The Chronicles of Marr-nia

by Karen Cantwell

  “These dreams of yours!” Flora panted as she trotted closely behind her sister, her blonde locks bouncing. “Why must you have them? Mr. Witherspoon seems to be gentle and kind. Surely you are wrong.”

  “Flora,” Rosabelle corrected, blue eyes flashing. “I have told you before—these are not dreams. They are recollections. Memories of my other lives.”

  “How could you possibly know this?”

  “How do I know the air is free to breathe? How do I know to smile when I see snow fall from the sky or to cry when a baby dies? I just know. I know.”

  “Bah! Other lives. You speak such blasphemy! We live only one life on this Earth, then, God willing, an eternity with Him. How can you think otherwise?” Flora pressed her hand to her bodice. “Dear, my stomach turns. I am feeling ill.”

  “Remember before the war, when Father entertained those importers from Japan? They called themselves Buddhists—they believe we maintain a cycle on Earth of birth, life, death, and then re-birth. It is not an uncommon belief, this idea that we are reborn to new bodies after we die. Much of the world believes the same.”

  “Pagans!” Flora was fanning herself.

  “Flora, you don’t even know what a pagan is,” Rosabelle responded, rolling her eyes. She was easily annoyed by her sister’s fears. Flora did not fare well with anything outside of the ordinary nor expected.

  “Well, I know the people of this town would consider you a witch and have you burned at the stake,” Flora huffed, obviously proud of her foreboding comment.

  “I should hope the day of witch burning is past us, but you speak correctly regarding local sentiment. If word of this got out, I could be shunned or, even worse, put in an asylum for the ill of mind.”

  Flora shook her head. “It scares me so, Rosa.”

  “Listen to me—we keep this secret between us, and no one will suffer. Now tell me,” she said, changing the subject, “when did you meet Mr. Witherspoon?”

  “Last Sunday at church. You would know that if you had been there.”

  “I was there.”

  “Inside God’s house, not outside, contemplating your many wild and sinful lives.”

  Exasperated, Rosabelle heaved a healthy sigh. Flora could be so trying. “Let us stay with the topic at hand, shall we? Who introduced you?”

  “Amelia Patton,” her sister replied. “Eli Witherspoon is her cousin, come to Alexandria to work at her father’s shipping company. He studied at the University of Virginia,” Flora stated with a hint of awe in her voice.

  Rosabelle stopped walking for a moment. “Amelia Patton? Is he living in the Patton home?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  Ignoring Flora’s question, Rosabelle resumed her determined trek. “About my recollection—it began when Mr. Witherspoon touched my hand. I saw two men. Both wore tattered garb made of wool. Their hair was long and unkempt, with some strands in braids; their faces bearded. One man was fair-haired and pale while the other had dark hair and eyes black like onyx. This darker man was tending a field of some sort, but it was on a hill. The fair-haired man rode up on a horse and dismounted. They talked and shook hands. When the dark man turned back to continue his work, the fair man drew a large knife and stabbed him in the back.” Rosabelle shivered with the memory.

  “Rosa, I don’t understand how you connect your dream—your recollection—with Mr. Witherspoon. Are you saying the fair man is Eli Witherspoon?”

  Rosabelle shook her head. “I am not sure. What I do know is this: every time I have a recollection, the person who touched me is involved in an incident almost identical to the recollection.”

  The strange episodes began nearly a year earlier, just after their mother passed on. Since their father had died before her while fighting for the South, they had become orphans of sorts, even though Rosabelle was twenty and Flora, eighteen. Without husbands to care for them, they were forced to move from Norfolk to Alexandria to live with their Aunt Martha and Uncle Ephraim. Even though Martha and Ephraim Raines had been warm and inviting in every way possible, losing both of their parents and leaving the only home they had ever known proved tragically painful for both girls. It was during that emotional time that Rosabelle experienced her first recollection.

