Read The Story of You and Me Online
Authors: Pamela DuMond
I was on my stomach lying on something rough and scratchy. I bet Dad had tucked me into bed with one of his favorite Mexican artisan hand made, wool blankets. I loved the beauty of the patterns, as well as the devotion and care that went into their craftsmanship. But I was allergic to wool and they made me itch. Which Dad always forgot.
I wiggled my fingers and opened my eyes. Everything was blurry. A chicken high-stepped in front of me and we made eye contact. Odd. First, ’cause I haven’t had a meaningful moment with a chicken unless it was seasoned with herbs de Provence’, baked and sitting next to some steamed vegetables on a plate in front of me. Second, because the hen and I were on the same level, both lying on an outdoor dirt ground interrupted with chewed up pieces of grass. Well, I was lying but the hen was walking.
The chicken stared at me, blinked and clucked like a worried mom. She apparently had other pressing concerns to attend to, so she abandoned me and strutted past more people lying on the ground.
One was a thin young woman collapsed on her stomach. A long skirt was bunched up over her knees and her legs were covered in weird white puffy leggings. She wore a long-sleeved shirt, and a little white cap shoved onto one side of her head. White cap?
I shut my eyes, exhausted. I couldn’t place this woman. I’d never seen her at school, or in any neighborhood I’d been in. Maybe she was a dream or a delusion. Possibly a character in an old movie I’d been watching before I fell asleep. I blinked, opened my eyes and the woman with the white cap was still in my peripheral vision. I turned my head toward her and my vision focused.
Her pretty face was twisted at an odd angle and her eyes stared frozen into mine. Her shirt buttoned all the way to her throat was caked in dark red drying blood, probably due to the fact that her neck was nearly severed. She was dead.
I hyperventilated and my stomach heaved. I rolled onto my side and vomited. I felt so embarrassed and wiped my mouth. I pushed myself up to my elbows glanced around and spotted more people, probably close to ten total—children, adults—all dressed in similar strange outfits laid twisted and torqued on the ground close by me. Where was I?
Most of the men were dead with gaping holes in their chests. Several woman and children looked like they were stabbed with knives or hatchets. An older guy even had crispy burnt pants and sleeves. I caught a glimpse of his arm. It was red and blistered. He didn’t care because he wasn’t breathing. They all were broken, bloody and definitely dead.
I pushed myself to sitting and winced in pain as my head throbbed. Something white and red hung in front of my eyes. I pulled the annoying thing off—it was a small white cap covered in blood, just like the cap on the woman with the severed neck.
But this was
my
bloody cap. Bile rose in my throat. I gagged and flung it as far away from me as possible.
I’ve had lots of nightmares in my life. Dreams of the car chase that led up to the car accident where Mama disappeared, and funky psychedelic dreams about those stained glass skylights at Preston Academy. The dreams didn’t usually make any sense, but this one had to be one the worst ever. This dream felt so
real
.
The broken earth rubbed against my skin and penetrated my pores. The leaves and grass underneath my body were scratchy. The smell of burning wood made my nose twitch. I sneezed and coughed.
I jammed my hands down the sides of my body searching for my anti-anxiety drugs but couldn’t find the bottle. What happened to my pockets? I had no pockets. I hyperventilated and tried to remember to breathe slow and relaxed, like in yoga: calm deep breaths in, soothing deep breaths out. That’s when I spotted the fiery remains of a small rustic cabin squatted on a low hill in the near distance. I started shaking.
Flames flared through this tiny wooden structure. Embers floated up into the air like fireflies twinkling just above my head at my grandparents’ place in the Wisconsin countryside during a late Indian summer. But I didn’t think this was Wisconsin.
I pushed myself off the ground and stumbled like a drunken person toward the cabin. Maybe I could help someone in there. Maybe someone could help me. “Hello?” I said. But nothing came out of my mouth and no one answered me.
I wiped away a few tears, saw blood on my hands and realized the cut on the right side of my head extended down into my forehead. It had bled through my hair and was seeping into my eye. “Is there anyone here?” I yelled. Again, apparently I was yelling to myself.
