which he named Islamorada, the purple island. In 1521, Ponce de León returned, this time with two ships, to colonize Florida for the Spanish. But while he and his party were building houses, they were attacked by members of the Calusa tribe. Ponce de León was injured during the battle by an arrow tipped with Manchineel sap, and the Manchineel tree is deadly. It can kill a man in four different ways – by breathing in smoke after a tree has been burned; by eating its fruit, which resembles a small apple; by inhaling the vapours the living tree releases; and by introducing the tree’s sap into the bloodstream. The latter was what ultimately killed Juan Ponce de León. His men frantically tried to find arrowroot, the only known antidote for the poison, but to no avail. Finally his men brought him to Havana, Cuba, in a last-ditch attempt to find a poultice of arrowroot to save him, but Ponce de León died shortly after they arrived there.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with me. You didn’t poison me – you turned me into … this.’ I motioned to my face. Never going home again and never seeing my parents or friends again felt almost like being dead. Dying from the Manchineel tree sounded easier and a lot less painful than what she was putting me through.

  ‘This has everything to do with you – and me – if you’ll just let me finish.’

  I didn’t know what to expect from this story. I had no idea what I should try to take from it, but having no other choice I could see, I agreed to let her continue.

  ‘The story I just told you is the one most people are acquainted with, but it’s only a fragment of the truth.’ Miss Hatfield’s voice became monotone, emotionless, as if she were reciting from an open book in front of her.

  ‘In 1513, when Ponce de León discovered Islamorada, he also found a lake on the island filled with the clearest water he’d ever seen. Wondering if it were fresh, Ponce de León took a sip and was amazed to discover that it was. He invited his friend, Buono de Quexo, to try the water, but fearing the lake wasn’t really fresh, he declined, preferring to stand guard in case the Calusa warriors decided to pay an unexpected visit. Instead, a woman by the name of Juana Ruíz, who had accompanied Ponce de León’s expedition and was the first European woman to set foot in the New World, decided that she wanted to try the water herself. She agreed that it was the sweetest she’d ever tasted. Ponce de León marked the location of the lake on his personal map, in case his men ran out of fresh water. However, it appears he promptly forgot about it for the remainder of his first expedition.

  ‘In 1521, when Ponce de León gathered men to return with him and colonize Florida, he realized that those who had accompanied him on his first voyage had aged gleatly over the course of the last eight years, whereas he received many compliments that he’d hardly changed and still appeared youthful. On his second expedition, one of the men, Francisco de Ortega, brought along his wife, Beatriz Jimenez, and she in turn brought her sister, Juana. While Beatriz had come to the New World to settle down with her husband and escape the tradition and social demands of Spain, her sister Juana had a very different reason for joining the expedition.

  ‘Juana had heard from a friend about a woman with the same name as her who never aged and always had a youthful glow about her. She’d heard stories that this woman’s perpetual youth was a gift of the magical waters of a lake she’d bathed in when she visited Florida. Juana knew it was a risk; there was definitely a strong chance the stories would turn out to be nothing more than that – stories. But it was a risk she was willing to take, for Spain held nothing for her any more. Not since her parents had passed away and her betrothed had married another because Juana couldn’t pay a dowry. In a way, she had nothing to lose. All she had to do was stick close to Juan Ponce de León and find out if he knew anything about this lake.

  ‘There came a day when Juana’s patience and close following were rewarded. Ponce de León had gradually grown to trust her, and one morning he asked her if she would accompany him to a lake he’d found on his previous voyage. She agreed, of course, and as soon as they reached the lake, she dived right in. She swam around for a while, immersing herself in the water, and impatiently waited to feel different. Eventually Ponce de León asked her to help him search for kindling in the forest around the lake area to bring back to camp. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but having come this far, Juana had no intention of getting out of the water just yet. She told him she’d be perfectly fine by herself and that she would wait for him. He tried again to convince her to come with him – the area around the lake was damp and he didn’t know how far he’d have to go to find dry kindling. Ultimately, her stubbornness won out and he left alone, promising to return as soon as he could.

  ‘As far as anyone knows, Juana spent hours floating on her back in the lake. She was still floating when the sun began to cast long shadows into the waters around her. The ripples she made in the water disfigured the shadows until she could no longer identify their shapes. As the water grew still, she peered at her own reflection. It remained unchanged. She was upset – even angry – that she didn’t look any younger. She thought the waters hadn’t worked the way they should have, but she still found herself bottling up some of the lake’s waters.’

