Autumn Seclusion

By Amelia Michaels

Autumn Seclusion is a serious narrative told through the eyes of a thirty year old woman as she reflects on her life. Many women appear perfect in the eyes of the world, but have underlying fears that remain hidden behind a multitude of closed doors. This is true of the main character in Autumn Seclusion. Spanning a lifetim

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amelia Michaels Literatures
• Release date: Apr 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781956854473

Amelia Michaels

Amelia Michael's is a native of Eastern North Carolina. She still resides in North Carolina with her family. In addition to her memoir, she has written two fiction novels. Her fiction has been praised by Encore Magazine and Midwest Book Review. Mrs. Michael's is an avid equestrian often found riding when she is not working as an educator.

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AUTUMN

SECLUSION

Autumn Seclusion by Amelia Michaels

This is a work of fiction. All names of characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Amelia Michaels

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any form by any means, including, but not limited to, recording, photocopying, or taking screenshots of parts of the book, without prior written permission from the author or the publisher. br/ief quotations for noncommercial purposes, such as book reviews, permitted by Fair Use of the U.S. Copyright Law, are allowed without written permissions, as long as such quotations do not cause damage to the book’s commercial value. For permissions, write to the publisher, whose address is stated below.

ISBN: 978-1-956854-47-3

Printed in the United States of America

Amelia Michaels

https://www.ameliamichaelsliterary.com/

INTRODUCTION

Haunting, pale pink eyes followed Quen and me throughout the moss green Teak forest. Massive vines wrapped around each trees’ bark. The thickness of the jungle surrounded us from all angles. Amazement crept easily into my soul. Reflecting over this land, I understood God created an incredible universe. Seeing the cascading waterfalls of the highlands of Chiang Rai, my heart filled with a peace only yearned for most of my life.

Today, Quen reached for my hand and led me throughout his world. He was leading me to his secret cove. The place he found Nirvana. Quen realized I was a Christian. He grasped the fact I would pray. Watching me over the past several years, he knew I would never seek meditation. This did not matter. Our friendship had grown while I traveled Thailand with him. As we snaked our way through the mountainous terrain, I began to listen to the sounds of the forest. Insects flittered on the leaves and ground. Certain areas of the jungle produced fruit. Heavenly, tropical fruits hung from the trees. Quen and I picked durian. It had a distinctive aroma. Following Quen’s example, I ate the fruit by removing the skin and sinking my teeth into the succulent, juicy mound. We gorged on the luscious durian during the mile long hike to the sacred cove.

Meandering the trails, the destination became closer. The only creature aware of our trek to the mountain cove was the pink eyed being tracking behind us. Quen and I noted the rare albino elephant marching silently from the rear. The dust colored, small eared, white toed beauty had been attached to us from the moment we entered the woods. The elephant stayed nearby careful not to come into the clearings. These creatures were not jungle dwellers. They loved the safety and regality of the cities. We were not sure how the magnificent animal made his way into the trees. We smiled at each other knowing how fortunate our time with him would be. As we reached the river, which would lead us to the hidden cove, Quen and I worried he would not be at the river’s edge when we returned from our spiritual expedition. Knowing the sun would set soon, we had to move forward and hope he would not disappear. Grabbing my hand, Quen pulled me on the raft and he set us on course for the cove. The water rippled and the sky denoted the golden hues of a setting sun. The secret getaway came into sight. The boulders of the mountain with the arching entrances and tumbling waterfalls blew my mind. Quen told me we had reached our destination. We would have to exit the raft and make our way along the slick boulders to the private area inside. We would spend time in spiritual pursuits while hidden in the cove.

My mission, once we settled down, engulfed prayer while my companion spread his blanket for serious meditation. Awe and beauty quickly grasped me. The communing with God and the impeccable nature around us displaced all worries. As we concluded our first moments of spiritual connections, we decided to climb the rocks leading to the top of the cove. Clutching the gray marbled stones, we pulled each other to the highest level of the mountain. Our elevated sanctuary br/ought serenity, a calmness few people find. A peace so long forgotten, an inner-strength lost for over thirty years finally replaced all the emptiness within my physical shell. The trials and tribulations that had br/ought me to Thailand and this high cliff thousands of miles from home were at last fading away. Meeting my friend and feverishly imploring God for help during my time in Southeast Asia had made the difference. Knowing I had come full circle and that life would be br/ighter, I began to reflect beyond Thailand, my foreign home, and back to my roots. The incredible skyline of this mountain made it possible for me to ponder distant memories. It gave my mind free reign to drift back to my family and the place I used to profess as home. The region never vanished from my heart. It simply became hidden behind my anger, aggression, and tearful pride. Thankfully, God had forgiven me of my weaknesses. I knew somehow he would lead me back to North Carolina and to my family.

