Left Behind
An evening air made itself comfortable as Elizabeth overlooked the long lake that, from her vantage high on a hill in the Catbells, only spanned the length of her forearms. A fascinating trick of the eye for a child of nine. It made the small girl feel powerful, almighty even.
She smoothed her gown over exposed legs and leaned back on one elbow amidst the weeds and wildflowers; she did not know which was which. Ready. Then, as if on cue, dusk descended.
Fog overtook the foothills all at once and nestled into its nooks. The thick mist frosted the fells with a layer of drizzled droplets that turned its soft greens to bright gleams of gold as they danced with the last of the day’s rays. Fleeting but brilliant beams of fading sunshine illuminated the elongated lake making, for a moment, the illusion of crystals exploding across the inky water before skittering after the retreating light and beyond the horizon.
She laughed. She loved that part.
Picking pedals off an ill-fated flower within arm’s length, she smiled to the darkening blue sky as the oncoming haze cozied up and enveloped her in a damp drizzle. She didn’t mind the rain. She found the soft percussion soothing.
The droplets tickled, trickling from her forehead to pool in her ears. She waited, wanting the refreshing relief that comes with the misty moisture of the highlands.
Instead it was hot. Uncomfortable. Excruciating, in fact.
She awoke writhing under a heap of the house’s quilts and wools. She hadn’t the strength to wrestle the weight off her frail frame. She was so hot. Her feeble struggle turned to panic, that innate instinct that inspires the unable to survive, no matter how undeserving. A gasp. It labored through her lungs in a raspy rattle as thick, sticky phlegm coagulated and clogged her airways. Fear forced Elizabeth’s eyes wide as she tried again, something so simple as breathing. She could not.
Help me, she thought, struggling. Her eyes frantically scanned the room for her sister, her uncle, anyone. Please, her mind screamed. I can’t breath, I can’t...
Then she remembered.
The announcement of Elizabeth’s impending death was unintentional. The doctor had declared her deadly diagnosis in hushed tones in the manor’s downstairs hall. She had been bedridden, not so much asleep as unconscious with fever.
Elizabeth knew this had happened because she had seen it. She had watched over as an omnipotent presence, unseen. The doctor had fingered one end of his graying mustache -- a nervous habit -- while composing what to say to her sister Cecily and Thomas, the stable boy. They were all that were left.
The doctor had cleared his throat. “Elizabeth is...” his fingers had flitted back to his mustache, one end now thickly twisted. “She wasn’t exhibiting the same signs as the others, so I had hoped--”
Cecily’s sudden sob had cut short any further elaboration. Thomas and the doctor swiftly moved in to support sister’s small body as her shattering shudders transitioned to that condemning cough, the same that had consumed her uncle, mother, and little brother.
As if cued by memory, she coughed, sending a viscous spray of small red dots to land and blossom on her pillow whites. With a wheeze, oxygen labored arduously through her airways, satiating her lungs, and ensuring existence for now. She swallowed back the tangy, salty substance that had filled her mouth, the mixture of mucus and blood that her throat had thrown up. Muscles relaxed. Murderous morosity retreated. And the cat, who had been sleeping by her feet, stretched spryly, spun around slowly, and settled back into the folds at the foot of the bed.
Now fully awake, Elizabeth took inventory of her stripped, shadowy surroundings: At her bedside stood a rickety stool, empty, but she could see that sister had been there today. The sheep’s wool shawl Cecily was knitting had grown at least two hands’ widths since yesterday, enough that sister could drape it over the short stool in her absence, a casual reassurance.
All else was gone save the accumulating cobwebs and dusty outlines that remained like a sketch of where things once were -- a dressing table, her toy chest, a bookshelf. The maps her father collected from his travels and hung on her wall were now nothing more than squares of brighter shades of wallpaper. All that remained was her bed, not even a spare change of clothes.
These traces of missing memories was not restrained to her quarters. The entire estate was empty. Everything had been either burned or taken when her father made leave for the London flat. He had taken anything untainted and of value, including her two older brothers. The rest was cursed, he had said. Burn it, he had said. The thick, sweet smell of smoke still wafted through the thin windows on occasion.
Her sister remained. Not by her will, but because father had seen Cecily cough, examined her handkerchief, and then taken Thomas aside. Discretely, father had asked our loyal stable boy to take Cecily to her room where he then was to lock her in "for her own good." It was only when Cecily heard the old estate bolt bang into place that she realized what was happening.
Elizabeth had watched the events unfold from the shadows of the expansive cedar that shaded the manor’s entryway. She had just learned to leave behind her physical form, worn, withered, and wracking with a cough that left bruises on her body and blood stains on her sleeves. She still wasn’t sure of this new self, so she positioned her presence behind the hedge so as not to be seen. Her father would be furious if he saw her out of bed.
