The House of Mourning ~The House of Mirth--Prologue

Sunday

September 14, 2014


Okay kiddos I am rolling out the beginning of a novel I am in the middle of writing.

It is called:

 The House of Mourning

~

The House of Mirth

A Novel

by 

Carrie Malet

The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning;

but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth

Ecclesiastes 7:4

                                                                                Prologue

August 1884

Her screams had stopped by the time he found himself waking up at the edge of the clearing where the family homestead sat. The deep forest echoed the sounds of woodpeckers, crickets, toads, an occasional cry of some large cat. Not a sound from the log cabin. His papa had been early at the whiskey; had started in on his mama before lunch. Too many times he had witnessed papa’s huge fists crunching the bones of mama’s face, arms, anywhere they could find a bit of flesh and bone.

This time he had tried to stop the brute but papa had picked him up with one arm, brought him outside and threw him against a log near the edge of the forest that encircled the house. He landed headfirst into the trunk of a hardwood pine and blacked out. When he awoke, head throbbing, the sun was peering through the tall dense forest on its way to the horizon. Shadows were creeping up to edge of the clearing. It must have been hours he had been asleep.

For some reason, mama stayed with his papa. He had never got up the nerve to ask her why. He and his mama could go off together and leave the bastard behind. He was young but not that young anymore. Soon he would be able to defend mama against that stinking pile of merde. He fantasized killing his papa during the day and dreamt about it at night.

He stood up carefully listening to the sounds of the forest, for any odd crackling of underbrush that might be papa. He rubbed the knot on his head while forming an escape plan. He didn't have any money; was sure his mamma didn’t have any either. He would have to find where his papa stashed the money he made trapping and lumberjacking.

Peering through the gloom, half hidden from view at the edge of the forest, he analyzed the house his papa had built. Papa had used the best hardwood in the world; Canadian hardwood from Quebec. Seemed like the whole world wanted Quebec hardwood. Seemed like the forests were so full they would never run out. But the house his papa had built was more like a waste of lumber. Papa could chop it down with his massive arms, but he sure didn’t have any idea how to put a proper house together. It appeared sort of like a hulk of logs haphazardly slapped together. There were plenty of places where the logs didn't meet, the mud he had slopped between some logs had broken away, allowing the freezing winter gales to gust through the whole house, trying to overwhelm the fires in the hearth; sometimes dousing the banked and smoldering fire in the night. They would wake to a frigid day that felt like they were right out in the forest without any protection at all.

A giddy feeling shivered through him. He silently laughed at the foolish construction of the house. He could laugh now, it was the middle of summer and the wind that blew through the cabin that was a welcome relief.  It was a perfect time to leave this pile of shit life behind. First he had to find the stash of money his papa had hidden somewhere. Then, as a way of getting her safe and away from the madman, he would insist his mama come with him to town to tell him what supplies she needed. But before she knew it they would be on a train going anywhere away from here. The very first train. He was fourteen but looked at least eighteen; was tall and strong already with the shadow of his papa firmly planted on his young frame.

There still was no sound coming from the homestead. A bad feeling began in the pit of his stomach as he unconsciously walked out of the thick trees and up to the door, his head throbbing with each heartbeat. Twisting the knob he stepped onto pieces of broken china. His boots crunched across the front room as he carefully made his way toward the kitchen in the back of the incongruous house. The meager china cabinet on one wall was thrown completely over the dishes destroyed. He swallowed hard and noticed he had begun shaking, a sheen of cold sweat made him shiver. The whole house seemed quieter than he had ever known, like a church or a cemetery. His mama was usually in the kitchen making some kind of noise, singing, cleaning, crying; it was too silent. He swallowed hard again; felt drips of cold sweat trickle down his sides from his armpits.

He took a few more carefully placed steps when he noticed a small door in the wall where the china cabinet had stood. He looked back at the kitchen and then to the door he had just entered. He listened for any sound any squeak in the floorboards that might give him some idea where papa was. Nothing. He slowly leaned over, his head swimming and swirling for that moment, and picked up a length of table leg broken off in a rage of violence then thrown away.

He stepped gingerly over the bits of glass and china toward the small door, as if he were hunting a stag. He hunched forward and stopped, frozen, once more listening, waiting for a giant arm to come down on the back of his head. His mind was reeling with confusion from the injury. Worried about his mama. He focused his thoughts on saving his mama, finding and pocketing whatever cash he could, then getting his mama out of the horrible life they had lived so far.

