Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

other comfort. Back in the day.” That had been awhile. Since then, love for this land had grown on him like moss to a stone. The everlasting green had blotted out scenes of red and acrid, throat-tearing smoke. Mostly. He kicked mud from the blades and unlatched the horse. He shivered and glanced at the sky. Snow—sure and certain.

Ploughing would have to wait until the foals were born at Hammond’s anyway. He’d go the following night and get the introduction over with. He rolled his eyes and hoped against hope she wouldn’t faint dead away at the sight of him.

FEBRUARY 26, 1880, Thursday

I am not wanted in their kitchen. Neither for cooking nor cleaning. I simply cannot fathom why this is the case. My excellent lemon curd would go well with Helen’s gingerbread. She merely raised an eyebrow and looked to Aunt at my suggestion. Aunt made a sour face but did not reply. Perhaps they do not have lemons to spare.

I lifted the clattering lid from a large pot. Ham and pinto beans steamed beneath my chin, simmering toward tenderness. I dared not add savory seasonings or spice. Ham and beans...is this the luncheon mainstay? I crave cool cucumber sandwiches and dripping watermelon. All things summer, all things light. The back door slapped and gave me a scare.

Aunt turned on her heel and chased after Toliver, “I better help you collect the eggs.  Wouldn’t want you pecked to death by a feisty bitty, now would I?” Her laughter trailed behind her and I could not help but laugh too. Bare-footed Little Ruby followed after. We always purchased our eggs at market, already nestled in a straw-lined basket. I do not anticipate removing an egg from beneath its vicious Mater. Toliver’s and Ruby’s enthusiasm may save me from the task. Good heavens.

Helen slid three round cakes of gingerbread into the oven. “We’ll eat in an hour.” She smiled sweetly but I was dismissed from this sacred workplace, where nearly half a woman’s honor must be found.

Only yesterday Aunt implied that I needed some valuable occupation—one that would benefit the family. Yet they have not allowed me to lift a finger. After all, I have only been here two days. Perhaps they intend on providing me a time to rest and adjust. If so, then my fear is moot and they are merely merciful. If not, then I am a fifth wheel they haven’t figured out how to utilize. I opt to believe the former. However, it is imperative that I justify my existence on this farm. I shall not, I repeat, I shall not be a wallflower.

Since I am not given responsibility, today at least, I retreated to the porch where the sun would provide comforting warmth. I had raided my book trunk with the hopes of getting lost in words and other places. Anything was better than being trapped by my own idle thoughts.

The bookseller had promised a thrilling read in Edgar Allan Poe. Too thrilling, I’m afraid. It was a new purchase. I say that it was because this book was not long for this world. I decided straightaway it would better serve to help bake the bread than provide meat for the mind. I waited until Aunt went upstairs and snuck back into the kitchen. What might they think of thumping hearts and murder? They’d be mortified. I know I certainly hated it. Death enough without spending the afternoon relishing stories about it.

My own heart thumped as I touched the hot handle, so much so I could hear it in my ears. I yanked a cloth and opened the furnace hatch. I confess the story intriguing, though out of taste. I regarded the fine cloth binding and gilded lettering one last time and tossed it into red hot embers. Put death to death. Yes, that is what I wished to do.

The stories cast a spooky mood within my mind. Ever since, every creak and scratch made me jump. Does my lamp have enough oil? I may need it this night.

I at last became useful at the hour for needlework, if only to myself. Aunt insisted I sit in the horsehair chair, even sending the footstool my way. Upon reflection, I determined that they are truly being merciful to me. What else could it be?

Embroidery is slow work, but I learned long ago that beautiful pieces require patience and hope. I shall be rewarded for all the tedious effort I poured into planning the design and tugging white cotton across the linen. I tell myself this because Mother used to. More often than not, I am usually ready for this hour to be over. Completion will have to come one hour, one day at a time. Unlike me, Mother had the patience of a rock. She could sit in one spot for hours, working tirelessly. I suspect this farm and everything it produces requires the same sort of diligence.

I pricked my thumb and I watched a tiny red drop rise to the surface. I lay the white work aside lest it stain. Father used to quote a famous Welsh preacher, “Sometimes the best you can give requires blood, sweat, and tears.” The blood and sweat part, I understand. Toil and war and death and such. I’ve caught a glimpse of Uncle and my cousins washing up for dinner behind the house covered in farm grime with sweat-soaked hair, despite the cold that keeps me wishing for a cup of tea.

They’ve immersed their living into this place. Is there anything about their occupation that rips into their soul? Tears...might they be how the soul bleeds? When will mine stop? May bleeding ever be suspended? I have heard that direct pressure against certain veins can save a life, but applied too late all is lost. My wound still bleeds. Perhaps the missing flesh of my flesh can be replaced with an occupation and a good dose of my own blood and sweat. Simple as that.

FEBRUARY 27,