Chapter 4

The Birth of a Curse

Year: 1898

The scorching sun had set over the small, dusty, one-room log cabin over an hour ago, and the baby still hadn’t come. The screams that echoed in the somber cabin had started in the early morning hours at sunrise. As the soon-to-be mother struggled with the pain, an omen of what was to come shattered the silence time and again with each contraction she endured. The baby was a month early. A Mi’kmaw woman, who often visited the island to trade her services as a medicine woman and seamstress, had offered to come help with the delivery in exchange for vegetables at harvest time. Although the crops were not doing well due to a severe lack of rain, she had kept her promise and still came around to help in any way she could, as often as possible. With the baby coming earlier than expected though, she hadn’t yet been there to offer the help with the delivery she had promised.

When the contractions had come earlier that day, Henri had sent for the Mi’kmaw woman named Sparrow Whitefeather who was on a neighboring farm tending to an ailing elder. Someone had gone to fetch her, but the horse drawn cart had not yet returned with the young woman. It was taking much more time than it should. Time Martha Masterson didn’t feel she had at this point as she clutched her husband’s hand even harder as she struggled to stand. In the glow of a lantern, Henri Masterson felt his wife’s grip get stronger as she screamed again, struggling to take one more step.

In perfect timing with Martha’s latest contraction, a woman named Bessie Chapman arrived at the cabin to help the couple. She told Henri that with three children of her own, she would be of assistance to deliver the baby. Henri had not argued. Without Sparrow Whitefeather there to deliver the baby, Henri knew he needed any help he could get. He ushered her in without hesitation.

Martha braced herself on the table as another contraction began. She screamed in agony as the pain spread down throughout her abdomen and back, the mounting pressure of each contraction more unsupportable than the last one. It was more pain than she could have ever imagined. Her hands grabbed the edges of the rough planks, her skinny fingers grasping them so hard that her fingers whitened with the force. Letting go of the table with one hand, she held her belly, cupping it with the length of her right hand and arm, holding it tight. She moaned as she exhaled a deep, slow breath out as the contraction relapsed temporarily. The room swayed around her. Exhausted and dehydrated, she began swaying to her left. Bessie caught her and pulled her up again and leaned her against the table. She knew she had to act fast.

“Help her,” the strange woman said to Henri. Her wild eyes saw the pregnant woman’s needs with anticipation. It appeared she knew exactly what to say well in advance of when it was needed, where to go well before the steps were expected. She does know what she is doing, thought Henri, relieved.

“Help her onto the table,” she snapped at Henri as she spread a thick wool blanket over the wooden planks. The long table was assembled from salvaged planks from an old boat. It sat in the center of the room where Martha would give birth to her first child. Henri didn’t dare ignore what she told him. Helping his pregnant wife, he draped one of her arms over his shoulders and helped her place her sweat soaked body on the table.

With Henri’s help, Martha struggled onto the hard table and collapsed with exhaustion. Bessie placed a few pillows and blankets to support Martha’s back. She pulled up Martha into a semi-seated position.

“Come,” Bessie urged. “The baby’s coming,” she stated while helping Martha into a birthing position. She pulled up the folds of Martha’s dress and pushed her legs apart. She heard a gasp coming from Henri who stood behind her.

She turned, grasped a nearby wooden pail and handed it to Henri.

“Fetch me some water from the well. Make haste!”

Henri clutched clumsily at the bucket with a confused expression. He looked at his wife, spread out on the table as if seeking her approval for him to do as the woman had asked.

His wife screamed from the pain from yet another contraction and paid no attention to Henri.

“Now!” Bessie shouted at Henri.

An anxious Henri reached for the lantern before realizing that he couldn’t take it with him this time. The women needed it more than he did. He paused at the doorway, watching as the strange woman spoke with a firm and loud voice to his wife.

“Good. Now, when I tell you to push, you push.”

