Ceasebury: Chapter 1

 

by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik

sweet wine

The mid-summer sun shone down sharply upon Ceasebury Creek in the July afternoon. The light darted from the pure pale blue sky to the facet of the slow-running river, which tripped and fell over the rocks and stones as it babbled along its path down to the mouth, a place I had never been in all my seventeen years living in Ceasebury. The water rippled lightly as I ran my ring finger slowly through it before extracting it, shaking it gently in the warm air and then turning the page of my novel slowly. 

 

The sun was so bright in the late afternoon that I often had to return to Ceasebury Manor before three o’clock, but today I had been able to get away to the Creek for a little light reading. I would have to return soon anyway and prepare for a dinner with Master Kingston, a gentleman I had not yet met, who – as I understood it – was heir to the Kingston Estate and lands, owing to the death of his three elder brothers in some war or other which spared Dorian (the gentleman I was to meet with) owing to his age (a happy thing on his part as he was now to inherit vast wealth, slightly less fortuitous on their part). That war or other had left only Dorian, Lord Kingston (his father) and his younger sister, a girl a year my senior whom I had had the pleasure of being acquainted with for coming on five years now. My mother has agreed rather reluctantly to take her under her wing after her own mother, Lady Kingston, had died shortly after her three eldest sons. It was thought that my mother could be relied upon to bring her up from a girl into a marriageable young lady and help her through the courtship process and secure her a strong match, Marquess Ravenswood, perhaps. It was thought that my mother was a more appropriate person to take her to a good match than Lord or Master Kingston. After all, what do men know of courtship or marriage? 

 

Her name was Gabriella Kingston. 

 

Gabriella had lived at Ceasebury Manor for the last five years in the chamber across the hall from mine and insisted upon perpetually dressing in various shades of yellow. It looked awful with her hair, but I hadn’t the heart to tell her (nor did anyone else, it seemed). We had taken our lessons together (although she was far less literary than me), we ate together each day and often sat together in the afternoons and evenings, when I wasn’t out at the Creek, of course. And I had been out here so much more lately. 

 

We were both to formally enter society (such as it was) this year, and she seemed so hopelessly ill-informed on the topic of men and marriage. This was a source of worry to me. I mean, they tell me men know nothing of courtship and marriage, but surely, they must know more about sex than Gabriella. The human race had survived so long for a reason. I was amazed by her lack of curiosity. Had she never read a novel in which some handsome young rogue goes for a roll in the hay with a pretty girl? I supposed she couldn’t have done, for I had to convince Cheyenne to get them for me at the town brothel where the proprietor of the establishment, a Mr Jameston, kept a small but well-ordered collection of novels of this kind in a little library of sorts. I would write to him every so often and arrange the loan of one of these novels and pester Cheyenne to collect for me the next time she was in town. I truly appreciated Mr Jameston’s cooperation in the whole affair. He even slipped in little nude French playing cards on occasion, which were really my style, but it was nice to know that I am more physically attractive than most women. 

That’s what I had turned the page of; one of Mr Jameston’s novels. 

 

But, returning to Gabriella, surely she had at least wondered what happened after ‘… and they all lived happily ever after.’. Hadn’t she ever questioned why it is that husbands and wives share king-sized beds with soft white sheets and feathery pillows and blow out the candles a little before going to sleep? Apparently not. Not that it mattered so much, for one way or another, she would be wed and  - hopefully – her new husband would be able to enlighten her on what awaits her. I shut my eyes for a second and leaned back, allowing the hot summer sun to kiss my bar neck. 

 

“Theodosia!” a sharp voice called, breaking the hazy silence of the Creek.

 

I switched around to see a mess of dirty blond hair trotting up towards me from the white Georgian Summer House on the opposite bank.

 

“Theodosia, it's almost half-past three, my brother will be arriving for dinner soon, and you need to come back to the house to get ready.” 

 

It was Gabriella.

 

“Don’t worry, we’ve got hours until he comes; I’ll come back to the house soon.”

