Dear Muse (Those Whom the Gods Wish to Destroy Book 1) (6 page)

Instead of reloading, Henry attacked my mother with a pocket knife. He managed to stick her once in the stomach before my father hurled his shoulder into the man’s knees. They wrestled around on the floor, while I continued to kick at Richard’s bleeding neck so hard that I sliced the sole of my foot on the sewing needle.

Henry and my father managed to raise themselves, the former fully intent on finishing off my mother and the latter reaching for the rifle. Next thing I remember was Father balancing on one leg, repeatedly bringing the butt of the rifle onto Henry’s face. Mother was shrieking as loud as before, clutching at her eye.

We survived at a hefty cost: Mother lost an eye, Father lost the last of his pride. If a surgeon did not live less than a mile away, we would have lost much more. My arm had healed before our arrival on the island, as had my mother’s wounds. From then on, she sported an eye patch due to a “hunting accident.”

Quite a miracle to have arrived here intact. After all that brutality, today’s incident seems like child’s play, though Aiden would say otherwise. I suppose it was his way of being officially initiated into the family.

It started as a simple exchange of punches: Aiden striking Finney in the stomach, followed by Finney hitting Aiden in the chin. Next, they were both on grappling on the ground. My uncle was the first to intervene, receiving an elbow to the cheek for his efforts. Three others joined, managing to pry them apart. The grip around Aiden went lax, and he punched Finney in the mouth so hard it broke his front teeth. He was then tossed to the ground and kicked by seven men, one of them being Finney. The thrashing lasted a good minute before cooler heads prevailed.

Aiden’s worst injury is the deep slice down his knuckle, nearly down to the bone. He was stitched up by his friend Casey, one of the men that tried to hold him back. Casey confessed to getting a single kick during the fray and would have went in for more if he knew he would not be the one in charge of patching him up later. Most of the men apologized to Aiden while he was being stitched up. Tensions were high and noses were bound to get bloodied. My father’s cowardice was inexcusable, and from henceforth, I refuse to speak with Finney under any circumstances. Not even to mock the gap in his gums.

The two of us were on decent terms for an obvious reason. I was a pretty girl. He openly loathed my father and eyed my mother with nothing but disdain, while I was regarded with smiles and nods. Attractive woman were on short supply, a fact that transcended all politics, even for one as adamant as Finney. I suppose he has to hate my father by proxy. With politics, you have moderates and extremists, and then you have men like my father. Though he falls somewhere in between, his actions are the stuff of political nightmare.

And so, I related the events as promised, along with today’s. Two birds with one stone, tied nicely if I may say so. I can breathe a bit easier and sleep a bit sounder with that heavy burden off my chest. From here on, no more talk of the past. The present is wearisome enough. In the morning, I have a pack of meddlesome children to tame.

Until tomorrow, my most cherished friend.

Entry 14

Many days have passed since my last entry, and all my aches and pains seem trivial in comparison to the present. Our predicament started with an earthquake. I am far from an expert in seismic disasters, and taking into account my predilection toward the dramatic, calling the event a catastrophe may seem like a hyperbole. The tremor certainly felt apocalyptic. Though it resulted in two deaths and one injury, I suppose it was relatively mild. Another one of nature’s hiccups.

Every house was affected in some way, whether a broken vase or a cracked wall. The stag’s head landed on my nightstand and split it in half. A few inches to the right and those horns would have pierced my bed. The hearth is full of soot and loose bricks, and other than a few cracks here and there, our house is fine. All but one case has similar damage.

Dalton’s house crumbled like a flimsy imitation crafted by cards. His wife, Bessy, died from the initial collapse. Poor Dalton did not recover from the sight of her sunken skull, nor his wound. He succumbed to internal bleeding while babbling about his irreconcilable loss. Aiden is shook up by the loss of his friend and cannot get over his last few hours of suffering. Why did he not die with Bessy? Just as the stag’s horn scarcely missed our bed, the cruelty of chance would not let him leave this life without a taste of misery.