I put a hand to my mouth. My lips moved but I couldn’t talk. No sounds came out of my mouth. Why? What the hell was wrong with me?
There was a dark, dense forest about twenty yards from the rear of the torched, smoldering cabin. I squinted through the smoky air and wiped my eyes. Where was I? Was I back at the Chicago Neurological Foundation where they tried to diagnose my anxiety after Mama disappeared? Was I heavily medicated on major anti-psychotics and institutionalized someplace with locked doors, gates and guards? Had I finally lost it for good?
I closed my eyes and sat back on the ground. Maybe if I took a moment to center and calm myself, this crazy show playing in my head would disappear. I visualized myself tucked into bed, looking up at my ceiling at the glow stars and iridescent maps of the world that Dad had painted up there for me to look at when I couldn’t sleep. After a few moments I felt calmer and opened my eyes.
The same dead people lay on the ground and the cabin continued to simmer. A frustrated cry escaped my lips and I wiped my tears away with my blood stained muddied long sleeve. Then I realized—I had a voice. It was bare bones basic, but it was a voice.
In the distance I heard a worried adult female shout, “Abigail?”
I didn’t know who Abigail was, but I’d
love
to see a friendly person right about now. “Yes!” I said, but couldn’t quite get the word out of my mouth. Like I still didn’t know how to work this mouth, this voice.
“Abigail, we are coming for thee!” the woman said. Whoever she was couldn’t get here soon enough.
That’s when I first saw him.
He looked about my age, with strong cheekbones and black shiny hair that swept onto his shoulders. He wore a long tanned animal hide shirt and loose pants. He was tall, muscular, stunning. He also looked very much alive.
I really liked the alive part.
He and another big built young man skirted the remains of the torched cabin headed toward the forest. The other guy also had black hair but his skin was caramel. He wore old-fashioned pilgrim breeches and a plain shirt. They carried bows and arrows. The one clutched a knife. They looked hard and tough like rebels or even the punks on the el platform.
The young man with the strong cheekbones scanned the scene. His gaze was intense, especially when it landed on me. His hazel eyes regarded me with coldness, disdain. Why, I had no idea. He looked dangerous but not like a killer. There was something different about him that I couldn’t explain. He nodded at me once, turned and followed the other guy into the forest.
And left me with all the dead people.
Except for the woman who kept calling for Abigail. I spotted her. She was pretty, young and accompanied by two men, one older and one younger. They were dressed in strange pilgrim attire and crouched low to the ground as they crept up the hill toward the cabin and me.
The woman paused next to a body of a girl lying on her stomach on the ground. The woman bit her lip so hard I thought she’d draw blood. “Abigail?” she asked.
The older man kneeled in the dirt and turned the girl’s body over. “She’s dead, Mistress. They’re all dead,” he said.
The woman grimaced, leaned over, smoothed back the blood caked hair that covered the dead girl’s face. She looked relieved, then embarrassed. “Tis not Abigail.” She gently shut the dead girl’s eyes with her hand. “Go to God.”
“Mistress Elizabeth.” The older man pushed himself back to standing. “I pray that your cousin is alive. But you are in grave danger here. Daniel will escort you back to the garrison. I will look for Abigail.”
Elizabeth jutted her chin out, determined. “Most of our men are days’ journey away fighting this war. I am not a foolish woman and do not for one second believe we are that much safer at the garrison, either.” She stood up incredibly tall and stared down the man who challenged her.
“But we are in the middle of a war, as these bodies and burnt buildings attest to.” He gestured broadly. “I swore an oath to King Charles II, whom I have never met, to fight this war and protect this land. I promised your husband, General Jebediah Ballard, whom I have fought next to in battle, dined with and respect deeply, that I would keep you, his wife, safe from harm.”
“Abigail is my cousin,” Elizabeth said. “Dead or alive I will find her. Only then will I return to the garrison.” She scrutinized the area. “Abigail?” she hollered.
