A Babe in the Woods

By J.C. Romero

The night sky is lit up once again by the bonfires burning bright and hot. Another witch hunt has begun. The narrator of our story, a young mother and housewife, learns through a close friend that she has been labeled a practicing witch. Aware that the townsfolk will soon be coming for her, she and her daughter grab up their coats and run into the wilderness. Their yearslong odyssey has begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662406546

Book preview

Chapter I

Success is a relative term or condition, I guess. To an undertaker, success might come with a raging civil war or the introduction of a plague. To an expecting couple, success would come with a strapping boy; for a father, a good excuse to puff out his chest and strut.

You might say me and my family was a success. After several years of sleeping in the wilderness, in the open, on the hard earth, we now have a roof over our head, enough to eat, and a decent income. Some say we did this with the grace of God. But I ain’t so sure. I like to think we achieved all this with nothing more than smarts and a determination to survive. If they want to think there was a supernatural intervention, why, so be it.

This odyssey, out in the wilds, I describe, began with my twelve-year-old daughter and myself. Hard to imagine, but we came through with not much more than the clothes on our back. Overtime and many difficult miles, our family grew in size, diversity, and strength. The first to join the tribe was Sarah’s child—my grandson.

Second to join our disparate army was Harper. Big, powerful, and smart, I was ever so glad he came along. For the first time in several years, I felt relaxed but not so relaxed that I became vulnerable; after all, it was that tense, hyperalert condition that kept us alive.

Then came Hannah, the child of a European father and an indigenous woman, who grew into a beautiful tall young lady, who existed in a neither world because of her heredity. She heard the derogatory term half-breed often. It was hurtful.

And there was Millie, Sarah’s age, the daughter of a farm couple. Adventurous, she needed more from life than milking cows and tilling soil. Did I mention smart?

Cordulah, with us in spirit, if not in body. She brought us word the hunters were coming for me. She brought us the survival bag with enough gear to get us a head start. Without her help, our story might have ended differently.

When we ran, I was carrying a second child, a baby girl. She was stillborn. I was in extreme mental and physical stress, as you can imagine, when I lost her. After burying my child, I made a promise to her and myself to bring her home for a proper burial. And that I did.

During our refuge among the savages, Sarah got herself into trouble as the young are prone to do. She and several adolescent savages were exploring their newfound sexuality.

Sarah was the unlucky one. Her toddler is a member of the family, and that makes our journey still more urgent.

Finally, lest we be remiss, there is Lucy. Harper’s burro and our dog, both family members.

Now out ragtag army was ten strong. Of course, Harper assumed the role of general, and we were glad to defer because of his vast survival skill. That’s not to say he lorded it over us. We all shared in the decisions made.

There was no pulling and tugging back and forth among us because we shared a common goal; that was to take ourselves back to civilization safely. Why, some might ask, would you want to return to a society that labeled you a witch and tried to burn you alive? Because we know that the witch hunt was done, that it was an aberration, a town seized of a collective, temporary madness. Sadly, it can happen anywhere and at any time.

Chapter II

We were finally comfortably ensconced at home. Isn’t that a beautiful word, home?

Sarah, Millie, and myself were living with Cordulah. She now had someone to cook for. She was happy about that. The girls and I loved her dishes but were careful, lest we become hefty. I was fond of my slender, rough-and-ready body.

Comfortable and contented were seen to share the same connotation. I was comfortable but not in my own skin. I was antsy, irritable and losing sleep. It was becoming extremely difficult to present a brave face, working my shift at the Emporium, I was curt even rude toward customers. They were whispering. They were thinking I couldn’t hear them, but I could. My hearing—all my senses—became extremely acute, living in the wilderness. They were saying, she is mean.

Maybe they were right. She is a witch. Her eyes, they burn right through you.

But then maybe it was my imagination run amok. I worried, could these voices be in my head? Have you ever heard a child’s plaintive cry coming late night. You strain to hear it: Is it real? You can’t be sure. But still, it tugs at your heart. I was in a similar place now, wondering what was real.

After long struggling with myself, I gained some insight, finally; I longed for the life I experienced in the wilderness. Like a soldier home from the campaigns, I missed the excitement of life on a razor’s edge—outwit your enemy or die. Every day was a chess game but with the highest stake. I was hurting inside, but I wasn’t ready to put a musket to my head like some are willing to do. Least ways, I don’t think I was.

For a soldier, there is always a war raging somewhere—afront. Be a mercenary. Do it for pay. Satisfy that lust. But for me? I certainly couldn’t run back into the wilds. I guess I could, but to what? My girls are here. My sisters, Cordulah and Hannah, were here. My suffering was here, dogging me. You can see where I’m at.

I did find refuge—in the bottle. It took the edge off. But I was aware that, in the end, it would only take me down, and if I continued in this manner, I would never reconcile.

Hannah was my sister and best friend. We two had been through hell and high water, together. She knew me like no one else. One day, at the Emporium, I nearly bit someone’s head off. Hannah was there to calm me. What’s the matter, darling? It will be okay. You need a man?

