::03:26:08::

::: Fortnights Lament :::

I shall not cross the threshold
of hopes broken wall
For you carry that package
so frail so small
I dare not pray
for your forgiveness is my chastisement
This sore of disease on my soul
is proof of my proof

Lost in the wilderness
needle spinning and alone
I drove you from our happy place
and ruined the merriment of our home

Our cottage on the distant shore
far north beyond the tall pine
past the whale trafficked waters
our small garden
a shallow tilled patch
the only good dirt still fertile
unlaced with sea-salt
with plenty of fish for the catch

We made our home in those white-washed walls
we laid together as lovers
beneath the roof’s thick thatch
as we listened to the spirited King Fisher’s calls

No one to bother us
a strand of our own
a coast forever empty
save for beached drift wood
and bleached whale bone

Goose tongue you grew there
potatoes and fat cabbage
your purple pansies they bloomed there
protected by rocks from the harsh winds that ravaged

Mussels and clams we caught
when the tide would rush-out
and you’d steam them with red wine and cabbage
and serve them in churned butter and fresh trout

With bubbling spring water from the cistern
I’d wash your long curly hair
You embroidered sachets and took them
to sell at the Village’s fair
A simple life we lived
I tended my nets for a living
me you swore you loved
and I to you promised my caring

But still one day I found you
shivering alone in the garden
choking on bitter salty tears
wind blowing and rain falling
trying to hide away your fears

You were holding your belly
and with the heavens pleading
Your stained calico dress was dirty and torn
and your freckled pale breast was heaving
when to the sky you screamed, “Why?”

I held you close when you told me
about the mischief of what you’d done
How at the fair you’d met a fancy dressed bloke
that wore a long saber and carried a short gun

And with chocolates
and with flowers
and sweet words in your ear
you two stole into your booth
behind the sachet racks in the rear
and oh was his wit so funny
and with you heatedly swooning
he poached your young sweet cunny

My eyes grew dark without knowing
and I hollered, “how could you?”
you screamed, “Love I am so sorry! The winds of change for sure were blowing.”

So I dragged you by your hair
from the garden to the kitchen
and with our betrothal knife
that your mother gave us on our wedding night
I sliced off your long curly locks
and threatened your very life.

Oh the anguish! Oh the pain!
and in an attempt to calm our strife
you pulled at my trousers
and once again became my seductive wife
but in the throes of our passion
with you bent at the table
like a flash returned my anger at the memory
and it rendered me helpless and unable

I coaxed you upstairs
in anticipation of our bed
but at the top of the flight
I barred your path
the look in my eyes was blood on blood-red
and my anger raging-full-fury
danced violently with my wrath

That angry memory festered
and black hatred smoldered in my eyes
I lashed out and I kicked at you
ignoring your pleas
ignoring your cries
You tumbled then
petticoats over head
down the stairs where your pretty face splattered
and bright spurts of blood sprayed from you head

Abruptly your cries fell silent
once vibrantly alive
now violently dead
the shine in your eyes quietly faded

I sat on the top step
held my head in my hand
I witnessed your murder
and the evil deed that I’d done
I wept into my hands
but inside I openly smiled
for only half of me was really numb

Yes! It was me!
that that angry memory forgave
It acquitted and dismissed my souls trial
while your fair skin turned ashen and gray
as I watched you from mid-afternoon
‘til late the next day
the pools of your blood blackened and jellied
no longer soft and glowing with life’s rose
you turned hard and cold like the earth’s clay

I walked then to the town center
four miles or more
to call on the town Prefecture
who’s wife answered the door

The Prefecture rang his Constable
who fetched the old Vicar
his wife offered me whiskey
then all three listened to me breathlessly

I told them how my nets I was tending
when a squall had caught me single-handed
The winds were so fierce that I surrendered my catch
and my light-air-sails were hard bent
then rendered tattered and ragged

I had drifted for a night and a day
before I regained the vessel’s steerage
and I found you at the base of the stairs
when at last I stumbled through the door of our cottage

Dead at least a full days length
a tragic victim of mischance and disaster
So they celebrated my seamanship
and mourned you - my loss!
while I let the Prefect’s wife refill my empty glass

We buried you then
in that cemetery on the hill
Over looking the bluffs and our sea strand
and our cottage where you were killed

Fine women in black gowns
and gentlemen in top-hats
both attended your funeral
And while the choir trilled
the Vicar recited passages
and your body was lowered
after dust to dust and ashes to ashes

Our sad story was the talk of the town
all the parishioners mourned you
and in your honor we all wore black armbands

I spent a fortnight then
stumbling from the public house to the saloon
drinking down my courage
so that I could return to our home

And after one rainy night
as I sloshed back through the mud
I thought I heard your voice on the wind
singing a sad song broad in woebegone and glum

I thought of that day
as I stood in my greasy rain coat
and I began to shake and tremble
and my heart caught in my throat
Through the dark storm I stumbled
four miles or more
and returned to our sea-cottage home

The gale winds pushed the Bay high up onto the beach
and it’s dark frothy waves crashed and roared
I fumbled with the garden gate
and crossed our untended patch
I paused on the door-stone
and at once knew that I was not alone
I heard your voice on the wind
and with a trembling hand I lifted the latch
and the lantern on the floor once again
caused my heart in my throat to catch

The lantern was lit and burning
but by whom was it placed on the floor
And long dark shadows filled the room
stretching from the wall to the door

And then I heard your voice
unmistakable and lilting
and it chilled me to my core
it’s tenor so terrible and icy

There on the kitchen table
where I had laid your day old corpse
you sorrowfully sat upright
holding your broken head
with phantom legs to and fro dangling
still bleeding the blood that you’d bled

I stayed in the doorway
half way in from the storm
you sang to me a sad song
of treachery from our love born

You told me for my wrath and my fury
I had been vouchsafed my own slip in purgatory
Alas! A long life mine would be
full of hate
full of deceit
and you would sing to me each fortnight
a dead bride was my prize
for my part in it

I would remain lost and alone
save for your ghost in our home
and to any woman that I bed
only death for sure would be born
With broken arms you placed your hands on your belly
you cried spectral tears
then you pulled up your half-slip
your legs you spread wide
And you gave birth to a ghost child
with death in it’s eyes

A new born babe that neither laughs nor cries
not a gurgling sound came from it’s wretched mouth
you held up our murdered infant and gave him a name
you called him Peccant in honor of our game
and that angry memory by my shame
was forever washed from my brain

Every fortnight I see my dead family
by my hands my murdered wife
always with our ageless baby
Peccant the definition of our disease
his soulless eyes forever begging for heaven’s release

I freely accept my blame
but to point out a singular truth
for this wrong that I’ve wrought
the cause of this pain
the loss of this youth
for what has been done
can never be undone
all for a gentleman’s afternoon
of long forgotten fun

Written by: ~ Jeremiah Johnson