by Shawn Mackey
The seeds of my evil have borne fruit. Alas, it is I, and I alone, who enjoys the taste.
Entry 11
It has been several more days since the last entry. I must admit, I lost count after the second, meaning it has been four or five. It is easy to misplace time in despair. After a another brief sickness, morning vomiting and waning appetite, I will now officially concede that I am with child.
When Janice made her announcement a few days ago, a thought sprung into my mind like a premonition: “I am pregnant, too.” Then came the sickness, and the realization that I had not bled for some time. I discussed it with Mother before visiting a doctor for official confirmation. I told Aiden, then my uncle and Father, but no one else must know. In due time, of course, though I refuse to make a public display like Janice.
I have never seen Aiden so cheerful, and he is rarely absent of such. He hopes for a son whose name will be Logan. I cannot decide on a female name. It should be a male, since that would please Aiden the most. The child is for him. It is a gift only I can provide, a product of our union. It will take many years to take the proper shape, but I have many to spare.
Yet there is a lingering regret, a droplet of despair that weighs far heavier than the sum of my happiness. A pessimistic idea that wears the veil of truth: this will not end well. It is a disguised truth, but seizes the senses like a chilly rain. To bear the coming months, I must rest and continue to teach my students. For the foreseeable future, it is all I have left.
This is where we part ways, my cherished friend. If I burn these pages in a foul mood, do not curse me in your fiery pains, for I will live that moment on in regret. I must resist the temptation of solitude. Isolation will lead to rash decisions, such as the burning of this very page.
I will return, sooner than later. Perhaps tomorrow. I am a whimsical idiot, whose word should not be taken under any circumstance, especially one so strenuous. Life is sprouting in my womb. That is something like a miracle! I should take the coming days to rejoice in nature’s ways, embrace the potential of a single life on the many. My child will be a boon to this community. I will dedicate every moment to assuaging his pains, magnifying his joys, and protecting him from the toils of life. When my hair goes gray and my skin wrinkles, he will look at his mother and
Entry 12
I apologize for abruptly ending the last entry. It is very rude to start a thought and leave it unfinished, knowing my every word is your sustenance. It will not happen again.
Rather than listen to Aiden prattle on about the pains of his labor, I diverted the conversation by asking him about the actual woods. It halted his belly aching, and for a moment, he sat at the kitchen table, chin in hand, pondering my inquiry. Finding his pathetic attempt at reflection equally irritating, I told him to start with the trees. He went on about an oak tree that was at least one hundred feet tall and the failed attempt to climb it. From the top, one could see the entire island, according to his friend Dalton, which would satisfy no purpose other than an aesthetically pleasing view.
In my youth, I was quite the tree climber. The oak at the edge of our property towered over a hill, providing a picturesque glimpse of the green plains below. I imagined the sight similar to a bird’s eye view of our island, a vast sea of shimmering treetops, especially beautiful at the height of autumn. The red and yellow leaves were due to shed soon, the shade of winter increasing the urgency to map out the remaining wilderness.
The eastern map was completed, a trivial accomplishment considering most of the older townsfolk could traverse it with their eyes closed. The western side was uncharted territory, unfamiliar to all but the mayor, Paul, Luther, and Benjamin. With two dead and another afflicted by mind rot, only Arthur had experienced the area more than once. He claimed it no different than the east, only a rocky cliff instead of a beach. Luther had mentioned the prospect of coal mining, perhaps gold, though that was most likely a jest. The others were eager to explore, the grisly death of Benji a dim memory to all but his father, who had no choice but to relent to their wishes.
Aiden went on about hawks and his eagerness to kill one. For what purpose, I asked. He gave me a hard glare, opened his mouth to respond, but only shook his head. No one would doubt his ability to shoot it mid-air. I suppose he is hungry for more praise. Though we have a surplus of food, no doubt Aiden will lead the hunt for a few extra fowl. The fat boar he returned with the other night was succulent, so who am I to complain about his bloodthirst?
