Episode 1

 

My tongue licked the sweat coming down his neck, and I could feel a certain part of him through my clothing. He grabbed my skirts and hiked them higher and higher until his hand was on my thigh. His other hand wandered to my breasts, freeing one of them above the neckline of my dress. As his mouth sought what it desired, I heard the door open.

Phee’s voice crackled; the upturned corner of her mouth and widened eyes betrayed her excitement. “Auntie, I had no idea you ever wrote such things! And this story of a white woman and a half-breed surely must have been revolutionary when it was written.”

The stately spinster lowered the newspaper she was attempting to read; at seventy years of age, she was nearly blind. Under her breath, she uttered, “These reconstructionists! Really, they could be more gracious in their victory. Five long years it has been, and still they must gloat.” She removed her spectacles as her niece sputtered on.

“Really, my admiration for you has doubled, if such is possible! I could not put it down. But…” Phee paced in front of the stately spinster. “But what I must learn is whether this came entirely from your imagination, because, well, you know what they say about writers describing experiences they know best.”

Miss Eugenia O. Harris patted the cushion next to her indicating the young woman should join her on the ornately carved loveseat. “If you require a full explanation, we might be here awhile.”

Before plopping down, Phee added a log to the woodstove near her great-aunt’s feet. Best to keep her comfortable, she thought. She might then be more lucid. Not given over to the flights of fancy she has sometimes.

Miss Eugenia was of an age to prop her legs up without apology. She was therefore grateful her grand-niece placed a tufted stool in front of her, bringing her high-top shoes inches from the stove’s door.

The two often spent Sunday afternoons reading and writing letters in Miss Eugenia’s front room. Her nephew—Phee’s father—owned the house, and the formal parlor had been made over into two rooms in which the grande dame could live.

“So, you have found a volume of scribblings from long ago. Before you, or even your mother, was born! And now, you wish to know if any of the story was based on something I actually experienced.”

Just as Phee was about to sit, her elder required a teapot. “Questions in need of a response might require more than one cup of Earl Grey.”

Phee rummaged a nearby shelf, located the pot and filled it with water from a jug. Next, she placed the pot atop the stove. Finally, she settled in, leaning so her great-aunt could extend her arm and bring the girl close. It relieved her that her auntie did not seem offended or embarrassed.

“Ophelia, how much of the volume did you read? All of it?”

Phee smirked. “I might have.”

Miss Eugenia straightened up, withdrew her arm and turned toward her grand-niece. “Well, then, we shall require a month of Sundays to fully understand. Would you mind, dear, sitting across from me? I do not intend to strain my neck trying to explain.”

The younger lady wondered if the request for some distance between the two was a result of an irritation. She resettled herself, having moved the matching wing chair closer. The oak straight chair nearer to Miss Eugenia would be excruciating after a long while.

“Now, answer me truthfully: how far down in that trunk did you go when you went through my private things?”

“Auntie! I am so sorry!” Phee stood, wringing her hands. “I was moving things around in the attic and noticed the dusty old trunk under some hat boxes. It wasn’t locked, by the way.” Miss Eugenia crossed her arms, but her face was unreadable.

 “I thought the volume was just an old Bible underneath one of your old dresses. But when I opened it, I could not help but read the first page or two.”

“Clearly, you ventured further.”

Phee knew she should be embarrassed. But she was much too curious.

The old lady sighed. She reached for the quilt next to her and pulled it atop. Phee noticed a detail she had not paid attention to in all the occasions she had visited: in one square was a black patch embroidered in gold thread. It looked like a dark sky with stars and what might be a moon. The orb was uniquely stitched, half in silver, half in red.

Phee’s attention turned to the face she had known for as long as she could remember. Auntie cleared her throat after first attempting to speak. She tried again.

“Niece, it has been a long while since I have perused that journal. My eyes are not as they once were, so perhaps if you could read it aloud, I can give it the context you desire.” This was followed by a muttering. “Damn eyes!”

Phee nearly spewed her mouthful of tea. Auntie had a way of thinking aloud, not realizing she was instead sharing her innermost thoughts.

“I don’t remember very well what was written. I can always stop her at any point. Or ask her to skip ahead. Or at least explain,” she whispered loudly to her hands.

To her niece, she nodded. “May as well start at the beginning. Certainly not at that passage you read aloud a moment ago.”

This should be interesting.

“Auntie, I see some pages have been torn out throughout the book. Or perhaps they crumbled. But I shall read from what appears to be the beginning. Can you tell me when this story takes place?”

Miss Eugenia looked up and to the left, then down and to the right.

“Sometime before the ‘Trail of Tears’. And just after Alabama became a state. We moved there two years prior to that, in 1818. Not that this story has anything to do with my family…”

Phee grinned and then took a sip of tea. She began.

“In the morning, before the scorching heat and oppressive humidity descend, I often wander to a stream nearby. There, a flat rock worn smooth by the now receded waters awaits me. Moss kept green by the overhanging shade and the mist of the waters envelop the stone, thus providing a comfortable cushion. From thence, I contemplate the wonders of the universe…”

She glanced over to her relative.

“Auntie, you are nearly a poet!”

“I do not remember writing that. Maybe I didn’t.”

Since the last part was uttered from underneath her breath, Phee assumed it was another private thought.

“Auntie, did you have help writing this?”

The dowager appeared puzzled.

“I do not remember.”

As the last was hesitantly said, Phee wondered at the truth of of it. Would she not be familiar? Did someone else write this? A friend, perhaps?

“Was this in Pennsylvania?”

“Heavens no. Alabama.” Miss Eugenia was incredulous at such a question. The girl should know that anything written that long ago would not be where they now lived. But she softened and explained. “The place of my childhood and all of my fond memories. Mostly fond memories.” Directing an arthritic finger at the younger woman, she added, “Read on.”

“My family has only recently settled in this region of newly ceded lands relinquished after the conquest of savages. On the other side of the river bounding our property, the lands are still within Indian domain.”

Phee put the volume down.

“Savages? Did they really call them that back then?”

“You must understand that young girls who had few encounters with anyone unlike themselves were not only fearful, but sometimes they repeated words learned from less enlightened people. Worry not. You will find few, if any, further references to Indians as such. Resume, please,” she added, her mouth set in a firm, thin line.

“In the afternoon in late June of the prior year…”

“Likely 1820 or thereabouts,” Auntie interjected.

“…I saw a native across the stream from me. I could not make out facial features, but his clothing, odd beaver hat, and the distinct manner he wore his hair told me he was Creek, probably of the tribe just across the water. He sat astride a magnificent chestnut-hued stallion, pointed upriver toward the falls. I sensed his peaceful calm. He gazed in my direction without a change in his demeanor, then returned to his regard of the falls for a moment or two before disappearing into the nearby woods. Thus begins the story of how this man became dear to me, a White girl, a stranger to heathens. This is a winding tale, not arriving at an easy, logical explanation. Instead, it follows the heart, which goes where it must.”

Phee closed the book, her finger remaining on the page where she left off. She had not actually read the entire volume before that day; she brought it to her aunt’s attention within an hour of discovering it. But she had read enough to have so many questions?

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