The candle started to flicker dangerously close to going out. Someone had come through the cloister door, letting in the outside wind. Jude hastily put away the scroll he had been working on and took out another. His quill was mid-air when Brother Benedict rounded the corner to the copying room.

“Well, Brother, how goes your toil?”

“I'm afraid I spoilt one scroll, Brother Benedict.”

“Damnation, Brother Jude, do you not know how expensive parchment is? Please tell me it was parchment and not vellum.”

“No, no … it was parchment. Still, I am sorry.”

You must learn to concentrate. You are always daydreaming. Where is the spoilt work?”

“Errrrmm … I was so vexed with myself, Brother, that I tore it and threw it on the fire.” Jude crossed his fingers against the lie.

“Oh, not again! You know I have to account for every scrap of material used? Really, Brother Jude, you stretch my patience too far some days.”

“I’m sorry Brother.”

Brother Benedict huffed and puffed a few more times, raking through the ashes in the sparse fire that burned in the depths of a small brazier. The heat barely made a difference to the perpetual chill of the stone ante-chamber.

“Well, I suppose it can’t be helped now, but please remember to keep hold of spoilt work in future so that I can account for it to Brother Matthew. Surely you know how tight a rein the Abbot has on all outgoings here.”

Shivering, he placed his hands into the depths of his sleeves and hurried out to find warmer climes.

Jude waited for his footsteps to echo into the distance and pulled out the hidden scroll. Just two more lines written in Alphabetum Kaldeorum and he would be finished. His great, great, grandfather had learned the code during the earlier crusades – he having been a scribe to the Order of the Knights Templar. Although he had been sworn on oath to keep it secret on pain of death, he had blithely passed it on to his son. And so it had passed down the generations. Jude mused that, with his taking up holy orders, he would be the last in line of his family to know the Templar’s secret code.

After rolling the finished scroll and hiding it under his pillow, he pleaded a raging headache, and perhaps the onset of a fever, and begged off dinner and vespers. He had to endure the ministrations of Brother Thomas, who mixed him an herb drink made from some noxious tasting weeds. The kindly monk was determined to watch Jude drink down every last bitter drop. Jude made his peace with God by accepting this punishment for having lied about his health.

Jude waited until vespers and then silently stole out of the monastery with the last scroll.

He gasped at the coldness of the night air. His thin habit offered very little protection against the biting wind. Monsignor Alphonse’s carriage and horses were waiting at the crossroads.

Jude climbed in and handed his final scroll to the envoy from Rome.

The Monsignor thanked Jude and gave him a blessing. “Does the Abbot have suspicions he is being investigated?”

“No, Monsignor, he still hands out food and plenary indulgences for sexual favours. The wenches are too ignorant to know that the charity should be dispensed for free.”

“He claims expenses for food and cash for the poor of the parish, yet he spits in the face of God when he doles it out in return for the sin of fornication,” the Monsignor complained.

The envoy from Rome readied himself to go.

“Thank you, Brother Jude. You will be returned to your duties in Rome just as soon as we have dealt with our recalcitrant Abbot.”

“Thank God, Monsignor. I’ll be glad to be warm again.”

“We’ll pull you out before we lay the results of your apostolic investigation before the Inquisition.”

Jude hurried back to the Monastery. Part of him wondered if his investigations had been in the name of God and justice … or for the gratification of those members of the Inquisition who seemed to glory in torture. His Abbot was indeed guilty of abusing the charity which was due to the poor of the local parish, but Jude was wary of the growing powers of some members of the Roman Church’s investigative teams.

Letting himself into the Monastery through the kitchen garden, he crept back to his cell and crawled into his wooden cot. Pulling the woollen blanket over his shivering body, he fell into a fitful sleep. While he thrashed about, mired in nightmarish dreams of punishments to come, the Abbot shared his greasy goose with a frightened, hungry, virgin upstairs.

Monsignor Alphonse’s horses and carriage made their way to the coast. He would deliver Brother Jude’s final scroll to the Holy See. He had tried to read several of Brother Jude’s scrolls in the past, hoping for some salacious titbit of gossip, but could never decipher the complicated code. He wondered how the Holy See had become interested in the petty fraud of a country Abbot … but knew better than to ask too many questions of the Holy Office. He knew he was just a cog in a wheel and the Vatican had wheels within wheels.