Still no sound. The entire house was too quiet. Even the insects and birds were quiet. The stupid whip-o-will that kept him awake at night had not begun…the night birds should have begun their songs by now. He stood up quickly and pivoted toward the kitchen stealthy in every step. If the monster was asleep he did not want to wake it. As he approached the kitchen he noticed the table was on its side and the apples in the bowl were splayed about in confusion on the part of the floor he could see; the bowl in shards mixed in with the rest of the dross littering the floor.

He came to the doorway holding his breath. He felt his heart pounding in his ears and under his sweat soaked shirt, “Oh mon Dieu ,ma tête” he cried silently.

He considered what could be awaiting him around that corner. He could not get the picture out of his head of papa standing just on the other side of the wall waiting to bring down a log upon his head. Readying his own weapon for action he lifted it to his shoulder; then remembered his mama. His determination to save her filled his vessels with power he had never realized before and a hatred of his papa that roared to life. She was not able to withstand his punches and kicks, first screaming and trying to defend herself, eventually curling up in to a mewling little ball while papa beat on her. She barely recovered from one beating when papa would get drunk again and start all over on her. He hoped that son-of –a whore was on the other side of the wall. He would love to smash his face all the way to hell. He stepped through the doorway and into the kitchen.

The light in the room was dimming quickly. Eyes adjusted to the low light, he made out a form that lay curled in the middle of the floor drenched in red, red blood.  Hoping it was his papa and knowing in his heart is was not he edged forward. His mama had one arm over her head; the other pointing impossibly to the hearth behind her. He could see the shoulder bone sticking out of her dress. He bent over cupping his hand under her nose and mouth, feeling for any sign of breath of life. Nothing. He leaned over placing his ear on her chest where her heart should be beating. Nothing again.

He heaved a deep mournful sigh. Gently he picked her up and took her outside to the garden she had so carefully tended. The rabbits and other varmints could have it now.

Tenderly he laid her down in the midst of the garden; then went to the tool shed and grabbed a shovel. He walked back to the place he had left her. He stood, looking down at her to memorize her face. He leaned over her and carefully removed the cross she always wore around her throat. It was soaked with blood. He pocketed it and thought of her beautiful shawl she wore in the winter, when they woke to a freezing house. He ran into the house and grabbed it off the bed as well as a quilt from the chest at the end of the bed. Returning to his mama’s final resting place, he began to dig a grave for her deep enough that no animal was going to get to her. He had to stop a moment as the face loomed into his mind of the foul, vile man who had done this. He realized he was crying and got angry.
            “I should have killed him while he slept! Oh my God, Maman! The horrors you have lived through; the terror of dying like that, alone” His heart was completely broken; shattered. Gasping for air several times his body convulsed into sobs; sorrow clutching at his belly. He fell down to his knees, his cries unabated, never again to be comforted by his mama. 
He heard himself sobbing in agony, "stupide morceau de merde! Stupide petit bébé”, he screamed himself and his papa. He pounded angrily at his still aching head. Then commanding his body to stand he continued the harrowing task of burying his own sweet mama, tears and saliva dripping from his eyes, nose, and mouth.

The full moon was bright in the sky allowing him to complete the horrifying, heartbreaking job. He opened and smoothed out the quilt on the ground next to the grave placing the shawl on top. He carefully lifted his mama’s body onto the quilt and wrapped her first in the shawl. “Elle est si belle”, he thought. Wiping the blood off her face, he leaned over to kiss her. He whispered “Je t’aime, Maman”, with the last tears he would ever shed running down his contorted face onto his mama’s mangled one. Then wrapped her in the quilt covering her face last. He jumped down into the grave, very carefully lifted her body into it, gently laying her down within. Climbing out of the grave he made the sign of the cross, asked for forgiveness of the god he had never believed in and made himself throw the dirt back into the hole in the ground, on top of his mama’s now dead body.

It was the worst thing he would ever have to do in his entire life.

He couldn’t even cry anymore, his mind swirled and reeled with fantasies about killing his papa. His head throbbed with terrific pain now. He finally finished by placing rocks and lime over the top of the site. He made a little cross out of sticks, placing it at the top.

 Still cursing his papa and God he backed away from the gravesite. Walking over to the pump he washed his hands and face with fresh cold water, shivering in the cool morning air. Then he remembered the small door in the wall and returned to it without concern for himself. Hoping his papa was within waiting for him; he would kill him in a moment, but the coward was not anywhere. He quickly emptied the cubbyhole of all the cash, grabbed a bag with his few clothes and a bit of food.  Then he walked out of the house never looking back. It was close to sunrise. He looked to the east as the first morning dawned without his mama in the world. It made him curse his father once again.

He had nothing left. He was free. He would hunt the bastard and kill him as brutally as his papa had killed his mama.