Linen is a fairy tale including the after following the "happily ever after" line. It is the story of a foundling girl. Following a life of torment and little joy, she is rescued by the man of her dreams. For a period of time she is blissfully asleep, conscious in an alternate reality where she experiences love and sorrow to an unmitigated degree. Upon awakening, she becomes intimately acquainted with both desperation and denial. Although unable to resolve all troubles, she chooses to live life completely. The novella’s title, Linen, represents the fabric of one life, all threads intimately woven into a perfect work. Linen literally winds through the story serving the functions of comfort, cleanliness and concealment for that which must not be seen. The word, linen, represents one complete life and one life is completed with linen. The story is a metaphor of codependency. The primary character learns early that her survival is dependent upon the approval of her benefactor. She clings to this illusion as proof of her own worth. The metaphor parallels the lives of women who are unaware of their personal greatness and live yearning for the approval of others. Some live filled with sorrow, unable to resolve their pain. Some are fortunate in their unconsciousness, ultimately finding happiness in a prescription bottle. A blessed few confront unbearable emotional pain, rip bandages from tender flesh and allow their wounds to heal. It is my hope that you, dear reader, are one of the few.

Linen

a metaphor of codependencyBy Lea Frances

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Lea Frances
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-3910-0

Chapter One

I woke abruptly; eyes open, staring at the fingers of light filtering through an opening high in the stone wall. I was suddenly alert, completely still, prone upon the wide stone shelf worn to a smooth polish by the occupancy of previous visitors. Awareness of my circumstance grew with the deepening of my breath. I sat upright, breathing deeply in the crisp morning air. Thoughts began to form.

My heart filled and overflowed triumphant peace. It was finished. I had not before conceived a greater joy. I leaned to rest my face and shoulder against the rough-hewn wall forming the interior of the crude stone hut. I let my mind wander back to the life I had enjoyed. My thoughts caressed the memories as the mist caresses the horizon during early moments in spring. I had lived a life endowed by God's grace. I had embraced precious moments of uncommon happiness. There need be nothing more than this final reward.

During the coolness of the earlier hours, I had wrapped myself lightly in the thoughtfully supplied, although somewhat musty, linen sheet. There had been also in the room a generous supply of parchment, ink, and a quill. I had collected such and now held in my hands a wooden tablet, a piece of parchment, and the quill. I had placed nearby the pot of black ink. I rested upon the warming stone surface while my thoughts continued to travel lazily into the past. Sunlight shone through the single opening in the otherwise opaque block wall. A soft glow illuminated the close interior of the shelter.

I had no one to whom I should write the customary letter. Instead, with the unknown space of hours at hand, I had decided to write, as was my custom, for myself. I had before enjoyed recording my thoughts in this way. Since the time when I had learned of its existence, parchment had provided substance to the meaning of my life. There were secreted about my living areas an untold number of pages.

The lingering, pungent aroma of the linen brought forgotten memories into sharp focus. I knew the stories of my life. That which I did not know from my part, I had learned from the speaking of others. Content in the solitude, I allowed remembrance to come. Soon the words began to be scratched upon the page

THE HEALING WOMAN

A single candle burned feebly, powerless to illuminate the heavy darkness of the chamber. The old woman stood silent. Despair filled her heart, her bones felt heavy, useless in helpless flesh within which they hung suspended in the stillness. She watched with dead eyes as life faded from the valiant young girl. No herb or healing ritual would save her now. The battle had been lost. "Where are you, earth mother?" she whispered in defeat. There had been too many deaths.

The courageous young woman lying prone upon the straw-filled mattress had been many hours in labor to birth the squalling girl child. She lay as if asleep, but her benevolent observer knew that, though her flesh was warm, she was without life. The before uncontrollable gushing of blood had ceased. The birth of the child had marked two entries: one to this earth, and the other to the unknown place of mysteries. The old woman hoped - in fact, fervently understood - that there existed another world of peace and light.

It was this intuitive sense that afforded her tolerance to the ways of her people. Her certain knowledge that the events of before would influence the happenings of afterward nurtured her patience. She knew that the pain of the world ultimately brought forth love as surely as she knew that a flower will bring forth fruit and that passion will bring forth a child.

The old woman had true awareness that the ways of the people of her existence were not the ways of all people. She knew that even the ways of these people were an evolution, ever changing, forming to what would be. This knowledge afforded her the ability to practice and to share the ways of healing regardless of her beliefs concerning the circumstances.

The desperate ignorance of the people amongst whom she lived brought inevitable sorrow. The habit of some masters to manhandle inferiors met, oft times, with dire consequences. Particularly the women, the infirm and the weak, suffered. To the healing woman, it seemed ever a waste of dear life. To these ignorant men, death simply meant fewer mouths to feed. Those who could not work were of no purpose, regardless of the manner in which they had become unable to labor.