The Abbot’s goose was now well and truly cooked.

I watched them from the upstairs window of my shop; packed tight and upright like bottles. The mob. They filled the square, and jostled in the alleys leading to it, literally clawing people out of the way to get a look at the cart, dragged not by horses, but by a band of wild-eyed, leering revolutionaries, drunk on their principals and their bloodlust. The cart stopped at the side of the square, and filthy people surged forward, grasping and snatching at the dishevelled aristocrat that was herded towards the platform in the centre of the crowd. I leaned closer to the window, pressing my nose almost against the glass, morbidly transfixed.
The man had no hat or wig to remove, as he alighted the steps and stood appraising the manner in which he was to die. The crowd had removed them for him, and were now fighting over them like wolves. I saw his fingers twitch spasmodically across his chest, praying for deliverance, before he was laid down on the wooden bench with great show on the part of the executioner, and his neck aligned under the heavy blade.
I looked at his wife, sitting with forced composure in the cart, and didn’t take my eyes off her until a cheer went up from the crowd and her face completely drained of colour.
I knew her very well. We had spent many hours in her rose garden, before the revolution, tiring the clouds with our endless proclamations of love, keeping out of sight of her husband, and going for exhilarating moonlight swims in the river that ran through her estate. I should be down there of course, putting my neck before hers, but I wasn’t: I was a coward. A failed leatherworker from the grimy back alleys of Paris, who got involved in something he should never have. No one knew I was her lover, I doubt if anyone even knew that I existed, but I was still afraid; I suppose I was afraid for her.
I watched her walk slowly in her husband’s footsteps, her mouth set in a firm line, though she was trembling a little. I was there when they took her, dragged her from her home this morning. On the way to the cart, she twisted her ankle on the cobbles and cried out in pain. She saw me in the crowd and held her hand out to me, seeking a moment’s comfort. I could not bear the look in her eyes: I turned from her and melted into the crowd, finding the fleetest way home. My bedroom window overlooked the square where they would surely bring her; I could watch her die, knowing that she knew I was a coward.
She put her foot on the bottom step and shrugged off the men, eager to assist her as she stumbled on her injured ankle. My fingers slid softly down the glass, imitating the tears that should be falling from my eyes; but I was too much in shock to allow.
She carried herself with the dignity of a general, I thought, making an honourable surrender on the battlefield; I recalled a conversation we once had, at the start of the revolution. We talked about change, and the rumours of rebellion in the streets, and of France being destroyed by the tricoloured ruffians at the Palace gates.
“But what is France?” She had asked me philosophically, blossom petals drifting benignly down to rest on her golden hair.
The blade fell with a thud.
This is France.

I turned away from the window and collapsed on the wooden planks of the floor, choking a pathetic sob and breathing in the scent of death. I had to get away, I had to leave, now. I was in no danger, but I knew I couldn’t stay here, amidst this violence and unyielding revolutionary justice.
I practically ripped myself off the floor and lurched over to the dust enfolded dresser on the other side of the room. I turned out the only occupied drawer onto the bed and wrapped the contents in the bed sheet. A few shirts, my best breeches, a couple of coins, and a mouldering rabbit’s foot that I bought from a gypsy years ago. I looked quickly around the room, and snatched up a stale half loaf of bread I had managed to procure a few days ago. I tore off a bit to eat, and stuffed the rest in my makeshift bag. I was nearly killed trying to get it home, all the people are starving here. Bread is infinitely precious.
I went quickly down the stairs and into my long neglected leatherwork shop, throwing on an old threadbare brown coat. A loud bang sounded on my door as someone was knocked against it. It would be hard to get out of Paris, with the streets as they were. I sighed, and unlocked the door with its rusty old key, pushing my way into the street and locking the door behind me. No one noticed me. I heard a thud, and a roar of delight rose around my ears. “What is this barbaric place I am in?” I must have said it out loud, for a tall man, evidently drunk and with a huge frilled paper cockade, leaned down and companionably put an arm around my shoulders.
“Why, this is France!”

Roberta impatiently pushed back a lock of hair with her forearm as she dug relentlessly, harvesting potatoes. The brittle dry soil flew with the regular beat of the spade, barely interrupted by the removal of the fleshy tubercles thrown into the baskets spread between the rows. She didn't feel the dark bleeding creases of her hands, nor the bitter wind chapping her skin. Her mind purposefully counted the swaying movements of her arms, dulling out the strained muscles.

