Tag: Pioneers

Uncategorized

Berry Picking

The Sicilian Storyteller

Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge has once again
challenged us to write a Six Sentence Story
using the prompt word “nail”. This is my story.

When I first saw him I thought I was hallucinating (was this a real person or a fear-induced illusion?) and I knew I had to remain perfectly still and quiet – my very life depended on it.

I had no idea how long I’d been there – certainly long enough for my skin to have turned red, my mouth parched, my lips cracked and I remember being stung and bitten by insects and digging my nails into the palms of my hands to keep from crying out, but I recall now 
 we were picking flowers and berries in a sun-filled field 
 we had been following a stream and unknowingly wandered far from home when I caught sight of a bush hidden deep in a shady area; the plant was heavy with ripe blackberries and I couldn’t resist running to the bush, happily filling my bucket with the deep purple fruit.

I was busy plucking berries when I heard screams – not the usual giddy, playful squeals of young girls but awful shrieks of terror and I started to run back only to see my three sisters encircled by a group of Indians, hulking and menacing men, blocking the girl’s attempts to flee; they wore breechcloths across their midsection, moccasins and no shirts, their faces painted and their heads shaved except for a center strip of upright long hair and I knew immediately they were the dreaded Mohawk.

They tugged the girl’s long blonde hair, poked them with sticks and tore at their starched white dresses.

I wanted to shout out but was too afraid and I hid while my sweet little sisters were raped and raped and raped.

At 15, I was the eldest and I was supposed to protect them; how could I be such a coward?

NAR©2024

Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt!

This is Albinoni’s ‘Adagio In G Minor”

Uncategorized

ACROSS ANNISQUAM RIVER

The Sicilian Storyteller

“Settle yourselves, sinners, and be silent!” bellowed Roderick, vicar of the Olde Annisquam Church. “Prepare to hear the word of the Lord!”

Bearing a strong resemblance to the smarmy, reptilian Uriah Heep with his pointy hawk-like nose, long chicken neck, stringy faded red hair and spindly legs, Roderick was far from the image of a kindly and jovial clergyman. The menfolk detested him, the women shied away from him and the children were frightened of him but he was the only pastor assigned to the villagers of Gloucester, Massachusetts. In fact, the vicar established a mandatory attendance policy that forced the faithful residents to row across the Annisquam River to the church every Sunday – an act that did nothing to improve his popularity or likability.

The vicar continued: “A reading from the Book of Judges. The Lord God madest man to have dominion over the work of his hands and by this you shall have enrichments in everything; blessed are you who believe and act accordingly.” Roderick closed the Bible loudly and preached for the next hour about the “lazy, disreputable and ignorant wretches of Gloucester.” Then like a man possessed he screamed “Repent, ye sinners, lest ye perish!”

No one ever left Sunday services feeling good about themselves. The villagers rowed back across the Annisquam, relieved they had to see the vicar only once a week. He was reprehensible but they were stuck with him. Why he chose to live in the small annex house beside the old church was a mystery; there was a perfectly good church with an attached rectory in the village but Roderick preferred to keep his distance. He didn’t even have a boat to get across the river and he never visited the village, which was quite acceptable with the residents.

The story that everyone heard was that Roderick had a woman who cooked and cleaned for him. Her name was Chenoa, the last of the Agawam Indian tribe; all her clan had succumbed to the plague. Chenoa lived in the forest behind the old church where she hunted and often fished in the Annisquam River. She raised goats and chickens, grew vegetables and maintained a small crop of barley, corn, rye and wheat from which she made bread and whiskey for the elbow-bending vicar.

People talked as they are wont to do; all agreed the relationship seemed particularly strange. Was Chenoa employed by the vicar? He certainly didn’t seem the charitable type. Late one night a few boys decided to paddle across the Annisquam to see what they could find out. Hearing shouting, they crept up to the annex house and peeked in a window.

Roderick was obviously drunk and yelling at a frightened Chenoa; she had overcooked his evening meal and had to face her punishment. The boys were startled when the vicar threw his glass across the room and reached for a birch cane by the hearth. He grabbed Chenoa and ripped the front of her tunic from neck to hem, leaving her standing naked and trembling. He wrestled out of his waistcoat and began whipping Chenoa’s breasts as she whimpered. Purple welts appeared on her chest and bloody droplets trickled down her belly. The vicar dropped the whip and began licking the blood and hungrily sucking Chenoa’s breasts, all the while roughly shoving his fingers inside her. Sweating and breathing heavily, Roderick twisted Chenoa around and entered her from behind, fiercely plunging into her over and over until he cried out like an animal. When he was done he pushed her to the floor.

