7 DAY STORY WRITING CHALLENGE #12 WINNER

And the winner is…

Diane Larner

THE SALTMARSH BRIDE

PASTORAL

I buried my baby under the rushes. I carried her up into the dunes, then down a dip far away from the blackwater reach. I didn’t want her to be sucked into the marsh, drunk up by the brackish silt, her thirsty cemetery crowded with the bodies of wild birds. I had seen those carcasses rotting week after week saw how they became less and less as the sable mud sluiced its way through feather and claw and into vein. Saw how the carrion crows dug in with their greedy black beaks, tilting heads as they observed us trudge pass. Yellow eyes, beady and watchful, followed us as we picked our way through the reeds in our pitiful search for sea asters and saltmarsh samphire. My sister Agnes always stooped low to talk to them; in her own way, she thought they were friends. I smiled at the memory because Agnes was dead now, too. But she was safely with her maker. Buried in St Mary’s churchyard deep in that hallowed soil, cradled by tree roots which would, by now, have bound together underground to make her bed. She was safe from the reach of the sea, at one in that green and fertile eden that stretched for as long as the eye could see. A Christian child in a Christian sleep.

My baby would be safe, too. I had made it so. On that sombre night, I felt into my apron for the vial of holy water. It sat side by side with the other deadly vial, one meant for God and one for the devil. Then I dug deep into the cold sand, settling my girl beside me whilst I worked. We were silent together in that tepid moonlit space, her cries no longer hot, feral screams that beat against my chest, calling for milk that I could not give. I had wrapped her in swaddling before I left our woodland home. Smoothed her hands into a little cross over her chest. Folded her knees, then quickly wound the fabric lest her tiny feet spring free. Yet, they did not kick like before; it was easy now. 

I laid her in that damp sandy hole, murmuring my prayerful lullaby, a line from the death psalm, the only part I could remember off by heart: “Now do rest in the sleep of peace: grant unto them, we beseech thee, thy mercy and everlasting peace.”  And then I covered her over, patted down the sand and left her to sleep, her tiny body bound in its grainy shroud.

It had all been so blissful just one summer before. I remember how the saltmarsh sparrows called out to mate and how the heat dappled the air that hung above the wetlands in the early morning. And him, how he said he loved me. And, when, at night, I escaped from my work in the manor house kitchen, he pulled me into the shadows. Said he’d marry me in his Abbey, not in St Mary’s, I was not a commoner to him.

“I’ll marry you, Cecilia Grey, I won’t let them force me away.”

And I dreamt he loved me. Every week that summer, when we met in the woods near his house, he told me I was his. Some days, whilst I waited for him, I climbed to the top of the hill. You can see the marsh if you climb up the banks. But it wasn’t the marsh I sought; it was him. I waited for him to come to me, and we made love below, deep in the thicket by the stream, hidden in a den he had carved out of the soil. The tree roots pushed into my back as he forced me to love him. I opened my heart, and the skies opened above me. He told me it was only me, always me.

“I won’t marry her; I’ve told them I won’t.”

I believed him. He put a ring on my finger as my belly grew, but still, we told not a soul. We married in the woods, a ceremony of two. But then, one February day, as I waited on the mount, I saw her in the bridal carriage, travelling towards our lands from the distant hills. The sun had risen high in the sky and warmed that verdant earth as if to import its celestial blessing. I saw her go into the Abbey, her gown spilling out behind her into the churchyard as she disappeared. He married her then; he married her that day. Even though he was wedded to me. 

So it was in those cold, dark woods that I hid in the shameful days after my baby’s birth, feeding her whilst the wild foxes circled each night, waiting for death, waiting for defeat. All the while, I was waiting for him. He never came, but death did. I woke to find my baby cold and still. Whilst only a few steps beyond my camp, the vixen sat in the shadows, willing me to die too so she could devour our flesh, her dark eyes ravenous with desire.

And so, as my baby lay buried in the sand, I returned to that place again and again, my wooded vale. Many a time, I saw the others, those who have taken my place. I watched as they scrambled down the banks to make love in the glade like we did. I listened to the tales they whispered in the dark about the ones who died in the marsh, and with that knowledge, I formed my heinous plan. I made a draught of hemlock dropwort harvested from the marshlands and ground it into a paste. I hid the bitter taste with honey and mixed it with mead stolen from the pantry in the manor kitchen.