New Bern, North Carolina flooded my thoughts. I grew up on the outskirts of this tiny town. People called me Anna Skye O’Ryan. I loved this town especially the palace located on the 600 block of Pollock Street. The elegant Georgian style mansion served as the residence of the br/itish governor William Tryon and the capital of the colony of North Carolina. When I was young, my mother and father often clasped my hands and walked with Charlotte, my sister, and me through the immaculate gardens surrounding the palace named after the governor. Mom cherished the tulips and chrysanthemums that bloomed. Watching the dew midst the yellow tulip bulbs in early spring created happiness in my mother. Daddy appreciated the history and the cobbled walkway leading from the gardens to the blacksmith shop to the stables and basket weaving areas.

As a child, I simply enjoyed being with my parents and sister especially when we exited the mansion and meandered our way through the gardens to the flowing marinas and waterways which helped develop the city. Many days were spent on the water with Charlotte and daddy fishing the Neuse and Trent rivers. Reeling in bass from daddy’s boat or heading out to the coastal waterway with the salt spray of the ocean br/ought a smile to my face. Seeing the guardian lighthouses and feeling secure and protected, it is almost unbelievable life led me away from this setting. Missing my parents, my sister, and the smells and sights of home reinforced my desire to recapture the time and place trod in previous days.

Sitting on this mountain top, closing my eyes, memories washed into my mind and assailed my senses. Time slipped away and the minutes turned into an hour. When I finally opened my eyes, I noticed my Buddhist friend had halted in his meditation to peer my way. I realized the secrets hidden inside my soul were now ready to be expressed. The time before I became Amber Smith, the name Quen called me, needed to be released. Quen had the right to understand more about the estranged girl who fled the United States. He knew I had dark secrets buried within me. Respecting me, he had never asked me to explain my past. However, the time had come. Since God had cleansed my sins, I felt comfortable sharing my saga. Quen had proven his devotion and loyalty. Deciding to relive my life, I locked eyes with Quen and began to speak. Intense silence resounded only for a second while I gathered my feelings. With the exception of two orange-beaked, br/own-feathered birds dancing around the cliff, we were alone. My moment of truth arrived and life began to unfold. Concentrating on the foundations building my family, I proceeded to recollect three decades of laughter, sorrow, and heartache.

CHAPTER  ONE

As a young child, I spent many days walking between the rows of tobacco lining daddy’s fields. The gum stuck to my hands while I ran my fingertips across the leaves and suckers. Growing up on a flue cured tobacco farm, I knew a fondness for the land. It was not always tobacco. Daddy planted corn, soybeans, cotton, and wheat. Most of our neighbors farmed the fields. The average field spanned a thousand to two thousand acres. Family values, love of the land, and appreciation for each other became the norm. Consistency ruled every faction of life. On Sunday, the parents loaded their children in station wagons and headed for the local church. During the week, our parents carted us to the Christian school that was associated with our church. It was important the children worshipped God and became replicas of their parents. Change did not happen. Those outside of the farming community seemed off limits.

My parents ruled our home with iron clad expectations. Charlotte and I never questioned mom and dad when we were small. Actually, Charlotte always fell in line even when she turned into a teen. When mom and dad pushed piano lessons, sewing class, and strict Christian schools, Charlotte blossomed. For the longest period, I accepted the dictates. As I became older, I began to resent the lessons and unspoken rules of the house and community. I believed in change. I needed space. I grew mischievous and rebellious. My attitude against the policies of our home became more blatant over the years. Charlotte became the golden child. I made the list of fallen angels. Luckily, I had a companion on the black list. The farm adjacent to ours consisted of a small family. Mister and Miss Roderick gave birth to a son the same year I was conceived. Chris came into the world 7 April 1970. Mom went into labor with me 21 June 1970. From the time Chris and I could run the distance connecting our homes, we became instant best friends. Whether we chased each other though the tobacco leaves or swam circles around one another in my parents’ pool, we enjoyed being together. Often, Chris and I escaped into the woods encompassing the fields. Since we grew up near the beach, we could find all types of fossilized sharks teeth and oyster shells. We hunted for our treasure whenever we found the opportunity. It was not easy to find time. The older I became, the more my mother pressured me to become lady like. This did not include long romps in the trees or hours in the pool. Mom, being the perfect farmers wife, demanded her daughters be prim and proper. Charlotte and I would need to marry someone from the community one day. Part of our wifely duties would include taking care of our husbands. The man worked the land. The woman cooked, sewed, and played incredible, gentle music. The wife shopped. Mom had the shopping to an art form and she could play the piano to the perfect pitch. Charlotte could as well. I slammed the piano with heavy hands. My skills worsened through time. When mom purchased a cooking timer to count the minutes I spent on the piano, everything plummeted. Mom forced me to practice tunes for a half hour each day. Knowing how much I despised the piano, mom placed the timer on the left hand side of the stringed wooden instrument. Ticking echoed the air while I practiced. With each clicking sound, I banged the keys a little harder. I bopped my head back and forth angrily. I did not want to scale my fingers on the black and white keys. I burned with a desire to dance. My feet yearned to tap. I wished for black leather dance shoes. Tap, tap, tapping sounds of the shoe tips gliding on the floor spoke to my heart. The shoes called my name. Being short, I could have hammered the beats with a style a larger person would not possess. It did not matter. Mom and dad expressed dance consisted of devils rhythm. Good Southern girls played melodious tunes. Charlotte and I were sweet girls raised in the South. We had to play. Life seemed routine. This helped to create a desire to bend the rules. I wanted to be different with every passing day.

