Angie
07-26-2012, 09:51 AM
Day:
Solitude helps the mind focus. I find that I now spend a great deal of my time contemplating the ancient tree beneath my window. I know, intimately, the gnarled, reaching branches, the twisted and stretching boughs, patched with white lichen and suffocated on one side by tenacious ivy. When the Spring comes, the oak leaves will erupt in frothy lime green and, for a few weeks, the tree will become beautiful and alive. But for now it creaks and bends in the winter storms; desolate and vulnerable. Whenever the lightning comes, I pray it will not strike this tree. It punctures the monotony of my life. Sometimes I watch it move in the wind until the light fades and it is too dark to see.
Night:
I cannot stop the dreams. I am lying, laughing in the grass. It is soft and springy. We are side by side. He turns to face me and removes a tendril of hair which has fallen across my face. His hands are coarse and weathered, his eyes dark. Sometimes I wish he could devour me: I would jump willingly, with my soul, into his waiting mouth. We lay together so many times, beneath the shining frame of Orion. Bound by the firelight; his men kept their distance. This is what I relive night after night; he holds me in my dreams and I awake to nothing.
Day:
The ruins of the Abbey are just visible over the softly creased horizon. It wasn't so long ago that the Abbott was roasted - a particularly brutal torture. Roasted in his hallowed home and yet allowed to survive. That, surely, is the most brutal part. Living a shadow of a life, preserved in torment until the peace of death claimed him. I like to imagine he is watching from his tower, not unlike my own; a lone window facing mine. I imagine him staring across Maybole with his ghost eyes. A kindred spirit. They say he haunts Crossraguel. Perhaps one day I will haunt this castle and we will languish; two ghosts, staring from two towers, punctuating the bland Ayrshire countryside.
No. This thought is not a comfort. I pray there will be peace in death and that I will be with him once again. There is nothing left for me in this existence.
Night:
Sometimes in my dreams his eyes are crinkled and smiling, sometimes they are wide with fear. I'm not sure which is the worst form of nightmare; when I imagine him still with me or when I re-enact his death. My Lord knew how best to punish me and what I saw will not be softened by the passing of time. I cannot erase his face as he was dragged from me. Or his set smile on that very last day.
After these dreams I weep anew. Time means nothing.
Day:
When they built this tomb for me they chose to remind me of the deaths I was responsible for. The stonemason wrought seven faces around my window - the images of Johnny and his men. The likenesses were gleaned from their deathmasks and are only accurate in terms of death. Faces warped with fear and regret. My Lord was thorough in his punishment. It is a blessing that the faces are outside my window and not within my room. They still haunt me, especially his.
Other than the ornate window surround, my room was completely bare. It is not now. Tapestry is my rebellion. The countless days have allowed me to create scenes of beauty. My captors bring me everything I need. It is a lady's pastime and they cannot deny me the silks and Hessian I require. My frame sits by the window and upon it I weave the fragile taste of freedom I once savoured - Johnny and his men: their wooden painted homes, fires, and laughter. I line my walls with what could have been mine and the vibrant colours soothe me. They will burn them after I am gone but, until then, this is my tribute to those seven faces - the Romanies who sacrificed themselves; for nothing.
Night:
On stormy nights, when I hear the boughs crashing and the whipping of the leaves I dream of that day now thirty years past.
The grey dawn brought torrents of cruel rain. Rivulets of water ran down my back and the heavy folds of my dress were plastered against my body. Through every layer, the freezing liquid seeped. The melancholy of black was my only solace. I did not lower my head against the rain and it rolled down my face like tears.
'Observe the infamous Johnny Fa,' the Earl of Casillis spat. His soldiers shuffled uncertainly from foot to foot, eyeing the trees and the road to the Green.. The 'infamous' Johnny Fa had a fierce reputation and they half expected a rescue party. The Earl had been quick, however, and no heroic ambush materialised. One hour from capture to execution. My Lord was a proud man and pride made him cruel. How could I prefer the harsh beauty of nature to living in his grand house as his Lady festering slowly?
'Why?' he had asked 'You are mine. I gave you all this.' I did not answer. I was never his. He thought it poetic justice to force me to watch and be tortured by the sight ever-after.
Most of the time, thankfully, I awaken before the culmination of the dream.
Day:
There is a funeral today in Maybole. I can see the mourners gather. It seems the whole town is gathered below my tower. It is for him of course; the Earl of Casillis. At the ripe age of seventy and after a long illness he has succumbed to death. The servants tell me things. Most do not even know why I am imprisoned and think of me as a polite and harmless old lady. They do not see the once-beautiful and brazen wife of the Earl who ran off with a marauding gypsy. He replaced me, of course, with a younger and more malleable wife. I can see her in the funeral carriage, flanked by her children. She weeps uncontrollably. Perhaps he was kinder to her. She turns her head up towards my window. I shrink back into the room and return to my tapestry. As to the passing of my husband; I can feel nothing.