Henri heard his wife scream as he exited the cabin into the black night. He looked up to find thick clouds covering the moon. This made the evening’s darkness even more disheartening and difficult to navigate. Under normal circumstances and with the ability of taking his time, he could have easily found the old well in the absence of light. This year’s drought, however, meant that their well had dried up months earlier, forcing Henri to dig a new well further away from their cabin. Even though this well seemed to have plenty of water to last them throughout the driest of years, the fact that it was farther away from the cabin was going to be a challenge with this untimely delivery. He knew he needed to be quick, but not being able to see the path leading to the well proved much more difficult than he expected. Another scream resounded from the small log cabin that he called home. It shook him to the core and made him clutch at the bucket while he strained to see where he stepped, stumbling now and then along the path, his old boots catching roots and rocks as he went along. Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the darkness as he made his way to the new well.

The young woman named Sparrow had argued that she could get to the Masterson’s cabin faster on foot, but the large, bearded man would hear nothing of it. He had insisted on taking her on the horse drawn cart, arguing with her that riding would be best and that he would get her there without delay. Sparrow had felt an unease wash over her as she conceded and agreed to go by the horse drawn cart.

The baby was much too early and this worried the doula. She had seen this before and Sparrow thought that perhaps her estimation had been wrong. She had felt confident earlier in Martha’s pregnancy that she knew when the child would be born. But as the mother’s belly had grown large faster than anticipated, Sparrow couldn’t help but think that she might have been wrong this time, even though the moon counts since the woman’s last period should have brought her delivery at the end of another full month. Sparrow’s instincts were always accurate, having been a doula since she’d been a young girl, helping her mother in her own duties and learning the ways from her, so this unexpected early birth concerned her. With clouds parting and the light of the moon helping, the bearded man pushed his horse harder. Sparrow held onto her seat next to the man, holding on tight to her basket with the supplies she would need to deliver the premature baby. In his careless haste, the man continued to push the horse, bellowing his thunderous voice to order the animal to go faster still. As they rounded a sharp turn, the cart hit a large rock and broke a wheel. The horse neighed as its reigns were pulled back by the stopped cart. Without hesitation, Sparrow jumped off the cart, grabbed her basket, tore a slit in her dress and ran in the direction of the cabin she had visited so often in the last few months.

Soon the beacon of the small lighthouse appeared in the distance. She knew she was close. She ran faster still until she could see the cabin on the horizon and a small glow emanated from the open door. As she ran toward the wooden cabin, eager to help deliver the Masterson’s baby, she noticed a woman heading into the forest on the opposite side of the home. Confused at first, she slowed her pace. The running woman was not Martha, she was much too mobile for that. She ran fast with long silver hair trailing out behind her. As she watched the woman vanish into the woods beyond the small home, Sparrow hesitated, as she somehow knew the woman didn’t belong there. An anguished bawl scream coming from the shack made her decision for her and her legs carried her towards the man’s voice. She heard panic in his cries as she made her way to the path, then through the doorway, stepping over a wet floor and a half full bucket of water.

Martha lay on the blood covered table, her legs spread and half a baby protruding from her vaginal opening. Her labia had been torn several inches and she was bleeding profusely. The baby was half out and seemed stuck as Martha was too weak to push; she drifted in and out of consciousness. Henri, screaming and in hysterics, was standing at the end of the table, his hands and upper arms covered in blood as he tried to hold the slippery baby.

Without hesitation, Sparrow stepped in front of Henri, shoving him out of the way as she took over. Knowing how to grip the baby with her right hand and where to push down on the mother’s belly, she helped free the baby. As she handed it to a stunned Henri, she wiped her bloody hands on her dress and removed her apron. Using this, she pushed it against Martha’s labia in hopes of stopping the bleeding. She had believed it to be a tear at first, but now could clearly see the woman had been cut with a knife. She was also hemorrhaging. This was bad, very bad. Sparrow knew time was of the essence, but tried to remain calm. The first few moments of a baby’s birth would mark the path of its life and would determine if it was to be full of chaos and fear, or one of calm and peace.

