Sleep, Dearie, Sleep: Episode Five
You’re reading Sleep, Dearie, Sleep, a historical epistolary horror in which progress, modernity and reason are confounded by ancient, forgotten realities. This is Episode 5.
Previously, typhoid fever struck Archie and his crew. His night visitor returned, and Archie gave into its demands, giving himself wholly over to it.
Diary, 23 June, 1793
It is done. God help me, though I know there is no help to be found in that quarter, for I have committed the most egregious abomination to be found within the pages of the Good Book. I have passed my babe through the flame. Not that any true flame touched so much as a hair on her bonnie head. Nevertheless, she is gone, given over by my own hand to this insatiable god of stone and blood.
Bridget does not yet know. I contrived to send her and her maid to Charlotte to inspect a new stove for the kitchen and to purchase whatever fashionable items for herself and for the household that cannot be got here in Asheville. I convinced her to leave the lass here with me, and I gave the rest of the servants leave to visit their own families. I also sent a letter to the camp, instructing the men to leave off for a week to rest.
It was my hand, and mine alone, which did the deed. And yet, it seemed as if it wasn’t me at all, but something else within me that drove me and guided my hands. With each stone I placed around her, it was as though a corresponding stone was laid around my heart, shoring up its resolve to do what must be done. By the end, as she was encased, so was my heart, so that I felt nothing. Nor do I still. It is as though all feeling, all sentiment and fear and joy and despair, has gone from me, leaving behind nothing but reason and pragmatism. Perhaps that’s for the best.
There was no fear from her, until the end. I told her that she was going to have tea with the faeries, that they had chosen her especially, and were going to bestow a great honor upon her. She was, naturally, very much excited by the prospect. The shadows grew long as we reached the camp, and though she expressed some anxiety about the encroaching darkness, I assured her that the wee folk only come out at night. I brought with us a small table and a chair for her, and a toy tea set that I had purchased for the occasion, unbeknownst to her mother. I set a picnic for her at the base of the southern column, and provided her with a veritable feast of tea and confections, and then I kissed her and instructed her to sit and watch for the faeries while I worked.
Beneath the light of the solstice moon, I worked quickly, laying stone and mortar with a swiftness I had never before known, as though something other were empowering my limbs. She prattled on happily while I worked, eating her sweets and peppering me with questions about the faeries. It wasn’t until the structure around her was almost complete that she began to grow afraid. I told her that the faeries wanted concealment for their meeting, which calmed her for a bit, but the more I shut out what little light reached her, the more fearful she became.
She said she didn’t want to meet the faeries, she only wanted to go home. With tears she begged and pleaded, and as I fitted in the last few stones she grew hysterical, screaming and wailing, beating on the stones and calling for her mother. Somewhere deep within me was a longing to tear down the stones I had built and snatch her out of there, but it was distant, beyond my grasp. It did not have the power to move me, nor to stay my hand from fitting in the last stone. I placed it at midnight, muffling her screams, though not yet ending them.
I worked through the night building onto the opposite column to make them both appear even. My limbs had grown tired, and the work went much more slowly. By daybreak, my work was finished, and her screams had fallen silent. I can only hope her little soul is at rest.
I do not know what compels me to write this confession. If anyone discovers it, I shall surely be hanged. I should tear out these pages and cast them into the fire. And yet, confess I must. Not for absolution, for I am too far beyond that. But to have down in stark letters the moment I abandoned my humanity to appease this pagan god and to acquire mammon for myself. I think perhaps I still hold onto enough of a conscience to want to remember that I was once a decent, God-fearing man. But my heart has gone cold and hard and I do not think there is a way to revive it. I am lost, and do not deserve to be found.
I arrived home yesterday morn, before sunrise. I waited until mid morning to raise the alarm, claiming the girl had vanished from the garden, where she had gone to play. A search party was raised at once, and I dutifully went along, combing the woods and hills alongside my neighbors, who were full of sympathy for a distraught young father. The magistrate has rounded up men of low reputation for questioning, though many think it more likely she was snatched by Indians. Or worse, that she encountered a catamount or a wolf, or perhaps even a bear that had found its way into the garden.
I sent at once to Bridget, though my note said only to hurry home at once. I am loath to tell her that her girl has disappeared, for I fear what the shock may do to her, and to the babe she carries. But it cannot be helped. And if God exacts the life of the babe as vengeance for the girl, it is no more than he did to King David. All of the gods must have their due.
