Harbouring Grace

Gusts of wind thrummed and creaked through the timberline of firs hedging the rocky lichen and grass covered outcropping of the rugged Newfoundland coast. Far below, crashing waves thrashed the craggy shore, as squawking sea birds darted in and out of their nests on the cliff’s façade. Dark clouds hung in the sky with the withered expression of an old crone, sour, dull and ominous.

Here and there amongst the tall grasses, lichens and flattened rocks were the scorched remains of buildings that had once held purchase in this harsh landscape. A wharf of rough-hewn timber trailed into the sea on stilts that defied the icy water below. Nearby were the ghostly remains of a small building that had been used to store fishing supplies. Gone were the flakes which last summer hung heavy with salted cod. Instead, blackened ashy smudges accented the rugged shore. Further back, near the tree line and rambling river were three small shelters which had survived the fires. They were rough hewn shacks with a door that faced away from the water to protect the inside from cold winds and salty ocean spray. Within the dwellings stood four wooden bunkbeds lining both walls. They remained intact. On the North facing walls of each shack small pot-bellied stoves stood strong and unmolested. Fortunately, they were impossible to be destroyed by brute strength alone and remained in the shells of buildings that housed them. These primitive dwellings provided lodging and warmth on cold spring nights to the fishermen who worked the bays and inlets off this coast of Newfoundland.

The fishermen returned to this small community from their native England only to find their camps ransacked by the natives who inhabited the island. Pots, ladles, fishing hooks and lines were amongst the missing. At least some of the buildings remained intact. But doors left open, were refuge to rodents and other small animals searching shelter from the cold. The bunkhouses could be restored. The flakes and store house were another matter completely.

Long days would be spent by the fishermen cutting timber and hauling it down from the forest to work the rebuilds. The men were not pleased at the extra work that was cutting into precious fishing time. There was a least a week’s worth of rebuilding, repairing and cleaning. As the men worked, a distant drumming sounded in the distance. The angry pounding continued relentlessly through the days and nights. It drove everyone fiercely mad. Everyone, that is, except the captain’s wife, Lila.

Lila found solace hearing the beating drums, noting in it the all too familiar feeling of rage. She was drawn to it in an odd way and moved to the beat as she worked. It drove her forward, as she whipped through the debris and rubble in the small dwellings near the forest. Cleaning, cooking and unpacking crates were all tasks entrusted to her. Lila began fires in pot-bellied stoves in each of the shacks to rid them of dampness which permeated everything. She whisked away clutter, her broom matching the pace of the thumping drums. Lila feverishly thrashed the dust from bedding that was brought up from the ship. All the while, her body kept pace with the beat of the far-off drumming. Each thud accentuated her every move. The sound rocked away images of a faraway land that she loved. It mimicked her deep loathing for life on this desolate rock. Lastly, it quieted memories of the voyage across the Atlantic.

Lila worked hard to repress memories while at sea. It was where she lost the small life that once lived within her. On the ship’s voyage to Newfoundland, she delivered her stillborn baby. It came four months too soon. She would have liked to blame the heaving ship and seasickness, but she knew better. The ship slid about in the icy waters. Like a cat upon a frozen pond, it lurched about attempting to find purchase but never gaining solid footing. On the first day out at sea violent bouts of vomiting began. Lila attempted to keep broth down, but even that was too much for her. After a month of being tossed about like a rag doll, the contractions began. Lila cried out for help. On hands and knees, she prayed to God not to take her child. Help came not from God nor man. Alone in her small compartment in the hull of the ship, a sickly blue and withered thing slithered forth from her sweat drenched body. It came in a fervor as if spit from the molten fires of hell, gushing forth from her fat and fetid womb. Lila’s scream matched the howling wind. So enraged was she, that the one thing she wanted had not even a chance to suck the air of this world. No, it had died within her. How could it grow ripe and healthy? As she stood on the cold and rugged shores, Lila wept recalling her husband’s cruelty as he mercilessly threw the bundle overboard.

She pushed these memories from her as she stood upon the flat rocks above the craggy shore. A week had passed since they first landed. The punt had made its way to and from the ship with the crates and stock necessary for the summer stay. Lila worked hard to get the shacks ready as sleeping quarters. She longed to get off that wretched ship. It took the better part of four days to make life on shore a reality. Now, after a week’s work, the flake was finished as was the storage shed by the wharf. A new shelter for Lila and her husband, Ned, was in the making. He had brought a new stove and ordered the men to make his quarters more fitting for a man and his wife. It added to the already burdensome task of the rebuild. They also had the arduous task of fitting together parts of the shallop that would use for fishing. Lila remembered watching with curiosity as the parts for the shallop were unloaded from the ship. It was a giant puzzle of a boat that lay in pieces upon the shore. And now, it sat in the water ready to take the fishermen out into the bays and inlets nearby. Soon it would sail away, leaving her alone. She longed for this time of solitude. How she hated being with these men day and night. The sooner she got them their breakfast, the sooner they could set sail.

