WE ARE THRILLED TO WELCOME OUR GUEST AUTHOR TODAY, KEZ WICKHAM ST GEORGE, WHO IS SHARING AN EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER ONE OF HER NOVEL, 'TAPESTRY - THE BOOK OF LOST WORLDS' RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
- Eva Bielby
- Dec 17
- 5 min read
TAPESTRY
EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 1
My pulse quickens as I close my eyes searching for a voice, when I hear, I am part of your beginning.’ From the 1700’s came the voice of Aida, one of the elders whose DNA I carry; it was weak but demanding.
Aida was born in the 17th century, a premature child, a breech birth torn from her mother’s body. The mother’s death imminent, as she lay in the stained and dank palette bleeding to death. The father, unknown. This child was an orphan, fed by anyone who bothered to put the whimpering bag of bones to a nipple, often gin trickled down her throat to shut the mewling lump up. She lived on the outskirts of the village, fighting for food and warmth. Her life was always in peril; she quickly learnt to thieve and fight like a wild cat. That was until a distant relative arrived, finding there were no rewards for fostering this wild child, Aida was once again left to her own devices. When this relative disappeared, no one else bothered, she was swept away from doorsteps with vicious strikes of any broom. Her small body sore with deep bruising, she sought shelter and sustenance in a village pig pen, and when she was discovered, Aida was given to the parish priest, who in turn sold her to the village Gate Keeper and his wife, Goody Makewell, a name she had earned by her knowledge of plan. A harsh bristled brush was applied to the years of accumulated dirt on Aida’s body, her clothing a clean sack swapped for the filthy one, her bed a smattering of old straw across the door frame sill.
Goody Makewell had lost two of her sons to the wars with France, the third son lay on a bed inside the old cottage, his injuries too great for him to take part in the daily chores. Aida’s days were now taken up with tending to the family, if she was not looking after the son, then she was doing household duties. Goody Makewell saw the interest in the child’s eyes, she began taking great delight in teaching her the way of healing with herbs, allowing her to create tinctures, sharing her knowledge of local folklore remedies. Aida had been taught to name unguents and potions by scratching symbols onto scraps of paper bark, soon her worth became known. Once she turned ten, her small knowledge of herbs, ointments, tinctures, along with basic skills of healing wounds, was sought by the villagers, including the personal apothecary to the sheriff of the county. When money was offered to Goody Makewell for Aida and her knowledge, her life changed once again. There was no heady rush of success once appointed to this position, instead Aida thought of herself as one of the more fortunate girls, knowing her status in life was one of little importance, instead it as one of servitude and a whim for an old man before his grave. As his domestic, her duties to him were simple: collecting rushes for the floor, tending to a small garden of herbs for the tinctures and poultices, she would gather, mix and pound all manner of unguents. She was also his bed warmer, chamber pot cleaner, the one duty she despised was when he would push her shorn head against his rancid smelling groin until he jerked his gasp of release. To her, it was all worth the shelter, one warm meal a day, a rush mattress, cast off clothing, as well as being able to continue discovering medicinals to help ease the pain of the disease-ridden poverty surrounding her.
When she displeased her master, she ducked and weaved to avoid the heavy blows. At times, his aim would meet with her head, her frail body flying across the room, the sound of bone meeting with solid stone walls filling the small room. Her nose, now crooked because of the many blows, would leak watery blood for days, she also knew it was only time before she took the old man’s place. On the day of his death, it was her duty to wash his body for burial. Once alone with him, a rare deep chuckle slipped from her body as she stood astride him, urinating over his body before she pulled the hessian shroud over the carcass.
She pocketed the two coins that were used to keep the eyes closed, she believed in the superstition that this was the payment for the wherryman, who would take the apothecary’s shade down the river Hades. She wanted him to face whatever judgment befell him, with his eyes wide open. Her time had arrived; she was now the one the sheriff would call upon to heal. If she were correct, her days on earth had been over the twelve winters mark. In fact, most young girls in the village had been blessed in a union and birthed at least one child by their twelfth winter. For the first time in her life, her life was peaceful, as long as she kept to the shadows of her cellar and did as commanded, she felt safe in this dank hole, she called her home. When her own menses began, she knew the correct herbs and the amount she could use to delay any stomach pain or bleeding. Her remedies popular with the young women in the village, however she dare not offer advice with her knowledge of contraception, as that was considered heresy, against the law of King and God.
If there was one thing Aida hated, it was watching a young girl die through birthing, there were times even her practiced skills could not help. She hated watching the young mother writhing in pain, screaming to the gods to deliver her babe. To watch the soft skin between the shaking legs, tear apart, deep blue venous blood bubble a life away, knowing there was nothing she could do, the villagers would look skywards saying it was in the hands of the gods, as they buried mother and baby. Aida knew of other practices where the child was cut from the womb, once the mother had passed, in the hope the baby would survive. Terrified of the accusations of witchcraft that would occur, Aida furtively began to search to discover a way to help young women in difficulty during birth. With determined faith, she would practice on the animals who found it hard to birth. Months of failed experiments with farm animals followed, until she discovered pounding the yarrow plant bulb into a pulp. Mixing it with a tincture with lavender oil, then adding a small amount of beeswax, was the solution. She had packed this mix inside the birth canal of a cow in difficult labor, soon a calf had easily slipped out, bawling for its mother’s teat.
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COMING SOON: On Friday, 19th December, we are delighted to welcome author, Rikke Rose Rasmussen, who is sharing two of her delightful poems with us.
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