  They always occurred in the same way. A person would touch her, by way of introduction, possibly, or just in passing. At that moment, Rosabelle would find herself in another world, watching a scene unfold before her. When Mrs. Kincaid put her hands on Rosabelle’s shoulder during a quilting party, for example, she had seen a woman drown in the middle of the sea while a ship went down in flames nearby. Later that day, Mrs. Kincaid drowned in the Potomac when she slipped off a pier and was swept away by the heavy current.

  Each time Rosabelle had a recollection, she would relay the story to Flora with amazing detail. Within a day’s time, a similar event would always occur, and always involving the person who had touched Rosabelle, initiating the memory.

  The latest recollection involved four-year-old Edwin Hutchins. Rosabelle had agreed to care for him while his mother walked to market for some fish. Full of a little boy’s energy, his blond curls bounced when he bounced. He took Rosabelle’s hand with his own chubby little fingers and smiled up at her. Immediately Rosabelle was beneath a tree dressed in the most exquisite finery, mounted on a spectacular steed. An armored man rode past her, but she paid little attention to him. Instead she was calling a name. William. She was calling and calling, and she felt fear. Then a young boy’s voice rang out. It came from above her. She looked into the tree. In its highest branches was a beautiful boy with red hair and blue eyes who smiled down at her. He moved as if to make his way down the branches, but his foot slipped. Before she could hear the scream from her own mouth, he was on the ground, mangled. Dead.

  Still unaccustomed to her recollections, and not convinced that the related incidents weren’t just coincidental, Rosabelle neglected any action. She told Flora, but she did not say a word of her vision to poor Edwin’s mother, who found her son the next day in a mangled heap on the ground beneath their tall oak tree.

  Gift or curse, Rosabelle no longer cared. She had vowed that day never to dismiss a recollection again. She would stop this eventual murder. The problem was, she had no idea if the handsome Eli Witherspoon would be the murderer or his victim.

  Rosabelle turned the corner to a quieter street lined with tall, handsome brick homes.

  “Rosa, you’ve turned on the wrong street.” Flora pointed in the opposite direction. “The Waters family lives that way.”

  “They will have to wait. What we need is more information about Mr. Witherspoon.”

  “Where would we possibly find any such information?” Flora asked, losing her breath in a desperate attempt to keep pace with Rosabelle.

  “Where else, but in a room full of women?” Rosabelle smiled while stopping in front of the finest of the brick townhouses, at 220 Prince Street.

  Rosabelle climbed the five brick steps to the artfully carved walnut door, seized the brass, pineapple door knocker, and rapped smartly three times. By the time the door opened, Flora had made her way next to Rosabelle and the two of them were greeted by a small Negro woman who would not look directly at either of them.

  “Good day, Miss.” Rosabelle offered the young woman a friendly smile. “We are here for a meeting of the Alexandria Women’s League. Please tell your mistress that Rosabelle and Flora Raines have arrived.”

  A large voice boomed from behind the servant, followed by the sudden appearance of the elaborately jeweled woman who belonged to the voice. Mrs. Harriet Franklin was large in body, personality, wealth, and reputation. Rooms seemed to shrink when she filled them. Her billowing, silk and lace skirt only accentuated her wide girth, and Rosabelle was certain Mrs. Franklin intended it exactly so. Mrs. Franklin loved the spotlight.

&nbs
p; “Miss Raines!” Mrs. Franklin bellowed. “Such social graces are not necessary when addressing my Negroes,” she laughed. “They may not be slaves any longer, but their station remains the same. What a surprise to see you. We thought you had another engagement.”

  “Yes, but your lovely neighbor and our esteemed friend, Miss Amelia Patton, convinced us we should change our plans. Is she here yet?”

  “I’m afraid not. Any moment I should imagine, though. Lucy, take their capes and bonnets, then get back to help with the preparations. There is much to do; I will not stand for slacking today.”

  “Yes’m.” The girl curtsied to her demeaning employer. Lucy took Flora’s wrap and muff as they were handed to her, then reached for Rosabelle’s. Rosabelle smiled again at the shy Lucy, who looked more toward the floor than toward Rosabelle while attempting to take charge of her overgarments. During the exchange, Rosabelle grazed Lucy’s cold, dry hand. Before she could catch her breath, she was in another time. Looking around, she knew she having another recollection.