 

“No, we need to get our curls. He’ll be here in two hours, and so will Marquess Ravenswood, come on. How did you get over there?” She looked confused as she stared blankly at my position by the bank opposite her. 

 

“Well, I’m in a rowing boat. I would have thought you could use your own inference from there.” I paused. 

 

Mr Jameston’s novel was still between my legs, so I picked it up and thrust it into a little pocket on the inside of my hoop skirt I had sewn in for exactly this purpose. Gabriella looked at me, still confused. 

 

“I’m coming.” 

 

I picked up the oars and rowed myself back to the side of the Creek with the little Summer House and Gabriella. I hopped out of the boat and tied it to a tree trunk protruding from the grassy bank. 

 

“Good. Thank you. Your mother is losing her mind at the house. She’s shouting, and that’s making Cheyenne worry that she won't be able to get you ready in time,” She said rather hurriedly.

 

“She shouldn’t worry about me. I always get ready on time.” 

 

“Well, she is. Anyway, are you excited to meet Dorian? I haven’t seen him in such a long time. He promised that when I came here to live, he would come and visit me, but we’re such a long way from Kingston Grove that I suppose he didn’t get the chance with running the plantation and all, but he wrote to me telling me how excited he is to meet you tonight. Everyone’s talking about it back up at the house.” 

 

We began to walk back up the hill away from the Creek and the Summer House and towards the white columns of Ceasebury Manor, which came into view over the vast, lush green lawn. 

 

“I suppose you will marry my brother, won’t you? You shall be Mistress of Kingston Grove before the autumn,” she giggled.

 

“We shall see about that.” I paused. “Mistress Theodosia Antoinette Kingston.” 

 

“Yes, that’ll be it. You should practice writing that in your lovely cursive hand. That reminds me, I got you a little present. it's up in my bedroom.”

 

Gabriella grabbed my hand and pulled me up the path towards the house.

 

The clock chimed a quarter to four. 

About the author 

Mitzi is a seventeen year old from the Isle of Man. She is currently studying for her A-Levels and has recently had a novel published.

It was the First Day of Hanukkah

 by Helen Fox

sweet wine 

It was the First Day of Hanukkah

This story helped my grandfather through the difficult years of the war, but I don't know if it is true or just a fairy tale.

You all know that Hanukkah is a wonderful Jewish holiday when the whole family gathers and happily celebrates it for 8 days. Children play dreidel, receive gifts and their mothers prepare delicious treats, such as latkes and some other tasty things.

In old pre-war Poland it was winter time, and I can tell you that winters were severe and very snowy then. But the light of Hanukkah drove away both cold and hardships.

Little David always loved Hanukkah. Winter holidays were special. Without a holiday it was very difficult to live in the cold and snow. And then Hanukkah came and illuminated the dark, cold nights with its bright light.

David was very fond of the warm flickering of candles, the game of dreidel with his younger brothers and delicious latkes, which only his mother knew how to bake best.

David was always looking forward to Hanukkah, it was a very happy time. But not that year.

That year turned out to be very difficult and even tragic for the Grzybowski family. First, their beloved grandfather Shlomo died in the spring. And after his death, things were getting worse and worse.

David's father Yaakov worked very hard and fell seriously ill. Their neighbor Rachel, an old woman who treated many people with herbs, tried to help him, but he grew weaker and weaker.

"Your father needs a good doctor, I can't do anything for him," Rachel shook her grey head and sighed.

David's mother Rivka also sighed heavily, the family had no money for a good doctor. The family was never rich, but due to the illness of their father, they became very poor and barely had enough money for food and basic necessities.

My father could hardly work, but the more he tried to ignore his illness and continued to work, the worse it became. One day he worked, and two days later he had to lie in bed.

The younger children also began to get sick, Rivka was always sad and was even getting thinner and thinner from the worries and David was afraid that she would also become seriously ill. What they would do then he couldn’t imagine.

"I only hope for you now," said mother, looking sadly at her eldest son. And the eldest son, David, just turned 10 years old. He tried his best to help the family, but he was still too small and his efforts were not enough to replace an adult person.