But am I any worse a man than Abraham, who would have slain own son for the God who demanded such a sacrifice? That this God was merciful and stayed Abraham’s hand after he had proven his loyalty does not change the fact that he was willing to do such a thing. And yet Abraham was counted as righteous, while I know that I am surely damned. Why should this Christian God be the only one who has the right to exact a sacrifice? Why shouldn’t the other gods have the same right? Why should it be evil to pay them the price they demand, especially when their rewards are so rich? Is it not just to do so?
The men shall return to work soon. I have full confidence that they will find no more hindrances to completing their work. I shall remain home for as long as I can, to receive Bridget and help her through her shock and mourning. But she’ll soon have the new babe to bring her comfort and restore her joy, or so I hope.
All will be well, in time.
Diary of Bridget Katherine Craig, 13 July, 1793
I do not know how to write this. I have put it off, well past the point of being strong enough again to put quill to paper, for I cannot bear to write it down, to see it plain on the page. As though that will make it more true than it already is. But my babes are gone. My sweet Fiona has gone missing, and I still dare hope that she may yet be found. But the babe I carried -- my son, my sweet Liam -- he is no more.
I arrived home from Charlotte to discover that my bonnie girl had been snatched out of the back garden. Archie was working in his study when it happened. He had sent the servants away, so there was no one there to watch her. He says he kept the door open so as to hear if she should need him, but he heard nothing. No cries, nothing amiss. He had heard her singing to herself, and then it occurred to him that she had fallen silent. When he went to check, he found no sign of her. He called and called, and searched every hiding place, everywhere he could think she might be. He next went to pound on the neighbors’ doors and have them search their gardens. Soon after, a search party was raised. But they found nothing. Not so much as a lost shoe, or a swatch torn from her dress.
I can only imagine his torment from the moment he learned she had vanished. How it must have been for him, searching through the woods alongside the volunteers, bracing himself for the worst. And thinking the whole time of what it would do to me, and to the babe. Even now, he blames himself for all of it.
The shock of it sent me into early labor, much too early for the babe to survive. He was such a wee thing. His whole body fit neatly in the palm of my hand. He was so perfect. All of his parts were there, all ten fingers and toes, eyes and nose and mouth. He was such a tiny thing, it felt like holding a pixie in my hand. Archie built him a little box out of cedar, and lined it with my best silk fichu. We nestled him in it and buried him in the back of the garden. One of Archie’s workmen is engraving a stone to mark where we laid him.
And so. One child is lost to me, until I go to him when my sojourn here is done. The other… I pray she is safe, that she shall one day be found and returned to me. It is that hope that keeps me going. Without it, I would have wasted away after Liam’s birth. It was only the thought that Fiona may yet be found, and that when she is she will need her mother, that gave me the strength to rally.
Archie has returned to work on the bridge, which is nearing completion. It was necessary, yet I cannot help but think that he was eager to leave, to put distance between himself and the daily reminders of our losses. But I cannot spare myself from them so easily. Even were I to leave, I carry them with me. They are etched upon my heart, which shall never again be whole. Only the return of my precious lass can help me to heal, but I know a piece of me will ever be buried in the garden, beneath a stone with Liam’s name engraved upon it.
It would be easy to blame Archie for not looking after the lass more closely. I still do not understand why he chose to send the servants away in my absence, and him still recovering from typhoid fever. But blaming him won’t help, and I do not wish to add to his anguish. If I blame anyone, it is myself. My motherly instincts warned me not to leave her behind, but Archie was so insistent and persuasive, that I didn’t listen. And part of me was that glad that Archie was so keen to spend time alone with his girl to make up for the time he lost with her. Oh God, if only I had followed my intuition! Then I would still have my sweet little girl, and I would still be in joyful anticipation of my boy instead of mourning beside his grave.
Some days, I don’t know how I shall go on. I confess, it has been easier since Archie left. He did his best to comfort me, but his own pain felt like a burden, and I feel somewhat lighter since he has gone. I do not blame him, yet there are moments wherein I find myself seething with anger toward him. This is followed by guilt, for I know it isn’t fair to him. We both made mistakes. We are both to blame, or else none is to blame, except the one who took our girl.