Between lime green leaves Elizabeth had watched her father, ever the dignified diplomat, become undone. Tall in stature and demeanor, he had barked at her brothers to gather themselves and a few choice items. His brow bore the sheen of sweat despite the late autumn chill. He had loosed his neck tie so that it hung limply around his collar, both ends swinging in time with each frenetic movement as he swiftly swung up and down to secure a stack of suitcases and an heirloom chair atop a single carriage. There seemed no reasoning to what went or stayed. Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, he was done. That was enough, he had exclaimed, twirling upon her brothers to bat items out of their arms and into a discarded pile doomed for the flames. He had hustled his sons -- the ones that remained to him -- inside the carriage and had left in such haste that he had driven the horses himself.
He didn’t look back until he reached the road, a safe distance beyond, she supposed. Elizabeth saw his head turn and found that, fueled by her curiosity, she could home in as if in a dream so that suddenly she found herself face-to-face with her father’s pallid complexion. In his eyes she saw no recognition, only the reflection of the stone manor house behind her now disappearing in the distance. His focus flitted further afield to three piles of upturned earth, one darker and fresher than the others. Rectangles in a row, the plots seemed spotlighted by the sunshine that hung heavily that late afternoon.
In that moment, Elizabeth perceived her father’s concrete resolve, one that stemmed from clammy fear. He could not risk the influence of the ill, not when he had two healthy sons whose souls could still be saved.
She understood.
Hesitantly, she leaned in close. She could smell remnants of day-old aftershave. Softly, so as not to startle him, she kissed his cheek. She forgave and silently said goodbye.
To be continued...
...............................
Story Inspiration: Lake Derwentwater near Keswick, Lake District, England.
Real-Life Review: Nestled in the sloping knolls and proper pikes of northwestern England, The Lake District offers an undeniably enchanting environment for the tourist, the outdoor enthusiast, but especially the artist. In fact, it’s misty beauty has been so influential to the international art scene that an entire literary movement was named after it -- The Lake Poets, a faction of the Romantic Movement from the turn of the nineteenth-century. The fog, ever ubiquitous then and now, inspired some of England’s most renowned poetry, including a lyric piece still ever-present in high school literature studies: “Daffodils” by William Wordsworth. “I wandered lonely as a cloud,” the wordsmith wrote, likely while overlooking Derwentwater, the very lake that sets this story. Other authors and artists have included children’s writer Beatrix Potter, painter J.M.W. Turner, and even mysterious mystics from the Neolithic Period who are credited with creating the spellbinding stone circles of the area.
England’s largest national park, the Lake District is itself worth the international journey. Just be sure to pack a raincoat -- the district is the dampest part of this already soggy country.
She smoothed her gown over exposed legs and leaned back on one elbow amidst the weeds and wildflowers; she did not know which was which. Ready. Then, as if on cue, dusk descended.
Fog overtook the foothills all at once and nestled into its nooks. The thick mist frosted the fells with a layer of drizzled droplets that turned its soft greens to bright gleams of gold as they danced with the last of the day’s rays. Fleeting but brilliant beams of fading sunshine illuminated the elongated lake making, for a moment, the illusion of crystals exploding across the inky water before skittering after the retreating light and beyond the horizon.
She laughed. She loved that part.
Picking pedals off an ill-fated flower within arm’s length, she smiled to the darkening blue sky as the oncoming haze cozied up and enveloped her in a damp drizzle. She didn’t mind the rain. She found the soft percussion soothing.
The droplets tickled, trickling from her forehead to pool in her ears. She waited, wanting the refreshing relief that comes with the misty moisture of the highlands.
Instead it was hot. Uncomfortable. Excruciating, in fact.
She awoke writhing under a heap of the house’s quilts and wools. She hadn’t the strength to wrestle the weight off her frail frame. She was so hot. Her feeble struggle turned to panic, that innate instinct that inspires the unable to survive, no matter how undeserving. A gasp. It labored through her lungs in a raspy rattle as thick, sticky phlegm coagulated and clogged her airways. Fear forced Elizabeth’s eyes wide as she tried again, something so simple as breathing. She could not.
Help me, she thought, struggling. Her eyes frantically scanned the room for her sister, her uncle, anyone. Please, her mind screamed. I can’t breath, I can’t...
Then she remembered.
The announcement of Elizabeth’s impending death was unintentional. The doctor had declared her deadly diagnosis in hushed tones in the manor’s downstairs hall. She had been bedridden, not so much asleep as unconscious with fever.
Elizabeth knew this had happened because she had seen it. She had watched over as an omnipotent presence, unseen. The doctor had fingered one end of his graying mustache -- a nervous habit -- while composing what to say to her sister Cecily and Thomas, the stable boy. They were all that were left.
The doctor had cleared his throat. “Elizabeth is...” his fingers had flitted back to his mustache, one end now thickly twisted. “She wasn’t exhibiting the same signs as the others, so I had hoped--”
Cecily’s sudden sob had cut short any further elaboration. Thomas and the doctor swiftly moved in to support sister’s small body as her shattering shudders transitioned to that condemning cough, the same that had consumed her uncle, mother, and little brother.