A heavy branch smacked a man (whose name I cannot recall) in the head hard enough to slice his scalp. He is stitched and bedridden, but will live. Some other may have suffered cuts and bruises. I got a splinter when moving the broken nightstand outside. An irritating affliction indeed.

The strangest was yet to come, not to trivialize the two deaths and my aching thumb. An odd smell has pervaded the air. It could be described as pleasant, if not for the unaccountable origin. My uncle claims it is some sort of subterranean gas leaked during the earthquake. The sweet scent is more like the fragrance of distilled rosewater than noxious miasma. It is an elixir for the senses, yet I cannot shake the dread it instills on the others. I would rather it disappear. Nothing from the hidden crevices can be good for your health.

After burying Dalton and Bessie, life went on as normal. My uncle has been busy supervising the repairs, and Aiden has been selected to continue the survey of the woods. The whole island was affected by the quake, and though no one wants to mention it directly, we are hunting for the source of that smell. If it truly is a gas, it is likely poisonous, and would confirm the seamen’s rumors of this uninhabitable land. If only the superstitious twits mentioned that instead of ghosts, it would have saved us the trouble!

I hope this does not become a reality. I have a life in this town. Returning is impossible, but not because of the abandonment of future prospects. Somewhere, there is a death certificate with my old name on it.

Entry 15

I quarreled with my uncle. He insists the smell has dissipated, and though Aiden backs his claim, the stink hovers around my nostrils, wafting in each breath. My nose should have grown accustomed to its familiarity by now. It does so for the worst of stenches, so why not the best? Why should I grow to hate this sweet air?

My mind refuses to shift focus. As I lie down in bed, waiting for sleep’s respite, this heinous stink invigorates my thoughts like smelling salts. Coupled with Aiden’s obnoxious snoring, the scent continues its assault on my thoughts and I find myself wandering around outside. The cool breeze did wonders to alleviate my aching head. Perhaps I should set up a cot in the yard.

I would be harangued for even thinking such a thing. After all, as my uncle would say, I am responsible for two lives now. The back of our house faces the trees, not far from the spot I disposed of the photograph. Sleeping outdoors would invite the wolves to an easy snack. Though I shudder at the prospect of being devoured, it seems more of a cautionary tale than possibility.

Armed with a kitchen knife, I wandered to the start of the trees and peered into the vast woods. The indiscernible boundary seemed uninviting, yet the size granted protection from the handful of lurking predators. I recalled Benjamin’s fate and realized it was a matter of odds. He could have sought the wolf pack, or they could have sought him, and it would still require a great measure of luck. A strong sense of smell and an eye for tracking can account for an ounce of that measure.

What reason did I have to venture into the woods? I can mark every square inch of the island and remain unscathed. I was swift and keen-sighted with a good sense of direction. With just a canteen of water and a knife to mark trees, I bet I can make quite a bit of progress each night. I will be sure to carve all sorts of lewdness to baffle Aiden and the others.

The dead stag never ceases to mock me. Come to my kingdom, he jeers. I could fare better than a hooved rat. I should don its horns and tread his domain. Perhaps I will attract a new companion that does not keep me up with its snoring.

Entry 16

Twenty-three people voted to leave the island last night. Even with a population just over one hundred, that is quite an exodus.

The mayor is furious, and the others are not too pleased. The sudden decision, spurred by a few dissenters, has left us all confused and somewhat angry. We naturally assumed that each person was devoted to this town’s growth. For those remaining, it is demoralizing to see our friends flee at the first sign of trouble. It begs the question: Are your neighbors discontent?