The parents had already sold the most valuable things, only the old hanukkiah, а nine-branched menorah which came from the great-grandfather, was left untouched, father categorically forbade selling it.

"Soon we are having a great holiday, we will light candles and hope for a miracle," father said in a weak voice. The mother nodded her head and agreed, although they had nothing for the upcoming holiday: no tasty food, no gifts, only candles and an old hanukkiah.

David was also looking forward to the holiday and hoping for a miracle. For many days he had been praying that his father would recover, that his mother would start smiling again, so that the house would become festive again.

The cold stars looked blankly at the boy from the winter sky as he was hurrying home, where the warm light of festive candles awaited him. He really hoped that a miracle would happen on this magical night.

First day. when they lit a candle and put the hanukkiah at the window, he sat and looked at the fire. The house was unusually quiet, Yaakov slept with a restless sleep, and the mother calmed the younger children so that they would not make any noise and wake up their sick father.

Suddenly there came a knock on the door, the youngest daughter was frightened and cried, and the alarmed mother asked David to open. He ran to the door, opened it and stared in amazement at the stranger on the porch. He was a tall, bearded man in a warm fur coat.

"Is this a house of Yaakov Grzybowski? "he asked.

"Yes," David replied.

"May I come in?"

David stepped aside and let the guest in. David's little sister stopped crying and stared at the visitor with great interest.

"Good evening, happy holiday, merry and kind Hanukkah," the stranger greeted all the inhabitants of the house.

Rivka answered politely, but her beautiful black eyes were sad; this time she didn't even have anything tasty to treat the children not to mention the guests.

The stranger quickly looked around the small house, the quiet children who looked at the guest with interest and surprise.

"Sit down at the table, but we have nothing to treat you to, my husband is very ill, we have no money," Rivka said sadly.

"It's okay, you see, it’s me, who came to you with gifts." And the stranger took out a large bag of sweets and a wallet.

"This is a present for the holiday, for your children. And this money is my debt. Several years ago, your husband helped me a lot, practically saved my life. If not for his help, I don’t know what would have happened to me. Take the money, please."

Rivka, very much confused, took the wallet, and the stranger got up and said, “I have to go, I'm in a hurry. Happy Hanukkah and may your husband soon recover.”

In the morning David was the first to jump out into the yard and immediately froze in amazement. White snow glittered in the bright, frosty sun. On the porch and on the path he saw his own yesterday's footprints. There was no snow at night and they were clearly visible. But there were no other footprints! There was no trace of yesterday's stranger.

When David, very much surprised, returned to the house, he overheard his parents' conversation.

"What was his name?" the father asked.

"He did not give his name, only said that you once lent him money. And now he came to pay back the debt. Especially for the holiday."

Father fiddled with his red beard thoughtfully.

"I once had an acquaintance, Marek Zand. I really lent him some money. He got into a very bad situation."

"So, probably, it was he who came, he paid back the debt," Rivka suggested, rocking the youngest daughter in her arms.

"No, it can't be. He died a few years ago, I know for sure."

"Who was that then?" Rivka asked in surprise.

“It was a Hanukkah miracle,” David answered gravely. And everyone agreed with him.

And since then, the family's affairs had been improving. They celebrated the holiday merrily with gifts and delicious treats. The children played dreidel and were absolutely happy.

Now there was enough money to invite a good doctor to father. He said that the disease was not as bad as they all thought, and with good treatment the patient would soon recover.

And everything happened just as the doctor said. When father recovered, he started working again. There was enough money in the family, Rivka began to smile again, and the children stopped being capricious and sick.

Little David grew up; he studied well and became a respected person. He often told this story, which happened on the first day of Hanukkah and changed the life of the whole family, to us, his grandchildren. Now you know it too.

 

About the author 

Helen comes from Russia.  

Never Leave Me

by Robert Ward

sweet wine

Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,

I heard a maiden singing in the valley below…

The sound of the explosion ricocheted across the valley, batted to and fro, a sickening thud,

between the hills. Rosina started from her bed, knowing nothing, fearing everything.