He was already drunk from his festivities when we met late that night. I saw the lust in his eyes, the belief that I was there solely to please him. Before he came, I stood and watched them through the glass, saw how they danced and twirled under the chandelier, laughing and merry as the people cheered, and glasses were raised. I had put on my wedding dress, my mother’s dress from years before. The one she sewed for me when I told her of our secret marriage. Then I bade my time until I was able to take him with me to the marsh. I let him kiss me as the bitter drink swirled in my mouth. I remember how his bride followed us, her dress trailing in the mud. Did she see us as entwined in a hollow, his mouth on mine? He wanted to know if I loved him still. I kissed him again and forced him down into the water with me. The tide was high, and we fought, but he could not stop the poison; it was so potent, so alive. It seeped into his limbs and made them still. Although I tried not to ingest the poison, I fancied I felt as he did; felt the insidious power of the root expand into my arms and legs, heavy against the soft, pungent water that filled my mouth. Out here, I thought, no one would find us. But his bride did. She rushed into the water. She tried to save him, but he ignored her. He embraced me, pulled me under, and I struggled; I did not want to die! Then I saw his bride in the water, saw her trying to reach us as she gasped for breath, her mouth gulping at the air like a seatrout caught in a bucket. And, all the while, he held onto me; he said he would never let me go; he said he loved me still. As we fought, I pushed him further under, I tried to escape. It was not me who should die. It is he and his bride; they were destined to lie forever in the deepest part of the saltmarsh. Then, he became still; his noble body drifted into the thicket as the sky loomed black and starless above.

And then, as the air grew lighter, I found myself seated on the bank, my eyes closed in relief. I remember watching the two bodies sink into the blackness, her dress white against the darkness, her skirts swaying gently with the tide. A sea mist descended over the hollow, draping the marsh like a cloak. The day passed grey and cold; the sunlight devoured in a silver haze. I curled up in the sod and slept.

Once I awoke, the children were out, and the sun sat high in the sky. I heard them calling to each other, but they did not come close; they knew this part of the marsh was treacherous. I hid in the water, and soon it was nighttime again. I knew what I must do. I went to my baby, and as I climbed the dunes, I imagined her tiny form in my arms. I retraced my steps and pretended to lay her down gently. Then, I pulled at the sand with my hands. The roots remain stubborn, dipping deeply into the dune. She sleeps under the sand as he sleeps under the marsh.

So that is my tale, and now it is summer again. Time passes, but my heart does not heal. Stories are told of the two who died in the marsh, the Viscount and his bride. The saltmarsh birds forage loudly in the heat, and the children are sent out again to find purslane and sea beet. I watch them pluck handfuls of samphire, too, as I once did. I go again to the woods as winter draws in. I visit the glade where my baby was born and where my baby died. I climb the mound and look down at the church. Today, the landscape is shrouded in snow. It must be Sunday because the bells ring out into the frigid air. 

I visit the Abbey vault, and I see her. I am sure it is her, his grieving wife. I stand behind her and watch as she traces her finger around the hexfoil they placed on his tomb, a daisy wheel curse to protect the dead. How did she survive? I watch as she puts her slender fingers over her belly. It is a belly full of promise, a babe conceived before the wedding. Conceived when it was me he loved. Yet, surely, she died in that swamp. How is she here? She turns and walks past me, barely raising her eyes; she refuses to acknowledge me. She is risen from the dead to torment me. I reach out to her. I want to touch her golden hair and see if she is real or a spectre come to haunt the living, but she moves too fast for me. I watch her leave, then I go to St Mary’s churchyard, to Agnes’s grave. I see two inscriptions: Agnes Grey 1604 – 1610, beloved sister of Cecilia Grey 1602 – 1616.

I stare at the headstone, and then I return to the dunes, to the place where I buried my baby with my bare hands. Then I go to that place in the saltmarsh bog. And, of course, he is gone, taken for a Christian burial, resting forever in the hallowed earth of his rich and wholesome lands. 

But she remains. I see her lying there, her cadaver forever etched into the marsh wall, her face preserved in the terror that was her end. Her bridal gown sways in the briny water, and I remember it all. I see his bride gazing down at me from the bank as I look up at her, and I understand why my life and death are chiselled onto Agnes’s grave.

It is me. It was I that died that night, not her. I am the saltmarsh bride.