Before the men were up and gone, Lila had spooned out their porridge and filled up their tumblers with hot tea. She watched them guzzle and gulp wishing they’d choke as they inhaled the food before them. After they left, she sat for what seemed like the first time since they arrived on this shore. She despised her husband for bringing her here to this, their “new start.” There was nothing in this place for her.

As she sat upon the stump that she had been using to steady the wood she was trying to chop, Lila surveyed her new homestead. Beside her was a pile of logs in four foot lengths. Chopping wood to keep the fires burning had been left to her. She grabbed a log and dragged it to the stump. With much exertion she lifted the axe and began to hack away at the piece of wood. Lila stood little chance against it. As a slight five-foot-tall woman, who had lost every ounce of muscle and fat on her voyage across the Atlantic, she made little headway with it. But she was damned if she was going to give in. It was freezing here and she needed the warmth of the fire for heat and cooking. So, mustering all her rage against the atrocity of her life, she slammed the axe full force against the wood. It pierced the log, giving Lila a little satisfaction. Were it not for her fear of damnation to hell, she would have ended her life there and then. After her husband’s departure that morning Lila daydreamed about jumping into the icy green water below the embankment where she now stood. But she could not betray her God and sin in such a way.

As she continued hacking at the behemoth in front of her, she noticed the drumming was replaced by muted cries and rifle fire. Her stomach somersaulted as she dropped the axe. She had never heard gun shot before but knew it instinctively. The shouting remained steady and a fair distance from her, yet she stood frozen with fear. Black clouds of smoke formed above the forest from whence the noise erupted. With it came a horrid stench of burnt meat. Lila knew that smell all too well. It took her back in time to the day she forgot the roasting pork on the spit at her humble home in Devonshire, England. Lila had left it that day to go to the market for vegetables to finish off the evening meal. The roast became withered and charred in her absence.

That day was sunny and bright, Lila recalled. Along the way to Devonshire market, she stopped to chat with her friend, Becky. A pint of ale at the local pub was suggested. One could not refuse an offer of libation. Life as a homemaker was new to her and it was not one she adored. She missed her friend and the life she had before marriage. Becky’s smile was all Lila needed to forget her wifely duties at home. Arm in arm, they made their way to the pub for a quick pint. One drink quickly turned to many more. Hours later, she staggered home only to find her house in a fog of blackness and a shrivelled piece of pork fused to the spit. The stench of burnt meat repulsed her. The sting of its pungent smell was magnified by a fist that met her cheek as she entered the kitchen. The fist was merely the exclamation point of her husband’s arm, who slurred slanderous accusations upon her about whoring around Devonshire.

“That won’t be happening again! Come this spring, you’ll be coming to that godforsaken land and you’ll be tending to your husband. Not gallivanting round Devonshire making yourself available to all the young lads. You’re mine and don’t you forget it!” Ned sputtered as he smacked the side of her head with an open hand.

After several more bats about the head, he grabbed her by the shoulders and flung her across the table. Dishes flew as the unsteady table attempted balance against the great heft. He hiked up her dress and tore away her underthings; all the while mumbling about how he’d been tricked into this arranged marriage.

“You filthy whore!” he bawled. “Your mother should never have promised you to me. I gave her a good dowry for you and what do I get in return? Nothing! Nothing at all, but a whoring tramp. Everyone knows. The whole town is laughing at me, while you’re out whoring around Devonshire. Everyone chides at the old man marrying a girl three times younger. You mock me. Thinking I am old and ugly. I see the way you look at me. I am not stupid.” Frothy spittle rained upon Lila’s face as he spewed more profanity. “Well, it is my turn, missy! You are going to give your husband what you’ve been dolling out to the boys in town. I paid for it and I am having now, whore!”

Ned held her body as it thrashed fish-like on the tabletop. Pinning her with his chest, he put his full weight upon her. Lila screamed as the breath left her tiny lungs. Despite the lack of air, she continued to fight this giant. He reached down with both hands to unbutton his breeches. Dropping them to the ground, he slid her tiny frame toward his own imposing form at the edge of the table. Lila persisted in trying to fight off this mammoth of a man towering above her. It was no use; Ned pulled her thrashing legs apart and positioned himself violently between her thighs. Lila batted the air wildly throwing useless slaps at his torso. With one massive paw, he grabbed both of her hands and forced them above her head immobilizing her. With his other hand he fiercely forced his raging dagger-like phallus inside her, piercing her virginity in one vile thrust. Hot splinters of pain tore through her, as he pounded his unforgiving member into her tender flesh. Steaming tears of pain and anger pooled in the corners of her eyes before rolling down her cheeks. When he was spent, he tore himself away from her. The look of disgust was replaced by confusion as he looked at her twisted body lying on the table. Blood, the tell-tale sign of innocence flowed like a river of shame that he created. Ned fumbled to quickly redress all the while mumbling words of remorse and blame that she wasn’t a good wife to make him take her like that.

