Angel Fire (14 page)

I had never met Great-Grandmother Beatrice. My mother had a few photographs hung in frames on the stair wall, old dusty sepia renditions of a sour-faced matron.

Like a repentant puppy that ran away from home and finally returned, I entered my aunt’s house later that afternoon. I knew there would be hell to pay for running out of church and embarrassing her in front of the other parishioners.

I braced myself for the impending storm, but to my surprise, no one was there. After poking my head into the bedroom and the cellar stairwell to be certain, I made my way to the kitchen for something to drink.

I dropped the journal on the kitchen table and raided the refrigerator for a glass of orange juice. I drank it down in a rush, and then poured another. This time I sipped at it while I sat at the table and flipped the journal open to the first page.

The first third of the journal contained entries from my great-grandmother’s teenage years. Like most young girls, Beatrice talked of clothing, of community socials, and everyday gossips. She wrote how Nancy Trillian spilled ink over her dress on purpose one day, and that she would get her back if it was the last thing she ever did.

Beatrice excelled in school, and often wrote about her thoughts on God and religion, and how she wanted to become a nun. Her parents forbade it, however. They thought she would be better off married.

Being mostly self-sufficient on their ranch near Sedona, the family had come through the Great Depression without feeling the worst of its effects, but they were by no means wealthy, and could not afford to keep Beatrice indefinitely.

When she turned sixteen, her parents began to introduce her to eligible bachelors from surrounding towns.

One such gentleman caller was a rancher nearly twenty years her senior—Walter Gordon from outside Middleton. He had been widowed a year earlier and had four sons. When he heard Beatrice was of marriageable age, he came calling, looking for someone to keep his home and raise his boys—the oldest of whom was only two years younger than his would-be bride.

Beatrice hated the thought of marriage, but she had no other choice.

While I told myself I would re-read those passages later to get a better sense of my family’s history through her words, I skimmed over them until I found the first reference to the fire.

While the beginning passages were written in a very fine, controlled hand, the entry the morning after her wedding night was written in an angry scrawl, the letters jagged and rushed, the pages torn in places where the pen pushed through.

* * *

March 14

How can I bear the shame? How can I ever face my priest to confess this sin? It must be a sin, what that evil man forced upon me. The pain was unbearable, and continues today. Is this what all women must endure? Is this our penance for the wickedness of Eve? Is this what they call Original Sin?

I cannot look upon my face in the mirror. My skin is on fire, as if I am taken by fever.

If I am to die because of this evil occurrence, so be it.

Though I may be destined for hell for thinking so, I also wish Mr. Gordon to die.

* * *

The next entry was dated under two months later:

* * *

May 5

I wish I had died that evil night. I have not been myself since, and have barracked myself in my room. I swear upon all that is holy I will never let that man near me again. But I fear his evil has infected me. I have not been able keep my morning meal down these past three days. I feel I am wasting away. Perhaps I am dying of consumption, like Saint Thérèse of Lisieux.

Mr. Gordon continues to attempt entry to my bed chamber, but I have barricaded my door with a very heavy dresser I had to move by pushing it with my legs. I will never let him in this room so long as I have breath in my body.

* * *

May 12

Doctor Smith left me today with joyous news. I am not dying. I am with child. He tells me my reactions are normal, and not to worry. His prescription is a tonic of vitamins, as much as I care to eat, and plenty of fluids. Mr. Gordon was furious when Doctor Smith ordered that I was to remain untouched for the duration of my time, and that the boys were to serve me. I am not to lift anything heavier than a pail of water.

I will have a baby of my own.

God loves me.

* * *

August 28

Something is wrong. My belly is swollen so tight, and it hurts much more than it should. The ache in my back has increased to the point I can barely rise from bed.

My mother has arrived to attend me. She and Mr. Gordon often have words in the hall with the door closed to protect my young ears, and I cannot tell what they are saying, but my mother always comes back into the room flushed and angry.

* * *

September 1

Doctor Smith visited. He has told me the bad news: there is a complication with the pregnancy. He is concerned for my health and my ability to take my child to term. He has ordered complete bed rest and promises to visit on a weekly basis.

Mr. Gordon often curses at me and Mother.

* * *

September 19

The pain! I cannot—

* * *

There was only more entry in the journal that year, and it was the longest account my great-grandmother had written so far. With hungry eyes, I devoured the words. As I read, I could feel everything she went through as if I were there in her place.

* * *

December 24

She is my angel, my salvation. I named her Edna, after my mother. She is also the only other survivor of the night of flame over a month ago.

My labors had come earlier than Doctor Smith predicted, and I only had my mother there to aid me in my time of distress. As the good doctor feared, something happened inside me. I cannot explain it. I can barely remember the events that took place, and I have no account of that night except for angry words from Mr. Gordon.

The first birthing pain took me late in the afternoon while I was making water. My mother reacted when the water turned crimson and I shrieked in agony.

Immediately, she called for help, and Mr. Gordon and his eldest, Timothy, raced in from the fields to aid us. They were worse than useless, and my mother yelled at them to fetch Doctor Smith.

I know I lost my wits several times over the course of the next few hours. I prayed to God, I swore at Him. I yelled out unholy words that I had only overheard men say when they thought women were not present.

Consciousness left me more than once, but when the worst pain hit me, I was fully awake, though I think at that moment I was unaware of anything other than the ripping through my center as my daughter struggled to escape my womb.

Exhausted, I wanted nothing more than to succumb to the torture and retreat from the suffering. I vaguely remember my mother screaming at me to stay awake, that my trials were far from over.