He promised to take me to a glade near the brook they found that night. It was peaceful, he remarked in a tone too mawkish for even my tastes. I look forward to it, being an equally sentimental twit. Better than the ugly bayou back home, with its mosquitoes and frogs. Perhaps a day at the creek will wipe away the memory of that putrid pool of pestilence that claimed the life of a childhood friend, where a dip in its freezing waters was more likely to cause malaria than a cold.
That is my second reference to home in a single night. Awful memories dredged up by a frivolous conversation. I wanted to tell Aiden about the corpse floating in the still waters, the perfect reflection it cast of her house in flames. The image was so fresh in my mind, begging to be put into words. I could bury the rest, but the incident feels like yesterday. Since it happened the day before sailing to the island, the feeling is justified, but hinting at it would violate the community’s primary law. It must be confined to these pages.
I peered over the desk to find any evidence of tampering. The mayor knew about my writings, but was it a matter of an inky thumb? With my family, I wrote near the window. My uncle must have seen me on more than one occasion. No doubt he shared the discovery with the mayor. I see no signs of prying, but my uncle is no fool, nor does he take me for one. He would take the utmost care in covering his tracks.
If my paranoia seems laughable, know that the mere implications of this passage are enough to get me killed. Divulging specific details will harm my family. As I write these words, I feel the resentment building, and with it, a different perspective emerges from my mind. This town did not sprout from the ideals of a romantic soul. It is a community for exiles, criminals of the worst sort, and none guiltier than my father.
Enough of the vagaries. I will spill my guts on these pages tomorrow. Evading the truth with fellow outcasts will become bearable in time, but I will not hide it from myself, else it manifest as something ugly.
Entry 13
All my doubts from last night have been shattered by an incident recently explained by Aiden. To hell with anyone prying into my business. I will make myself clear on the first page: reading these pages will result in death, caused by a curse, written in my own blood.
Allow me to linger on the subject of blood. Plenty was shed today. Not mortally, but brutal enough, judging by Aiden’s swollen face. The poor sap believes the beating was justified, that those cretins were within their right to assault him. All on behalf of my father. That melts away another doubt: I certainly married the right man.
No one has been clear on the precise reason for the violent quarrel. Finney was stirring up something fierce, according to one of the witnesses. Words were exchanged between him and my father, far more direct than the usual passive insults. Finney hates Father with such a passion it’s amazing it took so long to escalate. After all, Finney served in the war longer than any of the other residents, only to find himself on the losing side. A real patriot, no one will deny, and though unsatisfied with the current ruling class, content knowing his home was at peace. That is, until my father assassinated a man of immense notoriety, rekindling the whole affair. Father always feared for his life, and now he has good reason to watch his back.
This summary is vague enough to keep my head on my shoulders. It is not an understatement to dub my father “the world’s evilest man” or at the very least “the world’s most hated man.” Those two are interchangeable among the rabble. And who can blame their vehemence? A hero was killed by a cowardly man, in a disgraceful manner. His follo
wers hunted the assassin all the way to his den, eager to inflict numerous torments.
Yes, it is best to start with the first time someone was injured on behalf of my father.
It had been a good day, as far as weather was concerned. Winter’s chill finally faded, the first signs of spring were in the air. I was enjoying a stroll through the backyard premises with my old dog, Argos, named after the faithful hound of Odysseus. The collie was partially blind, unable to see anything unless wagged in his face. Nonetheless, he knew the grounds well, the ideal companion for a short walk. At the house, he never did any more than lounge around his water bowl, but in the yard, he trotted around like a young pup.
But until that day, he almost never barked. Whether from laziness in his waning years or the unwillingness to disturb others with his howl, Argo had been practically mute in the second half of his life. That day, he was in an uncontrollable stupor, yipping and yapping at the trees. I suspected an animal of some sort, something dangerous, and attempted to reel him in. Over his barking, I heard the clattering of horses.
