Author's Torment

by Thomas Atwood

  Search teams were organized, and the people of Pike banded together for a stranger that only I was able to get to know well. But we were a close knit group, and even though I had been distant for a long time, that didn’t matter. We searched for hours before anything came up.

  When they found your body near the property, I wish I could say I was surprised. But somehow, I already knew. I did tell them about your uncle and mother and the altercations you had with them. They promised they would check out every lead but refused to tell me any more information.

  They searched my home, my car, and upturned my life. I welcomed them to search; I wanted answers as much as anyone else, and the sooner they stopped worrying about me, the faster they could get on with searching for your killer.

  I was so torn about your death that I didn't even drink. I couldn't understand why this happened, and I didn't want to be on this earth anymore without you. It was Sheriff Halstead that put me in a mental health ward.

  I'd known he was a father figure when I was younger, but I didn't understand how much he cared until then. It was my therapist that told me to write this letter, but I don't know that it actually helps me feel any better about your death.

  And now that I’m here, no one will tell me anything about the investigation or what they know. They say it might affect my improvement and that I need to concentrate on helping myself. I know I could check out of this place and go back, but I promised you in my heart that I would stay because you would want me to improve myself, to be the best version of who I can be, even if it hurts.

  So I wrote this letter. I know you’re dead, but sometimes I find myself wondering what we would be doing if you were here still. If we would have moved in together, if we would be happy. I like to think that we would be, because together I felt like we could do anything.

  So much happened in such a short time. We'd met in jail but we'd found a way to see beyond all the interior scars and be part of each other's worlds, if for only a short time. I don't know if I'll ever make it out of this one. Recovery is not something I was ever very good with, and I found myself using you to help me dig myself out of my black hole.

  Now you're gone, and I feel like I am too. I will always love you, even if I didn't get to for very long. I never told you, but it doesn't mean I don't feel that harsh regret now. Maybe someday, we will see one another again.

  Sincerely,

  Me

  A Second Life for Lady Jane

  J.E. Feldman

  Normally an author of fantasy and horror, J.E. Feldman presents a charming historical fiction romance set in England, with a twist. Originally a trunked story of ten years, she breathed life into this short story and readily accomplished dipping her hands into the ink of a new genre.

  February 11th, 1554

  I didn’t crave to be queen, but I was prepared for it. To have such a situation ripped from your hands as you’re tossed into a hole to rot would make any sensible person furious and terrified. If they could be rid of me so easily, was nowhere safe? My husband, Guilford, is imprisoned here at the Tower of London with me. I don’t get to see him since they expect further conspiracies against their new Queen Mary. It’s difficult on a marriage of only a year’s length, even though it was arranged. My last request has been made known to the guards here at the Tower, as well as to Mary. A final night of comfort in my husband’s bed is all I ask before they execute the both of us. I hear their footsteps as they come to summon me there now. Oh, how has my life come to this?

  February 12th, 1554

  The guards must have drugged me into submission for the execution today. My eyes are open, but all I see is darkness. I try to move and am constricted. Maybe I am already dead and this is Hell. But that can’t be the case because there is noise consisting of voices around me. Those could very well be other lost souls, but over the voices are the cries of seagulls and the clacking of horses’ hooves across cobbled streets. Hell sounds too much like the edge of the River Thames.

  Quite abruptly, my dark world shifts, and I hear a male voice utter a verbal curse before I straighten out again. Pure terror pumps into my body as my mind jumps back and forth between conclusions. Were they carrying me in a coffin and planned to drop me in the river to drown? I had always thought my death would be a more public one with Mary as queen. Did they expect to toss me in so the crowds could watch me flail around in the water until I was too tired to carry on? That would be sooner rather than later since I had not the slightest idea of how to swim. Not many sixteen-year-olds are willing to admit that fact, but I am going to die today.

  I winced as my prison was dropped onto a hard surface and the footsteps faded away. I wanted to call out for help, but honestly, I was too petrified to draw any attention to myself. Footsteps approached and receded with various thumps in between for ages before disappearing altogether. I must have fallen asleep at some point because I was woken by someone patting my face with a cool rag. Gasping, I quickly sat up and tried to back away, but the crate I had been concealed in stopped my progress.

  “My lady,” a bearded man exclaimed softly, tossing the damp rag aside. His green eyes flooded with relief as he looked over me.

  “Who are you?” I demanded while observing our surroundings. We appeared to be in the cargo hold of a large ship.

  “Marcus Browne, my lady. We have to leave here and get to the upper decks before anyone comes. First, you must change.”

  That was the moment I realized I was only wearing my undergarments, and those were plastered to me from sweat for being in the crate so long. I am sure my cheeks turned crimson as I climbed out and pulled the burlap peasant dress over my head. Mr. Browne ushered me up the stairs and through what felt like a maze until we reached the ship’s kitchen. My stomach growled, anxious about the prospect of food as Mr. Browne stirred something in a large cauldron over a small fire.

  “You are the ship’s cook?”

  “I am indeed. It’s an honest living, albeit dangerous at times.”

