Something a little bit different....

I promised something a little different this time and I've been busy pottering about trying to write a short story. Please tell me what you think of it as I will add to it. I'm an old fashioned writer and commit everything to paper first and type it up when I get the time. So here you have the beginnings of something that has taken me over the last few weeks.
It's a way of developing a writing style. I don't really know what mine is yet but I know I can write poetry so I've been rather underconfident in exploring new horizons. I would like to thank two people for pushing me and overlooking my work. You know who you are. All I can do is thank you, I hope it's what you wanted to see from me :) So here we go, please comment I love reading what you think even if it's a critique.

The Apothecaries Daughter

And lo a pale horse; and he that sat on him was called Death

Rev 6:8

Prologue

1664-The English Channel

We are headed for London. This much I know. I have sat here as silently as I possibly can be; feeling the sensation of the waves rocking us from slumber. Sometimes as gentle as a whisper, sometimes fierce and uncontrollable. I struggle to keep myself breathing at a steady, even pace. Trying not to fall ill, praying I do not. I am petrified to this one spot. Huddled in this cramped little corner utterly surrounded by the overpowering reek of death. I sit here in the wooden belly of the beastly cargo hold, listening to the groaning and screaming of the dying, crescendo all around me. Lord knows how many will survive to shore. Andas for father, poor Papa tending to the needy. As usual the stoic apothecary reaching for his stock of leeches to bleed the patient, tending to their humours. My father is a hero to them; even though there is little he can do for them in the dark hold. They are all but lost to their makers when the bulbous appear, prepairing to face their uncaring God or whatever redemption they pray for.
So, we turn our backs fleeing our beloved, but dying France. Gentle gentile Marseilles is overrun. Father stayed as long as he could, drawing in quickly a sea of new patients as the virulence ebbed into homes of strangers and then friends. Soon ebven he could not cope with the new patients on his daily rounds. They took us hurriedly to Paris, commanded by the Royal Cout, and it followed us there. Papa was to help the gentry, but he soon became anxious and overrun: and then mama got ill. This bulbous sickness is the worst thing papa has ever had to deal with. It stole her from us.
So here I sit, motherless, fatherless, completely on my own with my lilac pomander securely fastened to my nose. Even still, I can smell the decay, the sweet acrid smell of putrid flesh.
We go to London. The air is clean there thus far, and papa has hopes of making a new life for us. I am fourteen, barely marrying age and my raven hair betrays us for our true lineage. We are Jews. Whether we will be welcome in the City of the Saxon we do not know, for our kind is being persecuted and laid to blame for this pestilence. Our fair skin is a grace, perhaps we will be able to hide, to blend in with the other commoners, although we are not of their kind. My father was a reputable medic; his ethic will not allow him to rest where there is suffering. My name is changed from Hannah, my given Hebrew name to Mary. A good solid English name. I wrap my arms tighter around my small frame. I have made myself as small as I can in my corner but these numerous dying hands keep clawing out for me. I wish I could go back to a time before. When I had more than just the ghosts for company.

When I was much more than just the apothecaries’ daughter.

i

Stands and lift your head redemption is drawing near

Luc 21:22

Marseilles 1661

'Hannah! Hannah!'I am aware as I lay on my back in the corn, the magnificent golden sun beating down on my flushed skin that far away, someone is calling my name. It reverberates around my head for a second as I question if it was reality or my imagination. I have been daydreaming again, watching the perfect white clouds in the azure sky forming their patterns. Creating animals, people I've known and those I am yet to meet: humming softly to myself the songs of Provence, the day lazily passing in reverie. I sit up urgently and frown, shaking my head out of the dream which keeps pulling me back to her safety. I look down at myself, my linen dress is covered in corn dust which I hurriedly sigh over and brush away from it's creases. I stand, rather unsteadily as I have been lying down for hours.

The sight of Marseilles always takes my breath away. From here in the golden field of corn I can see the grape and olive vines growing further up the rolling hill. Standing tall on the top is the Castille de Vaux le Vicante, the virgin protectors, built to guard us from attack from the North. An attack which has not yet come. Down from here is the port town and the magnificent Sapphire sea housing tiny wooden boats, some visiting to port: some making their way for the vast expanse before them.

'Hannah, Hannah, Ou est Vous?' The call comes again, snapping me away from another dream I was too ready to fall into. And then, I see her. Or rather I see her hair wrappings as she climbs the hill. It's only Sylvie our servant. She moves slowly through the corn, her hair wrapped in material of pure blood crimson, pulling up her heavy skirts almost to her ankles; obviously puffing and panting in her concern. I move towards her deftly, poor Sylvie, probably summoned by my mother to locate her way wood daughter-yet again.

'Sylvie, Comme ca?!' I skip towards her smiling as she comes into full view, sweat is dripping from her forehead, her cheeks flame red.

'Hannah, what on earth are you doing all the way up here on a day like today? What if THEY had decided that today was the day to invade Marseilles?'She looks at me genuinely distraught, taking stock of my light summer dress and fussing lightly over me like an old mother goose. The fact that she is only a few years older than me is irrelevant, I am her ward. She knows full well that I have been up here amusing myself with my stories and impossible dreams. She catches her breath and sighs an impossibly long winded sigh.

'One of these days Hannah, I'm going to be unable to climb up this old hill and if they do decide to invade they will surely steal you away from us and; Sacre Bleu, Lord knows what will become of you'I find this highly amusing and take her by the arm as we make our way home down the hill to the Jewish quarter of the old port town'What exactly do you dream of in that head of yours? Where do you go?

''That would be telling' I giggle. In truth most of my dreams are very menial. Escaping France, escaping the war. I have few friends of my own age. Young men of my age are sent to lessons to learn the Torah. Girls are taught to look pretty and prepared for marriage. I laugh at myself internally for thinking this, the dreams that I dare to dream are of independence, of carrying on my fathers' work.

'Bonne Hannah, ma petite Ceur: your papa has returned home this day'

'Papa? He is home from Provence?' I quicken my pace slightly to almost a skip. My father, my hero has returned.

'Mon petit Fleur, he's only been gone a week!'Yes, A short time I know but I am my fathers shadow. There is only me. A rarity for a Jewish family. One girl. I am aware that they all whisper of the poor apothecary, his barren wife and the simple child. But we are happy. Mama is content and papa is the most dedicated physician in the South of France. What he reads is mine to read. I devour his journals on medicine and his writing on physic, humours and mew illnesses. In a fairer world than this I would be free to follow in his footsteps. Instead I am shackled to a dress, made to look pretty and learn the newest dances until I become old enough to marry and bear children. The Jewish quarter is alive today, stalls of the finest clothes and gold, silks, traded goods, all easily accessible now from the new worlds by boat. The smells of leaven bread cooking the traditional way, on heated stones. Life is good. Papa is home.