You want my Harper, for a night, sometime? He never leave me for alone anyway. I said no thanks. I must confess, there was a moment of excitement. But that wasn’t what I needed. It would only complicate matters.

After this incident, I decided to stay at home. I put a strain on family and on the business.

But this only exacerbated my restlessness. The walls quickly closed in on me; for relief, I took up my bow and arrow (I was still quite the hunter) and went on the hunt. I could forget who I was for a while. But then, of course, I had to come in and face the inevitable.

As was our custom, evenings, the family and I sat around the kitchen table with our various projects. Sarah and Millie, studying; Cordulah knitting and crocheting. She carried the creations to the Emporium to sell for personal profit. She was industrious. And me? Sipping hard cider and on the border of a stupor.

Then out of the blue, Sarah said, Why don’t you put down on paper our story of survival?

People pay good money for that sort of reading. And our story is autobiographical, real. How many can claim that?

These days, our roles are sometimes reversed. The girls are mature and bright. She and Millie preparing for university.

I have all I need, hun, I replied.

Do it for posterity so history doesn’t repeat itself, she said.

I didn’t know what that meant. She talks over my head. I don’t know anything about writing. I protested. But you do. You brought me back ahead of my class. Cordulah and Millie were listening to this, intently. They obviously discussed this while I was away.

The idea crossed my mind several times in the ensuing days. I tried to dismiss the idea—autobiography—but it kept coming back at me. And each time it did, the idea became more intriguing. Still, I ran away and hid. I didn’t have to run far just to Cordulah’s cupboard for cider then behind the henhouse.

During one of these forays, out behind the henhouse, sucking a raw egg, hitting on Cordulah’s jug, I was overcome by a shame the depth of which brought me to tears, to my knees. Since my return home, my existence has been nothing more than wasted time, hours, days, and self. This realization took me all the way to the bottom. At that very moment, Hannah’s herb came back at me. I saw myself standing over me. I was back in my buckskins, my bow across my chest. I was tall again. Look at yourself, wallowing in self-pity in bird waste. Her voice and demeanor had force. What happened to the woman I once knew? This apparition, this ghost glared at me for a moment. Then again, where is that woman? She demanded.

Where did she go? I asked myself. I picked myself up with much difficulty and went in search of the woman we once knew.

Chapter III

It was a long trek to the Emporium. The morning was quite hot. The heavy drinking stole my strength. Before reaching town, I was perspiring heavily. The breeze cross my forehead cooled me. It felt good. With each step, I was feeling better, stronger. When I come to the creek, that runs through the property, I wet my hair and face for a cool down before crossing over the wooden footbridge.

Entering town and passing through, I felt strangely self-conscious as if I were naked and all the towns folk were staring at me. So this is what sobriety feels like, I thought. I debated: Do I turn back and reenter my cocoon? I sallied forth. I must if I’m to leave something for the historians to contemplate. And besides, I want to make Sarah proud.

Finally, I come to the relative safety of our store. Harper was out front fixing to deliver a load of lumber. His giant mules were harnessed and ready to work.

Good morning, Claudia, he said. You look lovely this morning.

Don’t lie, I replied.

He laughed and began skinning his mules.

I stepped inside. Only Cordulah was inside, minding the store. I was glad for that. She understands me. I began collecting supplies I’d need, paper, ink, and such. Maybe accoutrements is the proper term because I know it will be war—war with myself. As I was leaving, Cordulah gave me a hug.

You’ll be fine, darling, she reassured.

But I wasn’t fine. After the morning’s binge and the long walk under the hot sun, I wasn’t well enough to do anything but nap.

Next morning, feeling better, the home empty and quiet. I sat with pen and paper before me—no more pussy—footing around. Just tell it like it was, I encouraged. But where do I begin?

How do I begin? Once upon a time, there was this naive young woman. That sounds like the beginning of a children’s fairy tale. But I assure you, this is no child’s fantasy. You’ll find some of what I relate hard to believe, but it’s real and true. What shall I entitle this adventure? Babe in the woods? It’s tentative.

Chapter IV

It began on a Sunday morn with this feeling of dread while at church with my husband, Jeremiah. I had the feeling folks were talking about us. I’d approach friends for a chat, and somehow they were different, cold. Groups would talk in a hushed manner when I was near. They looked at me as if I were a stranger who wandered in with no introduction.

Jolly was there, beautiful as ever, in black, still in mourning. She and Jeremiah seemed to be avoiding each other. But why? They were friends. That didn’t lessen my unease. After service, at tea-n-cakes, they seemed to be communicating with their eyes and the faint smiles when they thought no one was looking.

But I was. Let me tell you about fear. I was losing my Jeremiah. What’s a woman to do in this day and age without a strong man at her side? Suddenly, my heart ceased up momentarily—ceased in fear.

At the beginning, I should have said my dread and anxiety intensified at church. This, after all, was a