I know I was not myself. There was a wrenching sensation deep inside me, and I knew, at that moment, something had gone terribly wrong. I screamed like a tormented soul, and I felt as if I carried death within me.

Mr. Gordon swore that if the child died, he would have no further use for me, and would be happy to let me follow the child to hell. My mother yelled back at him and made as if to scratch his eyes out. I saw him swing his fist at her. She fell to the floor, her head bent at an unnatural angle.

The world became flame and I felt the deepest rage, as if I were possessed by a demon from hell. I was the Devil himself that night, and Timothy and Doctor Smith arrived only minutes after my sinner’s body unleashed the greatest sin imaginable. The rest of the night remains lost to my memory.

When I confronted Timothy, who had inherited his father’s ranch, he told me in a hushed voice that there was nothing left of his father and my mother except for outlines of ash on the floor. No one knew I was a murderess, and how could they suspect a woman in the midst of childbirth? Even so, no one could explain what had happened.

Timothy has allowed me to stay at the ranch. The child is his sister, after all.

If not for my daughter, though, I know I would commit another mortal sin. But I must be strong for her. I must protect her from the world. If it is in my power, I will shelter her forever from the evils that men do to women.

I miss my mother.

If you can hear me in heaven, Mother, I am truly sorry for what I did. I will most likely suffer an eternity in the flames of hell for killing Mr. Gordon.

Please forgive me.

* * *

At the end of that passage, I had to take a deep breath and compose myself. This was a history of my family that had been kept from me. I wondered why my own mother never talked to me about her grandmother’s tribulations.

Focusing back on the journal, I saw that there was only one more entry, dated nearly fifteen years after the last.

* * *

January 15

To my daughter:

Should you ever chance to read this journal, let me tell you I have no idea if the trials of evil will ever beset you as they have me. God has cursed our bloodline. I have studied the scriptures and I know what it is.

As Genesis tells us: ‘…the sons of God, looking at the women, saw how beautiful they were and married as many of them as they chose…’

The offspring of humans and angels led to the corruption of mankind. God saw this and created the Great Flood to wipe us from the Earth. In His mercy, he spared a few, and banished the offending angels from His realm.

I believe these fallen angels blame us for their fall, and seek to punish those of us who break the bond of blood. My mother is dead because I tormented Mr. Gordon. Now, a simple trespass will cause me to unleash angel’s fire on those close to me.

I keep myself apart from others, and I keep myself distant from you for your own protection.

I have found a way to suppress the rage of the fallen angels. After years of desperation, I think I have stumbled upon a means, and I bow before God every night in the hope that you do not require this lesson.

Alone one day last week, while I thought to run from you, lest my power take you as it took my mother, I bade the fire to consume me and end my suffering.

I embraced the flame.

…And I did not end.

That, I believe, is the salvation. When you finally give yourself over to God completely, body and soul; that is when he forgives you. To save yourself and save others, take God into your heart.

* * *

There were no more entries in the journal. I closed it with more force than I intended, and the pages slapped together with a sharp sound.

Give yourself to God? What did that mean?

I didn’t have time to unravel the puzzle because Aunt Martha opened the front door and called out, “Darcy, are you here, my dear?”

The cordiality in her voice sounded forced. I barely had time to hide the book under a stack of newspapers before three people entered into the kitchen.

Chapter Eighteen

Aunt Martha entered
the kitchen first, Uncle Edward a step behind.

Like a child who got caught with her hand in the cookie jar, I flashed them a guilty smile.

I was about to return the greeting when I saw who accompanied them. Sheriff Burke, dressed in his badly fitting uniform, zeroed in on me like a predator scenting blood. My stomach tightened. It was that automatic reaction to authority ingrained in me since my first night in prison. I fought my instinct to cower, and stood to meet him.

“Sheriff—”

“Darcy. I thought it would take longer for you to slip up. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to do this. For violations of your parole conditions, I am placing you under arrest—”

“Martin, damn you!” Uncle Edward growled. His face turned a deep crimson and he put himself between Sheriff Burke and me. “You didn’t come here to get her to sign more paperwork, you lying little bastard.”

“You watch your mouth, Eddie. I’m here on official business and if you interfere, I’ll be well within my rights to arrest you too!”

“Try it!” was Uncle Edward’s immediate reply, and he clenched his fists and planted his feet.

Aunt Martha’s was the only voice of reason. “Gentlemen, please. Not on the Sabbath.”

“I don’t care what day it is,” Sheriff Burke shot back. “Your niece broke parole. I have eyewitnesses that say she was in The Trough last night.”

I stepped around Uncle Edward. “I only drank water! I was just there for the dancing.”

“And to start a bar fight!” the sheriff replied.

I could feel my face burning with anger. “I did no such thing. If you want the truth—”

Sheriff Burke snorted. “Ha. You wouldn’t know the truth if it came up and bit you in the ass.”

Aunt Martha put her hands on her ample hips. “I’ll have none of that language in this house!”

As if only just realizing he was outnumbered three to one, Sheriff Burke took a step back and lowered his voice. “Are you going to cooperate, or do you want me to charge you with resisting arrest as well?”

“Now you just wait a minute,” Uncle Edward said, straining to keep his tongue civil. “She told you she didn’t consume any alcohol. Who said she did?”

“Well, no one,” the sheriff admitted. “But everyone I talked to placed her there and said she instigated a fight between my son and that new fireman. And you can bet I’ll see to it he never makes chief in this town.”

Uncle Edward growled low in his throat. “What is this really about, Martin? Are you really serving the law, or are you just mad that you have to fight your son’s battles for him.”

I hadn’t seen Sheriff Burke’s face go that color since the night Barry and I wrapped his police car around a tree. I knew he was going to blow.