From that day and for many days it seemed that the birds did not sing.

The village had been born out of the convergence of two roads, two thoroughfares, between

the hills. A meeting place for peoples of different tongues. The monks had come to deliver

sustenance both spiritual and physical to those who travelled through. Some said the women had come to offer much the same. It had become again a crossing point, for armies. A place through which it was necessary to pass in order to gain not just the valley but the hill-top town beyond - and through that, the whole territory that lay spread out beneath.

The church had become a hiding place for more than wearied souls. A cache of explosives,

ammunition and incendiaries, all that might be used to launch an attack on the occupying

forces, stowed away in the crypt and guarded by the sacristan who alone kept the keys,

jealously kept even from the members of the fraternity. This was no religious order, but an

alliance among the village men of those similarly minded, to withhold from the occupying

military the totality of mind and heart for which they craved.

The church was devastated. In a single moment the explosives cache had detonated, and in

the next the walls had blown out and the roof was gone. How it happened, why it happened,

no one knew. From that day Rosina heard no more of Rugierro, her intended. And worse

was to follow as the occupiers went from house to house, seizing the menfolk, interrogating

and taking them away. Homes were left raided, raped and pillaged. After three days the

sound of the firing squads started at the top of the hill, outside the village hall. Nothing was

given away. No one was saved. The ruined church stood like a gaping wound at the heart of

the villagers’ loss, the hope of succour violated, heaven on earth laid waste. 

Heroism or gross stupidity; self-sacrifice or tragic-comic accident. No one could tell. Manysurmised. The women haggled bitterly for years to come. Rosina held close to her heart her hope and belief in the man who was gone. ‘He destroyed the ammunition,’ she wanted to tell them, ‘because he knew that they would use it to fight the English’: though even she admitted to an inner chosen few that having known him as she did, she knew also thatthere was every chance that what had happened was not what had been intended. No onecould say. No one had shared his thoughts, or been with him that fateful night when he creptback to the arms cache after the others had gone to their homes. No one else had kept the keys. This alone every woman who had lost a husband, father, brother, son or grandson

knew: Rogero was the cause of all their loss and grief.

It began with the whispering at the common wash place just outside the walls, where the

women gathered at the springs to clean their sheets. They would be talking energetically

to one another until Rosina came, and then the conversation would stop. There were

the long, sideways looks, the pursed lips, the comments passed beneath their breath which

Rosina would just catch and yet not be able fully to hear. Eventually she took to coming

down to the springs early in the morning or late in the evening, when the others would be

gone.

It was at the springs one evening that Rosina first encountered the English soldier. It was

after the liberation, when the village could breathe easily again. The English had been

welcomed and had met with a warm response when they were billeted upon the people.

Evening after evening in the half-light he saw her come alone to wash her clothes, her

sheets, her towels.

‘Buona sera,’ he ventured once, knocking out his pipe against the wall. She started

and muttered a response, scarcely looking in his direction. But as the days went on and his

presence became less of a novelty, less strange and so less threatening, they began to

exchange more than a few words.

She was wary. He was kind. And after all, what was there to lose? The other women

called her names because of the child she was carrying. The English soldier gave her his

time, his interest. An unmarried mother-to-be was not to him the scandal it was to the village

community. The story of her lost love was one she at last could share, with him.

There was a song the English sang. Rosina heard it on the lips of the soldier who was to 

stay in Pancole after the liberation, the one who was to share her story and take her part 

against the world; the one who was to share her bed and then her life. She heard him sing it

in the dawn as the light flooded the valley. She grew to know the words and they took root in

her heart and soul, remembering Rugierro, the little he had shared with her, the pain and 

the exclusion he had brought upon her, her strange status on the edge of the villagers’ life 

as the church was rebuilt and as stones were inscribed with the names of the fallen.

Resources were poured into the rebuilding of the conventual church, the Collegiata.

An appeal throughout the valley, in the town at its mouth and in the plain that lay beyondbrought in the lire required to rebuild the church as a shrine to the memory of three generations brutally murdered in reprisal for the treacherous heroism of the one man,Rugierro. 