Her youngest sister suddenly tugged at her skirt, breaking the established rhythm.

"Mother said to finish the row and to come in. Jack has started lugging in the baskets."

"I'm almost done," Roberta murmured, leaning on the handle, surprised to see that the sun had already set.

The trance was broken. The neighbour's son trudged in the moonlit field. From his silhouette, Roberta could make out his rolled up sleeves and his newsboy cap as he relentlessly moved the crop from field to cart. His dedication to the land was comparable to hers. They were usually the first ones out and tonight, once again, the field would not sleep again until they left.

She picked up her tool and went on mechanically, reminded of his parting words the night before: "You're as strong as old man Stanley's horse." She had lowered her eyes and giggled before sprinting home.

When her father had mentioned visiting the Stanleys later that night, Roberta had blushed and nearly dropped the log she was placing in the woodstove. Her mother had thrown a long glance her way, though her hands kept weaving the rag rug. Roberta had closed the stove and then joined her mother, helping her create this relic of their intertwined lives.

'That Jack is a great worker," Roberta's mother said, seemingly out of the blue. "His father is a good man too; he's been very helpful since he saw that we were honest folks that wanted to make it out here." The silence was filled by her younger siblings babble. Roberta had interpreted her mother's words to mean that she approved of Jack, and more importantly, of his family's situation. If he paid any attention to her, she should feel honoured, them not having much.

That night, squeezed between her sisters in bed, Roberta remembered Jack's comment. His words had been meant as a compliment, and it pleased her. She took great pride in being able to work the longest in the field.

The garden dimmed as a cloud passed in front of the moon. It yanked her back to the present. Her row was done. She turned to head back and saw that Jack had caught up to her. His skin glowed with exertion; it softened his appearance. His triceps stretched the fabric of his shirt. Summer and hard labour had transformed his once scrawny body. He leaned on the cart filled with baskets of potatoes, and slid to the ground. Spontaneously, she sat down alongside, not caring about the dirt on her clothes.

Their shoulders touched, the warmth reaching her heart. She felt comfortable in this silence. A wolf's cry amidst the softer sounds of the night invaded the moment, and she thought that she saw Jack wince. And then it was over. He was up, offering his helping hand. No words had been exchanged, but she knew what she felt.

He was gone the next morning. The menacing sky drove the family to greater effort; they needed to finish the harvest before the rains came. Jack's competent hands and strong arms were missed. The soil lifted by the western winds whipped against their skin and sent waves through the foliage. Only the cabbages seemed invulnerable. Night came without any news of Jack, and Roberta kept her questions to herself.

The week was a restless one, rain having flooded the fields. The eldest of the family hastened to store the root vegetables in sand and soil so that they would keep for a good part of winter. The dull task seemed to take forever and the crowded barn and cellar made Roberta miss the open fields. Her heart was aching. She longed to see Jack again. Had she read too much in the moment? What was the cause of his absence?

That night, Jack's mother came over with freshly butchered pork for them to salt. After sharing frustrations about the weather, she proudly beamed as she announced that Jack's determination had been noticed by the parish priest and that he had been sent to school in the city. He would become the parish's first local priest. A neighbour had dropped him off at the seminary on his trip to town earlier this week. Because her son was so bright, they were all convinced that he would make up the first few weeks that he had missed.

"Let us pray for him, that a young girl doesn't distract him from God's calling," were her parting words.

Sarah Johnson was standing in front of the cabin, when her son-in-law Thomas rode into the yard.

"Sarah your William has died. They be going to bury him tomorrow morning, and they sed it were too dangerous for you to come. Can I do for you Sarah?" he drawled.

She stood stone still in a silence of denial, her stern face void of outward emotion. She did not want to hear anymore. Nodding, Sarah turned and walked into the cabin, closing the pine door behind her, she was glad her children were in bed sleeping.

Hearing Thomas ride off, she sat at the long pine table that her husband, William, had made the first month they married twenty years earlier. He had teased her, saying they would soon fill the matching benches, and she had blushed. They had indeed filled the benches, welcoming a new child every two years out of their love, until there were five sons and four daughters. The table where William and their seventeen-year-old son, John, had sat that February; both passionately vowing to drive out the marauding Rebels. Both assuring her the war would not last and they would soon be home.

