Martha

A young girl's life is torn apart by the murder of her mother.unfinished.

 

It was 6am and the sun was only beginning to rise above the horizon. 16 year old Martha was taking her regular morning walk through the fields which lay beyond her home. She loved this time of day. It gave her a chance to be alone with her thoughts and daydreams before she would be thrown, once again, into the chaos that was her young  life.

Her little brother Tomas was following her, creeping along, bent down behind each wall so that she would not see him. He often followed her, creeping up on her silently, keeping low. A couple of times he displaced small rocks or snapped twigs beneath his feet so that she turned around sharply but he hid even lower at those times and she would shrug her shoulders and keep on walking, lost in her thoughts and fantasies.

One morning, a morning like all the others, she had been out on her morning walk. She had taken some paper and a pen so that she could record some of her thoughts. She sat beside the small brook which ran through her father’s fields and jotted down some of the ideas which had come to her during the night. Her dream was to be a famous writer, writing about her life in Canada as the daughter of an Irish immigrant. Writing was one of her few pleasures. It allowed her to ‘be’ somewhere else for a time.

When she had finished for that morning she began to make her way back to the stone cabin her father had built. Tomas, as usual, hiding behind the hedges, followed her home. Martha knew he was there but pretended not to. So long as he didn’t disturb her he could do as he pleased. Just as she needed her time away to think she knew that he too needed time for his imaginary adventures in the wild, so she pretended not to be aware of him and to act startled if he made a noise.

As she neared the house, deep in thought, she heard the sound of a gun being fired. It filled the morning air, shattering the precious silence.  She stopped dead in her tracks, rooted to the spot, her heart beginning to beat wildly. Then, dropping her papers she ran towards the house, passing the pig pens on her left. They hadn’t been fed yet and were becoming noisy, squealing loudly. The sound of the gun shot making them agitated. Glancing at them as she ran Martha tore in the door and shot up the stairs, breathlessly coming to a halt in front of the open door to her parents bedroom. There, standing in the corner of the room was her father, large and dark with rage. He held the gun in his hand trying to reload it. In horror and incomprehension she looked over to her mother’s bed and saw her laying there, a red poppy of blood spreading through her white cotton nightgown. Her blonde hair around her face she looked like she could still have been sleeping….. if it weren’t for the blood turning the sheets crimson. The mingled smell of blood, tobacco and alcohol made her stomach lurch.

With her hands wrapped around her belly she stood staring, numbed and unable to speak. Her father glared at her and she heard the sound of the gun being snapped into readiness to fire again.

“Get out” he roared at her, but she was still too shocked to move. “Get out….. now…… or I’ll kill you”. He growled menacingly, bringing the gun up and pointing it in her direction. She began to register what he had said and turned and ran out the door and down the wooden stairs, her emotions in chaos. Without thinking she continued to run without stopping, until she had run the two miles into town. Her father was notorious there for drunken and violent behaviour, nearly every night spending all their hard-earned money on drowning his sorrows, giving no thought at all to the sorrows he was creating for everyone else as a result.

Martha didn’t know, now that she was here, what she was supposed to do. Who could she go to? She thought of the doctor and ran to his house. It was early and she knew he wouldn’t be up yet but she didn’t care. She hammered at his door, yelling at him, “Help, I need your help, please”. The doctor’s wife, Nellie, came to the door and opening it saw the haggard face of the 16 year old Irish girl looking at her. “Please, you’ve got to come…… my mother………”

“Hold still child, calm down, what’s happened, is your mother ill?”

“No, no,” Martha tried to tell her, “ My father, my father……” but she couldn’t continue. The emotion which she had held in abeyance suddenly took over and burst out of her in thick, heaving sobs. She fell to her knees and the doctor’s wife quickly knelt to support her. “ Henri,” she shouted to her husband, “Henri, come quickly, the Irish girl’s here, something’s happened at the cabin.” Henri, the towns oldest doctor, still in his night shirt appeared at the door and seeing the distraught girl raced back in to his house and appeared two minutes later, dressed and holding his bag.