CHAPTER  TWO

Late July 1979 seemed to be one of the rainiest hurricane seasons. For weeks, Hurricane Diana stalled off the North Carolina coastline. Since we lived fifteen miles from the ocean, hurricanes threatened the crops each year. This year, Diana spun waves that beat the dunes and eroded the yellow sand. The constant drizzle and frequent downpours caused the rivers to spill over their banks. The streams behind our farm flooded throughout the forest. With the water pushing the stream’s soil upon the forest banks, I became excited about all the fossils buried under the surface.

This morning was the perfect time to explore these fossilized grounds. Mom and Charlotte had exited the house to shop in the local malls. They loved shopping for bargains. I hated malls. I preferred to spend my time on the land. Daddy often took me on Mondays on his boat fishing but the rest of the week he farmed. Today, daddy drove his tractor for hours while mom spent the money earned.

Before leaving this morning, mom gave me strict orders to stay in the house. She did not want me in the woods after the rains had washed away the soil along the streams. She knew Chris and I snuck away to search for sharks teeth and oyster shells whenever she could not supervise. I promised mom I would stay around the house.

As the day crept by, the urge to leave the house became stronger. The phone call from Chris asking to meet at the forest edge did not help. Originally, I denied the request to slip out of the house, run the distance between the tobacco fields, and meet him along the line of trees leading into the forest. Two hours of boredom quickly changed my mind. Picking up the telephone, I dialed his number. Realizing mom would not be back for hours, I felt we had time to dig for buried treasure.

Within moments of ending our conversation, I dashed out of the house, passed the tobacco leaves sticky with gum, and headed to the rendezvous point. Chris had arrived minutes before me. He lived a little closer. With buckets in our hands, we made off to the woods.

Entering the forest, we made our way toward the br/ook. The stream was nestled between the trees. Enormous oaks lined with Spanish Moss, br/ight red maples, birch, pines surrounded us. Navigating further into the woods, we forged through the slushy ground. Chris and I could imagine the giant teeth we would locate, collect, and hide. We never shared our wares. In the back of my mind, the teeth would be worth money one day. Chris often told me he agreed. We would take the teeth, not necessarily the oyster shells, and place them in the barn at Chris’s house. The teeth were under piles of hay where no one other than the horses would look.

The further we progressed, the ground became more saturated. Mud lapped up to our knees causing our shoes to become coated. Being on the verge of childhood and those teen years, we thought we were invincible, invulnerable. Getting coated with br/own ooze concerned us none at all. Continuing to frolic in the woods we paid no heed to our increasing danger. If we had we may have noticed the storm had caused quite a bit of erosion. Diana had br/ought more damage than previous hurricanes. A lot of the banks around the water were completely caved in. The more we advanced downstream, the higher the banks and the more the soil eroded. We continued to move forward and deeper into areas which had banks reaching about twelve feet. These banks had hefty piles of dirt sliding toward the mucky ground. Slowly we started to acknowledge the rising areas of ground crumbling downward. I began to feel a little uncomfortable but we did not stop. Desperately wishing to locate more shark teeth fossils, we forged still deeper. Coming to a point where the banks were still sifting soil we stopped. We decided not to go any further. However, Chris and I never turned back toward home. Instead we placed the bucket on the arch of the hill and began to scrape the surface with small trowel shovels packed inside our buckets. Our heads touched at the hairline. Consumed with searching, we did not hear the crumbling sound of the earth above us until it began to rain down upon our heads. The twelve feet or so tumbled on top of us. Within no time, Chris and I had been buried alive. It happened in a blink. One second we sought treasure, the next, we found ourselves covered with soil. Everything became dark. We could rub fingers but could not find daylight. Frantically we commenced to scratch and claw at the mound. Digging to the top, peeling the dirt away with our nails, I believed eventually freedom would come. However, we could not make progress because the soil became too heavy. I felt fear. Our parents did not know we were in the woods, we had snuck off despite their commands to stay inside.

Breathing became labored for me. Fortunately soil contains oxygen so we could survive for a short while. This did not calm me. After what seemed like eternity, Chris and I faintly heard the calling of our names. People searched for us above ground. I was concerned they would not find our tomb. Luckily we left a trail of muddy footprints along the br/ook leading to our hiding place. We could hear voices penetrating through the