Finally dressed, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ve got quite a mess here. You’d better get cleaning it up.” He grabbed his hat and stumbled toward the door. “We’ll speak no more of this!” he mumbled over his shoulder as he slammed the door behind him. Ned headed for the same public house that she had so recently enjoyed. He didn’t return for several days, much to her delight.

The smell of burning flesh was one she would never forget. It permeated the violation of her being and was present at the conception of her now dead baby. The stench stung her nostrils. It was branded on her soul. She was shocked by his rage. It was so unlike anything he had done previously but since then, he has treated her with nothing but reproach. To this day, she believed the devil possessed him and implanted the seed of death within her.

The stench of burning flesh rolling in clouds of smoke from the forest brought her back to the present. She had little experience with these woods, but she felt compelled to go in search of the source of the foul odor. Lila had no idea lay beyond the make-shift cabins that would be her summer home, but she started toward the smoke. Her gait was unsteady as she pressed forward into the deepening thicket. To fend off the stench, Lila pulled a hanky from her sleeve and held it to her face with one hand while she pushed branches away with the other. The smoke wasn’t so thick, as it was putrid. It got stronger as she moved deeper into the woods.

In the distance, she heard the voice of her husband and that of his shipmates. Their voices confused her. Hours earlier, they set sail for the fishing grounds. An uneasy feeling crept over her. She couldn’t ignore the nagging ache in her belly. The unfamiliar forest, the shouts of her husband, the stench from the fire were all disorienting. Even so, she crept forth going slower and more quietly. She watched her steps taking care not to step on fallen branches. It took some time for her to find the heart of the disturbance. In her heightened state, time slowed down and the forest around her came to life. To her alarm, creatures, big and small scurried frantically past and away from the calamity and smoke.

As she drew closer, her fear of being discovered grew. She hunched down and crawled on all fours as she neared an outcropping above where all the noise and smoke billowed. Lying flat on her stomach she peered down. Before her lay mutilated and blood-stained bodies. There were many corpses heaped onto a bonfire of human carnage. Life here had been cut short and set on fire. Lila looked for her husband and his men, frantic that they too might be lying in those funeral pyres. Not that she would be sad at their loss, as only this morning she had wished death upon them, but that she would be left alone here to fend for herself. The noise had ceased and there was no sign of life.

Slowly, Lila crept down over the bank. She went to the bonfire looking for her husband among the ruins. But these people were not of her ilk. Their skin was much darker. There was a red paste smeared over their faces and hands. They wore animal skins. Lila staggered about the ghastly scene trying to make sense of it all. “Were these people the drummers who had ceased playing? And where were her husband and his men?” She was certain she had heard their voices. The coppery smell of blood mixed with the acrid stench of burning flesh made her stomach churn. Repulsed, she spewed forth her breakfast, before falling to the ground. Groping around with shaking hands, she got to her knees and slowly found strength to stand. Breath rasping, she searched the scene looking for something familiar. But there was nothing. Everywhere she looked was blood and death. None of this made sense to her. Lila stumbled around blindly and tripped over the hand of a young native girl. Lila fell next to her and was horrified to peer into dead eyes. She scrambled to her feet. Lila reached out with her foot and pushed the girl over to see her more clearly. She was a beautiful maiden with delicate features. Her face was oval with a small nose and her lips were pouted as if in a last kiss. Lila fell to the ground. This woman was about her own age. It terrified to see her lying dead before her. Sitting next to the girl, she noticed a curved container in her arms. It was made from birch bark and furs. Lila wondered if it was one of the drums that was beating all week.

As if on cue, a baby’s screech exploded from within the vessel. Lila too screamed and jumped back. The baby's cry caused an unfamiliar prickly pain to course through her breasts. Milk began coursing through her mammary glands and her nipples began to drip. On instinct, she opened her top, pulled the baby from the birch bark basket and guided the baby to her breast. Tears streamed down Lila’s face. She was in a state of shock, but the baby at her breast was calming, even as she looked on with horror at the devastation before her. Her breasts ached as milk flowed into this unknown child. Her heart ached with insurmountable love for this tiny infant in her arms.