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Hello all. This is my first attempt at a story I'll actually write and finish. First off if you're offended by Christian overtones in a story, well too bad and don't read on. Second this is a work in progress so it may start off a bit slow for some of you. Third the use of terms which may or may not be historically accurate is included for period effect. While some of the elements about the first Puritan colony are used to tell this story, this is also a work of fiction and any such errors are not intentional. Please comment on what you think and how I can improve. Persia Chapter I- Memories of the Old World Goodwife Prudence Andrews Wyfe of Thomas Andrews 1604-1620 The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away...blessed be the name of the Lord. A grieving red fox male stood by the wooden stake marking the final resting place of his departed. His ears dipped back and his hands folded together as the grey sky parted to send rainy tears to cover the solitary figure. The outline of his black garb soon began to blend into the mists as the torrential downpour washed over the land, splattering the freshly matted earth beneath him. Eden's new hope remained just beyond his reach, the garden forever shut to such mortals as he. "Thomas come look. The sea is so beautiful and calm today." Echoes from the voyage spun through his mind as he remembered the departure from Delfshaven. "Yes Prudence the creator smiles on us today. Are you unwell? You haven't stood up since we boarded." he mouthed the words, repeating the memory. Fleeing from the stark reality of the wooden marker before him he delved into the past for the few scraps of happiness to savor. Like hardtack soaked with water he chewed the memories until the taste melted away, the coarse blandness of the cold winds and rain falling on him replacing the warmth of better times. "Yes I'm fine husband. It's just the sea has upset my stomach is all. A number of the women are suffering as well so I must bear it as best I can." The waters had been mild those few weeks as the Atlantic winds sped them onwards. The sickness had not passed and Prudence spent her days in the hold, venturing up onto the deck whenever she could. "Our prayers go to Goodwife Andrews, Goodwife Adams, and young Timothy Williams. May their sickness pass away and healing come unto them, Amen." "Amen," echoed the huddled mass of people chanted in unison. The swaying lantern sent the dull, waxy light across the hold with each tossing of the waves below. Goodwife Adams, a matron of some thirty and four years, clutched at her stomach in another fit of agony. Doctor Abraham Cooper took her wrist, feeling the life beating every slower as Thomas clutched even tighter to his wife's paw. The waxy sheen of decay and death hung over the room, bathing many of the faces with its glow. Prudence snorted once, pulling herself up and smoothing down her drab skirt as she stood up, her crimson fur lightening with each passing day. "I wish to go up on the deck husband. I...I can't stand the smell down here." He had nearly carried her onto the deck over the protestations of a few of the crew members. "Get below you two! Storm's brewing!" "I'll...I'll be just a moment" came her nearly breathless whisper. Both foxes watched the rising columns of black and grey rumble closer to the diminutive vessel. The sails swaying madly, flapping against the rigging as the ship pitched and tossed. He held onto her shoulder with one arm, supporting her weight as she leaned into his body, trying to bravely tread the uneasy deck. "That's much better. We'd...we'd best return below husband. I don't want to get in the way." The cold chilling wind blasted their faces and the slightest hint of color returned to her hallowed, wane cheeks. They fled the wrath of the Atlantic, grasping the railing to enter the darkest depths of the tossed vessel. The snap of timbers woke them both that night, the buffeting ways tossing the ship as moans and prayers rose from the trapped passengers. The nausea washed over his body as tried not to wretch, his stomach turning. His brow furrowed as perspiration dripped into his eyes while he heard the clamoring of the crew on deck. "Captain! The mast has snapped in twain." "Get a brace from the hold and be quick about it. Get some of the hearty passengers to held splice it until the storm passes." The thumping of boots came down the gangway as the voice called into the dark. "We need five strong men to help brace the mast." "I'll go" "And I" "I will help", each voice called out and Thomas found that he had spoken without thinking. Leaving his slumbering wife he crawled across the floor, feeling his way up to join the men. He pulled hard at the wood, pushing himself up onto the deck as a splash of salt burned his eyes. The waves soaked him to the bone as he looked up and tried to wipe at his face. Blurred, distorted shapes and colors twisted through his vision but found his way across the deck, joining the crowd of ragged figures huddling over a large beam. "Right lads, heave and keeping pushing till we get the ropes tied." Thomas could only nod as he hugged the wooden pole, spreading his legs apart to balance himself on the precarious deck. Another wave broke over the stern, flinging men and ropes about the deck. The nimble fingers of the sailors tied off the beam as the wet crunch of axes hacking off the old mast rang in his ears. Thomas stumbled down into the hold, his task complete and weariness pulsing through his tired muscles. He fell asleep and opened his eyes. The sad sight did not change and he realized he had nearly tumbled into sleep in the graveyard itself. He took a step, turning his back on the grave and then took another step. His house of fallen timbers ushered him into safety as he left. His boots squelching in the mud, leaving prints that soon filled with the beating raindrops. He stumbled to push the hanging blanket away, shoving his way into the sparsely furnished one room cabin. The crackling embers of a fire popped in the middle of the floor, offering no warmth or solace. Upon a crudely fashioned table his bowl of soup sat untouched, the broth foamed over and the wooden spoon dry. His eyes dimmed as the green pupils narrowed, fighting against the