by Seamus C. McGovern
Elizabeth felt as though the grain wagon had been bumping and bumbling along Mill Creek for hours. Mr. Green tried his best to keep the empty wagon from jostling excessively, feigning familiarity. It was obvious that he had not steered a wagon, or managed horses for that matter, for a long while. This was not normally his job of course, and he only took up the mantle because of the special, and dire, situation at hand.
“I can see the mill up ahead in the distance!” Green said, excitedly breaking the silence. “Are you ready, Timmy?” He asked with an exaggerated wink. She put forth a very small smile, the most she could manage as she tightened the cap around her freshly sheared head.
The wagon came to a halt on the third try, and Green stepped down. He offered a hand to Elizabeth to help her down, which she went to accept when he suddenly caught himself.
“Not for Timmy!” He laughed with a joking look. “If you are going to play the part, you had best not expect to be treated like a lady.” Elizabeth nodded and hopped down; she was dexterous, even for a girl of seventeen.
They walked inside the front door, and immediately the din and the rumbling became nearly overpowering. The mill itself was, and is, a simple set of square levels. Three at the top were made of cedar and housed the grindstones and gears which converted the power of the creek to crush oats, buckwheat, and other cereals. This is where most of the laborers spent their time, on-loading and offloading sacks of grain into the Gristmill. These floors rested on a stone base of considerable height, being built into the Cave of the Winds, and reaching a thickness of ten feet at its base. Within there was another floor used for various purposes not altogether dissimilar from those above, and a bottom floor which housed the bellowing beast of the depths of the mill. There, an enormous White Oak water wheel turned with a deafening creak and groan.
The long oaken beams gently shivered and buzzed from the churning force of the water routed through the mill, and what water was not routed into the mill flowed whisperingly down the falls into the Pool of Shadows below.
“Hey Boss!” a man called to Mr. Green; he began to walk over to the pair, much to the relief of the workers he was harrying.
“Here we are, Timmy, this is Henry Politsky. Mr. Politsky, Timmy.” The two shook hands. Bad start, holy hell. She thought as she shook hands with an acquaintance of both herself and Lillian Gaunt. Henry did seem acquainted with Timmy, as he was several years older than last he saw her, sporting a cap, lacking long hair, and wearing deliberately obnoxiously thick spectacles. Her thin pale face and heavy brows might let her pass for a forlorn man. Still, his gaze lingered and her heartbeat quickened.
“So, you’ve come to work with me at the mill?” he began with an upbeat tone and a quick joke.
“Uh-” she forced out a guttural noise in the deepest tone possible, gesturing wildly toward Timmy’s mouth.
“Timmy is a mute, Henry.” Mr. Green intervened. “For your patience with showing him the ropes, he has agreed to watch the mill at night for us.”
“Ahhhh, I see!” he replied. “Not a problem, less chatting, more working as I see it! Let me show you to where we need help. I hope you know your way around a shovel.” He led her into the mill. She let out a breath she had not realized she held.
Elizabeth Shaw was always a bit unlike many of her peers. She could dress like them, talk like them, and enjoy their company, but she never was quite as rich or distinguished. That was not to say that she was poor. Her father, a blast furnace manager, was certainly not in the realm of the Youngs or Gaunts; she was the daughter of businessmen trading in horses and steel as the nation pushed ever westward. She took solace with one girl, Lillian Gaunt who also had similar proclivities as herself, and they spent a great deal of time together as friends. The pair ended up spending a great deal of time together as something more than friends, which constitutes a good chunk of the recovered diary. This ended poorly when the news got out. This had something to do with someone catching them, although the entry is unclear. The Gaunts could not accept this affront to their moral reputation. Mr. Richard Shaw called upon his friend, Logan Green, to conceal his daughter until the situation could be better evaluated, or it blew over. In his capacity as a Mill Manager for German Lanterman Mr. Green unilaterally oversaw worker acquisition, and hired “Timmy” on the spot. The fact is that, frankly, Mr. Shaw did not think his daughter was safe; while he hated what she did, he was a concerned father first.