As if cued by memory, she coughed, sending a viscous spray of small red dots to land and blossom on her pillow whites. With a wheeze, oxygen labored arduously through her airways, satiating her lungs, and ensuring existence for now. She swallowed back the tangy, salty substance that had filled her mouth, the mixture of mucus and blood that her throat had thrown up. Muscles relaxed. Murderous morosity retreated. And the cat, who had been sleeping by her feet, stretched spryly, spun around slowly, and settled back into the folds at the foot of the bed.
Now fully awake, Elizabeth took inventory of her stripped, shadowy surroundings: At her bedside stood a rickety stool, empty, but she could see that sister had been there today. The sheep’s wool shawl Cecily was knitting had grown at least two hands’ widths since yesterday, enough that sister could drape it over the short stool in her absence, a casual reassurance.
All else was gone save the accumulating cobwebs and dusty outlines that remained like a sketch of where things once were -- a dressing table, her toy chest, a bookshelf. The maps her father collected from his travels and hung on her wall were now nothing more than squares of brighter shades of wallpaper. All that remained was her bed, not even a spare change of clothes.
These traces of missing memories was not restrained to her quarters. The entire estate was empty. Everything had been either burned or taken when her father made leave for the London flat. He had taken anything untainted and of value, including her two older brothers. The rest was cursed, he had said. Burn it, he had said. The thick, sweet smell of smoke still wafted through the thin windows on occasion.
Her sister remained. Not by her will, but because father had seen Cecily cough, examined her handkerchief, and then taken Thomas aside. Discretely, father had asked our loyal stable boy to take Cecily to her room where he then was to lock her in "for her own good." It was only when Cecily heard the old estate bolt bang into place that she realized what was happening.
Elizabeth had watched the events unfold from the shadows of the expansive cedar that shaded the manor’s entryway. She had just learned to leave behind her physical form, worn, withered, and wracking with a cough that left bruises on her body and blood stains on her sleeves. She still wasn’t sure of this new self, so she positioned her presence behind the hedge so as not to be seen. Her father would be furious if he saw her out of bed.
Between lime green leaves Elizabeth had watched her father, ever the dignified diplomat, become undone. Tall in stature and demeanor, he had barked at her brothers to gather themselves and a few choice items. His brow bore the sheen of sweat despite the late autumn chill. He had loosed his neck tie so that it hung limply around his collar, both ends swinging in time with each frenetic movement as he swiftly swung up and down to secure a stack of suitcases and an heirloom chair atop a single carriage. There seemed no reasoning to what went or stayed. Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, he was done. That was enough, he had exclaimed, twirling upon her brothers to bat items out of their arms and into a discarded pile doomed for the flames. He had hustled his sons -- the ones that remained to him -- inside the carriage and had left in such haste that he had driven the horses himself.
He didn’t look back until he reached the road, a safe distance beyond, she supposed. Elizabeth saw his head turn and found that, fueled by her curiosity, she could home in as if in a dream so that suddenly she found herself face-to-face with her father’s pallid complexion. In his eyes she saw no recognition, only the reflection of the stone manor house behind her now disappearing in the distance. His focus flitted further afield to three piles of upturned earth, one darker and fresher than the others. Rectangles in a row, the plots seemed spotlighted by the sunshine that hung heavily that late afternoon.
In that moment, Elizabeth perceived her father’s concrete resolve, one that stemmed from clammy fear. He could not risk the influence of the ill, not when he had two healthy sons whose souls could still be saved.
She understood.
Hesitantly, she leaned in close. She could smell remnants of day-old aftershave. Softly, so as not to startle him, she kissed his cheek. She forgave and silently said goodbye.
To be continued...
...............................
Story Inspiration: Lake Derwentwater near Keswick, Lake District, England.
Real-Life Review: Nestled in the sloping knolls and proper pikes of northwestern England, The Lake District offers an undeniably enchanting environment for the tourist, the outdoor enthusiast, but especially the artist. In fact, it’s misty beauty has been so influential to the international art scene that an entire literary movement was named after it -- The Lake Poets, a faction of the Romantic Movement from the turn of the nineteenth-century. The fog, ever ubiquitous then and now, inspired some of England’s most renowned poetry, including a lyric piece still ever-present in high school literature studies: “Daffodils” by William Wordsworth. “I wandered lonely as a cloud,” the wordsmith wrote, likely while overlooking Derwentwater, the very lake that sets this story. Other authors and artists have included children’s writer Beatrix Potter, painter J.M.W. Turner, and even mysterious mystics from the Neolithic Period who are credited with creating the spellbinding stone circles of the area.
England’s largest national park, the Lake District is itself worth the international journey. Just be sure to pack a raincoat -- the district is the dampest part of this already soggy country.