Through no fault of her own, this young girl now lay lifeless upon the wide bench. Allowing the platter of meat to fall from her arms into the lap of the head overseer had been unforgivable and necessarily punished. Her master had wheeled in his chair, catching the girl's cheek with the powerful back of his hand. When she had collapsed to her knees, he had risen to cast her by the shoulders toward the rock hearth, where she had landed heavily on her back. Her head had cracked loudly against the cooling grate. It was perhaps the blow to her back from the jutting rockwork that had started her labor. When the attention of the master was at last elsewhere, the other servants had gathered around the still form of the girl. Discovering shallow breath, they had brought her to the old woman in the deep of the night.

The serving girl, not yet a woman in any real sense, had been with child for the better part of the year past. As her time had neared, she had been had been less and less constructive in the household of her master. She had weakened noticeably in the latter part of her childbearing. Still, she had worked without complaint. Often she had sung or laughed while completing her duties. Her presence had brought a bit of brightness into the otherwise dreary existence of her fellow servants. They were common servants, moving from one overseer to the next. They were, in fact, under the employ of the Lord of the manor. These people were a benefit, given by the Lord to the overseers of the manor lands. They were dependent upon the given permission of the overseer to reside near the dwelling to which they had been assigned by the lord. They were transient. Their class was not that of the cherished servants of the manor; those who served our lord and lady. These people were ever fearful of losing their position and being cast aside.

It had been a man and two women who had brought the young girl to the dwelling of the woman of healing ritual and midwifery. She lived in a small hut tucked into the edge of the forest. It had been built in the same manner as other of the village dwellings, with the central fireplace, the work area, and the sleeping area. At this dwelling, none could enter from the rear, as the trees and undergrowth of the forest formed a protective wall. Unlike the other dwellings of stone, her hut was covered with lichens and mosses which, in conjunction with the sod roof, caused it to blend into the shadows of the forest. These casual concealments afforded her some privacy in her work of cheating the man of the unclean in his gathering of the dead.

Though the knock came well past sleeping time, the servants were bid enter. There were but a few short steps past the threshold to lay the girl upon the wide bench near the still-glowing hearth that was ever prepared for such an event. Many others had lain and healed and birthed in this place. Finished with their task, the servants had stood clustered near the door, not speaking.

The old midwife had shooed them away and set about her work. She had laid her cheek against the young girl's mouth and had found shallow breath. The woman had observed the massive purple bruises and gashes of split skin that adorned the girl's face. Hair matted with sweat from her work and dried blood from the wound above her ear was also plastered to the girl's face and neck. Recognition by a person known to her would have been impossible. The old woman had noted the soaked skirts, signaling the eminent birth of the young woman's child. She had nodded to herself as she hummed. This was her purpose.

After deciding her course, the healing woman had stepped to the ever-smoldering coals of the fireplace to dip the wide-mouthed pitcher into the kettle hanging from an iron hook. She poured this water into the shallow basin she kept for this service. With cloth warmed by the water, she had carefully cleaned the undamaged flesh of the girl's face and arms. She had allowed water from the cloth to drip over the wounds and then had left them, as no dressing had been immediately needed. Greater concentration of blood from the coming birth had caused any excessive bleeding from the smaller wounds to cease. She had laid heavy blankets over the girl to preserve as much warmth as possible.

As she had performed this work, a single gasp of pain had escaped the girl's lips. The old woman knew that the almost imperceptible sound had not been in response to the tenderness of her wounds. As she had cried out, her belly had tightened. These two occurrences had told the old woman that the child would soon be born. The labor had begun. She had folded the blankets carefully back and peeled the skirt from the girl's legs. She had held her candle to check around the girl's under-dress and legs. She had rolled woolen blankets to prop the young girl in a more upright position. She had hoped to increase the breath, to help restore consciousness. Realizing she would be unable to undress the girl without assistance, she had cut the skirts away and had propped the girl's pliant limbs with ankles close to buttocks. She had placed an additional blanket for warmth lightly over the opened legs. Finally, she had collected a stool to sit close by and keep her silent vigil. After many hours of watching and helping the breath, the old woman had known that the time had come.

As the labor had progressed, there had been no time when the midwife had been able to rouse the young girl. The old woman had known that she must now be afforded additional assistance. She was needed during this great task that was difficult even in the best circumstances. She had leaned over the girl's face and had placed firm but gentle hands high on the belly of the girl near her chest. The healing woman had become still, listening. When she had felt the great tightening through her fingertips, she had pushed firmly down and away. Coupled with the long knowing of the old woman, the two had continued this effort almost as one. When the time grew nearer, the old woman had changed positions after pushing down on the belly to check between the girls legs. When the baby became visible, the old woman had carefully stretched and pulled to guide the final effort. The old woman knew this was necessary as the girl had remained unconscious for all of the labor. It seemed that her fragile life had continued solely for the birthing of her child.