“Come on girl, are you able to ride?” Henri spoke quickly but as calmly as he could to the girl. Martha nodded, the racking sobs abating a little. “I can ride” she muttered, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. Nellie glanced at Henri, a mixture of pity and concern on her face.

“I’ll be as quick as I can” he said to her and taking Martha’s elbow guided her to the stables where he saddled his horse and together they rode out of town and back to Martha’s cabin.

 

Tomas too had heard the gunshot and seen Martha run into the house. But instead of running in like his sister  he had remained standing in the yard. Martha had not even noticed him as she ran out of the house and headed towards the town. He stood, not knowing what to do, confusion robbing him of the ability to think. He knew something awful had happened, what else would make his sister run away like that? In a daze he walked towards the house and climbed the stairs. Standing on the landing he could see his mother’s bed, and her blood now covering it. He barely noticed the figure of his father standing in the corner of the room but shook violently when another shot was fired and his father’s body crumpled to the floor. As though in slow motion Tomas turned and saw the blood spreading out from around his father’s head, a gaping hole in the centre of his forehead. Thomas stood and stared, unable to take his eyes off the scene in front of him. His heart pounded as eventually he turned and walked slowly back down the stairs to sit quietly in his mother’s rocking chair in front of the cold cooking stove. He sat, catatonic, seeing the image of his mother’s blood soaked sheets in his mind and his father’s body, lying on the floor. The sound of the gunshot had hurt his ears and they now rang with a high pitched squeal. He could hear nothing else. His young mind, too traumatised by what he had seen, shut off, the reality too much to take in.

 

The closest homestead to theirs was owned by an old negro man. Old Joe had once been a negro slave, way before the civil war in America. He had been one of the lucky ones who had escaped from slavery and made his way to Canada. He lived alone in his little cabin, a cabin he had built with his own two hands. It was his home, his land, his freedom and he loved it. He made money carving out little animals and birds from the wood he found around his home then he sold them in a small supply store in the town to visitors and travellers. He didn’t make very much but it was enough to buy his staples every month. The store owners wife Agnes always made sure he received exactly the same amount of provisions every month regardless of how much money he had made through the sale of his figurines. Sometimes, people would come from America and seek out this old man to hear his stories about slavery and how he had escaped. Someone had even put him in one of their stories about the American civil war even though he had been gone before it had ever happened. But that didn’t matter. He just couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Why did they want to know about all that stuff? They were free now, wasn’t that enough?

He was happy enough with his life here and except for those few visitors no-one really bothered him and he just lived his days in quiet seclusion whittling his wood and enjoying his solitude.