A rider leapt over the bushes like the apparition of a spectral huntsman, right out into the open. Another followed shortly, unchecking his speed, headed straight for Argos. The horse’s hooves smashed into the poor dog, hurtling the collie into the air with a high-pitched yelp. Argos slammed into the ground, and after a spasm, went completely still.
I rushed to his side, quickly joined by the two horsemen, one of which offered an apology. In retrospect, it was utterly insincere. Argos’s eyes darted back in forth, his tail occasionally twitching. Blood poured from his wet nose, his tongue red as a raspberry. Without warning, one of the men aimed his rifle at my dog’s head. I managed to turn before he pulled the trigger. These men were clearly scoundrels, despite their fancy attire. However, they gave me no reason to flee. The head start may have changed the night’s outcome.
The killer holstered his rifle and tipped his hat, apologizing for splattering blood on my dress. As I looked for the stain, the other rider let out an obnoxious chuckle. In a rush of anger, I had no idea how to harangue them. In truth, I was quite afraid. It was an unfortunate accident, and no amount of scolding would elicit sincerity. Instead, I chose to turn and head home. When the bastards weaved in front of me, insisting I stay and that they were friends of my father, I knew there was trouble. He was gone, I told them, attempting to walk past them. One grabbed my arm, and I instantly screamed.
They found my shrieking and thrashing humorous until I clawed one’s face. With a blow to the head, I was sent to the ground, and within seconds, bound by the wrists. Their laughter renewed as they tied my ankles to the horse’s saddle. It was a short ride home, and I cannot fully recall being dragged through the grass, crying the whole way. My dress was thoroughly torn, the rest ripped to pieces before being untied. By the time one of the men heaved me over his shoulder, I lost every shred of clothing.
The door was kicked in and I was tossed onto the floor like a heavy sack. The fall broke my arm, its pain partially blotting out the upcoming events. They called out for my father, but were greeted by my angry mother. She saw me, and before she could even speak, both rifle barrels were pointed at her head.
We waited for my father to return. Through a few exchanged words, I discovered the man holding me hostage was named Richard and the man holding my mother was named Henry. Richard had killed Argos and Henry had broken my arm. Both went on and on about how they were going to rape me when my father returned. If not for the excruciating pain, I would have had words for them.
The instant my father walked through the door, Richard turned and shot him through the leg. As he reloaded the musket, Henry shot for his other leg and missed by a few inches, claiming to be aiming for his pecker. Mother was screaming and Father was writhing in blood, begging the men to spare us. They would, Richard said, after having their way with Mother and me for a few hours. Father noticed I was totally nude and broke into pathetic sobs. Henry pressed the gun barrel against his head as Richard pulled down his trousers.
I kicked at the bastard’s hairy cock, which only seemed to engorge it, a detail Henry pointed out with peals of laughter. After a good amount of thrashing, he seized my ankle and pinned down my other leg with his knee. Their humor shifted into quiet lust as the cockhead neared my crotch. It pressed against the lips, and as I reeled my hips back to avoid penetration, a harpy-like shriek rang out, followed by a rifle shot. Richard immediately released me, attempting to grab hold of my mother. She lunged forward, her throat caught by Richard’s hands. Before he could squeeze, she plunged a sewing needle deep into the side of his neck.
Instead of reloading, Henry attacked my mother with a pocket knife. He managed to stick her once in the stomach before my father hurled his shoulder into the man’s knees. They wrestled around on the floor, while I continued to kick at Richard’s bleeding neck so hard that I sliced the sole of my foot on the sewing needle.
Henry and my father managed to raise themselves, the former fully intent on finishing off my mother and the latter reaching for the rifle. Next thing I remember was Father balancing on one leg, repeatedly bringing the butt of the rifle onto Henry’s face. Mother was shrieking as loud as before, clutching at her eye.
