OUT OF THE DARKNESS - CHAPTER 3

With pen in hand, on a new sheet of paper (dampened by the humidity), she writes...

What, Dear Heart, I ask myself, is this force that drives me to write in this oppressive heat as I sit here in this attic barely able to breathe? It appears my need to write is more powerful then the suffering I must endure to do so.

The faint odour of old mothballs mixed with Indian Ink lingers heavily in the air. It is a familiar odour that brings me comfort, for that same odour was here when, as a young woman, I came here to write.

It all seems so strange to me, Dear Heart. Never in my worst nightmare did I ever think I would end up like this, blind and alone, sitting in a musty attic writing as if my life depends on it. But, here I am, the long-awaited daughter of Captain George James the 3rd, born May 8th, 1902.

I know the events that occurred on that day, (the day I was born) if one were predisposed to believe in such things as omens, would not be at all surprised by this outcome. For, on that day, hail the size of golf balls beat down on our family home and no other, tearing shingles from the roof, breaking windows, and splitting the front door from top to bottom.

It was the same day hot lava, ash, and smouldering embers, spewed from the mouth of Mount Pelee rained down on the deck of my Father's ship ( Angel of the Blue) setting her sails on fire.

It was on that day, My Father, his crew, and my two older brothers, in nearly zero visibility, fought to save their ship, while Saint Pierre and thirty-thousand people and all other life forms who had once lived there, where incinerated. It was the day my brothers breathed their last breath beneath a fallen mast. It was the day I was born the day my mother died giving birth to me. I, the child that was to bring joy into the world, brought grief instead.

Strangely enough, it seems my mother is never far away. She has always been with me every step of the way. The fact that I can not see her or touch her does not seem to matter. Her spirit is so much a part of me. It is her spirit that has given me the strength to endure all that I have and all that I must.

Now before I get too side-tracked, I will tell you that as a child, I suffered the cruelty of many preconceived notions inflicted by the people of my town. These notions, I believe, were given birth in light of the events that took place on the day I was born. A strange little bird they would say in hushed whispers whenever they saw me.

Yes! Those self-serving, holier-than-thou, good Christian town-folk would gather in clusters talking about me like I wasn't even there.

Look at those eyes they would say, It's as if she is looking at something we can't see. Well!, you know the ungodly things that happened the day she was born. Yes! She is, without a doubt, a bad seed. On and on, they would converse in those hushed whispers, dehumanizing me until I would turn my gaze on them and watch as fear filled their eyes and tied their tongues. And I would continue to stare unblinkingly at them until they turned their backs to me and scurried away.

Sunday morning church services were the worst. There I would sit in those hard pews while the Reverend Howard, in a booming voice, spewed out the words of God amid a chorus of the word BAD SEED, whispered by the congregation and directed to me.

All this, as the Reverend lectured on and on in his booming voice saying: Repent you, sinners, repent or suffer the wrath of God and burn in the eternal fires of hell.

I wondered what Sin the man at the front of the church nailed on the cross had committed. Was he a bad seed?

It was explained to me later that it was Jesus on the cross, and that he had died on the cross to save us Sinners.

For several years, I had the same reoccurring dream. I dreamed I had taken a tool-box and a ladder from the barn and loaded them in the wagon, then road into town hell-bent on freeing Jesus from that cross.

There in the house of God, I climbed that ladder and pulled the nails from the feet of Jesus. Before I could get to His hands, the doors to the church swung open, spilling daylight into the darkness as the thundering voice of the Reverend Howard bellowed, SINNER! SINNER!

Dropping the hammer to the floor and scurrying down the ladder, I ran for the open door only to have it slam shut before me. I was then dragged kicking and screaming back to the cross by the Reverend Howard, where he pinned me against the wall. Then with the hammer and nail, I had dropped, the Reverend while screaming, I WILL DESTROY THIS BAD SEED, the hammer would come down, and I would awake.

I would awake in my four-poster rosewood bed with the white lace canopy as I trembled in a pool of sweat while hearing those terrifying screams and those woods, BAD SEED!, BAD SEED!, coming from my mouth.

There I would lie awake the rest of the night, afraid to close my eyes, afraid to dream and end up like Jesus.

During those early years of my childhood, nannies came and went, none of whom I remember with fondness. It wasn't until my mother's sister, Marion, a spinster, came to live with us that my reoccurring dream finally ceased to exist.

I was nine years old when she arrived from Halifax. It was love at first sight when I saw her step down from the train. It was like looking at the picture of my mother that hung over the mantle in our parlour.

I can't tell you how happy I felt at that moment. For the first time in my life, I knew what real joy was. She was like the breath of spring that melts the cold heart of winter and brings everything back to life.

You came just in time, Marion, Papa said, as he loaded her carpet bags and hat boxes beside me in the jump seat of his pride and joy, (a gas-operated Le Roy road-runner).

I'll be leaving for the Indies in the next few days, he announced, while opening the door for her. Hop in, he said in a carefree manner.

Well! George, aren't you going to introduce me to this beautiful little creature in the jump seat first, she said, looking straight into my eyes.

For the first time in my life, I felt shy. I felt heat just beneath my cheeks and bowed my head from her gaze. Then gently, with the tip of a gloved finger, she brushed the strands of hair that had fallen loose from my blue ribbons and tucked them behind my ear as she kissed me on my forehead.

Finally, I found the courage to look directly into her eyes, praying that I wouldn't see any fear in them. And my prayers were answered for what I saw in those beautiful brown eyes was compassion, understanding, and love. And, as I looked into those beautiful eyes, I felt the ache that had lived in my heart since the day I was born, begin to dissipate.

That was the beginning of my new life.

Oh! Oh! I hear the sound of keys banging against the rod-iron railing. Ava is here! I must hurry back downstairs. Bye for now, Dear Heart.

NEXT CHAPTER TO FOLLOW SHORTLY

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