FROM THE MEMORY A ROOTED SORROW
Part 1 of 2
Nik Morton
Pluck from the memory
a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written
troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet
oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd
bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the
heart?’
- Macbeth, Shakespeare
It
had happened before, so often that she did not think her emergence abnormal.
All the bits would not fall into place, so they would provide the missing
pieces.
The
street was unfamiliar: she glanced up, at the black-on-white sign - OGLETHORPE AVENUE. Dredging memory, all she
could come up with was that the name Oglethorpe stirred feelings of admiration.
Traffic
was heavy, and disconcerting. Loud horse-less carriages trundled by, at remarkable
speeds. Distraught, she covered her ears with her hands and ran along the
sidewalk, passing the Presbyterian church on her left, to the junction of Hull
Street and Chippewa Square. Everywhere she looked, the beautiful azaleas and
dogwood blossomed, mocking her lack of understanding: the last she had known of
downtown Savannah, it had been neglected, almost derelict... Yet now it was
almost as though she had travelled back in time, was visiting the city in its
prime - except for the alarming appearance of those vehicles...
The
statue of an 18th century soldier in the square wavered before her eyes in the
bright sun's glare. His rock-hewn features softened: the surrounding buildings
shimmered and were gone.
General
James Oglethorpe was haranguing the townspeople about the latest vote for the
introduction of slavery; although he pleaded in the just cause of humanity, it
seemed that economics held sway.
Katherine
stood to one side, and as she glanced away in shame at the treatment of the
General, she glimpsed young Tomo-Chi, her Yamacraw Indian sweetheart of many
years. He had not seen her - she would surprise him -
- abruptly, Tomo stopped, as if alerted by
something or someone, when, suddenly a whip lashed out of the nearby
shadow-filled alley and cut a terrible red weal on his face, from brow to chin.
Katherine stifled a scream as three farm youths stepped out into daylight,
jeering: ‘Won' be long afore ye'll be our servant-boy, eh Injun?’ And they
laughed and walked away.
The
incident had gone unremarked by the crowd round the general, but Oglethorpe
seemed to notice and made to step down.
Katherine
ran up to Tomo, but, his large hand - shaking as with subdued rage - covering
his wound, he abruptly brushed past her and hurried down the dark alley.
With
his eyes watering, the general stepped up towards her. ‘Young lady, I fear the
free future I promised young Tomo and others has been outvoted - he will have
to live somewhere else...’
Later,
she tried to find Tomo, but he simply melted away: he learned English all the
better to comprehend ostracism, bigotry and hypocrisy...
Shortly
afterwards, the colony began taking black slaves, ‘to compete against the
neighbouring colonists whose compunctions about slaving were not so
punctilious’, so the city fathers said: the birth of the large plantation
era...
Knowing
her place, Katherine stilled her small voice. As she watched the saddened
General set sail for the shores of England for the final time, she yearned for
the love and friendship shared with Tomo. But Tomo had been driven out of the
area, was rumoured to have been murdered in a drunken brawl... Love died then,
seemingly never to be rekindled. Only the stark image of that terrible red
cicatrix remained with her, to her dying day.
‘Excuse
me, Miss,’ said someone behind her, the voice gentle but masculine. She involuntarily flinched as the man touched
her arm.
‘Are
you all right?’ he asked and the haze lifted as she saw the concern in his wide
rich hazel eyes.
Shock
hammered at her chest at sight of the white scar tissue from brow to chin; yet
he was not an Indian...
Though
he seemed about her age - was she twenty? - he was slightly taller than her,
dressed in a grey suit that contrasted starkly with his tanned skin. Life's
iniquities seemed to have ploughed their furrows in his face, yet the ready
smile appeared genuine and warm.
Abruptly, he let go of her arm, stammered,
‘I'm sorry - I thought you were unwell... You seemed so distant - ‘
‘What
is the date?’ she asked, as she nearly always did after emerging.
Before
replying, he checked his gold watch; the action sat uneasily with her
experience of life: no fob - unfamiliar yet not surprising. ‘May 30th,’ he
said.
‘No,’
she smiled thinly, ‘I mean - ‘ and then she stopped, realising in time that
though her memory was awry in many respects, that you do not inquire about the
year without occasioning serious doubts about your sanity. And to be branded
insane, regardless of the evidence of her devastated memory, was something she
shied away from instinctively. ‘Thank you, Mr - ‘
‘Jasper
- William Jasper,’ he answered and took her hand, firmly shook it. He said,
‘And you are - ?’
Turning
to face the stresses of the traffic, she smiled: ‘Thank you for your concern
but I must be getting home... my mother will be worried, I imagine...’
As
he made to escort her, she hastily added, ‘It's all right - my house is not far
- on East Hull,’ and she felt quite pleased with herself, remembering her
address. Perhaps it was only a matter of time after all... Now, why would she
think that?
She
left him standing open-mouthed, scratching his curling black hair.
‘Perhaps
another time!’ he called after her.