We survived at a hefty cost: Mother lost an eye, Father lost the last of his pride. If a surgeon did not live less than a mile away, we would have lost much more. My arm had healed before our arrival on the island, as had my mother’s wounds. From then on, she sported an eye patch due to a “hunting accident.”
Quite a miracle to have arrived here intact. After all that brutality, today’s incident seems like child’s play, though Aiden would say otherwise. I suppose it was his way of being officially initiated into the family.
It started as a simple exchange of punches: Aiden striking Finney in the stomach, followed by Finney hitting Aiden in the chin. Next, they were both on grappling on the ground. My uncle was the first to intervene, receiving an elbow to the cheek for his efforts. Three others joined, managing to pry them apart. The grip around Aiden went lax, and he punched Finney in the mouth so hard it broke his front teeth. He was then tossed to the ground and kicked by seven men, one of them being Finney. The thrashing lasted a good minute before cooler heads prevailed.
Aiden’s worst injury is the deep slice down his knuckle, nearly down to the bone. He was stitched up by his friend Casey, one of the men that tried to hold him back. Casey confessed to getting a single kick during the fray and would have went in for more if he knew he would not be the one in charge of patching him up later. Most of the men apologized to Aiden while he was being stitched up. Tensions were high and noses were bound to get bloodied. My father’s cowardice was inexcusable, and from henceforth, I refuse to speak with Finney under any circumstances. Not even to mock the gap in his gums.
The two of us were on decent terms for an obvious reason. I was a pretty girl. He openly loathed my father and eyed my mother with nothing but disdain, while I was regarded with smiles and nods. Attractive woman were on short supply, a fact that transcended all politics, even for one as adamant as Finney. I suppose he has to hate my father by proxy. With politics, you have moderates and extremists, and then you have men like my father. Though he falls somewhere in between, his actions are the stuff of political nightmare.
And so, I related the events as promised, along with today’s. Two birds with one stone, tied nicely if I may say so. I can breathe a bit easier and sleep a bit sounder with that heavy burden off my chest. From here on, no more talk of the past. The present is wearisome enough. In the morning, I have a pack of meddlesome children to tame.
Until tomorrow, my most cherished friend.
Entry 14
Many days have passed since my last entry, and all my aches and pains seem trivial in comparison to the present. Our predicament started with an earthquake. I am far from an expert in seismic disasters, and taking into account my predilection toward the dramatic, calling the event a catastrophe may seem l
ike a hyperbole. The tremor certainly felt apocalyptic. Though it resulted in two deaths and one injury, I suppose it was relatively mild. Another one of nature’s hiccups.
Every house was affected in some way, whether a broken vase or a cracked wall. The stag’s head landed on my nightstand and split it in half. A few inches to the right and those horns would have pierced my bed. The hearth is full of soot and loose bricks, and other than a few cracks here and there, our house is fine. All but one case has similar damage.
Dalton’s house crumbled like a flimsy imitation crafted by cards. His wife, Bessy, died from the initial collapse. Poor Dalton did not recover from the sight of her sunken skull, nor his wound. He succumbed to internal bleeding while babbling about his irreconcilable loss. Aiden is shook up by the loss of his friend and cannot get over his last few hours of suffering. Why did he not die with Bessy? Just as the stag’s horn scarcely missed our bed, the cruelty of chance would not let him leave this life without a taste of misery.
A heavy branch smacked a man (whose name I cannot recall) in the head hard enough to slice his scalp. He is stitched and bedridden, but will live. Some other may have suffered cuts and bruises. I got a splinter when moving the broken nightstand outside. An irritating affliction indeed.
The strangest was yet to come, not to trivialize the two deaths and my aching thumb. An odd smell has pervaded the air. It could be described as pleasant, if not for the unaccountable origin. My uncle claims it is some sort of subterranean gas leaked during the earthquake. The sweet scent is more like the fragrance of distilled rosewater than noxious miasma. It is an elixir for the senses, yet I cannot shake the dread it instills on the others. I would rather it disappear. Nothing from the hidden crevices can be good for your health.