“Have a good night Timmy!” a few mill workers called back as she slid the door to a close. “If you hear any weird laughing or singing from them falls, don’t go lookin’!” another laughed.
Elizabeth wanted to ask what that ominous comment could mean, but decided miming out that sort of question would be nearly impossible. She sat down, leaning against the door. She breathed deeply, gently resting her head against the hard planks, and closing her eyes. “Holy hell,” she said, finally getting to use her voice for the first time in hours. She looked at her hands, red and blistered from a day of hard labor. She wondered if her body would even be able to allow her to hide here. The waterwheel had stopped after they closed both of the watergates, making this place quieter than she would have thought possible. There was no rumbling, yelling, grinding, squeaking, or other din. The only noise was the gentle whisper of The Cave of the Winds, and the soothing cascade of the waterfall into The Pool of Shadows below.
Feeling dirty from the day’s work, she decided to draw up some water from the intake channel using a bucket to wash as best she could. She removed her cap to let down her hair, before remembering what she had done with it, pausing for a moment and sighing deeply. A rag and a bucket do not match a hot bath and a sponge, but given the circumstances, the cold water soothed her soul. Bringing her bedding and pack with her, she settled next to the window near the falls. She lay there for a time, thinking and feeling instead of simply doing; she had been active for so long with no sleep. What is going to happen to me? When will this all be over? Will I ever see Lillian again? Even if I do, will I ever get to spend time with her again?
Elizabeth stood up. She was not going to get to sleep like this. She cracked the window and let the cool autumn air gently flow into the dusty mill. After running her hand over her bristly brown hair, she reached into her pack and retrieved the one treasure she still had: her flute. Leaning out of the window, into the cool, moonlit air, she began to play softly. She played for her joys and her sorrows, and her doubts and her pains. She played for a good long time before she noticed something at the edge of her senses. She stopped and heard nothing, and kept playing. This happened once, twice, three times before she made it out as laughter echoed up towards her.
Elizabeth’s misty blue eyes lowered to the Pool below, but she could not see all the way down. Hopping up and down she managed to catch a glimpse of someone lounging on the smooth stones. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, before trying to jump and keep looking. The figure seemed to be disrobing, maybe going for a swim. The figure seemed to be a woman, porcelain with dark hair. She paused, this is someone bathing. I can’t just spy on a woman bathing! What am I thinking? I’m better than this, I must respect a fellow lady.
After grabbing a crate to get a better look, she hoisted herself to see the pale figure smoothly swimming through the water, which seemed to take on a slight blue luminescence while graced with her presence. At times she dived deeply to collect stones from the bottom of the pool, other times she was adrift, counting the stars or singing indiscernible words to the moon. She stared, wide-eyed, and watched for hours as she floated through the pool among drifting scarlet, orange, and yellow leaves that had sailed their way into the vitreous mirror. Mist overtook the sight slowly, as Elizabeth’s vision faded.
THUD THUD THUD
“Rise and shine Timmy!” called a voice from beyond the door. Elizabeth jumped up with a start. “The fuck?” she said out loud. Too loud.
“Did you say something Timmy?” the voice continued.
“No asshat, Timmy’s a fuckin’ mute.”
“Ohhh, I just thought he was quiet. He’s kinda weird isn’t he?” the first continued.
“A mute can’t talk, he isn’t deaf, he can hear you! God, you’re stupid Wilson.”
By this time Elizabeth had thrown on her clothes and rushed to the door to begin the day of operations. She stole a few glances down to the pool over the course of the morning, but there was no woman and no garments.
“Timmy! Stop lookin’ around and come help me will ya?” a man she had come to know as Johnathan asked, “Don’t be working
The morning progressed and the rumbling giant slowly came to life. Grain came in in sacks, was ground to flour, and left in sacks. This time she had been placed in the role of bagging flour. By noon, she was so covered in the dust you could not guess the colour of her clothes. While there could be no words spoken, the bagging line had fun smacking people and leaving flour handprints on the butts of those who walked past unexpectedly. Elizabeth watched as these grown men had fun with one another, completely oblivious to the questions of her life. To simply, disappear, or to become someone or something else. I think I could leave this life behind.
