Happy Friday the 13th, folks - to celebrate this unluckiest of days (with a full moon scheduled for tonight, no less), please enjoy an excerpt from my debut novel Snow Globe and its
book trailer.
December 13, 1912
Dearest
Diary,
Oh, the worst
thing has happened! Someone stole all our livestock and killed our hound dog. Papa
(of course) blames our neighbor but I have spent all forenoon trying to convince
him not even Alain would act so low. He's mean and he's drunk and he's gone
soft in the head (oh please don't let Doug ever know I wrote ill of his kin!)
but he wouldn't try to kill us. Never-Never-Never!
Likely to
blame is a strange man who's been coming round the house these past few months.
He claims he's a land developer who wants to help Papa expand his interests but
he looks part Indian to me with his long black hair and strange manner of speech.
Or worse, he could be a Gypsy. Charlie and Jake told me they heard Gypsies have
been spotted roaming this part of the country.
This
man and Papa have been setting in the parlor, talking until all hours. I can
hear them sometimes through the floorboards. It sounds like serious business.
But now,
disaster! Our animals all vanished as if they'd never been and our poor cellar
violated as well. Someone is out to get us and we can't even get to town
because of all this wretched snow!
Mama
said she's seen snowfall like this once, back around the end of the war when
she was itsy-bitsy. It snowed so hard for days that the drifts come right plumb
up to her windows, and she slept on the second storey! She calls a
hundred-years' snowfall because it only happens once each century.
Oh,
Dear Diary, what in Heaven are we to do?
December 14, 1912
Dearest
Diary,
Second
straight day of snow. Already we are hungry. We had some cornmeal and beans in
the pantry, but scarce enough to feed us all as well as we are accustomed. With
no beef or fresh milk, my belly is grouchy. I hope this snow stops soon so we
may perhaps dig out the auto and make a trip to Mr. Darrow's General Store.
Papa is quiet
today and I can tell he feels helpless without being able to make good for his
family the way he always has. He has been staring out the window at the house
across the way. He says he is watching the weather, but this is false. Oh, why
cannot we all live in peace with one another? I miss love greater by the day.
December 15, 1912
Dearest
Diary,
I
have just finished breakfast which saw the last of the cornmeal. A half-sack of
rice and a few beans remain. Charlie and Jake have been away since dawn hunting
rabbit, but with all the snow I feel their luck may be stretched.
The
sky cleared for a bit this morning and I allowed myself hope that an end may be
imminent, but it began again in earnest. Papa has closed himself in his study
and is hard at work on something (aside from the small cask of Christmas glogg
he stashed away in there). He will admit no one to see him, not even Mama who
has spent many hours these past days in her rocker either knitting or watching
the snow. She tells me Charlie and Jake will bring back some game for supper;
rabbit or squirrel most likely but perhaps even a buck to skin for venison. Oh,
Diary, it does sound wonderful!
December 16, 1912
Dear
Diary,
No
luck for Charlie and Jake. They saw a few rabbits, but the creatures were too
swift. Jake lost his rifle when he dropped it in a snow bank and was unable to
find it even after half an hour of digging. My brothers' faces are so chapped they
practically seem like they're wearing masks.
We
had only rice and black beans for breakfast and supper; no lunch to speak of.
Papa set a
strict ration for our remaining food, but since then has not unlocked his study
door since late last night. His boots clunked around for awhile as if he might
be pacing, then I heard him leave by the front door only to return after
quarter-hour's time. I wonder what he's up to, Diary?
I
watch Douglas's window by night. It has been dark these past three days. I dread
the day I shall have to tell him my secret. What will he say to that? Will he
still love me? I've verily put it out of my mind in recent weeks. I've not written
of it until this minute…but, Dearest Diary, how do I tell my beloved? Do I dare?
December 17, 1912
Diary,
this is nothing like how Christmastime should be. The snow has finally stopped
falling, but it is so deep we have no hope of making it to town before a thaw. We
are so hungry. So hungry.
When
Papa poked his head out of his study today, Mama told him he ought to pick his
way across the road to seek some Christian charity, but Papa said he would
rather die than commit such an act. Then he pulled Charlie, Jake, Donald, John,
Tommy, and Stevie into the study for some time. I think they might be planning
a raid on Douglas's house! I can only hope that is not the case. I could not
bear if Douglas were hurt. Or my brothers, of course.
December 19, 1912
Dearest
Diary,
Success!
Some, at least. Jake came across a wounded fox and killed it with a rock. We're
going to have meat tonight! I never would have thought I'd be excited about
eating fox, but the thought of hot juicy hanks of meat makes my mouth wet. I
can't help it.