  “Have you ever run across pirates?” Here I was talking about pirates when I should have been asking what I was really thinking. Where was this ship going and what would my life be like when it arrived there?

  “Not on this ship, but on my last one. Only a handful of our crew survived the incident.”

  There was an awkward silence for a moment as I stared ravenously at all the fruit and vegetables around us that would perish in a few days’ time. He handed me a beautiful red apple and a good slice of bread before turning his attention back to the cauldron. I couldn’t help but devour both offerings, but once my appetite was sated, my mind returned to the situation directly at hand.

  “Where does this ship go?”

  “To the Americas, my lady.”

  My mouth dropped open in alarm. “America? Why to America? I could have been safe in Spain!”

  “Perhaps you should read the letter before we continue our conversation,” he declared, pulling the folded papers from a shirt pocket.

  “Letter from whom?”

  He shook his head as he placed it in my shaking hands. “I was told to deliver it but not to read it.”

  It mattered little. I recognized the handwriting the moment I opened it, but my eyes still flashed down to the royal stamp at the bottom. My heartbeat quickened as I read:

  For the eyes of the traitor Jane Grey,

  You begged to return home after all the crimes you have

  committed. I understand you are only a child of sixteen and

  had little to no part in the planning of this heinous act.

  You can never return home, and even now, the world

  believes you to be dead. I have no intention of sparing

  Duke Grey or Duke Bradley, they being dead at the time

  of you reading this.

  I have seen to it that you have a husband to protect you

  along your journey. His name is Marcus Browne, and he

  holds your marriage contract.

  Do
not return to England. Do not try to usurp my rule

  again, for you will most certainly be executed, child or not.

  Her Royal Highness,

  Queen Mary 1 of England

  I reread the letter multiple times to ensure I had read it correctly. Mary, of all people, was the one who made my escape possible. The ship’s cook was my new husband, and we were to start a new life in America. She had only spared me because she considered me to be a child. It was becoming too much for me to take in.

  “I need to lie down.”

  “Of course, my lady.” He immediately led me to a small room with a single bed not far from the kitchen. “I know it is not what you are used to, but it is all we have.”

  It did not escape my notice that he had said ‘we,’ but I remained calm as I thanked him. The moment the door shut behind him, my emotions poured out like a massive waterfall. Soon, my eyes and cheeks were swollen and I was in dire need of sleep. I did not die today, but I may as well have.

  February 19th, 1554

  My first week on this ship has not been easy in the slightest. I would go as far as to label it Hell as I constantly look helplessly at my bright red, blistered hands in between washing dishes and mending clothes. The work is never-ending so there is no time for my hands to recover, and it doesn’t help that at night, the men insist I play stringed instruments for their entertainment after dinner. It appears Mary knew exactly what she was doing by sending me to the Americas. I am currently no better than a slave aboard the ship carrying me far from my motherland. Perhaps death would have been fairer in my case.

  Thus far, Mr. Browne has been very kind to me. He has insisted that we shall not consummate the marriage until I have fallen in love with him. He is such a romantic in a world full of cruel men. Or perhaps he is trying to make the best of the situation as I am. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love him, but he is good company when compared to the other men of my acquaintance.

  March 5th, 1554

  There must be different levels of Hell because so far in my life, nothing is worse than this storm in the middle of the endless ocean. The heavy winds turn the torrential rain into a fierce weapon against everyone outside on the deck. Even where I am huddled in terror in our bedroom, the water has still found a way in. Marcus saw to it that I was bundled up in the bedsheets to stay warm and safe, but I feel anything but safe. My whole world is being tossed around as the ship moans under the pressure of the crashing waves. I bit back a startled squeal when the bed lurched around the small room again, knocking against all four of the walls. My stomach churned with it, and I did my best not to vomit. My best was far from good enough.

  The storm continued on even though a few hours had surely passed. Marcus fought his way to come check on me and the supplies. A large bruise was beginning to form on the left side of his face, but he wouldn’t allow me to fuss over him.

  “There is no time,” he insisted, shuffling around looking for our medicinal box in the few inches of water.

  “There it is,” I gasped out, pointing into the far corner while I tried to brace the moving bed so it would not crush him. “How does the crew fair?”

  “Not good. Do you have any healing experience?”

  “Not very much, but I know how to stitch a wound if need be.”

  “A couple of the men need it. You can handle the sight of blood?” he questioned as I unwrapped myself from the bedsheets.

  “Of course.”

  He guided me through the corridors as we constantly lost our balance while sloshing through the few inches of water covering the floor. By the time we reached the deck, my shoulders were unpleasantly bruised and aching. We stood in the protection of the last doorframe as my eyes feasted on the horrible display before us. I could hardly see the crew through the sheet of torrential rain that swayed in whichever direction the wind commanded it. The ship was struggling to stay afloat as wave after massive wave tossed it to and fro in a seemingly never-ending cycle.

  It was not hard to sense my fear as Marcus firmly tied the extension of a rope from his waist around mine and showed where it attached to the ship back inside the corridor. He spoke with hand motions because the noise of the waves and rain against the wood was far too loud to be trifled with. Without further delay, he led the way out onto the deck. If it were not for the rope connection, I would have fallen countless times before we reached the mast.