But that morning he had heard the gun shots and it had brought back all the fears of his past. He had been sitting on his porch, drinking a hot mug of freshly brewed coffee. He loved to watch the sun come up through the mist and the trees and never failed to be outside when it rose. No matter what the weather it was always beautiful. The Irish cabin was only a couple of hundred yards away from his and he heard the gun’s retort ring out loudly. He stood quickly dropping his mug of coffee, the contents spilling out in hot misty streams. His heart was beating. Had they come for him? Had they found him? He ran inside the cabin and barricaded the door, hiding behind it, his hand to his chest, breathless and waiting, his heart in his throat. He couldn’t hear the dogs, he couldn’t hear anything. He waited and the waiting gave his mind time to think. Eventually he laughed at himself. Don’t be so stupid old man. Who would come looking for you now. You’re safe. You’re in Canada. You own this land. They can’t take it away from you.  He began to relax, remembering where he was. Then thought, But I did hear a gun shot. Where on earth did it come from? He opened the door quietly, noticing the spilt coffee on the porch floor and the coffee mug lying some distance away from it, teetering on the edge of the step. He walked over to pick it up and as he bent down he heard another gun shot. He stood up sharply, fear striking his heart again. It had come from the Mahoney’s homestead. He ran inside the cabin and grabbed his shot-gun. Even though he was afraid he knew he had to do something, there were women and children there. He knew the Irish man’s reputation for drunken violence and wondered, as he ran across his vegetable patch, if someone had finally had enough of him. Although to bring it to his family’s home would have been just as bad, he thought as he ran. He climbed over the low fence which separated their two properties and keeping a watchful eye open he had crept around the outhouses, trying to catch sight of the gunman. But there was complete silence. Only the sounds of the hungry hogs in the pens, startled by the gun shots. Strange  thought Old Joe, they haven’t been fed.  He knew Mamie got up everyday and helped the children feed the animals. They would have been done by now. Joe knew that Martha had a tendency to go off by herself in the mornings. He had often watched her go. He knew that she, like him, needed her solitude. But where were they now? Where was Mamie? And why was it so quiet? Surely if someone had come with revenge on his mind he would still be around, whoopin and a hollerin, like they usually do when vengeance is accomplished. But there was nothing and this made Joe even more cautious. He rounded the porch and quietly crept into the house, keeping his gun ready and his eyes peeled. He heard a sound from behind him and whirled around ready to shoot. But all he saw was the boy, sitting on the arm chair, looking out into space.

Joe’s heart was beating wildly as he ran over to the pale faced boy and asked as gently as he could “Where’s your Mother boy?” Tomas barely registered him. Joe touched him on the knee and asked again “Where’s your Mother Tomas? Do you know where your Daddy is?”

Tomas, in a complete daze, turned and looked at Joe but said nothing. Joe felt the dread creep into his stomach.

“Has something happened boy? What’s happened?” He tried to get more response but knew that he wouldn’t. He had seen this before, back in his slave days, when a slave had been beaten so hard he kind of died inside. Nothing could make him come out of himself.

“It’s goin to be OK boy.” He said to Tomas, softly rubbing the top of the boy’s head as he got up. He knew that what he found was not going to be good but he knew he had to see. Still holding the gun in front of him he carefully crept towards the stairs. He didn’t know what he was going to find and he didn’t particularly want to get shot himself. He tried to climb the stairs as quietly as he could although the wooden boards creaked loudly. But no matter how much they creaked no-one appeared. He reached the top of the stairs, seeing the open door of the main bedroom. There was no movement inside, just silence. He edged his way towards the door, gun ready, but when he saw what was there he realised that he wouldn’t need it. It was too late.

The bed with Mamie and her golden hair was a deep dark red. She was dead, her face blanched and tight. Her husband lay on the bare wooden floor-boards a few feet away. Around his head a dark pool of red blood where he had shot himself. The second shot. Joe said quietly to himself. He looked back to where Mamie lay and was over come with sadness. She came all the way here, for this,  he thought. He knew what it meant to escape slavery and find your freedom. But, he realised, she never really had. And neither had he. They had escaped their past but they still lived in it.

Choked with emotion, tears pouring down his dark face, he slowly made his way downstairs to the boy. Who would look after them now? he thought. Those poor children. He lit the stove not making any attempt to communicate with the boy. He knew Tomas wouldn’t respond but Joe did all he knew to do and that was to get on and do something normal, something to bring some life back into the cold cabin. Martha was nowhere to be found but Joe needed to look after the boy. He couldn’t leave him here, alone. He’d light the fire and make the boy a hot drink and think about what he needed to do next.

He wrapped a blanket around Tomas as he sat staring into space. The cabin was beginning to warm up when he heard the sound of a horse galloping into the yard. He grabbed his gun, just in case, but relaxed when he saw that it was Martha, and she had brought the doctor.

“Oh thank God’” he said, putting his gun away. He went outside as the doctor’s horse came to a stop. A cloud of dust rising all around them. Joe helped Martha dismount. She was agitated and wanted to run into her mother. Joe looked into the Doctor’s eyes, communicating that it was too late. Doctor Hogan understood.