Everyone stopped playing around suddenly and unexpectedly, prompting Elizabeth to swivel her head around suddenly. Logan Green called down to the group from the stairs.
“Having fun, are we?” he smiled.
“Sorry, Sir,” Jonathan replied quickly, casting his eyes downward, “it was my fault.”
“Just remember that’s my flour to take care of boy,” he turned, “C’mon, I need your help Timmy!” he called as he walked away.
She dusted herself off and trailed him to the outside of the building. Even as they breached the doorway, his veneer dropped.
“Elizabeth, I need to warn you, you are not safe,” he said in a hushed whisper. “The Gaunts are hunting for you. Strange men are knocking on the door of anyone know has ever met you to ask if they know where you are. Even your parents are afraid they might get hurt.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to pound. Her knees became weak and quivered, and it sounded like he was getting farther and farther away.
He grabbed her shoulder and locked his hazel eyes with his. “Your father and I are working on how we can get you out of here. You can trust no one, and I mean no one. Who knows what they might do to leverage anyone who might find out about you to give you up.”
She walked back to the bagging line without noticing that she was even moving. What does leaving here mean? Where would I go? I don’t know anyone anywhere else. Do we have family? Will they hurt mother and father if I escape? She feigned a smile as they hit her face with a puff of flour, and tried to work.
She did not eat all that day, even though Mr. Green offered her food on more than one occasion. She tried to work and keep working. She worked both shifts disguised as Timmy, paying little heed to the fact that even accustomed workers only worked half the day. The thoughts would not leave her mind, and the fear kept her from feeling tired until near closing time. The waterwheel came to a stop, as the bustle which had preoccupied her mind for most of the day came to a halt. Her heart hurt ever so slightly more, even if she thought that was impossible, at the thought of all those people leaving her alone. Why do they get to go home to loving women when I go through this ordeal for the very same want? I wish I could hold Lillian, I wish I could be back in her silk sheets. Even my own sheets, my own empty bed in my home would be so much greater, so much more bearable than this.
“Fuck!” she allowed herself to say out loud.
She washed herself, sorted her possessions, and went to make herself a place to lay. There was a few bread rolls and a block of cheese left on the window sill, with a note.
Please eat dear, we all have to eat.
Her stomach growled, and, as much as it repulsed her, she ate. Each bite felt overindulgent, something undeserved for someone who caused so much pain for her family. After she had finished, she went to lay down and close her eyes; sleep came much more quickly to her this time, in spite of the fear.
Silver serenades slipped through the cracked open window, as she woke to the sounds of sweet song mixing with the lull of the falls.
“The Lady!” she jumped from her bed roll. Dragging the crate over once more to the window, she jumped up to see the young woman lounging on the smooth stones once more, seemingly waiting until the right time to rise. She stared once again, awestruck by the woman before her. Waving dark brown hair fell in long tresses over alabaster shoulders, with a garment of white silk on her. It was neither dress not shirt nor robe, it seemed as if a sheet of fabric were to fit her perfectly, more perfectly than any seamstress could estimate. The fabric wanted to fit the Lady, which no human hands may force.
Elizabeth’s fingers fell upon the flute and drew it to her mouth without her even knowing it. Air blew and the instrument floated out across the cave and pool. The Lady smiled and began to dance weightlessly across the stone, and across the water. Her garments fell away as she skipped like a moonbeam across the surface. She skipped and extended arabesque to the tune that was provided for her, and yet somehow she seemed to inform the notes in turn. Elizabeth’s heart ached as she saw the distance between her world and the Lady’s, and wondered how she might cross the divide.
Sweet moonlight serenades gave way to a morning of bustling dust and rumbling. So stark was the difference between the moonlight and sunlight hours that the world seemed to be a different place.