“Bring her the baby, Henri. Let him meet his mother.” Sparrow’s voice cracked as she tried to hide her own fear.

“Martha,” Henri muttered. “It’s a boy. Martha?” He approached his wife, carrying the small baby in his large, burly hands.

Martha lifted her head from the table, her eyes trying to adjust and look at her husband as she spoke. Her skin was akin to February snow.

“What about the other one?” Martha croaked, her voice parched and dry.

“What?” Henri asked in confusion. “I don’t understand, Martha.” He looked back at Sparrow, who lifted her face from her task of trying to stop the bleeding, and looked puzzled also.

“Twins, Henri. We had two babies,” Martha added as she held up a trembling hand toward the baby her husband cradled.

“Twins?” Sparrow inquired. “There’s only one child, Martha.”

“There were two,” Martha added. “Bessie has the other.”

Sparrow’s eyes grew wide as she realized that Bessie must have been the woman she had seen running into the woods. There was no other baby to be seen in the cabin. Twins would explain the rapid growth of Martha’s belly. But the other baby, Bessie must have taken it. Why, wondered Sparrow.

“Hold this and press as much as possible. Don’t take the pressure off,” she said as she showed Henri the crumpled apron she had been using to stem Martha’s bleeding. Once Henri held both the cloth and the baby, Sparrow walked over to the doorway, picked up the axe that was leaning against the door frame and ran from the cabin heading in the direction she had seen the woman go.

The air surrounding the calm clearing was as dry as the grass underfoot at the edge of the high cliffs. On one side was the dense forest, and on the other, below the cliffs, the waters reached out as far as the eye could see. Off in the distance, near the cliff, stood the island’s lighthouse, its light warning vessels of the island’s presence.

During overcast nights like this, darkness carried itself on the slick surface of the water as much as it did below. The beacon of the lighthouse provided but a very faint glow on the surrounding land as it made its circular sweep.

Bessie had set the newborn baby down on a patch of dirt as soon as she had come out of the forested area. She had run as fast as she could to get to the clearing, where the wide pentagram she had previously carved into the soil waited eagerly for its infant adornment.

With blood covered hands and forearms, the tall, grey-haired woman picked up a large, sharpened human shoulder blade taken from a small pile nearby. Bessie began cleaning the deep grooves in the soil, fixing what had been disturbed, remaking the lines of the five pointed star, digging with the bone to ensure its trenches were deep and clear of debris. Directly in the center of the large pentagram, lay the naked baby girl, still covered in birthing liquids and blood, awaiting her fate. Her cries became louder as Bessie took a small, wooden kerosene bucket that she had hidden in the brush and set it on the edge of the pentagram. She turned the spout at the base of the bucket, allowing its contents to flow. Soon, a strong pungent and oily odour drifted around the area as the liquid filled the channels in the soil. Bessie stepped inside the center of the pentagram where the baby kicked and screamed. With a few strikes, Bessie lit a match and set the kerosene on fire, creating flames in the pentagram that burned a foot tall.

The small baby kicked her tiny newborn legs and scratched the air with her small arms. Her newborn’s lungs inhaled the reek and stench of the burning kerosene, making her cough and cry so hard she choked as she screamed louder still.

Reaching into the small pile of human bones, Bessie picked up a smaller rib bone. With intricate markings on its length and the end having been sculpted as sharp as a knife blade, Bessie’s eyes widened as she grasped the handle of the makeshift dagger. She spoke in a tongue that didn’t belong on this island as she ran the sharpened bone across the palm of her left hand, drawing blood.