“Now honey,” he said as he got off the horse. “You just wait there a minute and let me go to and see to your mother. Its best if you don’t go just yet. Perhaps you could go and look after your brother?”

“But Daddy,” she started to whimper, “He……….he has a gun. He’ll shoot you if you go up there.”

Joe looked at the doctor and with lips tightly drawn together shook his head. Nodding, Henri spoke quietly to Martha.

“Its OK honey, you just go to Tomas. Everything will be fine.”

Martha had noticed the silent communication between the two men. She began to panic.

“What’s happened? What’s happened to my daddy?” she began to scream. “I wanna go see. I wanna see my daddy.” Joe tried to hold her back as gently as he could. He had to tell her.

“Your daddy is dead Martha.” He said quietly. “I am truly sorry.” He glanced up at the doctor helplessly, who then took a semblance of control.

“Martha? Now listen to me.” he said grasping her by her upper arms so he could gain her full attention. She struggled, straining around to try and extricate herself from his grasp but he held tight. With a sob she gave in and slumped into his arms. He held her tightly then held her out from him so he could talk to her.

“Martha, you know your Momma’s dead, don’t you?” he asked her quietly. Martha nodded, sobbing quietly. The tears staining her face even more than before. “Well,” he started, looking at Old Joe for reassurance. Joe smiled awkwardly.

 “ Martha, your daddy has shot himself too.” He braced himself for her grief to explode but she stopped sobbing. She straightened up and looked at him, confusion written all over her face.

“What?” she asked. “Daddy’s dead too?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied. Surprised by her reaction. He now looked as confused as she had.

“So he won’t hurt us anymore? Or Mammy?” she asked, the light beginning to dawn.

“Well…….no. But your momma’s……..” he couldn’t finish the sentence. Martha knew her mother was dead but that wasn’t what she meant.

“So he can never hurt her again,” she said finally.

“No, I guess he can’t,” he replied, feeling a sadness so deep for this girl who could only see her father’s death as a relief.

Suddenly she remembered Tomas.

“Oh my God,” she suddenly burst out. “Where’s Tomas. Is he hurt? Is he dead too…….? She was panicking.

“No, no he’s fine. “ the doctor reassured. He’s…..” he looked to Joe for the answer.

“He’s sittin down by the fire child, don’t you worry your head about him. I bin takin care of him.” Joe led her into the house and in to where Thomas was still sitting, catatonic, staring into the fire Joe had lit.

Martha rushed over to him and kneeling down in front of him hugged him close to her.

“Oh Tomas, Tomas. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.” She whimpered, crying, both with relief and guilt, rocking him back and forth like a mother with her child.

“I’ll take care of them,” Joe said to the doctor, who went upstairs to view the destruction. What a morning ,he thought to himself. What a morning. He reached the door to the bedroom and walked inside. The first thing that struck him was the colour, then the smell. Even though he’d been a doctor for years he had never gotten used to the smell of sudden and violent death. He quickly took a handkerchief from his bag and held it over his nose to keep out the intensity of the smell although it would not disguise it completely. He went to Mamie first and examined her. Yes, she was definitely dead. No doubt about it. He looked for something clean to cover her with and found a blanket in the wooden blanket box her husband had made, many years before.

Once he had covered her he examined her husband. No way he could have survived that, he thought. But what would drive a man to kill his own wife then shoot himself? He wondered sadly. No matter how old he got he would never understand some people. He found another blanket and covered him too. He would have to enlist some help from the ladies in town to help with the clean up and to prepare the bodies for burial. He supposed the children wouldn’t have the money for that. But his wife would know what to do.

With a heavy sigh, he left the room and walked back downstairs. And what on earth is going to happen to the children?  He suddenly thought. They’re orphans now. He was pretty sure they had no other family to speak of. He’d never heard them mention anyone. What a mess.