Solitude helps the mind focus. I find that I now spend a great deal of my time contemplating the ancient tree beneath my window. I know, intimately, the gnarled, reaching branches, the twisted and stretching boughs, patched with white lichen and suffocated on one side by tenacious ivy. When the Spring comes, the oak leaves will erupt in frothy lime green and, for a few weeks, the tree will become beautiful and alive. But for now it creaks and bends in the winter storms; desolate and vulnerable. Whenever the lightning comes, I pray it will not strike this tree. It punctures the monotony of my life. Sometimes I watch it move in the wind until the light fades and it is too dark to see.
Night:
I cannot stop the dreams. I am lying, laughing in the grass. It is soft and springy. We are side by side. He turns to face me and removes a tendril of hair which has fallen across my face. His hands are coarse and weathered, his eyes dark. Sometimes I wish he could devour me: I would jump willingly, with my soul, into his waiting mouth. We lay together so many times, beneath the shining frame of Orion. Bound by the firelight; his men kept their distance. This is what I relive night after night; he holds me in my dreams and I awake to nothing.
Day:
The ruins of the Abbey are just visible over the softly creased horizon. It wasn't so long ago that the Abbott was roasted - a particularly brutal torture. Roasted in his hallowed home and yet allowed to survive. That, surely, is the most brutal part. Living a shadow of a life, preserved in torment until the peace of death claimed him. I like to imagine he is watching from his tower, not unlike my own; a lone window facing mine. I imagine him staring across Maybole with his ghost eyes. A kindred spirit. They say he haunts Crossraguel. Perhaps one day I will haunt this castle and we will languish; two ghosts, staring from two towers, punctuating the bland Ayrshire countryside.
No. This thought is not a comfort. I pray there will be peace in death and that I will be with him once again. There is nothing left for me in this existence.
Night:
Sometimes in my dreams his eyes are crinkled and smiling, sometimes they are wide with fear. I'm not sure which is the worst form of nightmare; when I imagine him still with me or when I re-enact his death. My Lord knew how best to punish me and what I saw will not be softened by the passing of time. I cannot erase his face as he was dragged from me. Or his set smile on that very last day.
After these dreams I weep anew. Time means nothing.
Day:
When they built this tomb for me they chose to remind me of the deaths I was responsible for. The stonemason wrought seven faces around my window - the images of Johnny and his men. The likenesses were gleaned from their deathmasks and are only accurate in terms of death. Faces warped with fear and regret. My Lord was thorough in his punishment. It is a blessing that the faces are outside my window and not within my room. They still haunt me, especially his.
Other than the ornate window surround, my room was completely bare. It is not now. Tapestry is my rebellion. The countless days have allowed me to create scenes of beauty. My captors bring me everything I need. It is a lady's pastime and they cannot deny me the silks and Hessian I require. My frame sits by the window and upon it I weave the fragile taste of freedom I once savoured - Johnny and his men: their wooden painted homes, fires, and laughter. I line my walls with what could have been mine and the vibrant colours soothe me. They will burn them after I am gone but, until then, this is my tribute to those seven faces - the Romanies who sacrificed themselves; for nothing.
Night:
On stormy nights, when I hear the boughs crashing and the whipping of the leaves I dream of that day now thirty years past.
The grey dawn brought torrents of cruel rain. Rivulets of water ran down my back and the heavy folds of my dress were plastered against my body. Through every layer, the freezing liquid seeped. The melancholy of black was my only solace. I did not lower my head against the rain and it rolled down my face like tears.
'Observe the infamous Johnny Fa,' the Earl of Casillis spat. His soldiers shuffled uncertainly from foot to foot, eyeing the trees and the road to the Green.. The 'infamous' Johnny Fa had a fierce reputation and they half expected a rescue party. The Earl had been quick, however, and no heroic ambush materialised. One hour from capture to execution. My Lord was a proud man and pride made him cruel. How could I prefer the harsh beauty of nature to living in his grand house as his Lady festering slowly?
'Why?' he had asked 'You are mine. I gave you all this.' I did not answer. I was never his. He thought it poetic justice to force me to watch and be tortured by the sight ever-after.
Most of the time, thankfully, I awaken before the culmination of the dream.
Day:
There is a funeral today in Maybole. I can see the mourners gather. It seems the whole town is gathered below my tower. It is for him of course; the Earl of Casillis. At the ripe age of seventy and after a long illness he has succumbed to death. The servants tell me things. Most do not even know why I am imprisoned and think of me as a polite and harmless old lady. They do not see the once-beautiful and brazen wife of the Earl who ran off with a marauding gypsy. He replaced me, of course, with a younger and more malleable wife. I can see her in the funeral carriage, flanked by her children. She weeps uncontrollably. Perhaps he was kinder to her. She turns her head up towards my window. I shrink back into the room and return to my tapestry. As to the passing of my husband; I can feel nothing.