She
turned, waved.
Memory
was reasserting itself: who had said earlier today, ‘Only a matter of time; be
patient, maybe in time everything will come back’...?
Imposing
and grand, the Georgian style house loomed white and sepulchral. The broad
stone steps looked welcoming enough, but her flesh tingled with chill. Fingers
tentatively sliding over the ornate ironwork railing, she tugged the bell-pull
and braced herself for her mother's whining complaints and accusations.
***
Kate surfaced and smiled, as
though glad to be alive, yet a feathering of disquiet marred her normally
shining dark brown eyes.
The
room was unfamiliar, shrouded in shadows whose identity she did not know.
A
single shaft of light slanted through the window to her left, dust motes
dancing, almost mocking in their freedom of Brownian motion. There was an
unpleasant smell, too, of carbolic, of her mother - and she trembled, edged up
the bed, her arching body resembling the foetal position against the thin pillow
and bed-head.
Dimly,
as if through a kind of muffling cotton-wool, sounds impinged. Street-noises
penetrated from the window behind the dusty slats of the blind: motor-horns,
and the shrieks of carefree children arguing, expressing opinions! Other sounds,
inside, deep within, seemed to be voices echoing, like people talking loudly
down a long endless tunnel. The clatter of cutlery accompanied the plaintive
appeal for oil from a trolley's wheels...
She
did not like this place at all.
Slowly,
sensing her heart hammering against her ribcage, she gently uncurled and,
disgusted to find she had been sucking her thumb, she cast her hand away from
her drooping, slightly drooling mouth and lowered her feet to the floor.
Cold,
oddly reassuring linoleum welcomed her bare feet. For a moment she stood,
supporting herself at the bed-head, and regained her breath after the exertion
of getting up, of making a decision: she would open the blind, let daylight
scare away the shadows, banish the strangeness, the otherness that she so
unaccountably feared.
I
know how Eve must have felt, she thought, having been created full-grown out of
somebody's rib without any past history... But as she let the grogginess fall
away she realised she was not as empty as Eve. Memory was tenacious, and that
thought was comforting.
Moving
over to the window, she pulled the cord to reveal herself in a crumpled and
once-white but now stained bed-smock.
Like evil succubae, thoughts of guilt assailed her; with an effort, she
screwed tight her eyes and gripped the garment's round neck and tugged harshly,
ripped the material from her, to stand naked in the welcoming warm sunbeams.
The
simple action seemed cleansing, suffusing her with a sense of achievement, as
if she had been bestowed with freedom. Freedom, something she had worked for,
fought for, some time... Contrition followed; where could she go without
clothes, where to run to? And why run anyway?
A
metal locker behind a curtained bed-screen offered up a surgical gown, cap and
boots. She quickly pulled them on: the boots fit when she padded them with
tissue from a bedside box.
The
door was unlocked, the corridor empty: a clock revealed the time: 3.10 PM,
obviously siesta-time... Such an inconsequential thought surprised her, relying
as it did on former knowledge buried in subconscious memory. Despite her
grogginess, she smiled, pleased with herself.
Why
she was in hospital remained a mystery. Apart from some slight bruising on her
arms and head, she felt well: but there was a loss of memory. Strange, the loss
was recognisable as such: she could remember having a memory...
Time
blurred round the edges as she dashed to the laundry room and out the exit bay;
the large doors clanged noisily behind her.
She
was brought up sharp by the bright sunlight. The need for secrecy seemed
paramount, though she did not know why: she edged along the red brick wall,
past oleander bushes, and crouched under an open window as a dread voice
reached her:
‘Yes,
but, Alan,’ her mother was saying in her distinctive whine, ‘when can I safely
let her out of the home again without fear of her disgusting rutting - ?’
‘Evadne,
dear, I've explained...’
‘In
expensive jargon, Alan...’
‘-
she has had a serious persecution complex, with marked suicidal tendencies.
It's fairly common in young women of her age - either this, or they get into
drugs or end up being an anorexic. She was deprived of a loved one...’
‘Deprived!
The stupid girl couldn't see through him, he was after our money - and black
for Heaven's sake! And as for loved one - she doesn't know the meaning of
love...’
‘Be
that as it may,’ he continued, not sounding convinced by her outburst, ‘the ECT
will destroy the disturbance inside her, sort of kill the bad and leave only
the good. In a way, it will be a wish-fulfilment, a rebirth.’
Guilt?
She thought about her stained bed-smock; surely not -
‘Hey,
you!’ shouted a stocky crew-cut orderly from the van bay.
Startled,
she stood up, rushed through the bushes, across the grass towards the road.
‘My
God, that's my Katie!’ shrieked her mother, followed by other strident, male
voices.
Blood
pounded in her temple. The rubber boots flapped her shins and chafed. She ran
awkwardly, oblivious of the scratches from bushes on her legs and the ripping
tears made to her green smock.
An
unholy screech stopped her in her tracks.