And I confess, at times I am tempted to blame God. How could he have allowed such a thing? I know that I have only suffered two-tenths of Job’s loss -- nay, not even that, for I still have my material comforts, though my health is not as sound as before. “Though He slay me, yet shall I praise Him.” It is all well and good should He decide to slay me, but my children? What have I done to demand such a price? What has Archie done?
I dream of her. Night after night, the same dream. She is sitting in the woods, alone at a little table, having a make-believe tea party with the faeries. She is happy, but a dark shadow looms over her, growing larger and darker, hiding her from my sight. She cries out for me and I run to her, but before I can reach her, the shadow consumes her, swallowing her whole. I awake then, and sleep absconds from me for the rest of the night, as I lie awake and pray for her safe return. Though my faith has been shaken, yet I still appeal to His goodness to look after my lass.
Some days, I wish to God that He would slay me. And yet I press on. For her sake, as long as there is hope, I press on.
Diary, 3 August, 1793
I am home. The bridge is at last complete, and was opened on the first of August as scheduled in a ceremony conducted by the Governor. Mr. Hoban and a host of politicians were present to consecrate the bridge and open up passage to the Southwest Territory, each of them taking turns to congratulate me on my accomplishment.
Mr. Hoban hosted a dinner that evening at his residence in Asheville, and me as the guest of honor. Did I ever dare dream that such a dinner would be held in which a governor, along with dignitaries and other men of wealth and high status, would gather to honor me?
The only shadow upon the evening was Bridget’s absence. Would that she had been strong enough to attend. But she has been overtaken by a malaise and will scarcely leave her bed. The doctor could find no physical cause for it. She seemed to be improving when I left her to resume work on the bridge, and her maid says that indeed she had been growing stronger. It was only a week ago that she grew despondent and her condition weakened such that she took to bed. So I left her to rest and made apologies for her absence. But how I wish she had been there to see it!
Dinner consisted of four courses, each with so many and varied a dish that I would need to devote pages to describing them. But I scarcely noticed what I ate, for I spent much of the evening engrossed in conversation with Mr. Hoban as we discussed my future at the firm. He painted a rosy picture indeed, complete with a promotion to full partner, just as he promised. He means to have me come to the capitol to help with the design and construction of the new city and governmental buildings.
Such a project will be years in the undertaking, if not decades, and would mean relocating to the District of Columbia. But I fear that Bridget is not strong enough for such an undertaking. Even if she were, she is not willing. When I mentioned it to her, she turned away from me and buried her face in her pillow. Later, when she was strong enough to speak, she asked how I could think of moving away when there is a chance the girl may be found? Of course, I could not tell her that such a chance does not exist. Not only that I would not incriminate myself, but I cannot take that hope from her. I had hoped her love for me would be strong enough to keep her here and give her reason to go on. But I see now that she holds on only for the girl’s sake. She pines for her even as she grieves the loss of the boy.
I, too, grieve. I grieve for them both. And it is an unfair thing that the boy should have been taken when I had given the girl so freely. Although I suspect the former to have been divine retribution for the latter. That’s all well and good, were I the only one to suffer. But what kind of cruel Maker would crush the heart of an innocent and faithful woman by tearing her babe from her womb? I had counted on the babe to comfort Bridget, and now he’s gone, I have no comfort to offer her, besides restoration of the sort of life to which she had previously been accustomed. But she spits on such a life. It is not but a dunghill to her without her babes.
I would give her more babes, if she would let me. But she would not let me touch her. She shrank from my caress as though she could not bear it. And the way she looked at me… she said nothing, but a chill sliced through me like a blade carved of ice at the silent accusation in her gaze. It may be that she only resents me for not looking after the girl more closely, but in that moment, I felt certain that she knows. But how could she?
She cannot. Though I think she may suspect that I have not been truthful with her. I cannot think what cause she would have to doubt me. Then again, it may be nothing more than her grief causing her to cast around for someone to blame. And isn’t it only right that she should blame me? Even if she does not know the truth.
I think the move to Washington will be good for her. Getting her out of the house and into society where she belongs will surely take her mind off of her suffering, and that rosy bloom will return to her cheeks, and the smile to her lips. In time, she may even smile upon me once again. I will spend the rest of my life making all of it up to her, or else I will die trying. This dark cloud over our lives will one day seem but a brief storm that preceded the dawn, the wilderness that needed to be crossed on the way to the promised land. She will see that, of that I am certain. She must.
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Hurray! I can't wait to read it. Loving this story.