  Miss Hatfield stopped speaking.

  ‘And what happened to her?’ I asked. I found myself caught up in the story despite myself, and was beginning to see where the connection to my strange situation came in.

  ‘The story goes that when Ponce de León returned, he didn’t find anyone floating in the lake. He searched the banks and looked all over for her. Just as he was about to head back t
o the camp, believing that she’d left without him, he realized that the small leaf-covered tree trunk he’d just stumbled over was too soft to be merely wood. He crouched in the mud and rolled the object over. It was a body – Juana’s body. Not even the smears of mud on her cheeks could hide her sickly pallor. She had claw marks on her face, as though she’d either scratched herself with her own fingernails or been involved in some sort of struggle. Her cheeks were bloodied and her expression was one of utter horror – the only evidence of the nature of the last thing she saw. No one really knew how she died. Some speculated that she went mad and took her own life, while others swore that the Devil himself was in the forest.

  ‘The physician Ponce de León ran to fetch said that in her grasp was a glass bottle of some sort. He thought the bottle might be a key piece of evidence in the mystery of her death, so he tried to take it from her hand. Though she’d been dead for many hours, her grip was still equal to that of the strongest man. It took three men to prise the vial from her fingers, and when they did, her fingers creaked as they opened, and a sigh escaped from her lips as if she were still alive. After her burial, which was a quick and small affair, the glass bottle went to her closest living relative – her sister Beatriz – who put it on her mantelshelf, where it remained, untouched, until the day she died.’

  ‘And where do I fit into this?’ I asked. ‘You’re still not telling me why you did what you did.’

  Miss Hatfield barely glanced at me before lapsing back into her story. ‘The glass vial was passed down through family members and friends who didn’t know what they held, until in 1608 it reached a certain Rebecca Hatfield.’

  ‘1608?’ My mind froze for a second as all the implications of Miss Hatfield’s sentence unfolded themselves. ‘You were alive in 1608?’

  Miss Hatfield laughed, the corner of her eyes crinkling daintily.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be born for another 224 years.’

  ‘But that’s still—’

  ‘It was just someone with the same name.’ Miss Hatfield paused to collect her thoughts. ‘She was making herself a pot of tea one day when she knocked over the glass bottle. The neck of the bottle hit the opening of the kettle just so, the cork stopping the bottle flew off, and a drop of the water fell into the tea. Poor Rebecca didn’t notice, and promptly re-corked the bottle and set it back onto the shelf above her. She drank the tea without thinking, and it wasn’t until a few months had passed that she realized something was amiss.’

  ‘How did she know?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m glad you’re finally taking an interest in my story.’ A small smile flickered across her face, and she continued, ‘She’d cut her hair sometime after drinking the tea, and though months had passed since then, her hair didn’t appear to be growing any longer. Rebecca had cut her son John’s hair at the same time, and was shocked to realize that her hair had stopped growing, though his had not. When half a year had passed, she knew something was wrong, but she kept her secret to herself. When five years had passed, she saw her husband’s face gain wrinkles and her son’s grow into maturity while her own didn’t change, and she knew she had to do something. She could no longer remain in denial. She thought of talking to the town priest or to her husband, or maybe even to her child, but she knew they wouldn’t believe her. She couldn’t escape what was happening to her and there was no way out. So, one fateful day, she left home and never looked back.

  ‘For years she lived alone in the wild. She learned to fend for herself and keep others at a distance. She lost track of time; the only way she knew one year from another was by the passing seasons and the growth of the trees around her. They protected and sheltered her from the elements as well as from mankind, and for that she was thankful.

  ‘Many days, she dreamed about how it might be to go back home. She knew it wouldn’t be as if she’d never left. She wondered if her son had finally moved out of the house and married a pretty young girl. She wondered if her husband was still blacksmithing, though his once-strong hands might now be stiff and feeble with age. That wondering was like a seed in her mind; once it was planted, it soon occupied her every thought and invaded her dreams.

  ‘Rebecca woke up one night thinking enough was enough. She would only visit the town as a passing stranger and check up on her family. It wouldn’t do any harm. Curiosity gnawed at her bones, and she felt compelled to make the visit.

  ‘The next day she rose early and began the walk to town. By the time she got there, the path’s dust and dirt cloaked her form so entirely that she believed she wouldn’t have to hide her face. She was treated respectfully as a weary traveller, and when she asked for directions was told the way to her own house.