The winds that had been calm picked up strength, fanning the flames that burned all around the baby, making them climb higher into the darkness. In the baby’s eyes, the fiery light danced, reflections of all that was to come. All around them, dust began rising with each gust as Bessie lifted one bloody hand into the sky and placed the other on the baby’s head. She spoke her incantation, calling forth words that no woman from this island should know, though she spoke them with confidence. She raised the sharpened bone high as she repeated the peculiar words, the flames danced in her wide eyes too as they stared into the sky above, looking at the darkness and beyond.

The winds grew stronger still and began to stir the leaves of the trees nearby. A few loose branches flew about, some flying over the cliff side and being carried down into the churning waters. The baby lay quiet now, its eyes opened wide as if staring up in the sky, the flames warming her blood-slicked body. Above the baby and Bessie, high in the night sky, a crow cawed. It swooped around swaying trees a few times before making its way over the pentagram. It darted this way and that, flying in the same pattern that burned on the ground below.

Sparrow ran as fast as she could into the woods, in the same direction she’d seen the woman with the grey hair flee. The axe was heavy to carry, but she had known by instinct to bring it. Her arms and legs shook as she ran but finding and safely bringing home the newborn baby kept her running. The small trail in the wooded area near the cabin was slight but she knew how to keep her footing in such terrain. She was used to the forest.

The trees ahead of her thinned and she saw light coming from flames. Gripping the axe with a stronger hold in her left hand, she ran harder, her legs pumping and her heartbeat quickening with each step. She felt the air surrounding her change as she got closer. It became heavy, like the muggy blanket of air right before a huge rainstorm.

Sparrow emerged from the forest and into the clearing to see Bessie sitting in a ring of fire as she raised her hand into the air. Winds whipped about dust and leaves, creating a swirling vortex of debris. Sparrow saw something clutched in the woman’s hand as it shone dully in the firelight. Blood covered the woman’s hands and trickled down her arm where the object she clutched pierced the skin of her hand. Without hesitation, Sparrow jumped through the flames and struck Bessie with the butt of the axe, knocking her to the side and into the fire in the process. Looking down at her feet, Sparrow gasped as she saw something she didn’t expect to see. The baby girl. Though covered in blood, the infant was still alive. Sparrow had feared the worst when she had seen the weapon in the woman’s hand and the blood trickling down her arm. The baby lay quietly as she wriggled about amongst the hot, crackling flames. All around them, the winds grew stronger, whipping about loose forest debris in a slow but very odd sort of orchestrated swirling pattern around them.

Sparrow dropped the axe and scooped up the slippery child. She cradled her against her left shoulder as she stepped out of the burning pentagram, her dress singed at the hem in the process. She patted her dress to make sure it would not catch flame with one hand, while she struggled to hold onto the baby. Once sure her dress was not catching fire, she turned her back to the diminishing flames to get a good look at the baby girl. She pulled her up and away from her shoulder, holding her with both hands, trying to examine her body, looking for visible wounds or any sign of an injury. The small baby girl, wide-eyed but calm, seemed fine, other than being covered with her mother’s blood.

A shadow appeared over the baby’s face, and Sparrow realized that she had not struck Bessie as hard as she thought. Clutching the baby to her chest, she spun around to come face to face with the crazed woman. The woman’s dress was on fire.

Bright flames were spreading from the bottom of her dress and creeping upwards as smoke curled about her. Her bloody hands tried to grab the child from Sparrow’s protective embrace.

“Give her to me now,” Bessie cried as she clutched for the newborn. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“No,” Sparrow shouted, her voice filled with fear. “You’ll hurt her.”

The women grappled. Sparrow held the baby close to her shoulder as she struggled against the woman. Bessie appeared frightened, although she was the one causing this chaos. Bewildered by the actions of this woman, Sparrow took several steps away from the remnants of the burning pentagram on the cliff’s edge. The woman followed her, pleading as she went.

“Please, give her to me. I need her!” Bessie wailed.

“No! Get away!” Sparrow replied, gripping the newborn tighter.