flood of tears threatening to blind him. The flood could not be contained and he knelt by the mat, his paws pushing up against his cheeks as he wept. His shoulders heaving as the patter of rain pelted the roof above and darkness came once again. "Goodman Andrews. Are you in there?", a familiar voice spoke through the darkness bidding him to wake up. His mind tried to place the voice as it searched for a face. Reverend James Witherspoon, yes that was the name. His green eyes opened and he looked around. Thomas remained upon the mat he'd fallen upon the previous night, soaked and shivering as the chirping of birds and sunlight indicated that dawn had passed by several hours ago. He coughed and tried to clear his throat, thumping his chest as the phlegm came loose and his voice returned. "I...I'm here Reverend." Sitting up and rubbing his hair back as he suspected he looked rather a mess. The Reverend pushed the blanket to the side, ducking beneath the hanging doorframe as the tall figure loomed over the drowsy fox. Reverend James Witherspoon had begun the splinter movement and led this ragtag group of followers from two countries across the sea to this paradise. As such the badger possessed a stern countenance fueled by an inner fire kindled within those hazel eyes. The Reverend took one look at Thomas and his brows narrowed and he opened his large maw to begin a stern rebuke, "The Lord frowns on those who idle and waste time in fruitless sorrow. You said you would help gather timber for Goodman Peter's house today." "I'm sorry Reverend. I'll go get my axe." Thomas cowered beneath that gaze, unable to offer a satisfactory reply as he rose up and took his hatchet from beside the table. The Reverend would have scraped his head upon the roof of the cabin if he didn't have a perpetual habit of ducking and hunching forward. He continued as if Thomas had never spoken. "We sympathize with your loss Goodman Andrews but many sacrifices have been made to come here. Bring the lumber to his home by sunset and tomorrow we may begin to lay the foundation. I will say a prayer for you tonight. Good day." The rumbling tone irked the dying embers of Thomas mind and he bit back a harsh rebuttal. The large figure had already departed, leaving him to stew in his fury. The pain of his loss had been made to seem...trite and despite his assurance of a place in this community of God, he began to feel...well he didn't know what he felt anymore. He took his hatchet and strode out into the clearing. There had been no time to dig and hoe the fields dotted with rocks and tree stumps. The cabin was his home now, a home he had built for the family he would never have. His knuckles whitened as he clutched to the hilt of the axe as his anger simmered but could never boil. He could never express his thoughts aloud; he doubted even Prudence would have understood. "Thomas you know you mustn't glower like that. You know you shouldn't go to bed angry." the soothing alto voice chided him. She'd spoken that to him countless times since they had married in Holland the previous summer. In his mind's eye he remembered the last time she had said those words, a few days before landfall. Doctor Cooper had visited each passenger who had taken ill that day, kneeling beside Prudence while Thomas looked on and prayed silently. The young physician from London took Thomas' arm, leading him away onto the deck whilst the other wives helped one another bear the distress as well as they could. "I've done all I could Goodman Andrews but your wife suffers from ill humors. I've bled her but she's not strong enough for another bleeding...I'm afraid the Lord is calling her from this life." A stern bark had filled Thomas' mouth as he grabbed the helpless doctor by the shoulders, "How can you say that Doctor? We've lost over ten members of our company already. You must do something to save her." "I'm sorry Thomas; it is out of my hands now." The anger and frustration that had plagued him since his childhood flared to life as he only remembered clawing into the doctor's shoulders, seeking to throttle him. He knew the Doctor was not to blame, that death came unto all of them. The doctor's eyes bulged while his voice rattled in his throat, trying to plea for aid until all turned to blackness as a heavy stroke fell over Thomas' head, rendering him unconscious. When he awoke he was beside his wife in the hold as she rubbed a damp cloth against the back of his neck. He was astonished to find the cloth tinged with red as he sat up with a groan and heard her soft rebuke. "They told me what happened Thomas. Because your concern was for my well-being the doctor is willing to forgive your anger. Hush now, I am ready to go. The Lord calls me and promise that when I'm gone you will bury your anger, for my sake..." He had buried her but the anger rose up from the grave, clawing back into his heart as he took the hatchet and returned from memory to the present. The overcast skies were plastered with grey and white, the sun's radiance mellowed by the aftermath of the night's storm. A bell's chime by the shore meant the watch had changed aboard the ship. Thomas took to the path and headed for the tree line as he wished to labor in peace. He did not need to hear the empty platitudes and condescending rebukes from the others. He picked out a hearty tree with gnarled roots, the wood solid after years of growth and the weathering of many seasons. A solid thump of his axe chipped the bark as he hacked into the tree, flinging chips about as he vented his pent-up fury with each stroke. Again and again the axe swung until the mighty sentinel of the forest crashed with the splintering of branches. He took the hatchet and began to break off branches, severing the limbs as he stopped suddenly. The chirping of birds had stopped and the only sound was the thumping of his own heart against his ears. He looked up quickly and he turned around to spy the edge of the clearing. The feeling of uncertainty fueled his fears as he remembered he'd left behind his flintlock at the cabin. He lifted his hatchet but a voice spoke through the stillness, "I mean you no harm. You are English yes?" He spun around to find the source of the musical voice, the soft alto register of a woman speaking with accented English. End of Chapter I