Scared out of their wits and afraid of being caught, the boys rowed home as fast as possible and told their parents what they had witnessed. The next morning the men reported the night’s horrendous events to the sheriff. They rowed out to investigate, shocked to discover the old church and annex house burned to the ground, still smoldering. Roderick was dead, sprawled just outside the door. An arrow stuck angrily out of his back and he had been scalped; there was no sign of Chenoa. No tears were shed for the ungodly vicar. The sheriff announced he wasn’t going to bother searching for the woman. As far as everyone was concerned, judgement had been served.

On a warm June morning the village women went berry picking by the river. They cried out in horror at the tragic sight before them: a despondent Chenoa had hanged herself from an oak tree across the Annisquam River. The papoose on her back cradled a sleeping infant with reddish hair and a tiny hawk-like nose. A scribbled note tucked inside read: “God forgive me. I cannot bear to look at him.”

Chenoa and Vicar Roderick

NAR © 2020

Reposted for Fandango’s FOWC – http://fivedotoh.com/2023/02/14/fowc-with-fandango-punish/

Uncategorized

HOME OF THE BRAVE

The Sicilian Storyteller

“Settlers from the east, father. When will they stop?” 

Chief Yonaguska looked down at the boy. â€œNever, my son, but if we are respectful of each other’s ways, there will be no trouble.” Father and son sat atop their horses, staring down at the wagon train.  

Wagon master Patrick Hall spied the Cherokees and whistled a Celtic melody, their established warning signal. The women and children took cover in the wagons while the men remained on their horses – one hand on the reins, the other fingering a shotgun. 

Cautiously, Yonaguska raised his arm in a sign of peace. Patrick did the same. Slowly Yonaguska and his son turned their horses around and returned to their tribe. 

“We’ll be gettin’ no trouble from those Cherokees” declared Patrick.  

“They’re all savages!” argued Donal Byrne “Ya shoulda just shot ‘em!” 

“I’ll not hear another remark like that again, Donal!“ replied Patrick angrily. â€œThis is a good spot to camp for a few days. We’ll give the horses a rest and do some huntin’ and fishing’.” 

When Patrick and a few men left, Donal and the others stayed behind to protection the women-folk and work on the wagons. The women baked bread while the younger children napped. Some older girls went to gather fruit and berries to make preserves. They were given orders to remain together and not go far but as young giggly girls are often wont to do, they didn’t pay attention and wandered off.  

Anxious about the girl’s tardiness, Donal and some of the men went looking for them. They became aware of faint screams in the distance. The men searched but couldn’t find the girls. Then they noticed discarded baskets, remnants of cloth and blood. Gathering the items, the men found their way back to camp just as Patrick and the hunting crew returned. 

Donal raced toward Patrick bellowing “See! I was right! Ya shoulda killed those savages when ya had the chance. Now they’ve taken our girls and God knows what they’ve done to them! I say we go get our girls back, even if we have to kill all them stinkin’ bastards!”

Just then Yonaguska and several braves appeared on the hilltop, the chief sitting imperially on his stallion. As they cautiously made their way down the hill, the settlers could see each brave carried a girl on his horse. Some of the girls were bleeding, their clothes rent. 

“Ya blasted barbarians! What have ya done to our girls?!” shouted Donal and he aimed his gun at Yonaguska. 

“Donal! Drop it or by God I’ll shoot ya where ya stand!” threatened Patrick. Begrudgingly, Donal lowered his gun.  “Now, Donal, take a look behind the chief’s horse.” 

Only then did everyone notice a giant dead grizzly bear. The girls explained how the bear had attacked them and the braves came to their rescue. The braves gently lowered the girls to the ground and they ran to their parents. 

With raised hand, Patrick stepped forward. “We have nothing to offer ya but our thanks and friendship for protecting our girls.” 

Yonaguska replied “Your girls were in peril. It is fortunate my braves were there to help. All we want is peace between us.” 

Then with a slight tug on his stallion’s rein, the Cherokee chief withdrew. He and his braves silently disappearing over the hill.

When cooler heads prevail, there will be no trouble.

NAR © 2019