“You must give her to me. She told me what I had to do. Please, you must!” The flames on Bessie’s skirt were now up to her knees. She appeared unphased by the tendrils of smoke and the flames growing larger.

“Who told you? Who are you speaking of?” Sparrow cried out. She knew she had to protect the baby.

“The voice in the field. She told me what I had to do! You cannot stop me from doing what I need to do! Give me the baby!” Bessie’s dress was engulfed with flames from the waist down yet she seemed completely unaffected.

The winds grew even stronger as Sparrow stepped dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, trying to protect the child as best as she could. The slowly churning vortex of debris from earlier was now being transformed into a windstorm that Sparrow had never seen the likes of until tonight. Branches and twigs flung outwards and in all directions. The dust and grit hit her cheeks and she tried to shield her and the baby’s eyes. With each plea from Bessie the gusts of wind grew stronger.

“You are not hurting this child!” Sparrow shouted.

“You don’t understand,” Bessie replied. “If I don’t sacrifice this newborn child, we will all die.”

“You’ve lost your mind.” Sparrow continued backing away from the woman, scared for herself but more so for the baby she held and was desperately trying to protect.

“She will come and make it rain. She’s told me so. She promised me she would. Our crops will grow, and we will flourish. All of us.”

“What?” Sparrow replied as she stepped next to an oak tree that had its roots embedded in the cliff’s edge.

The winds grew wild, the flames in the pentagram flickered stronger as the women argued, unbeknownst to them that they debated not only the fate of the child, but of the oak tree covered island as well.

“Give her to me,” Bessie cried as she lunged at the woman with sharpened bone in hand. The flames of her dress were now burning higher, and the sleeves were starting to catch fire. Sparrow stepped to the side, avoiding the crazed woman’s desperate grasp. Bessie nearly lost her balance, almost toppling over the cliff, but instead she grasped at the tree and stopped herself from falling to her death.

Bessie turned to face Sparrow as she spoke. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded with everything she had left inside; tears streaked her face as she attempted to convince Sparrow to give up the baby. “She has to die for the rest of us to live.”

In that moment, the strong winds blew in their direction. Several pieces of dry and dead branches, crisp old leaves as well as twigs rushed towards them in a gust. Both of their skirts flapped back and forth, getting caught in the crosswinds that were blowing from the land and the sea. Bessie’s grey hair flew out behind her, as the strongest gust caught the edge of the cliff. Bessie’s eyes widened as she peered down in time to see the oak tree’s roots give way and her dress engulfed in flames. Lifting her head, she locked eyes with Sparrow’s, her mouth unable to produce any sounds with the dreaded fear that engulfed her. She looked down in panic as the earth under the mighty tree’s roots began to crumble. Bessie struggled to keep her footing but stumbled as the dirt beneath her feet fell away, bit by bit, as it parted from its hold on the cliff and began its descent in a slow, but downward slide.

Sparrow turned her back to the woman, unable to watch the scene unfolding before her, and trying to protect the baby now not from any imminent danger, but from the emotional scars that would mark the child all of its life.

As Bessie stumbled backward, she flung the sharpened bone towards Sparrow with as much force as possible. Sparrow cried out in pain as the sharpened bone pierced her back and protruded from her right shoulder.

Stumbling forward, Sparrow fell to her knees, but managed to not drop the infant despite the unbearable pain in her shoulder. She then set the child on the soft, grassy earth, fearing that she might drop the baby in her current state.

Sparrow turned her head to see the tree tumbling out of sight and over the edge of the cliff. A large section of the earth around it had also slid away. On the new edge of the cliff, Bessie’s fingers desperately grasped at the dirt and dry grass, trying to clamber back to solid ground. But the grass was dry from the drought, and the roots were not as strong as they would have been in a normal summer. As Bessie’s hands failed to find a solid hold, more earth crumbled away. Her scream was carried to Sparrow by the strong winds, a scream that she would never forget, and neither would the small child, even if only remembered in her nightmares.