  ‘Though she thought she knew the town as well as she knew her own son, she found the place completely changed; it had morphed into something more. The old buildings had been extended, making them look bigger and grander. The dirt paths were beaten out and smoothed, so as not to trip the children who ran along them. When she arrived at the home the stranger had told her was where the Hatfields lived, it looked nothing like the house she remembered. She thought the stranger was probably mistaken, or possibly had directed her to her son’s house, since his family would also be Hatfields. Just to make sure, she decided to knock on the door for good measure.’

  Miss Hatfield smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, and I found myself growing impatient, wanting her to continue this strange tale. She finally began again. ‘When the door opened, a woman with a baby at her hip peeked her head out and frowned. Rebecca told her she was looking for John, since she believed the woman was probably his wife and might be startled at the sight of such a dusty female traveller knocking on her door for no apparent reason. The woman looked at her in confusion, saying no John lived there. Thinking she had the wrong house, Rebecca then asked her where she might find the Hatfield residence. The woman looked even more confused, and replied that she was Sarah Hatfield and the residence was indeed that house. Rebecca, refusing to believe her, asked to see her husband, who soon came to the door. He introduced himself as Richard Hatfield, and when asked where John was, he too was confused at first. He scratched his head for a moment, until a certain light of recognition dawned in his eyes. “Are you doing some type of family history research, ma’am? My great-grandfather’s name was John.” He clearly thought all of this strange, to say the least, and stared at her, waiting for an answer …

  ‘Rebecca finally realized what must have happened but, needing further proof, she asked Richard, “What year is it, please?”

  ‘ “Why, it’s the year of our Lord 1713, of course,” was his reply. At this, Rebecca was visibly shaken. It’s said she asked him where the nearest river was, and then walked there, all the way muttering, “1713,” to herself.’

  ‘And what happened to her after that?’ I asked.

  ‘She found a rope somewhere on her way to the river. Once she got there, she tied one end of the rope around her waist and the other end around a heavy rock, and then waded into the river with it cradled in her arms. A child from the town saw her do it and ran to get help.’

  ‘And then?’ I couldn’t help myself. I had to know what happened to Rebecca, and why Miss Hatfield was named after her.

  ‘She was never seen again,’ she said. ‘Her body was never found. It probably sank with the rock and never surfaced.’

  ‘And why were you named after her?’

  ‘Named after?’ She smiled. ‘I’ve never thought of it that way.’ She was almost mumbling now. ‘I wasn’t always Rebecca Hatfield. I had a different name, once. I … just don’t remember it.’

  ‘You don’t remember your given name?’ I was astonished that someone could so easily forget something as important as that.

  ‘I used to remember it,’ she said, more to herself than me. ‘I used to whisper it to myself at night, so I wouldn’t forget it. But it appears I finally have.’ Her voice was remorseful and tinged with sadness. I had the strang
est urge to comfort her, but I instinctively knew this was one thing I couldn’t help her with.

  ‘I was born almost one and a half centuries ago, in 1832.’ She’d obviously started her own story now. It was a ridiculous statement, but I had no choice other than to go along with her fantasy for the moment, and besides, it was no stranger than the fact that my appearance had changed completely overnight. ‘My childhood wasn’t perfect, but it was happy enough. My parents were of the upper class, so I didn’t have to worry about my future. It was all laid out for me; I just had to continue living according to their plans.’ She glanced at me and saw that I was now thoroughly drawn into her tale. ‘This isn’t a story. Those were days strung together with a beginning, but no middle or end.’

  ‘How are you still alive now?’ I couldn’t help but ask her.

  ‘It all happened in a few hours,’ she said. ‘A lady was pushing a pram around the same park where I took my morning stroll. I wasn’t alone, of course – it was improper back in those days for a young woman to be in public unaccompanied. My older brother was chaperoning me, but he was talking to an old friend from his university days, and his back was turned.

  ‘I don’t quite know what possessed me, but I said to the woman with the pram, “Excuse me, madam. Your baby looks so adorable. May I hold him?” I’d only glimpsed the dear baby’s face and a lock of his golden hair, but his dimples made me smile and think of my little sister’s dimples when she was that age.

  ‘ “Why, of course.” The woman smiled warmly and reached into the pram. She placed him gently into my arms which suddenly registered the unexpected shock of weightlessness. When I looked down, glassy eyes stared back, and I almost dropped the baby.