had a lot of old buildings.
I walk over to the structure and run my hands along its stones and wonder what this building used to be. I wonder how old it is. I am amazed at the way the stones fit together,all irregular shapes but all perfectly fitted, like a jigsaw puzzle with moss growing from the seams.
I search in the wall for a place to wedge a stick to hang my poncho from and my fingers catch on something, something that doesn’t feel as old as these walls, stuffed between the rocks. It is a notebook.
Gabriel’s notebook.
Gabriel
A FTER FOUR DAYS OF HUNGER AND SLEEPLESSNESS and despair, the doors of the Great House burst open, and the once able Cadian men poured out onto the frosty meadow, tripping and stumbling and falling to the ground in the blinding sunlight. The days without sun had dilated their eyes, and Gabriel, with the others, squinted and covered his face to shield them.
Gasping not so much for oxygen as for this fleeting moment of freedom, false freedom, the men, weakened by darkness and hunger and captivity and fear, sprawled around the entrance of the Great House like seals tossed onto the rocks after a violent ocean storm.
Gabriel, lying beside a blueberry bush, looked throughhis fingers, letting the light in slowly. The Great House, rising from the banks of the Manan River, stood beside him, looking over the harbor. Gabriel turned his head to see that the dock was surrounded by New Colony skiffs, sent from the ships anchored deeper out in the harbor.
They’d learned to navigate the tide.
“To your feet, Cadians,” said a soldier. “You will now be escorted to your transports.”
“Where is my wife?” Gabriel said to no one in particular. “Evangeline. My wife.” He mumbled more than spoke, and struggled to stand.
“This way, please,” said the soldier, prodding Gabriel to his feet with the butt of his musket. “This way.” He pushed Gabriel toward a shuffling crowd of men.
Gabriel hobbled forward on weak, uncertain legs. “Father?” he said. “Where is my father?”
“My son,” said a voice to his left. Basil.
“Father,” Gabriel said. “You are here.”
“Let me take your arm, my son,” Basil said. “Let me follow you.”
Gabriel mustered his last reserves of clarity and led his weakened father to the dock, following the others around him, eyes cast downward, spirits shamed and hopeless. It had taken only four days to break every able Cadianman, and here they were, broken, imprisoned, enslaved. Even Basil.
Gabriel carried his slumping father, struggling under Basil’s weight but moving forward steadily with the crowd. So intent was he on not falling underfoot, on not dropping his father, that he barely noticed the women, children, and old men gathered silently at the dock. His eyes, reddened by darkness and desperation, nearly missed his beloved, disheveled and dirty but eternally lovely, bent under the weight of her own father, who leaned heavily on her sloping shoulders.
“Gabriel,” she said boldly as he walked past.
Gabriel, ripped from his misery by her voice, spun to see the cornflower cloak of Evangeline. He reached out to her, almost unbelievingly. “My beloved!” he cried, breaking stride with the shuffling men and falling out of the line toward her. “My wife!”
“This way,” insisted a soldier as he prodded Gabriel in the leg with the butt of his gun. “Return here, if you please.” He took Basil from Gabriel’s arm and pushed him roughly onto the dock.
Gabriel jumped over the soldier’s gun and hissed. “She is my wife,” he said gravely and determinedly. His eyes burned. “I will go to my wife.”
The soldier whistled sharply, and suddenly four soldiers tackled Gabriel, pinning him to the ground. They flipped him onto his face and bound his hands behind his back with a spiky length of rope. “It is the troublemaker’s son,” one said. “Move him. We must hurry, or we will lose this infernal tide.”
Two soldiers took Gabriel
I walk over to the structure and run my hands along its stones and wonder what this building used to be. I wonder how old it is. I am amazed at the way the stones fit together,all irregular shapes but all perfectly fitted, like a jigsaw puzzle with moss growing from the seams.
I search in the wall for a place to wedge a stick to hang my poncho from and my fingers catch on something, something that doesn’t feel as old as these walls, stuffed between the rocks. It is a notebook.
Gabriel’s notebook.
Gabriel
A FTER FOUR DAYS OF HUNGER AND SLEEPLESSNESS and despair, the doors of the Great House burst open, and the once able Cadian men poured out onto the frosty meadow, tripping and stumbling and falling to the ground in the blinding sunlight. The days without sun had dilated their eyes, and Gabriel, with the others, squinted and covered his face to shield them.
Gasping not so much for oxygen as for this fleeting moment of freedom, false freedom, the men, weakened by darkness and hunger and captivity and fear, sprawled around the entrance of the Great House like seals tossed onto the rocks after a violent ocean storm.
Gabriel, lying beside a blueberry bush, looked throughhis fingers, letting the light in slowly. The Great House, rising from the banks of the Manan River, stood beside him, looking over the harbor. Gabriel turned his head to see that the dock was surrounded by New Colony skiffs, sent from the ships anchored deeper out in the harbor.
They’d learned to navigate the tide.
“To your feet, Cadians,” said a soldier. “You will now be escorted to your transports.”
“Where is my wife?” Gabriel said to no one in particular. “Evangeline. My wife.” He mumbled more than spoke, and struggled to stand.
“This way, please,” said the soldier, prodding Gabriel to his feet with the butt of his musket. “This way.” He pushed Gabriel toward a shuffling crowd of men.
Gabriel hobbled forward on weak, uncertain legs. “Father?” he said. “Where is my father?”
“My son,” said a voice to his left. Basil.
“Father,” Gabriel said. “You are here.”
“Let me take your arm, my son,” Basil said. “Let me follow you.”
Gabriel mustered his last reserves of clarity and led his weakened father to the dock, following the others around him, eyes cast downward, spirits shamed and hopeless. It had taken only four days to break every able Cadianman, and here they were, broken, imprisoned, enslaved. Even Basil.
Gabriel carried his slumping father, struggling under Basil’s weight but moving forward steadily with the crowd. So intent was he on not falling underfoot, on not dropping his father, that he barely noticed the women, children, and old men gathered silently at the dock. His eyes, reddened by darkness and desperation, nearly missed his beloved, disheveled and dirty but eternally lovely, bent under the weight of her own father, who leaned heavily on her sloping shoulders.
“Gabriel,” she said boldly as he walked past.
Gabriel, ripped from his misery by her voice, spun to see the cornflower cloak of Evangeline. He reached out to her, almost unbelievingly. “My beloved!” he cried, breaking stride with the shuffling men and falling out of the line toward her. “My wife!”
“This way,” insisted a soldier as he prodded Gabriel in the leg with the butt of his gun. “Return here, if you please.” He took Basil from Gabriel’s arm and pushed him roughly onto the dock.
Gabriel jumped over the soldier’s gun and hissed. “She is my wife,” he said gravely and determinedly. His eyes burned. “I will go to my wife.”
The soldier whistled sharply, and suddenly four soldiers tackled Gabriel, pinning him to the ground. They flipped him onto his face and bound his hands behind his back with a spiky length of rope. “It is the troublemaker’s son,” one said. “Move him. We must hurry, or we will lose this infernal tide.”
Two soldiers took Gabriel
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