  But there was something oddly familiar about this memory. She was crouched behind a massive bush that pricked her skin, and the air was cold and damp. She heard the sound of a horse’s hooves on hard ground and a man calling another man’s name. Crawling on hands and knees to peer around the bushes, Rosabelle gasped. It was the fair man on the horse and the dark man tending the fields. This was the same recollection as the one she experienced when introduced to Eli Witherspoon, with the exception that everything seemed enhanced a hundred fold. Sounds were clearer, colors brighter, and she felt . . . emotion.

  She looked down at her own body. Dressed in peasant rags, Rosabelle had the hands of a small girl of eight or nine, maybe. She was breathing shallow, erratic gulps of air. She was afraid of this thin-skinned, blond man, but she did not know why. As before, the dark-haired man greeted his visitor, words were exchanged and hands were shook. Rosabelle’s fear grew, knowing the end of this story and feeling hopeless to stop it. Once again, when the dark man turned around, the fair man drew his blade and sank it deep into the farmer’s back. Rosabelle covered her eyes hard and screamed. When she opened her eyes, she was on the floor in the Franklin’s foyer, with Mrs. Franklin waving a foul-smelling vial under her nose.

  As usually happened after her recollections, Rosabelle was unable to speak. She would remain mute for a minute or two. Flora twittered on to the many women who had gathered around.

  “She has these fainting spells. I am so sorry to be a burden like this, as is Rosa. So sorry. She will be fine. If someone can help me raise her from the floor . . .”

  “The sofa in the parlor,” Mrs. Franklin exclaimed. “She can recover there.” Turning to one of the young women, she added, “Anna dear, fetch Dr. Gordon.”

  Rosabelle shook her head violently while scanning the room for Lucy.

  “You are so kind, Mrs. Franklin,” Flora said. “But Rosa does not want . . . I mean . . . she has already seen the doctor. These are just mild fainting spells due to . . . low nutrition, you see. A cup of tea and an orange or pear will bring her around just beautifully. Thank you. And some space, I should think, if you please.”

  With the aid of Marjorie Baker, one of the other guests, Flora successfully moved Rosabelle to the parlor sofa where she found her voice to thank Marjorie for her help and kindness.

  “Of course, of course. Let us adjourn to the library—we will continue our meeting there—and leave Rosabelle and Flora some air.” Mrs. Franklin herded the dozen women and their voluptuous hooped shirts out of the room, closing the tall double doors behind her.

  Rosabelle had been rubbing her head more for the drama than for the purpose of relieving an ache, but once the doors closed, she grabbed Flora’s arm.

  “Sister! You will not believe what I just witnessed.”

  Flora tugged her arm away and pressed her index fingers to her own temples.

  “Rosa, these dreams of yours—they come too often! They wear me down. Can you not control them?”

  “No more than I can control the seasons. Flora, I need you now. Please, listen.”

  “Fine. What did you see this time?”

  “It was the same recollection.”

  “The same as what?”

  “Eli Witherspoon. When I touched Lucy’s hand, I witnessed the entire murder again.”

  “Lucy? Who is Lucy?”

  “Mrs. Franklin’s maid.”

  “You mean the Negro girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Lucy must be one of the two men in my recollection. Lucy and Eli Witherspoon.”

  “Well,” Flora sniffed. “That seems very odd.”

  Rosabelle fell back on the sofa laughing.

  “What?” Flora asked.

  “Is not all of this to be classified as odd, sister?”

  Flora, who remained serious for just a moment, finally found the humor in it and laughed as well, which pleased Rosabelle. She desperately needed her sister to accept her condition, as she was the only person in whom Rosabelle could confide completely.

  The two sisters sat smiling silently on the sofa for a moment, soaking in the absurdity of their new reality.

  “Do you suppose then,” Flora said finally, “that Lucy is going to murder Eli Witherspoon?”

