Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

On Friday, I reran Mary Nunn's Honorable Mention piece, "A Magical Place," from last year's Write a DearReader Contest. When Mary saw the post, she sent an email:

"Good morning Suzanne--thank you for reprinting my Cape Cod story today.

I am an early riser--as you can see by the timestamp of this email--and I wrote that piece in the early morning hours of our vacation last summer on the Cape while my family slept. Reading it again brought tears to my eyes, as the memories flooded over me.

Thank you for encouraging all of us to write--to reach down inside and just let the words flow. That's what I did...and once you get started, it's so easy."

As Mary's piece shows, if you can tell a story, you can write a story. Happy or sad, I can even write my way out of pain, if I need to.

I wrote a real good column the other day, but in order to let go, and get to a point where I could write without editing myself along the way, I had to pace back and forth in the kitchen and crescendo with a slam of the microwave door. (Slamming the microwave door is a never-fail writing release for me.)

I love to write–even though sometimes (most times) it involves a little frustration. Writing helps me get in touch with my feelings, and sometimes I'm surprised at the words I see in front of me. Because I never imagined deep down I was feeling such emotion.

Writing allows me to share experiences with readers. And from the emails I receive about my daily column and the heartfelt emails that come in after each year's writing contest, I realize the importance of each of us sharing our life's journey. Enter this year's writing contest and tell your story. Because someone else is looking to go where you've been in your life. And maybe something you write will help them along their way.  

Get all the info about the 20th Write a DearReader Contest. Cash prizes, deadlines, and read last year's winning entries. Click here.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book Eleanore of Avignon: A Novel by Elizabeth DeLozier. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

CHAPTER ONE

November 1347

The sun is low by the time I reach the woods. I pause at the crest of the hill and look back the way I came, pulling my cloak tighter against the wind.

The river below winds a ribbon of molten gold around the city walls. The bone-white steeple of Notre-Dame des Doms reaches over the rooftops like a scolding finger, the scaffolding of the Palais Neuf rising daily beside it. Even from this distance, frantic hammer blows and the shouts of stone masons echo across the water. When Pope Clement VI arrived in Avignon five years ago he was not sufficiently impressed with the newly built palace of his predecessor, Benedict XII—no, Clement's palace must be the largest in the world, the most elaborate.

It is a blessing to be out of the city, to breathe the sweet smell of earth instead of urine and woodsmoke. I step off the cart-rutted road into the dappled shadows with my empty basket swinging.

I could sleepwalk this invisible path my mother trod through ancient oak trees, past crumbling Roman walls and forgotten olive groves.

Dusk comes early to the woods this time of year; I must work quickly to be back before the city gates are locked at nightfall.

Under the cool shade of the oaks, comfrey grows. I spot the tiny purple flowers and kneel, pull my knife from the waistband of my skirt, and slide it through their slender stalks. I review my mental list: comfrey for Anes's swollen knees, fennel for the baker's fussy baby, pennyroyal to keep the fleas at bay. They are relentless since the rain started, and Margot keeps me up all night with her scratching.

The thought catches like a canker sore. 'Margot.'

Our argument from the morning plays in my head, the words worn smooth as river stones with repetition.

"Why must it be him?" I'd demanded, pacing our room like a cat. "You could have anyone, Margot. Any merchant or solicitor or physician. Why must it be Erec Dupont?"

My twin sister sat on our bed, spine straight and hands folded. "Because I love him," she said simply.

"And it doesn't hurt that he is rich," I retorted.

"That is unfair," she said, the color rising in her cheeks. "You know I do not marry him for his money."

In a few short months she will leave me and our comfortable home in the rue des Lices for the echoing Dupont mansion, where her future mother-in-law presides like a pale, spiteful spider. From our family pew I shall watch the back of my sister's dark head bent meekly beside the other merchants' wives with their wealth evident in the lace at their cuffs and the jewels in their ears. And I will patch my skirts, dry herbs and brew tonics, make ointments for kitchen burns and set broken bones. It will be my fate to care for my father as he ages, watch as my own reflection becomes tired and lined.

"All those years when you and Mother were together in the woods, or making house calls, or bent over your medicines, where was I?" There was no anger in the turn of her mouth, only a surprised kind of hurt.

The memory of a hundred mornings came rushing back like something dreamed: Mother's knuckles against the Duponts' elaborately carved front door, Erec's pale hair glinting in the gloom of the hall. Before we could afford to hire Anes, Margot spent many days in that cold house.

"You had Mother," my sister continued. "And I had Erec."

"You could have come with us," I said, holding the guilt away. "We asked you, I remember. And you did come, once or twice." But even as I said the words, they sounded hollow. I saw Margot as a little girl squeezing her eyes shut, clutching Mother's skirts with bunched fists, sent to wait outside with the other children while Mother and I pulled their new brother or sister into the world.

