The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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I dreamt again of poppies and a man. He had no face, no recognizable form—and yet I knew him. Or, at least, I knew enough to fear for him. It was as if I remembered my past dream and knew what was coming. I knew of the sword and I wanted to keep him from harming himself once more. His intentions were made remarkably clear to me.
This time he knelt amongst the red flowers, his naked chest heaving as if he had just run many miles to reach this very spot. He did not look to me, instead his head was bowed—I knew him to be praying even though he had no eyes or mouth. I knew by the bend of his shoulders, the posturing of his neck, his head, and his very jaw that he was speaking to some higher power. I found myself desiring to hear those words, not to be the receiver of them, but to be a listening ear to his heart's cries.
The sky around us was dark, a gathering thunderstorm swirling overheard. The rain, a pungent smell in the air, was welcome. I felt parched, as if I had been standing in this very spot of years without so much as a drop of water. There was a word, just one, perched at the tip of my tongue. Whether praise or cry of pain—even now as I recount— I am unsure. I felt pushed towards this boy by unseen hands, like an invisible thread binding my chest to his. It tugged and I took a step. But with that step came the cries of so many. As if all the pain I could not feel was somehow placed upon the shoulders of another. I froze mid-step and cast my eyes towards the sky.
The buzzing was back, a dark sound like the crackle of lightening during a mild summer storm. I looked back to the boy, my desire, my longing, my hope—he was not looking at me. Rather he was still kneeling, his body now bent and braced against the ground below him. Just as I had known of his prayers, I now knew of his weeping.
The cloud descended and met him, encircling him in a whirling storm he could not escape. It twisted and formed into the shape of a man, dark and indescribable. The shadow stood behind the boy and wrapped its arms around his trembling shoulders. I expected it to try to hoist him up, but instead it seemed to push him lower, as if he could be shoved into the dirt completely—buried alive in his own darkness and burden.
The buzzing intensified until all I could hear, feel, even image was the harsh grating of it. The shadow's arms tightened and the boy relaxed, as if lulled into a calm. I took another step, certain that I had to reach him, hand to protect him from this even if he did not see he was in danger. My heart seemed to scream when my body would not.
You are in the grasp of the devil himself. This is a monstrous force that will take you from me—you will allow it to take you from me.
With every step I took towards the boy, the shadow seemed to tighten its hold on him. The boy straightened, his spine being bent up and backwards by the grip of the shadow. I grew closer and it tightened until he was writhing, actively fighting it off. He twisted until he grew still and there was no breath in him.
And I knew, in my very soul, that I could have saved him if only I could have only reached him first.
