Will you choose someone who is standing on the threshold of Good and Evil. Whom the devil calls every now and then? Amos Vega faces the same questions when he falls in love with a mysterious girl in the wood of New Amsterdam. A tale set in the New...
It was dark when Amos awoke. His whole body had turned into a lump. He could not raise his hand to remove the white sheet dropped on him. He could not turn to his side. What he remembered was the fight. Was he taken back to settlement or simply a prisoner among the aboriginals? There was no sound no fire, no dance. He must have been taken back by the men to home. He was thirsty and there was a fire roaring inside his head. He called names but his voice echoed back from the empty walls. In the beginning, it was too dark for him to scan the surrounding well. But now he realized, the place was simply a log house with the shingled roof commonly built by the labourers.
He saw the plain walls that were streaked in the most bizarre fashion. There were designs, he could not see in the gathered darkness. Floor was clean but freezing and the single log in the fireplace was dead, as if not touched from days. He could see the other room built in succession, it had a long low table with a row of jars filled with herbs, a basket of dark red apples and few books with blank covers in different colours scattered around them.
Extremely dim moonlight filtered through the chinks between the roof shingles and created spotlight on floor. He could not see any water and the apples were too far away. He could not bring his languid body into action. He checked on his body parts. He could move his legs, but there was great pain in his back and even the slightest movement sparked stabbing pain. He observed that his wound was wrapped with a poultice wet with a grey and blue green batter of some kind that smelled like raw apples.
His insides churned like a furnace. He had fever, a lot of it. He thought about the girl he met at the fair on the feast of Sintklaas. Fair and blue eyed with the tint of pink all over her eyelids and the few soft golden tresses that flew out of her cap, If only he could take the ship back to home. How different the life is in this part? He wondered why the Indians didn't take him along or simply killed him. He wanted to get up and enquire. But his body was all at sea. Soon he drifted into an uneasy slumber. He dreamt of waves, a black thunderous sky and himself going deep in water, than he saw a large black cat sitting on a cradle in which a pale blue eyed child rocked to and fro. He saw the cat turning toward him and her eyes were crimson like blood.
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When his eyed opened next, he saw the face of a rosy girl not quite out of her teens hovering over him. There was something strikingly different about her; he could have named it as ''refreshing'' if not for the sake of propriety. There was neither linen cap nor even a felt hat on her head, as was the custom among women in colonies of that time. Her strawberry blonde hairs were open and extremely inviting. He very impatiently asked her a string of questions in a single breath.
"Where am I?"
"Who are you?''
''How I ended up here?
''You were there in the wood, among all those dead men. I found u raving wild, unconscious and alive. Are you not glad to be safe and sound?'' She asked
''I am, to say the least. Can you take me to your people? I want to go back home.''
There is no point in going anywhere in the shape you are right now, but let me tell you anyway, there are no people of mine here. It's just me, Indians and the woods.''
''Pardon me, Madame, but how it could be? You a girl! Surrounded by all these Indians, in the wilderness, alone? What are you doing here? Are we both captive? If so then take me to the Indian Chief or tell them to come and talk to me. I am impatient. My people are embroiled in a war and have none to defend. I must go to them.''
''Impatience will not heal your broken backbone, or the torn flesh of your shoulder. For that, you must rest and avoid thinking a bit too much. For now that's enough to know that I am free and so are you. I will tell you all when you recover from your injuries, Sir. But before all that you must eat something, try this red clover soup, it will heal your bones.''
The soup tasted like beans mixed with mushrooms. It was dull but not unpleasant. It did him good. He remembered the low song that emanated in the girl's voice as his eyelids become heavy and his whole body relaxed into the sleep of rest. It had the sound of waves splashing on shore.
When Amos waked up after a night full of uninterrupted sleep, he felt all the heaviness gone from his body. As if by a miracle, he could turn to his side and could force his body to sit up with little pain. The wound on his shoulder was still wrapped but the pain had drastically reduced. The wind that passed through the chinks in roof and half opened door was cool and the sun was still trying to get on his feet and flame the sky. He could saw the various scenes drawn on the wall with coal depicting trees, mountains, wedding bells and farm animals. These were crude, with no fine detailing but just a hint by the painter. A little brown pitcher was kept near to the mattress in one corner that he now raised over his lips and drank to his fill. He checked his person. There was no odour of the sick, instead he smelled of Apples. For once he thought about calling the girl, but then he remembered He didn't ask her name.
