The following is scrolled in a careful hand, with tightly looped letters. The page bears shallow indentations beneath each strand of script, betraying the author's meticulous need for even, guided lines.
I have not slept more than a meager handful of hours each night in the year since my return to town. I keep out of the way, mostly. My sister has graciously permitted me to remain hidden, even in the bustle of winter festivities, and the influx of disease come Spring. She is happy here. Happier still whenever she's with James. And I'm glad.
She was the reason for all of this, and my saviour when I had need of one.
But the longer I remain here, the louder my memories grow. I have seen him in the town, but I know not whether he is truly here, or if it is only my mind playing tricks. As guilty as I feel, and as desperately as I have clung to the band around my finger, I hope it is the latter. Were he still alive...
I mustn't think such things. It is a waste of parchment. Ilonna said that writing might ease my mind, but it seems to only further cloud my thoughts. When last I wrote at all, it was in bitterness, but Wormwood has been scarce enough that she has all but vanished from my thoughts. I must attend to the crimes of my own committing, from so very long ago, for they pull me down like a lead weight in water, and each step I take is slowed by the mire of restlessness and remorse.
I.
In the deep Chetwood you call me
In a soft and lilting tone
You call my name so sweetly
But you never left my home.
In the fading hours I’m restless
For your name clings like a sheet
For your wordless cry rings loudly
And my heart is scared to beat.
I know not why they took you
But I pray the fey knew best
Those spirits who caressed you;
Stole the breaths within your breast.
In the quiet times I utter
Whispered prayers to let you know
I still tend the rose-tree o’er you—
I still long to watch you grow.
II.
In the black of the night they wake me
in a cold, cool sweat
They cry my name fearfully
But I haven’t met them yet.
In the bright of day they watch me
With a savage, profane thirst
They watch my every footstep
But together we are curst.
In the dying light I fear them
When I pass through cobbled streets
For they never laid eyes on me
But I know we’ll someday meet.
III.
Beg your sisters to forgive me
For they know what I have done
For three times they never were borne;
You are my only one.
Tell your sisters how I love them
How their little stirs brought light
When I felt them safe within me
In the quiet of the night.
Ask your sisters to release me
Though I know I’ll suffer more
I must ever be reminded
Of the babes I never bore.
IV.
Say your mother frail is sorry
For his heavy hand that hit
If I hadn't seen the healer
They would ne’er be freed of it.
Say your mother frail is sorry
For the weakness of her mind
For the home that lay in waiting
Would never have been kind.
Say your mother frail is sorry
For the weakness of her womb
For her body would not bear them
I was formed to be a tomb.
I dream of them always. Tilda most of all. I think of that morning by her cradle, when we found her lying with all the life of a bundle of sawdust left in her veins. She was so small, and so beautiful... Of my four she was the only one I held. I couldn't bring myself to hold the others--they were too fragile, too small. Malformed. I know I did what I had to do. Each time Ryland threatened me, accused me of infidelity. How much worse would it have been, had they been born, whole and christened and alive? What new torment would assail us?
I fixate on the wickedness of Ibota Wormwood, but I know I shouldn't. Such a thing is self-indulgent. It alleviates the weight of my own misdeeds. But the longer I remain here, the heavier they grow... I must search for a different place. I need to get away.
Farewell,
Anola Morley