Many years later, once the shock had worn off and the deep cut from the sharpened bone had finally stopped hurting, Sparrow would tell the tale of how the island and the oak tree itself had protected the child from a certain death. The island covered in oak trees, full of their protective energy; the same island that would eventually bear the fitting name of Oakwood.

Her flaming dress now extinguished by the seawater, Bessie waited. She hoped and prayed that Sparrow would dare to step onto the new edge of the cliff to see, by the faint glow of the lighthouse beacon, her body on the rocks below. Next to her, half in the water was the oak tree, decimated with broken branches floating off in every direction and its dead leaves carried by the waves into the surrounding darkness.

She knew that even if she was seen by Sparrow, that the native woman couldn’t have seen that Bessie was still alive, not from this distance and in the dark of night. Her body lay battered with several broken bones and she was unable to move her arms or legs. Bessie coughed hard. Spatters of blood sprayed the front of her blackened dress and down back onto her face as she looked up helplessly at the ridge of the cliff. She watched for the woman who had stopped her attempt to save her family from starvation. She thought of her children, already so frail and small. The youngest always sick from a lack of nutrition. She had been desperate to save them, to feed them the food their bodies needed to sustain them. The food that had become so hard to grow since the drought had come.

Each year, less and less rain had fallen, and the crops had been scarce. On the third year, the drought that had plagued the island seemed to have gotten worse, but Bessie had figured out how to make the rains come again.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, she recalled what she had been told by the voice of the woman she had called upon, late one night in the dried-up fields. The woman’s voice in the darkness had said she would help the rains come, but only if she sacrificed a human life. Bessie knew there was still time left in the growing season and that she could save her family. She believed the voice that had come to her. She had no other choice. Ignoring it would mean sure death for her children and herself. However, she now knew that death was coming for her, and soon, as pain racked her body with each agonizing gasp for breath. The taste of blood was overwhelming in her mouth and in the back of her throat. Her chest burned as hot as the flames she had ignited mere minutes earlier. As much as she tried to remember the faces of her children, the noises surrounding her seemed to edge those thoughts out.

The wind howled in her ears, driving the waves that lapped at the bloody rocks she lay upon, sending cold seawater over her body, keeping her conscious. Keeping her in pain. The burns she had suffered from her flaming dress were now felt. Pieces of her skin floated in the sea. Her exposed flesh, burned and charred seared with pain from the salty water.

As she opened her eyes, she saw a shimmer of light flickering above the cliff’s edge. Her pentagram still burned.

A crow fluttered down from the cliffs above and landed on the rocks near her. The blackness of the bird made it hard to see as it cocked its head and looked at the broken body on the rocks. With a quick flutter of its wings, the crow landed on Bessie’s chest.

“No,” Bessie muttered. She coughed blood before she spoke again. “I did what you asked… no!” She spoke to the bird as if somehow it could deliver this message; a message that no longer needed to be relayed because she had failed.

The crow cawed at the sky before pecking out one of Bessie’s eyes and swallowing it whole. Bessie tried to scream but only coughed. Blood speckled the crow’s plumage, tiny beads of dark crimson splattering its feathers and beak. She tried to swat at the crow, but her arm wouldn’t move. As Bessie lay paralyzed on the jutting sea rocks, the crow pecked out her remaining eye as darkness enveloped her. The last thing she felt was cold seawater splashing her face as she heard the crow caw before it lifted itself from her chest and flapped its wings as it took flight.

In the darkness near the sea, a large wave crashed over the rocks and the badly broken body. When the water receded again exposing the rocks, Bessie was gone.

Upon arriving at the cabin with the baby girl in her arms, Sparrow found Henri sitting on a home-made wooden chair. He was sobbing while clutching his newborn son to his body. Sparrow glanced over the room and into Martha’s empty gaze. She knew the cut had been too deep. Martha’s blood had pooled on and under the table. She gathered a clean blanket from the bed, wrapping the baby girl and placing her in the simple wooden cradle that had been set up weeks ago, in anticipation of the baby’s arrival.