  “Or is he to murder her? That is precisely what I need to determine. This recollection was different. More detail, and I was acutely aware that I was a young girl. Do not ask me how I know this, but the dark man—he was my father. Also, I felt true fear when the other man rode up on his horse. Feeling fear when Lucy touched me—does this mean that Lucy is the murderer and Mr. Witherspoon the victim? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

  “Do you suppose we should do something?” Flora asked.

  “At the very least, for the moment, I would like to put my eyes on Lucy.”

  A loud rapping at the front door, followed by a flurry of activity and female chattering, compelled Rosabelle and Flora to leave their temporary sanctuary.

  Opening the double doors of the parlor, they found that the women had not yet moved to the library. Instead, they were huddling around Mrs. Franklin who read aloud from a note in her hand.

  “Miss Amelia Patton sends her regrets. She is ill and thus will be unable to attend today’s meeting.”

  Mrs. Franklin put a hand to her heart. “Poor dear. She has not been looking well these last two days.”

  “I think she has worried herself sick,” piped in Marjorie Baker, who stood next to Flora.

  “Worried herself about what?” Rosabelle asked.

  “That cousin of hers, Eli Witherspoon. Rumor has it he will be the next to die,” Marjorie responded more quietly for deeper effect.

  “It is true,” clucked Mrs. Franklin in her strong, superior tone. “But I must say though, that the young man most likely brought it all upon himself with his questionable ways.”

  Rosabelle put two comforting hands on Flora’s shoulders.

  “What are you talking about?” Flora’s voice trembled. “Who would want to kill Mr. Witherspoon?”

  “The Southern Avenger, of course,” Marjorie said.

  “The Southern what?” Rosabelle asked, soaking in every bit of information thrown her way. It was a stroke of luck for her that this conversation should arise now. She could weed through truths and untruths later, but the current situation required her to take in everything.

  “The Southern Avenger is what they are calling him. He’s killed five men already. All of them Northern sympathizers and traitors who put slaves before the needs of the South. Rumor has it that Eli Witherspoon will be next.”

  “Why?” Rosabelle asked.

  Mrs. Franklin lowered her voice and squinted her eyes. “He was a slave sympathizer duri
ng the war. He helped many escape from their owners.”

  Some of the women, obviously unaware of this rumor, grew wide-eyed and covered open mouths with their hands. Others, who must have been privy to the scandalous gossip, nodded knowingly yet disapprovingly.

  One of those women was Anna Cameron. Seeing Rosabelle’s confusion, Anna took great satisfaction in sharing her own prized information. Moving her face close to Rosabelle’s, she whispered. “The word is that he loved a Negro girl who was killed transporting escaped slaves to the North during the war. Can you imagine? A man of fine, southern breeding keeping with Negroes? If you ask me, he has it coming.”

  “I think we should let God be the judge of that,” Rosabelle said. “Unless the Lord has passed responsibility for judgment on to you, Anna.” The room became as silent as a tomb. “Now, has anyone ever seen this Southern Avenger?”

  The women looked around at each other, then many shook their heads.

  “So it is not a matter of any known fact that this killer is a man and not a woman?”

  More heads were shaking to answer no.

  Rosabelle felt as if she was getting somewhere. “Mrs. Franklin, tell me please, when did Lucy first come into your employ?”

  “Early last week . . .” the hostess answered more quietly than usual.

  “Do you remember the exact day?”

  “Why, let’s see . . . let me think . . . what exactly does this all have to do with Mr. Witherspoon?”

  “The day, Mrs. Franklin. Please, it could be important.”

  Mrs. Franklin stared into the distance while counting on her fingers. She tapped her forehead once, which must have worked some miracle, because then she offered an answer. “Tuesday. I think.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well . . . yes. Yes, I am sure. I remember. She came to our back door Tuesday morning looking for work after the Pattons had turned her down. I had just come in need as we will be entertaining a house full of visitors from England soon. I learned of the visitors on Monday evening. Yes. It was Tuesday.”