"You know I was never much for blood, Elea," Margot said. "But I did like holding the babies."

And most of all I dread the day when I am called to Margot's bedside as her midwife. I pray she will not die as Mother did, with the blood soaking the fine down of her marriage bed and I helpless, again, to save her.

A howl cuts through the cold air.

I freeze. I scan the woods around me, alert as a rabbit, but nothing moves between the dark trees. Images of wolves from some book of chivalry spring into my head, but no wolf has been seen in Avignon in decades.

The animal howls again, low and desperate, ending in a whimper. It came from the meadow.

I reach into my basket, pull out the battered tin spoon I use for digging up fennel bulbs and hold it before me like a weapon. I walk forward, aware of my raucous breathing, the suck of my boots in the wet ground. Ten steps. Twenty. Thirty. I reach the thin trees and pooling golden light at the edge of the forest.

Long ago, some industrious peasant hewed this clearing out of the woods. In the middle of the meadow sits the skeleton of a cottage, crumbling walls with no roof and vines creeping through the stones like ladies' hair. It was my mother's favorite place. And at the side of the cottage, where the wild fennel grows, stands a wolf.

I step reflexively behind an oak with my pulse tripping. Did it see me? Should I run? I am about twenty paces away, but if I step lightly . . .

The animal whimpers, a pathetic canine sound that tugs at my chest. Ignoring my wiser instincts, I peer around the edge of the tree.

The creature has not noticed me. Its great head is bent, worrying at something in the grass. I examine the ridges of its loose body, the powerful haunches, the shape of its head. A dog, not a wolf—but unlike any dog I have seen. This is an animal caught between its wild ancestors and the friendly creatures that lie beneath tables and beg for scraps. Its black hair stands like quills between ridged shoulder blades, its face is long and angular.

The dog cries out again. With a sinking feeling in my belly, I realize its leg is caught in a trap.

I have seen the victims of poachers on Queen Joanna's land-rabbits, foxes, the occasional genet—but never, before, alive. They lie with glassy eyes, their muzzles stained with blood from trying to gnaw off the trapped limb, their precious pelts picked by vultures.

I say a prayer, return the spoon to my basket, and abandon my hiding place for the brassy light of the meadow.

The dog swings its head toward my sudden movement. It jumps back, yelps as the iron bites deeper. I steady the blood thrumming in my ears and put a hand on the oak trunk. I reach out to the dog the way my mother taught me, imagining the words and actions in my mind.

'Hello, brave creature. I am sorry you are in pain. I will not hurt you. I can help, if you let me.'

The dog stares back at me, ears flattened against the long skull. I note the powerful muscles, the thick pointed claws. But he—yes, it is a he—is still. He is listening.

'I can open the trap and release you. But you must trust me.'

His wild eyes hold mine for the space of ten heartbeats. Then, slowly, he inclines his head. When he lifts his gaze again, the wolf is gone. Only the dog remains.

I hold my breath and step through the dead grass.

Just out of his reach I kneel down, bring my face level with his. I am not my mother. Once free, he could rip out my throat, leave me to bleed out on the leaves beside him.

Inch by inch I raise a hand, stretch it toward him. His breath is hot on my face, my nose fills with the wet wool of his coat. He flinches as my hand meets his breastbone. Through the thick fur and muscles his heart throbs in its cage of bones.

He takes a deep breath. His shoulders relax, ears soften. Beneath my fingers his heart slows, and he is still.

"Good," I whisper. "Good dog."

Satisfied he will not hurt me, I turn my attention back to the trap. Under the dog's paw, at the center of the device, there is a pin. If I can free it from its coupling, I should be able to wrest it open. Gently, carefully, so slowly, I place my left hand on the base to steady it. With my right hand I grab the end of the pin; it is slippery with blood, caught in the metal. I wrap the hem of my skirt around it, twist and pull. The pin starts to move. I slide it all the way out, take another breath, and wrench the jaws of the trap apart.

The dog cries out again as the iron teeth separate from his leg, pulling dried blood and fur with them. He lifts his paw out gingerly. It hangs limp at the end of his leg, white bone visible through the gore. He tries to put weight on it and yelps. Without thinking I reach my hands out toward him. He turns and runs, limping, into the trees.

I stand up, shaking, and call to him in my gentlest voice. I unwrap the loaf of bread Anes insisted I pack, hold it high so the breeze might bring the scent to him. I walk a wide circle around the cottage, hoping he will reappear. But he is gone.

He would have come back to my mother. He would have placed his head in her lap, allowed her to stroke his ears. He would have followed her home.

(continued on Tuesday)

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