Turning her back to him, Henri jumped up when he saw the bone protruding from her shoulder blade.

“You’re injured! Who did this?” He shifted his pain and focused his attention on her. “I need to remove it, Sparrow.”

She turned her head and nodded.

“That woman did, the one that helped deliver the babies...” Her voice trailed off as Henri began to remove the carved bone, shaped like a dagger. Wincing from the pain, Sparrow took a few deep breaths as Henri cleaned the wound and covered it. Once he was done, she walked over to the table and picked up one of the wool blankets that was on the floor nearby. She closed Martha’s eyelids and pulled the blanket over her cold and stiffening body.

“Henri. Give me the boy. He will find comfort with his sister.”

Henri looked up at her, his eyes searching hers for some kind of answer, some sort of comfort. Sparrow knew she could never provide him with the answers he deserved, but she promised herself in that instant that she would never stop trying.

“Please, Henri. I want to help him. I want to help you.” His tears returned as he handed over the newborn to her. He put his hands up to his face, sobbing hard. She carried the boy twin to the bed, where she swaddled him in a blanket, trying to keep him warm. Placing him next to his twin sister in the wooden cradle, both babies cooed at each other as they gazed into their eyes for the first time. A calmness spread over Sparrow that she had not felt in a long time, especially not tonight. She pulled a small wool blanket that was at the foot of the cradle to cover both babies and turned to face Henri.

“I know you are heartbroken. But these babies need you, Henri.”

He raised his head to meet her gaze.

“Do you know why that woman took your child?”

Henri stared beyond her, at the outline of his wife’s body laying cold on their table. He shook his head no.

She thought about what to tell him. He had been through so much already. She did not want to add to his worries and trauma, but she wanted to know if Henri knew why the woman had tried to steal his baby.

“She stole your baby girl, Henri. She ran off with her into the woods. For whatever the reason, she wanted her. I managed to get her back though, and your babies are both safe now.”

Sparrow examined Henri who showed no sign of knowing anything about the mad woman’s motives.

Henri looked at the cradle, where the twins were sleeping peacefully. He turned back to look at Sparrow and asked with a hint of worry in his voice.

“What if she comes back? I don’t know that I can stop her. I don’t know how I can take care of these babies without…” His eyes welled up with tears as he looked towards the table where his dead wife was covered. Sparrow took one of Henri’s large hands in both of hers as she spoke.

“She will not be coming back. That I am certain, Henri.” She stared at him with a serious look. He nodded his understanding.

Henri, clearly in shock, couldn’t take care of the babies in his state. She suggested he go to the nearest neighbour, the one that had come to fetch her with his horse and wagon. She offered to clean up the babies, but most importantly, the pool of blood on and under the table. Henri agreed and stumbled outside, not able to stand the heavy unease of death in his home. The death of his beloved.

It was the next morning before Sparrow noticed the burn mark on the front of her dress. The darkened patch began at her left breast and reached her shoulder. This burn mark confused her. She couldn’t recall fire having singed anything other than the hem of her dress. What confused her even more was Bessie. The white woman had been performing what looked to be some sort of devil-worshiping ritual and wanted to kill an innocent baby. A baby who was now motherless and with a father who blamed himself for Martha’s death.

When Henri returned home it was almost mid-morning. Although he seemed less in shock than the night before, she knew he had not slept much, if at all. Sparrow wanted to talk to Henri, to try to get a better understanding of why Bessie did what she did. She also feared that she would be blamed, as Bessie was white and she wasn’t.

She also knew that only Henri could ever know the real events of that evening, as she felt he deserved the truth. Henri was in a fragile state, though, and so she knew she had to be careful to not make matters worse.

Henri sat down in the wooden chair and looked at Sparrow.

“Where are they?” he said without expression.

