"The torment of Seclusion" by Kathleen Morgaine Haubrich

~1597~

November the forth:

 On this day, November the forth, I cannot imagine it had been twelve moons since I lost my beloved Kail to remnants of the dreadful plague. It appears that living in the isolated forest caused the abysmal affects of the plague to linger far beyond its verve. The laments I felt shall never pass my mind as I secluded myself to a corner, and watched the life within her slowly perish. How I long to see her face again as I have always remembered it, with a smile. Nearing the end the peach lume that surrounded her slowly diminished and her once downy lips malformed to a desiccated desert, cracked and worn. Watching the zeal leave her soul wounded mine. When we at last understood that it was the plague upon her, it was far too late for any remedy the forest could provide. It pained me to be powerless as she slowly diminished before my eyes. Oh, how the days have lurked about! The life of hermitage is simple, yet difficult. As my grandfather Bedwyr had looked to this life as an escape after the High King Arthur’s end, I too seek refuge in the lost forests to aid my tortured soul. I sketched this of Kail but a day ago from birch tree bark, and bind it here in her sorrowful memory. Memory of life, and love we had, memories to warm my heart at night.

November the twenty-sixth:

 Whilst I was in the wood, gathering fire wood for my small hearth, I crossed the path of two knights on a hunt for stags. They speak of a man it seems, whom they call “Shakespeare”. They say the queen herself has fallen ill under his spell of words. A poet

perhaps, or a playwright, one to match the skill of Christopher Marlowe? They say he writes a tragedy, though I know of no poignant words of an insolent penny a page rogue. to match my own. They rode with leisure on horses’ white, or perhaps grey, for distance clouded my sight. They spoke of strange creatures who wallow forth at night, with speech they say, and wayward tongues ablaze. I search for just such a creature, but know of none, nor see. A grand stag they found, and hunted a good length, only to lose in the end. I watched for many hours until the sun grew crimson, for none would fill my day otherwise. I sketch more pictures of my beloved Kail, though none of value to match. One of Kail and her dearest horse, Imyne, beside the soothing riverside. I often hear from just such knights on horseback, chatting away as their hunting parties commence. There is to be one by the name of Leonardo Da Vinci, whose art I hear of not seldom. Italian, by name it seems, Kail would distinguish the country from which a name was derived and tell me as the night grew old. His art is to be so acclaimed that the wives of nobles and queens would pay for his pigment to capture their portraits and adorn their halls. Such art I can but strive for, but I am limited to Kail’s own memory, and the herbs and spices she left behind. The skill of sketch does not often come my way. I remember the days when creativity flowed to my feet like a river of silver dreams. As of late the only form to grace my pages have been those of Kail. I would often float away in my thoughts as she sat before me, naked, posing for my pictures. Her unclothed silhouette would shame that of any other I were to know. I endeavor to capture her form, free and wild amidst the earth, dancing about in the clear moonlight. I was never granted, nor shall I ever be granted the gift to capture her in just such a time. A moment meant to be savored, not kept. I look now to the ghostly white pages and see her face gaze back to me; her eyes lack substance, the warmth that would melt my brain is absent from her stare. Oh, what I would give for one embrace, to feel that warmth that loitered on until her final moment. I flip through the desolate pages and my heart sinks into my chest and drops into the pit of my stomach…

November the twenty-ninth:

*  I woke this morning to the slight whispers of bright young maidens close behind my small dwelling. They were gathering flowers and herding a small flock of sheep while idle gossip danced upon their tongues. I heard more of this Shakespeare fellow as they leisurely braid one another’s hair, and weave into it ivy branches and lilac petals. They say Shakespeare is a handsome man with the gift to manipulate words, to bend them as to obey his every whim and command. They say he makes a ceremony of the dead as an accolade of mercy and a wedding seem the gravest of sins. This man, they say, doth bed many women and he thinks no more than once to each of them. A sin I say! He may be a wizard of words but no better than a serf to indulgence. This page hath passed my way as I walked through the woods. A play of his I can see. Macbeth, a curious name, Scottish if memory serves me.  Kail would have told me otherwise is event arose. A death seems to have taken place and Macbeth to be found with the hilt of death in his hand. A king has died that will be sorely missed, by all save Macbeth. Make no mistake, the writing is beyond any flatteries I can give, but the morals of this man still baffle me where I stand. He deserves the fame has received up to his fingers and his lips but no more is due then that. Fame sprouted from lust can never be comical or serve for amusement. Tragedy, as is this peculiar “Macbeth”, yet nothing more.

December the fourteenth:

* It has been many a day since I have found time to write, winter is soon upon us, as Beltane is not come for many moons. I found the task of gathering further firewood and food to preserve, lest the winter months provide no game. I tell you, the time of ice and frost is unbearable, but I pity the peasants more. To live under the reigning oppression of a queen in her place by birthright is simple appalling. Not power, nor skill abides her there, only the gift of honorable birth, which means nothing to the eyes of a simple hermit. What need have we, for rules and stipulations if we can all fend alone in peace? A queen must order taxes and control which worthless god we choose to worship? Folly I proclaim, no man controls my destiny, least of all a god of the minds densest figments. Taxes, by the pound does she demand, from all the amount differs none, whilst it should be based upon merit. But when did reason overcome popularity? She wears elaborate gowns of silk and samite adorned with laces and perfumes from the east, and men follow her. Despicable! Treachery and deceit! I say no fine garment decides whom I follow, for I follow none but my own reason, cause and consequence. And yet she favors this Shakespeare, whose virtue exists not in the eyes of motive, nor knows the life of adversity and suffering as I do. The fame today, doust fall upon the unworthy and callow men, as the fine men are left to rot in their own asset.

December the thirty-first:

* The Dragon! The faceless dragon who wanders lone in nights silver cloak. I have seen him, roaming about in the shameless moonlight searching for his meal, or perhaps the plunder of the woods. The nameless creature the Knights have spoken of those months ago, I have spotted at last! The scales he had, embellished his body, shimmering and glistening in the sunless abyss of the midnight clearing. His fangs were sharp and fierce, as to threaten those who dare to amble close. Jagged and ferocious, beneath his infuriated eyes which glowed a brilliant gold. And wings! Wings he possessed, branching out from his broad set back and torn with envy. Oh, a sight to relish, Nay! A sight to dread! My fever kept me then, through the cold hours of the gloom, and lingered forth for the week to come, whence I neither ate nor dreamt of my beloved Kail. Perhaps such an apparition was the cause of my fever, or worse! Perhaps my feverish gaze caused this frightened sight to come upon me and torture my very soul! Not the deeds of this Shakespeare, nor the deeds of the perfidious Queen Elizabeth can remedy this disorder. I am afeared, my life’s end may be drawing near, for I’ve not the medicine a physician in the deplorable city can offer me to aid my strength. Better to perish independently with morality then to reside in eternal turmoil. Oh, bitter outrage! Woe begone! The oak and ivy walls of my humble holding seem to close in upon me and release not.

January eleventh:

Alas, the lonely winter months have come upon us at last. I was not able to gather enough provisions to last due to my bitter illness, so I fare not well. It seems now I hunt and search for any bit of food or firewood I may have in my small shed, but I find ever nothing. I had come upon the Lord’s holy words, Kail’s old bible. Never did I appreciate why she insisted upon it’s keeping, for jointly we lacked belief in anything but ourselves. The word of the priests, who’s oppression I dream not of. Such trickery and hopeless deception do they wield. I once heard of a knight and maiden together, under the grand oak tree at night, lamenting of the Inquisitions, which the priests hath brought about. The words did not come easily, for never before have I heard of such repression! To condemn innocent men and women to be set ablaze for petty fears and superstition! The power to detail ration from foolishness belongs only to those in hermitage it seems. They say we know none, but it seems it is us who are superior in worldly knowledge. The civil war it seems, has ended not, for those of the protestant and Catholic religion continue their distrust and distaste for each other. Oh, has tolerance left us forevermore?

