Ian
surveyed the expanse of red fields linked one to the other by the rail
fences and the wild blueberry bushes, remembering that day, and Anna’s
sturdy figure hurrying away over the crest of the hill, her auburn hair
in its neat bun, shining in the sunlight, her back straight in its grey
drugget dress.
He
strode on. The night air against his skin was as warm as milk. He
thought again of the tiny daughter lying beside Anna in the churchyard.
We should have had another, and another after that.
He
had said as much to her after she had recovered from their daughter’s
birth, but she had only smiled at him and nodded. She never conceived
again, he thought. …
Old
Annie had attended Belle’s delivery, but there was not much she could
do except give her wormwood against the pain. The baby was turned, she
said. She had tried to turn it but Belle had only screamed in pain and
had begged her to stop. Belle had laboured for a day and half and
finally died from exhaustion. “The baby was likely dead long before that
for the same reason,” said Old Annie.
Old
Annie knew things. She had the second sight. She also knew about plants
and seeds and weeds. She attended Donald’s birth too, Ian remembered,
and the birth of the nameless little one. Anna seemed to take great
comfort in Old Annie’s presence after that. She spent many hours
visiting her. At least that’s where I thought she was, he thought. They
say Old Annie knew how to help a woman get with child. I wonder if she
knew how to prevent it too? He shivered at the idea. Would Anna have
done such a thing? Old Annie’s senile now so I guess I’ll never know.
His
thoughts took him past Murdoch’s ruined house, doorless now in the
bright moonlight. Old Annie was right about this, too. Murdoch’s door
was smeared with blood, the blood of the just. My Anna’s blood. Though I
don’t know anymore how just she was. Oh, Anna.
He
followed the path that took him across the field to where Anna had lain
so few weeks ago. The little pillow of straw, still dark with her
blood, lay a few feet into the field, Ian stopped and stared at it. This
is all that’s left of her, he thought. Rage filled him. Why, Anna? He
kicked the straw pillow to bits and began to run, a great lumbering run.
It felt good to run again. The soft wind blew past his face and
whistled across his ears.
Suddenly
he was in James’ dooryard. The house was dark and silent now, the
windows jagged where Donald had broken them. The rage, which had abated
somewhat in his run, returned to a hot boiling fury. “I will burn this
house of sin!” he shouted, and ran to the barn to gather some straw. He
returned in a few moments with a great armful and stuffed it through the
gaping windows, then went back for another. Armload after armload of
straw he carried and stuffed through the windows, far more than he
needed to start a fire.
“My
father helped build this house,” he raged, “and I will destroy it!” He
stood and surveyed the dark silent house before lighting the match that
would burn it to ashes. His father’s face seemed to hang in the air
before his own, its expression sorrowful. He remembered that expression
from his childhood, and hesitated before striking the match. The rage
drained away. “Oh, Poppa, what am I to do?” He fell to his knees and
wailed like a tiny child, the tears finally coming, awkward, hot and
wrenching. He buried his face in his hands and wept, the tears dripping
between his work-roughened hands onto his grey homespun shirt. At last,
his sorrow and his anger spent, he rose and stumbled away across the
moonlit fields to his own place, the match still clutched in his
fingers.
Anna
Gillis, the midwife and neighbour in Mattie’s Story, has been found
killed. The close-knit community is deeply shaken by this eruption of
violence, and neighbours come together to help one another and to
discover the perpetrator. But the answer lies Anna’s secret, long
guarded by Old Annie, the last of the original Selkirk Settlers, and the
protagonist of An Irregular Marriage. Join the community! Read Anna’s
Secret and other novels by Margaret A. Westlie.
Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords
Genre – Fiction, mystery, historical
Rating – G
More details about the author
Website http://www.margaretwestlie.com
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