Twenty, thirty years would pass. Forty, fifty even, Rosina and her Englishman long

departed from the place, their descendants grown up in another land. But one day Rosina’s

great granddaughter with her English fiancé would come in search of her maternal ancestry

and would find a place, beautiful in the extreme, where a Catholic basilica would stand,

pristine, clean and new. Inside, the modern frescoes showing rhe dramatic blast one spring

morning, and a small black figure at the foot of the black-yellow-red depiction of the blast.

The man Rugierro, still an enigma. A silhouette, nothing more, against the fearful light.

And on the stone on the western wall outside, the names of the heroic dead. Twenty-

two names in alphabetical order. The names of the heroic dead. And a twenty-third name,

out of sequence with the rest, one Rugierro Bartolomeo, in letters sharper than all the  

   

others, but nonetheless; a token of the reconciliation wrought by time.

Early one morning, just as the sun was rising,

I heard a maiden singing in the valley below.

Oh don’t deceive me; oh never leave me;

How could you use a poor maiden so?

The Neither Do I

 by Andy Martin

 sweet wine

There's always a danger in prostitution, but I'd experienced nothing like this before. The aggressiveness of the blow took me by surprise. My dress fell off my shoulder, and I threw out my arms to catch my fall.

As if in slow motion, the stony ground beneath me inched into vision. Closer and closer. And then I hit the floor.

My arm felt the impact. Scraped skin. Possibly a broken bone.

Before I had a chance to think, David's foot flashed before my eyes and rammed into my stomach, stealing my breath.

His wife found out he'd been buying my favours, and his response was to take it out on me. He claimed I had tempted him away from the sanctity of marriage.

"Whore!" David spat at me. I looked up. His piercing eyes full of venom; nose scrunched, lips curled in hatred. "We all know the punishment for adultery, don't we!"

Being stoned to death was one of the most brutal things I'd witnessed, and I'd seen my fair share of violence. An alcoholic dad set me up with a thorough knowledge of what men were capable of. I'd felt the back of his hand across my face on many occasions. And worse.

A kick to my mouth split open my lip and a fountain of blood sprayed across the gravelly road. I lay there, too scared to move.

I could hear the movement of footsteps around me; the muttering of male voices, condemning, judging, hating. Then it went quiet.

I heard the accusing voice of one of the religious leaders: "So what should we do with her? This woman has been caught committing adultery!"

I turned to see what was happening and another man stepped closer towards me. Someone I didn't recognise. He moved slowly. His hair was long and dark, his beard thick, his eyes looking down in a thoughtful expression. He bent down next to me and put his finger to the ground. Small stones and dust leapt upwards as he moved his hand through the sandy ground, writing something. In the quietness, the crunch of this motion was deafening.

Then he stood up.

He spoke in a quiet, low voice: "Whoever is without sin, throw the first stone."

Silence.

A small rock landed with a thud on the ground nearby.

And another.

Lots of stones dropping onto the harsh gravel path. And then the sound of footsteps, walking away.

I looked up through swollen eyes. The man's hand was reaching towards me. A strong hand, covered in scars; small cuts that you might see on a carpenter. I raised mine towards his and felt the touch.

Effortlessly and gently, he pulled me to my feet.

His hazel eyes glistened with life; serene; divine.

"Where are your accusers? Has no-one condemned you?"

The street was empty.

"No-one." I managed to whisper.

"Then neither do I."

About the author

Andy Martin is a teacher of Philosophy. He has had a number of articles published in the magazine Brum Beat.

Cantabile

by Louis Tong Hak Tien

sweet wine

This estate in Singapore is fifty years old, it looms in the north-east like the spirit of Malays who first lived here as farmers. In the following decades came the English teachers, who left behind their ghosts, then the voice of the pilots appeared and mysteriously vanished. Some said the pilots’ union has been belligerent, and the pilots have to be taught a lesson. John isn’t old enough to know the truth.

