The Individual, Faith, and Society: Eliz Morcome

LONDON, in the Year of Our Lord Sixteen Hundred and Twenty.

            As we approached the bustling port, the wind teased my hair and played with my fiancée’s cap, almost whisking it right off of his head.  It was always windier by the London port, and as I thought this I pulled my coat more closed with a shiver.  The port was full of color and vibrant with movement and excitement.  Even though I didn’t enjoy the water much, I thoroughly enjoyed the London port.  The smell was intoxicating, a mix of fresh produce and different spices from far-off shores, combined with the fresh salt smell of the water.  Some ships were arriving, massive beasts gliding up to the port, shading a large part of the dock with their hulking forms.  I’ve never felt comfortable aboard a ship.  My fiancée loves to sail and earns a good living traveling to and from other ports exchanging goods.  He has carried all kinds of strange cargo aboard his ship, and sometimes even brings a tasty (or beautiful) trinket back to London for me.  He has attempted to get me to travel with him on what he would call a ‘short’ journey, but simply having lunch aboard the ship has been all that I can stand of the water.  I become quite nauseated any time I am aboard such a vessel and the few times we have decided to have dinner on the ship, I couldn’t eat much.  Edward broke into my thoughts about the port and jarred my fears about his current trip.

            “Stop worrying, love” he said, gripping my hand.  “I know that face, you look as though you swallowed a thorn.”  I swallowed hard at this, and forced a smile.

            “I’m not worried,” I said, squeezing his hand a little in reassurance.  “You’ve been at sea many times since we’ve been together,” I added for good measure.  He smiled, but he seemed to know better because he leaned toward me and whispered:

            “Call us what you will, we are made such by love” (Donne, 2006, p. 608).  At this mention of one of our favorite poet’s works, I returned his smile with a genuine one of my own and replied:

            “We can die by it, if not live by love” (Donne, 2006, p. 608).  Understanding my concern, my adoring fiancée retorted,

            “And if unfit for tombs and hearse/Our legend be, it will be fit for verse” (Donne, 2006, p. 608).  With this, Edward reached around and tickled the back of my neck with his fingertips, eliciting a burst of irrepressible giggles.  We said our goodbyes, and I held back my tears long enough to bid him off.  As he boarded the ship he turned back toward the dock and waved at me, blowing me a kiss.  His ship, the Relic, was also named after a piece by Donne and was fully loaded with cargo to take to Jamaica.  Edward had promised to bring me back either some molasses or possibly some fresh bananas, if he could acquire some.  I stood on the dock until I could no longer see his ship on the horizon, and then I headed toward my family’s tavern in town.  My father, a gentleman from family money, also owned a tavern on the outskirts of west London.

            When I arrived at the tavern, my father sat outside smoking a pipe. 

            “Eliz!” he grinned, thick grey smoke puffing out of each side of his mouth.

            “Hi papa,” I greeted him with a hug.  “I just got back from the docks.”

            “Edward off safely?” my father asked, motioning for me to sit beside him on the smooth walnut bench.  I sat and told my father of our goodbye and how his ship seemed to take off alright, from what I knew of ships.  Our conversation died down and the afternoon waned, beckoning the crickets to begin their nightly symphony.  We each had a serving of vanilla ice cream, and my father sent me home in his carriage.  The entire night, I felt uneasy like I forgot to do something, or like something was wrong.  I prayed to God that night to keep Edward safe, and protected until he could make the journey home to me.  Feeling slightly better, I managed to fall into a light sleep as the wind continued blowing outside.

            The next morning I awoke early and attended church with my family.  Every Sunday we were to attend church, and we had every year for the last seventeen years.  My family is Catholic, and the Church of England services aren’t necessarily my favorite part of my religion.  Because they often are ‘middle ground’ sermons, I don’t always feel moved by them. This happened to be one such sermon, so I glanced around the crowd.  Mostly it was people of my class or higher in the front pews, with the very poor standing in the back of the room.  Everyone (except the poor, of course) was dressed nicely, and many looked as though they were fully enjoying mass.  My mind drifted, thinking of Edward and our shared love of poetry.  I had been taught by a tutor at home with my siblings, and Edward had gone through grammar school, so we were both able to read and sat many times reading together from manuscripts and journals new authors were circulating.  One of my favorites was Ben Jonson’s “Queen and Huntress.”  He writes: “Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,/Now the sun is laid to sleep,/Seated in thy silver chair” (Jonson, 2006, p. 647).  This poem always reminded me of how I would have been had I been able to be a Queen.  I would have enjoyed being a fierce huntress and protector of my people.  I thought of Edward laughing at my dreams of Royal life, and my heart tightens in my chest as though it were in a vice grip. Something’s amiss with him, I can feel it! I couldn’t help thinking as my heart pounded against my ribcage.

*                                                                      *                                                          *

LONDON – The Year of Our Lord, Sixteen Hundred and Twenty One

            Edward never did return, and now I am sitting in the London jail facing a trial for witchcraft (Mack, 2009, p. 181).  After church, I had decided to go home and lie down for a bit.  I was depressed with thoughts of Edward and all the possibilities of harm that could happen to him in Poseidon’s playground.  I had never had this sense of foreboding before over a routine journey, and was certain that this was a terrible portend.  I clothed myself in dark garments as though he had died, and lay upon my bed crying.  My mother, ever the sensitive lady, knocked upon my door and entered my room.  She stood by my chest-of-drawers, staring down at my morbid form. 

            “How fare thee, Eliz?  What vexes thee?” my mother asked, touching the mahogany chest but looking toward me the entire time. 

            “Edward isn’t coming home,” I replied to my mum, through choking sobs.

            “How can you possibly know that?  You can’t!  Only God knows what is going to happen to any of us.  You just keep praying and before you know it Edward will come home.”  That was nearly eight months ago.  Parts of the Relic had been discovered off the coast of Jamaica, but none of the crew had been found.  When my family received the letter about the wreckage, they acted very strange and withdrawn.  The next thing I knew, I was accused of witchcraft and being dragged to jail while my father hugged my mother and she cried at a pitch louder than a foghorn.  Not only was this a dreadful scene and quite embarrassing, but it was also completely unfair as I have always been a faithful Catholic and only pray to God.  It seemed, however, that my adamant rebukes that I was a pious servant of the Lord our God only made me look more guilty, and without remorse for my fiendish ways.  The jail is dreadful, and no place for a woman of my breeding.  There are rats, and many of the people in here have the death* (plague) – I fear it may kill me before the court decides I am guilty and does the same.  I have been in here nearly a week, apparently there had been a recent witch hunt and the jail is filled with people like me.  Most of them are probably innocent.  If they were actually witches, they’d probably be able to get out of confinement!  Often to pass the time, I meditate on the poetry that Edward and I used to enjoy.  George Herbert’s “The Altar” was a poem I would concentrate on for hours, as it seemed to ease my jittering nerves to repeat it: “A broken altar, Lord, thy servant rears,/Made of a heart, and cemented with tears” (Herbert, 2006, p. 660).  My trial is set for next week, and I only hope that my last thought be a happy one, filled with the conviction of my pure and unyielding faith.