And
Charlie found a bottle of our rendered syrup in the barn…I am going to
positively drown my food in it. Oh, tonight is going to taste so wonderful!
Mama's
calling! Supper is ready!
December 19 (later)
The
fox wasn't good even with the syrup. Very little meat on its sickly bones and
what it had was stringy. Gosh, but I'm hungry.
December 21, 1912
We've
run out of food completely, even after Papa's careful ration. Not even a grain
of rice or drop of syrup remains. I bundled into my parka and galoshes and spent
ten minutes making my way out to the granary, but it was just full of feed-corn.
Couldn't eat it. I tried, but it hurt my teeth. I ate some of this horrid snow but
it did more harm than good, I fear.
I'm so hungry.
December 23, 1912
Papa
and the boys tried the raid, but were turned back. Douglas's people were
waiting. They are always waiting, have always been waiting. Where is Douglas? Where
are our cows? I would do any-thing for a taste of true meat. Any-thing. My
belly feels shrunk and swollen at the same time, somehow.
I
hate to put this to paper, but in Papa's silly raid Thomas sustained an injury.
No one fired any shots, but Thomas busted his ankle somehow in all the snow and
came back bellering like a cow too heavy with milk. He's been screaming for
hours. I wish he would quit.
December 24, 1912
If
I could make one wish this night, I'd ask St. Nicholas to come down our chimney
and take us with him on his sleigh. I'd forfeit the rest of my Christmas
presents forever and ever if jolly old St. Nicholas would take us from this
house.
If he hasn't
any room in his sleigh, perhaps when we wake in the morning he will have left
us honeyed hams and golden turkeys and sweet yams and plum puddings and crocks
of cream beneath our tree! Perhaps our socks will be full of candied apples, juicy
oranges, and plump, ripe strawberries like the ones Douglas and I ate from
Mama's garden when we were small! Oh, please St. Nicholas, please send us some
Christmas cheer!
December 25, 1912
I
love my Lord and Savior for He shall deliver me from evil. Amen.
December 27, 1912
Papa
decided Thomas's foot ought to be cut loose because the boy won't stop making
noise. He and Charlie did it quick and poor Tommy blacked out from the pain. The
foot set there for a bit before Mama got the idea to boil it.
December 30, 1912
I
keep watching the window of the man I love. It remains dark. I wonder if
Douglas is dead…as dead as I feel.
Still
no way to town. Blocked completely.
Tommy's
grown worse. Papa keeps quiets him with sips of whiskey, but my big brother
will never walk again. Not without that foot.
But,
my land, it tasted so good. I'm sorry, Tommy.
January 3, 1913
We
ate more of Tommy, after his leg went bad. He died of shock, Mama said, so he
wasn't using his meat any-more. So we used it. I feel sick and sad but we have
no choice.
Lord
Jesus, please don't be mad.
January 6?
The
snow and cold are terrible. If I ever get out of this, I'm heading to California
where it never snows and I can sit by the sea.
Oh,
Douglas! Where are you! Please come!
January 7?
We lost Celia.
My sister, my lord, my LORD. She just gave up this morning, the shock of it all
being too much for her.
It only took
Papa a few hours to decide to carve her up. My heart is empty but at least my
belly is full.
January 8?
I
am having terrible pains in my belly I at first mistook as hunger (because
hunger is a real thing…like a demon. People who never felt it don't know). But
now I know these pains are not hunger.
It's the baby.
I hope it's all right. Please God, please let my child be all right.
No one stirs
any-more. The house is silent. Papa has been living out in the barn. I haven't
seen but Steven these past two days. I don't know where every-one else went. I
keep my door locked in case they decide to come for me. I don't know who is
alive and who has been eaten. This has become a house of ghosts. Hunger makes
everything go quiet and no-one stirs any-more.
The snow is
still up to my window pane and it is so, so cold.
January 9?
The
Lord forgive me! Last-night our child was born too soon in blood. So much blood
I knew not if I would live to see morning. I birthed it alone without aid from
Mama, if Mama's even still alive.
The poor dear
scarcely looked human. More like a skinned squirrel, pink and bloody.
O, Dear God, please forgive me, but I
could not stop my mouth from filling with spit at the sight. I still can't,
even now as I boil broth on the hearth. The last thing I will do, after my
meal, is burn the pages of this Dearest Diary. I'm sorry, sweet baby. I'm sorry,
Douglas. But I'm just so hungry.