Tugged in a corner of the estate is the patch of open greenery called Neram Park, where women gossip and dogs roam after dinner. Not this evening. A large crowd settled on the lawn with straw mats and picnic baskets, even before sunset. Semi-lit in the evening, the anniversary concert is held. All performers, including John and Mary’s daughter Jo, are residents of the estate. Jo’s singing has caught the attention of Jenny, the lady in church. John’s family has been in the estate ten years, long enough to feel this is home, but not long enough to sense the pathos of the place.  

"S, E, L, E, T, A, R, .... The parks are green and the streets are wide,...” In the middle register, Jo’s voice is liquid like a flute. Then, without straining, the sound becomes pure and sweet, murmurous and cascading.

“There's nowhere else,... nowhere I would call home." The notes rush into the high range of her vocal register, where they hover like angels in the palace of the dominant D chord. Then they resolve to the G major, where the audiences are contented babies sleeping in their bassinets. Jo sings the song once, then leads the audience to sing it twice, slower on the first run. The words tug at the heartstrings.

A lady with a hair like a lion stands in front of John, looking at the stage. When she sways, her hair swings like a pendulum. John steps to the right. She moves right. John side-steps to the left like a crab. She shuffles left too. John is convinced they are dancing the foxtrot.

"How did this girl sing like that?" Someone exclaims.

           "I am so proud of my girl," says Mary.

"So this is how it sounds, more beautiful than how I imagine it," says John, a little out of sorts, spell-bound. Someone in the park takes a step back, and she almost trips over a bag.

"Let us call to the stage Professor Bernard, the composer of this song," the MC says.

A man wearing Bermuda shorts walks up the stage from the side, assisted by a lady, smiling like he has won the Grammy.

"Jo, please come closer here. I am grateful to the Seletar Hill Residence Committee for showcasing my composition, Karen for writing the lyrics to the song, Jenny for playing the piano, and last but not least, Jo for singing it. You are all angels."

After the loud applause, when the Seletar band takes the stage, Jo walks to John and Mary and sits with them.

A lone fluffy dog walks between the parked cars, his tail wagging. He discovers his owner, who is sitting on a little stool, eating a hotdog. At the rear of the audience cheering for the performers are two policemen, their faces illuminated by the ornamental lights hung on the trees.

***

  Half an hour later.

            "John," Professor Bernard looks up, backstage.

            "Bernard, just come to say thanks."

            "Don't do it again," Bernard says. "I can't imagine why you plan this."

Remember, he is not a willing accomplice. He’d lost the game of cribbage, so he helped you in your scheme. "She's seventeen,” you say, as if that explains everything. "Your daughter was seventeen once."

           "God, don't bring my daughter into this," Bernard says. "Real coward you are. You wrote the Seletar song, so you should have asked Jo to sing it. The lengths you took to cover this up."

           "I am a father trying to do his best," you say.

            "What use is this grand scheme of deception?" Bernard asks. "This game of cloak and dagger includes not speaking to me in public for two months?"

            "Jo is a smart girl," you say. "She will find out otherwise, and then she won't have anything to do with it."

           "Girls. You can't expect them to be close to you if they grow up learning not to bother you," Bernard sighs. "They'll stay away, seeing how busy you are, how passionate you are with your work."

"What do you mean?" You fume. You know exactly what Bernard is saying. You have wondered yourself about the day when you lie stiff and cold in a box and Jo is called to give a eulogy. What would she say? What do you two have in common? You don’t want to be remembered as an ATM. You don’t want to be the designated driver. To approve all the stayovers at her friends, or give consent for a camp.

"Ask yourself. How many weekends have you gone away for conferences?" Bernard took you away from your reverie with this question.

Thanks Mr. Empathy. You couldn't help all that. You cannot change the past. "She is happiest singing," you say. "That much I know." Music, she has such a natural affinity for it, nailing the vocal audition to the School of the Arts. And then all those concerts. Music can be the bridge between the two of you. But she will not touch the song if she knows who wrote it. She will think, how embarrassing, like holding hands with my father while shopping in the mall.

Earlier, when Jo passed the mic back to the MC, she turned and smiled at you. You had wondered then, if she knew.