 

Leaving the Mahoney children alone in the cabin for a minute Joe and the Doctor went outside to talk. The doctor told him that he would organise someone to clean and bury the bodies but he was worried about the children.

“Don’t you worry none about them, Joe said. “I’ll look after them. They can come to my cabin for a time, until all this is over.”

“Yes, yes,” replied the doctor thoughtfully. “And then we can sort out what needs to happen with them. And what of the house……?” he trailed off.

“There’s plenty of time to think about that later, Joe, suggested. “I guess Martha herself will need to be asked. It is her house now.”

“Yes, it is. But will she want it?” the doctor wondered.

“We’ll have to wait and see.” Joe said smiling sadly. “But there are other things to think of. You go on now and I’ll stay here a while”.

The doctor shook Joe’s hand. Joe was surprised. Not many white men did that, leastways men of Doctor Hogans’s station. But he was glad. Smiling he said goodbye to the doctor who mounted his horse and rode back into town. Joe waited until the cloud of dust the horse had left in his wake settled before returning inside. He figured the children needed some time alone. But he would be close by if they needed him.

He sat on the fence of the pig pen. The pigs were squealing with hunger so Joe went to find some food for them. Mamie usually left the household scraps in a bucket in the shed alongside the house so went to look for them. Everyone always left the scraps in the same place, he noted, picking up the bucket and bringing it to the pig pen. He emptied the contents into the trough and the pigs buried their noses in it, slurping noisily, hungrily.

He watched them eat for a few minutes then returned the bucket to the shed and re-entered the house.

Martha was sitting with her head resting on Tomas’s lap. She stared at the fire through the grill in front of the cooking stove. She remembered when her father had bought it. He was different then, when she was young. Tomas had not been born and her parents relished the new life they had found in Canada. They had left behind them the poverty and deprivation of a country in the throes of famine. Their entire families had been wiped out and they knew that the only hope they had of surviving was to take the emigrant ships to Canada.

They had arrived in Canada, luckily not sick, unlike many who had died on board. The crossing was hard and it took its toll on those on board but they arrived, safe and whole.

They had sold every possession they owned in order to get here and they had very little when they arrived, but Paidi, her father, had been one of the lucky ones. He had quickly gotten a paid job as a logger and they were able to work and build up some money to buy their own piece of land, meagre though it was.

The day he brought the cooking stove home was a wonderful memory.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I really need some feedback on how this reads and how it makes you feel while reading it. Some constructive criticism would be very useful.

Reviews

[Aspiring Angel]

What a marveleous story and I so hope that you are going to continue on. I kept thinking while reading it, that I would put a hold on it, get up and do a few things that need doing and come back, but I couldn't leave. You caught my interest and held it to the very ending, leaving me wanting more to come.

I have read several of our poets stories and started a couple of books also for other writers. I would say that your measures up wonderfully with all I have read. Now I leave thinking I am a little embarrased at my attempt that I have running as a so called book. LOL

Mine came about after writing a poem and having people asking for a continuance sooo..... I continued here and there until I found an ending. Really went on over about a six month time period. Not really written in poem, not beautifully displayed as yours is here as a legitament story form. A novice attempt at writing outside my box.

You on the other hand, I think have something really good going here. I hope to see a continuance and please let me know when you have one posted.

Blessings,
Lesa

[Legion]

Well, I have to say that you must finish this story now. You have given me something to pique my interest. Well written and tragic. I would suggest perhaps going into more detail of what lead up to this calamatious event when you finish it (with all parties involved). It is a great story. Kudos.

Oh, and one other thing. Don't wait so long to feed those pigs from now on. We hates it we do.

[.:Naiira Harlow:.]

I don't really read this kind of thing much, but I'll give as much help as I can! The first part seems less descriptive then the rest of the piece. I'm new to this so it really made me feel confused on how to feel. Mostly a sad feel to it than anything else. I think thats all I have to say. Sorry if I wasn't much help!
-Twilight