“William will not be coming home today.” Sarah lay her face on the smooth wood, and allowed the lonely grief to take her.

Sarah woke before dawn from a night of fitful dreams. She slipped on one of her two cotton sack dresses, and then pulled her graying brown hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. The small mirror reflected tired reddened eyes and a sun-wrinkled thirty-six-year-old face.

“I have to feed the children” she thought woodenly. She mixed the ingredients for fried fritters, and then went to fill the milk jug from the spring house, stopping on the way to gather an armful of chopped wood for the stove.

The Union soldiers rode into the yard. “Ma’am, we need to requisition any food rations you can offer.” The young soldier gave her a claim paper to file with the war department. Her children, now awake, had watched with excitement as the band rode off. Her sons yelled after them, “Kill some Rebs for us!”

Once the children had gathered at the table for breakfast, Sarah told them that their father would not be coming home. “I’ll give them the fritters for supper”, she thought amid the sobbing of her children.

Sarah did not hear from her son, John, until the following October. He had been given a thirty day furlough to return home and she watched him walk up the road toward the cabin, obviously ailing. Sarah put him to bed. Tainted meat and freezing cold had left him dehydrated and suffering from acute diarrhea and an infected cough. There was no doctor to call and on the 17th of October 1862, Sarah looked on helplessly as her son drew his last breath-- two days before his eighteenth birthday.

She washed his body and wrapped him in a clean quilt. Sarah and the children dug a grave and buried him on the hill behind the cabin. The war had stripped the area of any wood plank, rendering a more humane burial impossible. Thomas told her that her William had been buried in a mass grave over in Cumberland Gap. At least she knew where her son was, and could visit him. Sarah had not accepted her husband’s death and she watched for him each day to come walking up the road.

Every neighbor was without husbands and sons. The women and old men that could not fight helped each other without being asked. Sarah taught her children how to gather Ginseng root and herbs, which she sold to the army for use as medicines. The pennies they earned bought what they could not make or grow. Everyone hauled water from the stream to fill the large cauldrens to boiling over fires. The hot water was used for washing clothes and bedding using a scrub board. The older boys milked the cow and plowed the rocky ground. The girls took turns pumping the churn handle to make butter, sweeping the debris from the sod floor with straw whisks and dipping candles to hang. Sarah baked bread and cooked long hours. The boys hunted and fished. Game was scarce, so neighbors shared whatever they shot.

The war ended and life went on.

Thomas had been killed in action five months after William, leaving her oldest daughter Martha to birth their baby the following day, with the help of the local midwife. Customary to the times, it was uncommon for men and women to remain single. Martha married her husband's cousin two months later. Sarah refused all offers of marriage over the years. She raised her children alone, watching them grow up, marry and move away. The land was more than she could work alone, so she sold it and moved in with her youngest child Isaac and his family.

The years had not been kind to Sarah. Hard work, struggle and grief left her exhausted and afflicted at the age of sixty-four.

“Mother can I get you anything?,” her children asked. Sarah weakly shook her head no. Smiling, she closed her eyes and joined her beloved William.

Sarah Jane Fortner Johnson. 1825-1890.

Emma woke with a pounding headache. Her eyes ache and when she blinks it feels as if her eyelids are made of sandpaper. Every movement hurts. Slowly Emma folds back the tarp at the end of the covered wagon. She notices the sun peeking over the hills. The meadow is bathed in the pinkish light and near by a creek gurgles happily. Emma pauses for a moment taking in the beauty. For a brief second she’s almost content. Then she remembers and tears form in her eyes. Her throat constricts trying to keep the sobs of grief from leaving her lips. Emma steps over the gate and gingerly places her foot onto the stump they use for a crude step.

Thomas calls out to her. As if in a fog she turns in the direction of his voice. He’s standing by the others around the fire. Thomas offers her a cup of coffee and beckons her to join him. Unable to bear the thought of polite, meaningless conversation Emma turns away and walks towards the small grove of trees.

