Darkest Hour (Cutler 5)

The forest had grown quiet. The birds were in shock, too, I thought. What had started out as pleasurable and wonderful had become dark and frightening. The very shadows that had earlier looked cool and inviting now looked dark and ominous, and the wooded pathway that attracted me and promised enjoyment had turned into a formidable journey fraught with danger and peril.

I sat up, moaning softly. Just the idea of standing again seemed an enormous task. I took two deep breaths and struggled to my feet, rising like a woman of ninety. The moment I did so, I had to close my eyes because the woods had begun to spin. I waited, sucking in short breaths and holding my right palm against my heart as if I wanted to be sure it didn't pound its way out of my chest. Finally, my breathing and my heartbeat slowed and I opened my eyes.

The afternoon sun had dropped more quickly than I had realized. Shadows were deeper; the forest was colder. I started down the path again, trying to move quickly, but trying at the same time to avoid another unpleasant fall. The effects of this one had still not left me. My stomach continued to ache ominously, the dull but continuous pain traveling farther and farther down until I felt needles in my groin and every step became harder and harder.

I thought I had been walking for so long, but I recognized the surroundings and markings and knew that I was merely halfway back. Once again, fear had a strong hold over me and with it came a rush of heartbeats that took my breath away. I had to stop and take hold of a sapling and wait for the attack of anxiety to lessen. It did but it didn't disappear. I knew I had to continue and go as quickly as I could, for something strange and new was happening inside me. There was turmoil where there had never been turmoil before. The problem was that each and every new step forward only increased the pain, only encouraged the commotion.

Oh no, I thought. I'm not going to get back; I'm not going to make it. I started to shout, small, low cries at first, but then stronger and more desperate cries as I experienced more pain, more aches. My legs were rebelling, too. They didn't want to move forward and my back . . . it was as if someone were driving nails into it every time I moved forward. After a while I realized I had gone only a dozen or so yards. I screamed again and this time the effort made my brain reel and my eyes fall back. I gasped and sank to the forest floor once again, when all went black.

At first, when I regained consciousness, I thought I was up in my room in my bed dreaming, but the sensation of small ants and other insects crawling over my legs inside my skirt quickly reaffirmed my location. I brushed myself down and when I did so, I felt the warm, wetness trickling down my calves. There was just enough daylight streaming in between the trees and leaves for me to see it was blood.

This new panic left me cold. My teeth actually began to click. I turned over and pushed myself up into a sitting position first. Then, I used the nearby sapling to lift myself to my feet. No longer aware of the pain, too numb with fear to realize if I were being scratched by bushes or nicked by branches, I plodded onward, moving forward ponderously but continuously. The moment I set eyes on the plantation house, I released another scream, this time calling on all my strength. Fortunately, Charles was just returning some equipment to the barn and heard me.

I suppose the sight of me was shocking: a pregnant young girl coming out of the forest, her hair disheveled, her face streaked with tears and mud. He simply stared. I didn't have the strength to scream again. I lifted my hand and waved and then my knees gave out and I fell very hard and very fast to the ground. I lay there, too exhausted to try to move. Instead, I closed my eyes.

I don't care anymore, I thought. I don't care. Let it end this way. We're both better off, my baby and me. Let it end. My prayer reverberated down the long, hollow corridor of my darkened mind. I didn't even hear anyone come; I didn't hear Papa shouting; I didn't feel myself being lifted. I kept my eyes closed and settled softly in my own comfortable world, a world away from pain and hate and trouble.

Days later, Vera told me Charles said I had a smile on my face all the way back to the house.

13

LITTLE CHARLOTTE, SWEET CHARLOTTE

"How dare you do this after Papa and I have worked so hard to keep the shame a secret!" Emily screeched down at me. With great effort, I opened my eyes and looked up at her twisted, angry face. Never were her stone-gray eyes as wide or as hot with rage. The corners of her contorted thin lips cut into her cheeks, and the center of her lower lip dipped so far, her dull teeth were exposed to her pale gums. Her lackluster hair dangled down the sides of her face, the dry strands split. Her fiery wrath made her snort through her small nostrils like a mad bulldog.

Shafts of sharp pain shot through my stomach, down to my groin and back up the sides of my body. I felt as if I had been lowered into a bathtub of kitchen knives. I groaned and tried to sit up, but my head was a lump of iron and I hadn't the strength in my neck to lift it an inch off the pillow. As best I could, I gazed around my room. For the moment I was so confused, I couldn't recall anything. Had I left the room, really snuck out and gone for a walk through the forest, or was that all a dream? No, it couldn't have been a dream, I thought. Emily wouldn't be screaming and wringing her hands about a dream.

Where was Papa? Where were Charles and Vera and anyone else who had assisted in my return? Did Mamma hear all the commotion and ask to know what had happened to me?

"Where were you? What were you trying to do?" Emily demanded. When I didn't respond, she took hold of my arm and shook me until I opened my eyes again. "Well?"

The pain took my breath away, but I gasped out my answer.

"I just . . . wanted to go outside, Emily. I . . . just wanted to take a walk and see . . . flowers and trees and . . . feel the sun on my face," I said.

"You fool, you little fool," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sure it was the devil himself who opened your locked door and urged you to go out."

Pain made me want to cry out, but I ignored it and fired back at Emily instead.

"No it wasn't, Emily. I did it myself because you and Papa made me desperate!"

"Don't you blame it on us. Don't you dare blame anything on me or Papa. We did what we had to do to restore righteousness in this house," she replied quickly.

"Where is Papa?" I asked, looking around again. I expected him to be in a worse rage, a veritable storm of anger raining curses and threats over me.

"He's gone for Mrs. Coons," she said, practically spitting the words down at me. "Thanks to you."

"Mrs. Coons?"

"Don't you know what you've done? You're bleeding. Something's happened to the baby inside you and it's all your fault. You've probably killed it," she accused, and stood back, her head bobbing on her long neck, her bony arms folded under her chest. Her skin was milk white at her pointed elbows.

"Oh no," I said. That was probably why I had so much pain. "Oh no."

"Yes

. Now you can add murderess to your list of sins. Is there anything or anyone you haven't touched or confronted and destroyed or harmed, anyone beside me?" she asked, and then quickly answered her own question. "Of course not. Why Papa expected it would be any different, I don't know. I told him; I warned him, but he thought he could make it all right again."

"Does Mamma know what happened to me?" I asked. Nothing Emily said mattered anymore to me. I decided to simply ignore her.