“The babies are sleeping.” Sparrow replied. “Henri, I think we should talk about last night.”

“What is there to talk about? My wife is dead, Sparrow. My babies have no mother.” His voice was flat.

She wondered how much she should tell him about what Bessie had done. She knew he was in a fragile emotional state. She didn’t want to upset him, but she needed to understand why Bessie had tried to kill one of the infants in some sort of ritual. She worried perhaps there was more to this than just Bessie. Worry drove her to speak to Henri about the matter. Hesitant, she approached him where he sat, eyes sullen with dark circles below them.

“I want to know if you know why Bessie would try to take one of the babies.”

“How should I know why? I didn’t even know she took one of them until you told me she had.”

“She was going on and on about having to take her and that someone had told her she had to do it. Do you know who she was talking about, Henri?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know who would say such things to her. All I know is that if that crazy woman or anyone else comes near me or my children again…” Henri’s voice trailed off as he turned his back to her. “Why did I trust her? I trusted her blindly. She brought about evil in my home, and I welcomed her in...” Henri’s voice grew louder.

“Henri, you had no way of knowing what would happen. No way of knowing she would do the things she did!”

“What exactly did she do, Sparrow?” Henri asked.

“Henri, I don’t know that we need to go into the details of what happ—” Sparrow was interrupted by Henri’s booming voice.

“WHAT did she DO?” he demanded.

“She had a symbol, in the ground, and she had set it ablaze. She had put the baby in the center and she was speaking words I’ve never heard before. She seemed to be going mad, or she was possessed by the devil.” Sparrow felt she had told him too much, as she saw Henri’s face turn red and his lips pressed together. He was taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. She tried to change the course of their conversation. Sparrow swallowed hard before her next question.

“Was Bessie ever around Martha before yesterday? Did she perhaps mention anything of the sort while she was here?”

Henri slammed his fist down on the table hard, waking the newborns in their cradle. They began to cry.

“I don’t know, Sparrow! Don’t you understand, I don’t know who Bessie is or why she wanted the babies! I just know Martha is gone and it’s all my fault.”

The babies were crying louder in the small cabin. Their shrill cries intensified as the two spoke, the tension mounting within the walls of the home. “I should never have let her in this house. If only I hadn’t, Martha, my beautiful Martha, would still be here.” His expression turned to anguish, as he continued blaming himself for his wife’s death.

“It’s not your fault, Henri.” Sparrow tried her best but Henri was not hearing her. His thoughts were fixated on blaming himself. Sparrow knew she would not get answers from Henri. If he had known something, anything, he surely would have told her by now. She tried to console him, to explain that it wasn’t his fault.

“I never should have let that insane woman near my Martha. It is all my fault and you can’t say otherwise. It was my job to protect her, to help her. I...failed her.” His voice trailed as his eyes glanced back to the table where his wife had been murdered less than twelve hours earlier. Though the blood was gone, the stains on the table and floor would remain forever, a constant reminder of his loss.

With time, it became less a point of focus, but every once in a while, he would notice the stain and his jaw would harden. No tears would flow, his anger with himself much too strong to allow that to happen.

As the news of Martha’s death and the twins’ birth spread, Sparrow altered the tale she told the locals so they wouldn’t try to blame her. She felt that she owed the truth to Henri, for having failed to save his wife. She was the one who was supposed to be there to help deliver the babies. But the rest of the people of the island would never be completely convinced that Bessie had been the one doing the devil’s work. They would blame her, this she knew. So she had made up a story about Bessie and how she had tried to run for help but that she had stumbled and fallen over the cliff. The island residents believed her story and mourned the loss of Martha as a community.

Sparrow had made sure to leave out the part to both Henri and the islanders about how she thought the island itself had caused the tree to fall and had taken Bessie with it. She also omitted her belief that the island itself had protected the child. This tale she would only tell her own daughter, eventually but this wouldn’t be for a long time yet.