Moments of working deeply and effortfully felt the easiest of all the time she spent there as Timmy. Every moment someone walked down the stairs from above her eyes darted up to see if it was Mr. Green, if he brought news. Despite this, he was absent for two days. During her sunlight hours, she shoveled flour, loaded carts, and oiled the wheel shaft. In the moonlight, she serenaded the lady and longed for her to join her.
On the third day, Mr. Green walked down the stairs slowly and with great care. The workers around paused, and the dust-covered Timmy looked up, her misty blue eyes wide.
“All of you, please leave this level of the Mill for a moment.” he did not look up at her.
Good to not single me out more than is needed I suppose.
They all filed out, and Timmy followed close behind. Stopping only after everyone else was going up the stairs. Once the room was clear, she grabbed his arm.
“What is going on?!” she whispered desperately, “Is my family okay? Am I leaving?”.
“Your family is safe.” he began somberly, “Please unlock the door for the group of men coming tonight.”
Sadness, then happiness, then relief, then sorrow crossed her face. He looked at her, and began to cry. She embraced him. “Please understand that in every detail of how this has been arranged, I have taken into account the best interests of everyone involved,” he said intently with tears on his face. “It is hard to arrange this, having known you for so long.”
“Thank you for always looking out for me, Mr. Green.” At these words, he broke down sobbing.
The rest of the day flew by, as she no longer had an interest in stuffing flour sacks, and could only think what would happen after she left this place. This little pioneer region held everything she knew. Her family, her friends, her Lillian, and the lady.
Jonathan, Henry, and all the other millers filed out as the waterwheel came to a standstill. Her thoughts raced. She packed her bedroll tightly for the journey ahead and stuffed everything away, save for her flute. She waited by the sill for the moment when the Lady might come, with the window as open as the simple hinges could articulate. The moon shone down full.
As full darkness fell, a knock at the door startled her out of her doze. The knocks came heavy on the thick oaken doors. She took a deep breath. The only sound trickling in through the window was the familiar rush of the waterfall and the gentle mournful howl of the Cave of the Winds. Striding confidently to the door, she was ready for the new life that awaited her. The door creaked on its hinges as it revealed Henry’s smirk.
Elizabeth screamed and ran to the far side of the room, near the window. She pressed herself against the wall as he and two other men, friendly to the Gaunts, stepped inside.
“Mr. Green thought it was very important to tell you that we would have found his children if he did not give you up.” he said very calmly.
Her heart was beating out of her chest. She felt dizzy like she might fall out of the window, down to the rocks and the pool below. The three men stood by the door, perfectly still.
“He tried to bargain for you, he tried very hard. But no one is going to get away with what you did to that poor girl.”
One man brought a flog, another a brand, but Henry brought his Cutlass. They started to slowly walk towards her.
“PLEASE NO! I’M SORRY, PLEASE- PLEASE DON’T DO IT!” She screamed.
They laughed. They laughed at her cowering against the wall, and they laughed at the thought was what was about to happen. She thought she was going to faint when she heard another laugh, a gentler one. She looked forward, then to the pool. She smiled at something she saw and then slid herself out of the window without hesitation. Even these coldhearted men winced, fearful of having to hear the crunch of flesh and bone on smooth grey stone; no sound ever came, or it was never loud enough to be heard over the falls.
Even to himself, there was no defense of Mr. Green’s actions. He had to, he had no choice, but he deservedly bore the guilt. His visits to the mill, for any reason, became few and never by volition. His daughter no longer appeared to him after that cold autumn night. Except, if it were not a trick of the grieving mind, he truly heard whispers of laughter and sweet flutes in the autumnal breath of the falls.
Seamus Cornelius McGovern is an award-winning writer and poet from Steubenville Ohio. He attends Youngstown State University where he is studying for a bachelor’s in Psychology with a minor in Creative Writing. He has written a handful of unpublished short stories and flash fiction, such as Ivied Stones, Cleared Smoke, and Parenthood. He has also written an unpublished novelette titled A Novel Fum. Seamus is an avid naturalist, and can often be found divining inspiration from the earthy embrace of the forest.