A
car had missed her by inches. The bald occupant leaned out the window, shouting
at her, but her head spun. And spun...
‘Water-front,
waterfront...’ Words. Movement. She sat up in the front seat of the car,
turned, bemused, yet not surprised at the fogginess.
William
Jasper grinned, said, ‘Glad you've come back to earth, Kathy...’
She
was wearing a sweater, jeans, sandals - ‘How - ?’
He
shrugged. ‘I drove by just as you nearly got run over. Spirited you away in my
Chevy before the riot squad turned up... The clothes are courtesy of my sister,
Annie - don't you remember?’
Flushing,
she shook her head. ‘The last I can recall is my mother shouting...’ And then,
what little she could summon up, she told him. Of so very real visions of
herself in the past; so real that no recent memories of the last few years
survived. There were simply oceans of blankness: as though these detailed
visions were filling up the emptiness on purpose.
‘Are
you fit to get out?’
For
the first time she noticed where she was. ‘This is River Street.’
‘Yes,
while you walked around as if you were on another planet, you mentioned more
than once something about being haunted by other selves, and that the first haunting
started near here, at the waterfront.’
‘Oh,
then that's how you know my name?’
He
nodded. ‘For someone who seems to be in a constant unreal world, as you called
it, you're pretty sharp!’
She
gazed around, at the renovated waterfront, the pink paving stones, the ornate
street lamps, the shrubbery and the shop-fronts where warehouse entrances were:
‘But it has changed so much...’
Stevedores
hauled the bales of cotton under the enormous warehouse beams and rafters of
heart-pine. And Katherine's heart pined for young Josh Davenport, fighting
against his brothers in the civil war.
Already
one of them had died.
Their
Georgian style mansion was shown up as an empty shell as the stupidity of war
raged, coming closer every day.
She
looked most alluring in her soiled new green flowered-muslin dress that spread
its twelve yards of billowing material over her hoops and exactly matched the
flat-heeled green morocco slippers her father had recently brought her from
Atlanta. She now helped the war effort by stacking the comestibles and other
light produce landed by a blockade runner, joking with the Negro slaves, the
dress becoming dirtier by the minute. Her slim waist was set off to perfection,
and the tightly fitting basque revealed globules of sweat, like morning dew, on
breasts well matured for a seventeen-year old.
She
brushed at her moist brow and her once-netted hair suddenly fell in disorder
from its chignon. Smudges, dirt and hard work did not worry her, though, for
rumours abounded of Sherman's 'March to the Sea', burning everything in a
40-mile swathe from Atlanta on...
Her
eyes glazed, she felt giddy, and found herself lying in a bed, calmly
contemplating the end.
The
earnest young reporter wanted to know something, what was it? ‘Miss Martus, is the legend about you true?
Can you tell our readers?’
‘Legend,
boy?’ she croaked.
He
leaned closer and told of one Katherine Florence Martus who had lived with her
lighthouse keeper brother and had bidden farewell to her sailor fiancé. She had
promised to greet every ship that passed her lighthouse home until he returned.
For forty years she waved a white apron by day and a lantern by night. Seamen
made a point of standing on deck to watch for her as their ships came into
port.
‘Is
it true?’
She
smiled, sweetly, thinking of Beau, of that lovely ship, lost forever... a lost
love... ‘That's a nice story, isn't it?’ she whispered and died.
‘Kathy!’
She had fainted.
Unfortunately,
she had attracted attention, for a police car pulled in.
Within
minutes, after a radio call back to the station, William was under arrest and
Katherine was facing her mother at the police precinct station house.
No
charges were preferred.
Katherine's
mother was plump, unattractive, with mousy hair and a permanently down-turned
thin-lipped mouth that looked out of place amidst the pallid folds of facial
flesh. She said, irately, ‘At least you're not black! You've very likely undone
all the doctor's good work!’
***
That evening William slunk
through the clinic's shrubbery and found his way to her ward window.
A
narrow chink in the blind afforded a view of the room. She drew him like a
magnet; he could still feel that weird tingling sensation as she'd fallen into
a trance and into his arms, her eyelids flickering as if reliving more visions
of the past...
She
was there all right, unconscious and strapped down, her muscles alarmingly
flaccid.
On
a metal tray a bottle's label announced its contents: succinyl-choline.
Her
temples were treated with gel and electrodes were fixed.
Something
resembling a dog's sponge play-bone was inserted in her mouth, between her
teeth. The needle of the voltmeter on
the trolley suddenly jerked round the dial to 120. It could only have been for
a fraction of a second, but the response from Kathy was horrifying to watch.
Her
face contorted in a pallid, stretched grimace, lips tightening round the
sponge. Despite the muscle-relaxing drug her back arched, her whole torso
straining, arms and legs hard against the padded straps.
Now
he understood the bruising Annie mentioned when she had changed Kathy's
clothes... He turned away, and voided
his stomach amidst the oleander, whose fragrance he welcomed.
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