Winds of Destiny
by Jayne Bullock
EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
Memories
I should never have returned. It had been
a strenuous journey to say the least, but one that had to
be taken. Sometimes, you have to put life in perspective
and that means looking back at where you began. Now, in
the year 1675, each twist and turn in the road brought me
ever closer to a life I had long ago put behind me. My anxiety
increased as the spinning wheels of the horse-drawn coach
continued to roll on toward my destination, the home of
my youth. As I approached the familiar countryside, the
old feelings of insecurity, fear and love that childhood
brings filled my very soul and revived those long forgotten
emotions.
Not expecting a great deal of change in the
village close to my home, I was surprised to see how time
had left its tale. Weathered wood, sagging roofs, unkempt
yards and even dilapidated buildings gave evidence much
of the population had moved on. It was eerily ghostly. No
one was about as we drove through and I felt sad to see
these deathly remnants of a once thriving community filled
with love and laughter.
I wondered if we would be lucky enough to
find the inn open that was always a welcoming spot at the
far end of the village. I had asked the coach driver to
stop and was pleased to find the old familiar structure
had withstood the elements of time and nature. After our
long journey, both of us were looking forward to a short
rest and the opportunity for lunch, drink and conversation.
The old tavern sign waved in the breeze and was a welcome
sight to us weary travelers. I breathed a sigh of relief
as I heard the driver holler “Whoa!” to the
horses.
“I thin’ we be in luck,”
he said to me as he opened the carriage door.
He checked the horses, gave them a pat and
then we went inside. The interior was much as I remembered
it from my youth when Father and I would stop in for a bite
to eat. I could almost hear the stories being told and the
mugs clinking as patrons toasted their latest good fortune
or bemoaned their woes. The innkeeper proved to be a friendly
sort who was more than willing to tell stories about the
locals and the community I had left behind in my youth.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said.
“Good t’see some travelers. I be Brownie and
I hope ya’ be hungry.”
We told him we were and hoped he had something
good and hot to eat.
“Where ya’ from?” he asked,
as he set about getting a warm cup of tea for me and a pint
of ale for the driver.
“America,” I replied. “Came
in at Liverpool, found my driver and a few days ago, we
started up here from Manchester. Are there any rooms available?”
Somehow I thought my visit might be extended and we would
need a place to stay for the evening.
He laughed and said there “didna’
seem to be such a big crowd these days.” I then asked
him about the village and what had happened to the shops
and homes throughout the years.
“We are a dyin’ village,”
the innkeeper said sadly. “The beckonin’ call
f’r riches and adventures ‘as claimed many a
young heart, with our youth off t’seek fortunes in
other parts o’ the world. Many people moved on, seekin’
work in the larger cities and towns. And o’ course
the many wars called young men t’fight f’r their
beliefs.”
He set a couple bowls filled with steaming
stew in front of us and a plate of bread. It didn’t
take us long to devour the delicious meal.
“The religious struggles here were too
much for young and old alike,” the innkeeper went
on to say. “Oh, ya’ll find a few o’ the
old’r folk still ‘round who stayed on t’eke
out a livin’ best they could wi’ wha’
nature provided. But it gets harder all the time. Good thin’
my inn and tavern be on a well-traveled road.”
After enjoying both the meal and the company,
the driver and I were ready to continue our journey. We
tentatively reserved a couple of rooms and thanked the innkeeper
for the information and the food. Once back in the carriage,
we headed on toward our destination.
I had previously given the driver directions,
and a short distance outside the village he turned onto
the old road leading to our journey’s end. I bounced
with the movement of the coach on the rough dirt pathway,
now filled with deep ruts and grassy tufts. My mind began
to take me back in time to those long ago days. Not yet,
I told myself. Don’t look back – not yet.
I caught muted glimpses of my family’s
estate through spacious openings in a mass of scraggly trees
and bushes. My father had always kept a beautifully, well-maintained
woods. Now it was an overgrown timber – branches,
limbs and whole trees cluttered the ground. Many of the
trees, once fully clothed in shades of green, had deteriorated
with age. The wooded area was dense, dark and foreboding.
Then, as if the house knew I was returning,
it appeared in a shroud of gray clouds. Through a clearing
in the trees I caught the full, breathtaking view of the
tall, ancient brick and stucco house. As the carriage turned
down the long lane, now little more than a path of over-grown
grasses and weeds, I could see that time and Mother Nature
had taken its toll on the property. Many of the buildings
on the estate were in rubble and the horse barn was missing
its roof – the slate tile lay all around the weathered
building in broken shards. The driver opened the door for
me and I stepped out in front of the house. Before me stood
the sad remains of my parents, Thomas and Agnes Grafton.
And I, Catherine Grafton, their only surviving child, had
returned to the home of my youth.
It was a sad homecoming, but I had expected
that. The whole house emitted an air of sadness and gloom.
I gazed on a home once widely acclaimed for its elaborate
décor and stately façade, now faded in color
to a dull gray. Shutters hung askew, chipped and broken
tile cluttered the ground, and chimneys lay in scattered
piles near the house. The well-groomed gardens, once mother’s
pride and joy, were overgrown with weeds and other debris.
The years had not only taken a toll on the estate but the
family who had once lived there. I was almost 18 when my
eager adventure took me from them. Since, I had received
only a few letters in my later years about how my family
had fared and what had happened to our estate. My eyes welled
with tears at those lost years. Now I gave myself leave
to remember those long ago days when Grafton Manor was filled
with our daily lives, our moments of happiness and times
of sadness…
* * *
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