Now the healing woman stared in exhaustion and dismay. The long hours of fighting and afterward, the increasing blood loss, had taken its toll. The young girl had completed her final service. The health of the child was remarkable, beyond belief to one who had seen much. The old woman gazed upon the scene in stunned confusion. Her thoughts whirled about, disjointed. Death was not uncommon in childbirth. In every before instance during her time of healing and midwifery, the birthed child had also been dead or close to death. It had been simple to wrap and dispose of both corpses. The tiny bodies had been easily concealed within the curves of the adult female bodies. Before her, lying between the lifeless legs of this mother, was a robust, wailing child.

Usually in this circumstance, the unclean collector of waste would remove the corpse of both mother and child. He was required to count each death and report to the village manager. As it was better to count a single death, the old woman customarily bundled mother and child as one. Whether woman and child were known or unknown, it was of no consequence to the man. His sole purpose was to cart them away lest sickness and the black death of disease be brought upon other villagers. He performed this duty as he had been taught, no more and no less. These folk were allowed no burial ground, as the land stretching in every direction was owned by the Lord. Monuments were prepared only for those of deserving station. Even the overseers were carted away.

Many times had there been sent away soon-to-be rotting flesh. This was simply the way. In spite of this fact, the old woman knew the man of the unclean would not with knowledge accept this obviously healthy child. She had heard his speech of the village mandate many times. He would not report death when there was none, and he alone knew of the horror of the trenches. He was not completely without thought. He had told her this on several occasions. While listening to him, the astute old woman had often wondered if he was trying to convince himself of the fact of the occurrence of his own thought. She herself had wondered at the depth of his thought; however, she did not desire that he create trouble for her work.

The old woman's stomach churned. She at first thought that, if the smaller form were wrapped securely, it would lie quietly with the mother and both would be removed together to the final peaceful rest, such as it was. With this solution uppermost in her mind, she clipped and firmly tied with string the stub end of the umbilicus. She performed this simple step out of habit. The mother needed no tending. The blood from the birth had finished at death. It was certainly best that the baby follow the mother. There was no life waiting a child born to a nameless servant. As she went about collecting cloth for wrapping, the child's thin screams began to penetrate her softer consciousness.

Returning to the table, the old woman paused, standing with several lengths of linen in her arms. "Mother, Mother, Mother," she whispered. The walls around her heart tightened in her chest. She brought the cloth to the soiled mattress and laid it next to the body of the young woman. She lifted the infant from the now useless tissue and blood that had moments before been a human being and began to wrap her.

At her touch - even the cold, rough hands of an old woman - the baby quieted. The desperate flailing, jerking motions of arms and legs ceased as the linen served to restore the baby's sense of safety. The swaddled infant immediately slept, heavy in the arms of the healing woman. She gazed upon the sweet face of the child and willed herself to pull the linen fabric over the mouth and nose. This woman whose lifetime labors were to save the lives of her fellows closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.

She unknowingly rocked back and forth, balancing first on toes and then heels. Her thoughts chased one after the other. She felt dizzy and hot. The station of the mother dictated no special care be given for a dead or mewling child. The child must be placed in her mother's arms and allowed to avoid a life certain to be fraught with sorrow. "Who, my Mother, can care for this, this ..." The prayer trailed off when she realized the words had been spoken aloud.

She rocked as the heat of unease grew to fill her body. She simply could not, would not will herself to replace the child in order to continue the pretense of tragedy to both child and mother. She had no power to alter these circumstances. She had no skill to heal the dead. She stood motionless, head bowed, undecided. Incomprehensible thoughts slowed as the warm weight of the baby comforted her.

Several long minutes passed. The thick mist that had filled her being thinned suddenly. The healing woman inhaled and opened her eyes. She had remembered the laundry woman of the manor house. The woman had birthed a dead child only two days before. The old woman lifted her head, protectively tightening her hold on the child. Her decision was sure. She would give the child to the woman wet from the stillbirth of her own child.

Although this solution had flaws with serious consequences, there was no available alternative. Unwilling to answer for her actions, she must not delay. With the child in her arms, she went in search of a gathering basket. Slivers of light filtered through the rough-hewn door and ill-fit shutters. Dawn approached.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Linenby Lea Frances Copyright © 2009 by Lea Frances. Excerpted by permission.
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