Winter's Nocturne

The World Is Beautiful

December 13, 1644
York, Massachusetts Bay Colony

Tell them the truth.

The gaunt, frail-looking woman who'd been sleeping on the hard frame of a bed wakes up with a start, gasping for breath. Her dirty blonde hair is limp and stringy with the days of dirt and grief. She clings to only a thin blanket for warmth.

Bad dream, Adelaide tells herself, wiping away the tears that fall. She can't let the others see her weep.

She needs every shred of dignity, with her stained and battered dress and unkempt hair. Streaks of blood and grime mark her once flawless complexion. Adelaide remembers being beautiful.

Tell them the truth.

Adelaide moans, her face pressing against the cold iron bars. Her bare, filthy feet tremble on the icy floor. "Stop it," she mumbles, almost defeated. "What do you want from me?"

I want to see you both suffer. Tell everyone the truth.

"Shut up, you filthy bitch. Nobody wantin' nothin' from you except some peace 'round here." The voice that answers Adelaide is a different kind of sound, one from an old English hag with white hair standing on end.

The crone's laugh is bitter and cruel. Adelaide cringes, rocking herself back and forth. Comfort, comfort, comfort. Compassion is not easy to find, and the voice won't let her rest.

It has been almost nine months without comfort.

Tell them the truth, or I'll do it for you. I'll ruin everything, and you'll all die.

Sometimes the voice is little more than a petulant child.

Already, the first colourful strains of dawn are rising, and the church bells ring six times. Adelaide marvels at the beauty of it all. From her window, Adelaide can see the slightly rusted old bell looking over the small cemetery, sparsely populated with flowers but mostly forgotten.

It will be her new home soon. Everyone thinks Adelaide doesn't understand, but she knows. Her many attempts at nights of terrified sleep would never let her forget that.

If there were no bars, Adelaide would open the window at dawn, raise her shrivelled wings, and fly into the beauty. She fantasizes about the freedom, the lightness, and she tears up at the glorious nature of the expanse. The world is beautiful.

They're coming for you today. Tell everyone the truth.

The voice is insistent. It always is. For weeks, Adelaide was on her knees praying, crying, and begging for the sound to leave her. When that didn't work, she confessed her malady in a whispered tone.

At first, the doctors showed mercy and concern. "She hears voices, the poor girl. How else would a devoted God-fearing lady end up here?"

The minister shook his head. "Save your pity. Voices are the Devil's handiwork. Fix her."

Doses of laudanum and sweetly flavoured liquids in small cups let her sleep, but every morning, the same voice greeted her.

Tell them the truth. The people will kill you if you don't.

Sometimes the voice was sweet, the cooing sound of a mother to her child. Other times, it was violent and threatening like the white-haired lady.

"The voice never stops."  Adelaide cried to her husband, John. He looked at her with a shred of love but little pity. "Tell them the voice never goes away."