She finds a semi-secluded spot and takes care of business. Then she loosens her hair from its braid and brushes it with her fingers. After pulling some leaves out of her hair Emma re-braids it. She jumps when she hears noise in the bushes. Standing to run, Emma sees a young fawn. His big eyes look up at her full of curiosity and innocence. Emma can’t help herself; she reaches out to pet the fawn. Tears fall freely knowing her baby boy is gone. It happened so fast. One minute she’s carrying little Adam in her arms walking next to the wagon as it crosses the shallow point of the river. The next she’s falling and water is swirling around her, over her. She feels her baby being pulled by the current from her arms. Thomas and the other men search for Adam. They dive over and over into the muddy water, but the current has swept his tiny body away. Emma watches helplessly, quilt and anguish tearing at her soul.

Emma hears footsteps coming towards her. She quickly stands up and turns to meet Thomas. The look on his face speaks volumes. He doesn’t have to say a word. Emma follows him knowing they must move on. They’d spent too long camped here. Vigorously searching the river for her baby’s body, hoping at least, to be able to bury him. Thomas said today they had to move on. Emma wanted to stay but the others in the wagon train insisted they continue with them.

The wagons were packed and the teams hitched. Thomas climbed into the drivers seat offering her a hand so she could climb up next to him. Emma shook her head wanting to walk next to the wagon instead. She couldn’t bear being next to Thomas. Knowing that she let go of his son, that it’s her fault Adam is gone. Emma lost track of time blindly putting one foot in front of the other. Letting the rhythm of movement numb her mind. Slowly her ears heard the shouts of the men at the front of the train. Thomas pulled their team up and grabbed his rifle. Cresting the hill in front of them were Indians. They were riding slowly toward the wagon train. One of the Indians called out, raising his hand in a sign of friendship. Mr. Garrett the boss of the wagon train rode slowly to meet the Indians. Emma held her breath. She’d heard many horror stories about the tribes that inhabited the lands they were traveling through.

Thomas told Emma to get into the wagon. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the Indians. Mr. Garrett was talking to the Indian who’d raised his hand. Nodding his head, he turned and rode back to the wagon train. He asked Thomas, and the other men, to get coffee, sugar, and flour. Mr. Garrett then put the items into a bag and rode back to the Indians. After accepting the bag they gave him something in a blanket. Mr. Garrett rode back to the train gingerly carrying the blanket. As he got closer Emma thought she heard a baby cry. Mr. Garrett rode straight towards Emma. Her heart stopped when she heard the cry again. This time she knew it was Adam. She ran towards Mr. Garrett, tears of joy running down her face. He dismounted from his horse and handed Emma the blanket. She felt her son squirm as he hungrily cried out.

While hugging Adam to her chest, Mr. Garrett explained the Indians had been hunting. They’d been down river when they heard the commotion. One of the braves saw the baby bouncing in the water. He dove in and grabbed him. At first he’d planned on taking the infant home to his wife. The baby wouldn’t stop fussing though and refused to drink tea from the buckskin bag. Then this morning he’d seen a woman petting a fawn and crying. He realized how sad his wife would be at losing a child and decided, against his better judgment, to return the infant.

Thomas hugged his wife and son. As he pondered on what had just happened, he knew in his heart that his decision to settle in the new land was a good one.

Sitting on a lump of hay, I lay there. Tranquilizing the thought of what it would be like to live in a different year. As blood dripped from my ears, I realized that life wouldn't be so different. You see, I had just come the notion, that I don't believe in aliens or magic or old Saint Nicholas, not even Donald Trump. If you don't know about Donald trump, he was some fictional character I made up who had golden doors and promiscuous turtles lying about his stone cold castle. Though this doesn't seem much of a story, I feel quite faint and the pool of blood that has soiled the hay by now is turning a grayish brown color. I think im going to send for the buggy. So I'm in the buggy now and my ears are still bleeding. I've come to the conclusion that this isn't normal and something must be done about it. Dr. Jay is a very good doctor. Although Dr. Jay isn't an expert on ears, he sure knows how to shaves a broad chin like my own. Wait....what?!?!?!?! AHHHHHHHH!!!! Dr. Jay you're not a man you're a...a...?!? *Just as Timmy was about to finish his horrific dream about stacks of hay, bleeding ears and weird barbers, his mom yelled "Timmy, Happy New Year!" Timmy Jumped for joy. Timmy took is little snuff holder out and gave it a whirl. What a day...a day before 1899.
The End