Finney leads the mutiny, more out of necessity than passion. Who better than the constant objector to the status quo? It does not line up with his insistence on scouting the western caverns, though I am sure he would blame the island’s instability if pressed. The man wants to kill my father. Aiden offered to intervene, going on about a hunting accident. It would certainly curb the inevitable revolt, but I see no reason to avenge a crime that has not been committed. Murdering my father would leave him as the prime suspect, subterfuge not being part of Finney’s skillset.

Worst of all, my class is falling apart at the seams. David had the gall to leave his seat mid lecture. After all my efforts to teach him to read, he could not even be bothered to conjure an excuse when prompted. There is no point in educating these damned ruffians. They cannot bother to bathe themselves, let alone aspire to be anything but rustic workhorses.

I am not meant to teach. I realized this a few days ago, when my patience broke like a dry twig in the middle of a lecture. I cannot even recall the subject. I was seized by an overbearing feeling of futility, and in this brief moment of clarity, locked eyes with a dozen idiotic glares. These poor children have almost no memories of their previous lives. This floating rock is all they know. The runaways will have a hard time adapting to the larger scope of society. Teaching them anything beyond a simple trade was a waste of time.

In hopeless scenarios, I find it best to squeeze any bit of enjoyment from the despair. This usually involves petty tricks and subtle meanness. I am suited for subterfuge and deceit. Lies totally removed from the reality of things are a personal favorite, especially on those wholly ignorant of my deception. Children are the most susceptible to these tricks. Adults occasionally indulge in this sort of cruelty with harmless pranks, which teach the humiliation of naivety. Many sharpen their intellect with the sole purpose of avoiding such trappings.

After prattling for an hour on the dangers of eating wild berries and playing with poison ivy, I decided to test their retention. If you were stranded in the woods and found a cluster of purple berries on a green vine, would you eat these berries or wait until you found the red berry shrub? Red berries, Thomas replies. There are no red berries that grow on shrubs, I say. The purple berries grow on shrubs and the red berries grow on the green vines. Not only that, you silly boy, but they are both poisonous!

I laughed and he pouted. It is a profoundly sad thing when your only source of joy is tricking an eight-year-old.

I must not dwell on my utter failure as an educator. It is comforting to know I tried, and any aspirations to pursue a career in teaching have been thankfully scattered. I like my list of opportunities to be as short as possible. I hate making choices.

It is a shame, though; the solitude this community has to offer can do wonders to the intellect. The isolation of the wilderness meets all the needs of a pregnant mind burdened by heavy thoughts. Luther would be disappointed to discover the town’s first day would be no different than the last. Toil, eat, toil, sleep, toil, eat, toil, sleep. I could be wrong. These simple people long for a simple life. I am beginning to realize that we have conflicting definitions of simplicity.

After I am demoted to nanny, I will return to field work when these boys are old enough to help their fathers. The problem growing in my womb will grant me a few months of idleness. If our labor is truly lacking, the baby may be nursed by one of the older women.

Life seems much more complicated when put to paper. These ordeals are trifles during the day. Dwelling on them creates unnecessary stress and very little in regard to solutions. If I were to view my situation from a detached perspective, leaving with the others might be the best choice. I cannot return home, but I can always find another.

There lay another problem: I adore this island. Though I respect this town, I cannot abide by their rules, yet I cannot sustain myself alone. I am an idle creature that has nothing to offer this world. A time will come when the community realizes I am a burden. They will cast me and my child to the woods. We will grow feral and dine on their sons and daughters like deranged jackals. If I am to leave civilization against my will, there would be no end to my spiteful machinations. The best hunters are made by necessity, and I require retribution more than water.

In conclusion, I am a sponge with no intentions of improving my character, as unbending as I am useless.

Entry 17

I accomplished quite a bit of exploring in the last few nights. Aiden blames his companion’s disorganization for the intermittent carvings on the trees. They mark their progress with an X, while I use different symbols depending on the territory. There was a tiny grove, for instance, which I would like to visit during the day. The trees circled a little pit. I want to fill it with dirt and place a bird bath at the center to make new friends.