Elizabeth looked so nice, so sweet and I really needed a friend. Even if this was only a dream, I wanted a friend. So I made a decision.
“Yes,” I said and the word came out of my mouth garbled. I lifted my arm off the dirt high up in the air to get Elizabeth’s attention. But she was already turning in my direction. ’Cause she heard me.
Her hand clasped her chest and she froze for a second. And melted just as quickly. “Abigail!
Elizabeth raced toward me, maneuvering around dead bodies, singed grass, smoldering bales of hay, a small wooden wagon that was tipped over on its side. “Abigail!” She skidded to a stop and awkwardly fell to her knees next to me.
“It is a miracle you are alive!” She burst into tears and threw her arms around me. “I knew it. I felt it in my soul. God wouldn’t let you die. You had to be here.” She hugged me, tight.
Her embrace filled me with joy but practically killed my back and my ribs. I winced.
Elizabeth got it and released me slowly back to the earth. She frowned and fussed over me. “Your head is bleeding. I need to see your wound.” She smoothed my bloody hair back from my forehead. “It is deep but I believe if we use the doctor’s medicine it will heal just right,” she said. “Where else do you have pain?”
I tried to shrug my shoulders, but that hurt too, so I stopped. “I’m okay, I think.” I didn’t tell Elizabeth that this moment only existed in my dream. That the next minute we might be wearing tutus, eating cupcakes at some cute bakery and dishing about guys. This definitely wasn’t the time to tell her that.
Elizabeth’s male guardians arrived and stared at me, relieved but worried.
“William.” Elizabeth pointed at the older man. “Give Abigail water.” He did. Elizabeth propped me up as I sipped from a small metal cup. “When I heard the rumors Philip’s warriors attacked the Endicott settlement, I went mad with worry,” she said.
“Dearest cousin, I prayed you were alive.” She blinked and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “My prayers are answered because here you are, Abigail. You are the only one alive. God has plans for you.”
Even though this was a terrible nightmare
Elizabeth was kind.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” I said and stopped talking because even I heard those words exit my mouth. They were quiet words but sounded normal. At least I wasn’t some daft mute in this dream.
“I’m really sorry, but…” I put my hand to my head, where it throbbed like crazy. “I’m not sure where I am.”
“You have been through a distressing ordeal. I cannot imagine what you have seen.” She motioned to the young man behind her. “Daniel hand me the medicinals.” He gave her a flask.
She leaned back toward me with the tin cup re-filled with water. “Drink this. You are safe for now,” she said. “But we need to leave here, quickly.”
I glanced around; saw all the dead twisted bodies and the burning cabin. I looked up into the sky that had puffs of smoke and birds flying through them cawing to each other, like old friends saying hello. How could all these birds be so calm during this bloodbath?
I started shaking again. “Where am I?”
“All will be fine.” She held the cup next to my lips. “Drink.”
I did. Almost immediately I felt relaxed, calmer. I wondered where all those birds were going and I remembered the beautiful young man dressed in animal skins with long black hair that curled around his shoulders.
My body felt tingly, my brain a little fuzzy. I swear I saw Mama standing behind Elizabeth. She regarded me with a flash of excitement in her clear eyes. She held up something small that was overall dull but still had a hint of a sparkle. I couldn’t make out what it was.
But Mama was so excited and said, ”Look Madeline! It’s an important piece of our puzzle. I think I found the place where this puzzle piece fits just perfectly.” She laughed and grabbed my six-year-old hands. We giggled, held hands and spun in circles in the center of a green grassy field filled with wild flowers.
Links
Book Cover Designer:
Michael James Canales
Book Editing:
Chase Heiland
Pamela DuMond’s Books:
Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys
http://www.amazon.com/Cupcakes-Annie-Graceland-Mystery-ebook/dp/B008PIDYJI/ref=tmm_kin_title_0
Cupcakes, Sales, and Cocktails - A Novella
http://www.amazon.com/Cupcakes-Cocktails-Graceland-Mystery-ebook/dp/B006PU7RU0/ref=pd_sim_kstore_1