  Two of the crew were tied securely to the towering structure, and it soon became apparent why. One had a blood-soaked tunic while the other hosted a torn leg. I lowered my head to escape the rain long enough to take a few deep, steadying breaths while Marcus pulled out what we needed from the medicinal box. We worked on the leg first, certain that if we could not at least save the leg, the crew member would be able to live with it severed. The prior looked more serious and could already be too far gone. It was a hard, but necessary, decision to make as the storm raged on around us.

  By the time his leg was successfully wrapped up, I had already begun to shake from being soaked to the bone. The water was icy, and the wind whipped it into every nook and cranny possible, trying everything to sink our ship. Marcus noticed and secured the bandaged man to us so we could begin the harrowing walk back into the belly of the ship. We never made it that far.

  The ship jolted and abruptly came to a halt with a sickening crunch, throwing all of us down onto the deck. With a resounding crack, the mast snapped and began its downward descent in slow motion as crew members tried to throw themselves out of the way of the canvas and wood. My scream of terror was lost in the crack of thunder that we could feel vibrate through our bodies. The ship was now irreparable. We were all going to die.

  March 6th, 1554

  The dawn brought the end of the storm and light to our present situation. The lowest areas of the ship were flooded with water, but most of the supplies were salvageable. The ship was beached on an island that no one had been able to see in the chaos from the storm. Luckily, it was already providing us with fresh fruit and water while the crew saw to fixing the ship. The captain assured all of his passengers that it was repairable and we would be back on our way to the Americas in a short time. I was not reassured, and after speaking to Marcus, I realized we would be unable to leave the island for an estimated two weeks.

  Two weeks on a deserted island with limited supplies. It was every seafarer’s worst nightmare. The captain sent a few crew members to scout the rest of the island while we made a makeshift camp using trees near the water’s edge. Another storm could sink the ship further and the sandy beach would be turned into a muddy river. With this in mind, the men built shelters several feet inside the protective tree line.

  Being the ship cook, Marcus and I went with two passengers who claimed to be hunters and their two servants. Should we come across any animals, they would have a greater chance of catching them. We were in the forest for a couple hours and were successful in coming back with enough food to be portioned out for two or three days. The two hunters killed a wild boar, and Marcus made a hearty stew from part of the meat. It was gloriously delicious after everything we had been through. In our small, makeshift shelter, Marcus and I slept well that night with the knowledge that the next day had to be better than the last.

  March 7th, 1554

  We were wrong about the following day, as we have been wrong since the beginning of this journey it seems. More and more, I wish that Mary had decided to not spare my life. Only then would I not be shipwrecked on a lost island with unholy creatures who are determined to ruin what little salvation we have discovered. I have never heard of nor seen these winged beasts before, but several of the passengers have heard tales of them from their travels. None of the tales are of any comfort. We huddled around the shared bonfire in the early hours before dawn. When the creatures had made an appearance during the night, everyone was too surprised and terrified to continue sleeping. It was a good coincidence since several of the creatures tried to take away one of the passengers on
the farthest outskirts of our group. Nowhere was safe, but we were hoping the sunlight would drive them away.

  Thankfully, the sunlight drove the creatures away. I refused to cling to Marcus like a scared puppy so I ensured I did my part for our group. I went with a small group to gather firewood while Marcus helped the men build a one-roomed shack. By midday, the shell of the shack was built and the roof woven with stacked palm fronds was partially done. As everyone began to settle down since the heat from the sun slowed us down, Marcus and I created the stew to be served at dinner.

  “Are you afraid?” Marcus whispered.

  I could not help but let out a laugh. “Afraid? Every moment since Mary decided to claim her right to the crown, I have been afraid. These faerie creatures are far from the tip of the iceberg, I am sure.”

  “I had not realized,” he muttered, stirring the stew as I dropped what seasoning we had salvaged from the wreck into it. “You seem to be handling it well.”

  “What is the alternative?”

  We sat in silence until the stew was passed out a couple of hours later. By then, the roof to the shack was completed. Just in time because there was another storm on the horizon and quickly approaching our little island. The captain went over some survival techniques with us as we all crowded into the shack.

  “Never go anywhere alone. Stay within view of the shack. Do not step outside after dark, at all costs.” His voice continued to drone on as the temperature around us dropped and my eyes forcefully closed.

  March 8th, 1554

  I abruptly woke to screams. No light filtered in through the small cracks between the planks besides the occasional flash of lightning. I immediately concluded that it was once again the middle of the night and the faerie creatures were attacking again. A wall to the shack collapsed just as Marcus grasped my hand. My mouth dropped open in horror at the black eight-foot figure with skin-covered wings dripping with the pouring rain. Marcus sprang into action and dragged me out of the way toward the shack door as the creature grabbed at one of the crew members. Judging by the piercing screams the man was letting out, the creature had him. Marcus shouldered open the shack door and dragged me out into the night without a glance back.