February first:

Has is been decades since I discerned my home in rare disarray? How awful it seems abruptly, and the reason I know not. The remnants of firewood are strewn about, and attempts at probing for food were none but in vain. To no avail it brings that my sketches of Kail are scattered about the hearth. With the lack of birch to feed my homely fire, I was left with my sketches, and the citation of Macbeth by the heathen Shakespeare for his retched charlatan queen. I threw three pages from the Macbeth script I found, leaving me with the one I bound to an earlier page. I hear again, while I trot with much difficulty through the embedded snow, of this Leonardo Da Vinci, and his presence in England. So acclaimed is but a man, that he must travel to far away countries for further fame? Oh, the arrogance! The vanity and pride! Arrogance and narcissism! My art brings me no fame, nor money or eminence, but It brings me joy, to recall the days I had of my Kail, smiling. That is the only true art, with meaning, not art with a wealthy patron or benefactor. Art is philanthropy, not prominence. Why, the very thought disgusts me, and chills my bones, which grow more brittle and old with each passing day. The trivial laws of our ghastly land, the oppression of our lonely days, meaningless and worthless until we do what we were set here to do, diminish, demise, expire. Kail would have told me otherwise of course, for as she is gone, bliss and joy died with her and lays now within her bones, and deny themselves to me.

March nineteenth:

A worthy day indeed! One of ecstasy and contentment brought to me at last! The universe has smiled upon my soul, and what god it is, if it is, I care not.  For all my mindless prater is false to this day! I have crossed the humble path of a man far more worthy than the acclaim of ten radiant Queen Elizabeth’s! Oh, how dreadfully wrong I was! This fellow by the name of Shakespeare, is truly remarkable, brilliant! We met then, below the graceful willow trees, which offered their gift of shade to my cause. For what man, of high stature or none, would regard  the holdings of the likes of me? But Shakespeare, not void of the most minute consideration, has stopped to engage me. “Oh, gentle man, pardon my intrusion”, he spoke with grace, refined and poised. So there we tread, to speak of things long unknown, and things that have come, and things yet to come to our eyes. A true poet indeed, for his words spilled effortlessly from his tongue as water from a jug. He informed me of the nature of his brilliant creation, Macbeth. Such understanding for the human state! Man or woman, noble or peasant, he sees all. Flattered was he when I told him I kept the page in this book of mine, from is script. And false words he claims, for the sonnets prove it so, that le beds many a woman. A wife he has! Anne he said, if memory serves me, residing in Stratford, with noble children to live beyond him. I spoke of my Kail, and the love that bound us, and then cruelly separated us as she died in my arms. “An inspiration!” He cried aloud, for none could hear but I. “Of love that binds and divides the sweetest lovers in the end, such a tragedy, I shall write this night.”

~1598~

April second:

A grand day I taste at last, one long denied since Kail was by my side. For though it has been greater than two winters since I met with Shakespeare, it seems my life has finally met it’s sole purpose. Kail was given, and torn from me in bitter fury, and harshly left me here alone, to lament of my deepest sorrows. I share my plight with a kind man, pleasant and holding, a play-write whom the queen favors that I learned to lend respect. For as I wander further than I ever dared, ever close to the thriving cities of London, I come to observe the sign posted to trees with long, rusty nails. Lord Shakespeare’s production of “Romeo and Juliet”, a tragedy at the appraised Globe theatre. I wander ever further, weary and afraid, for the years of seclusion leave me ever void of claustrophobia and of common folks about on their daily tasks, buying fresh bread and eggs, the wailing of small children to their mothers, and the tailors by their wooden doors collecting debts. I linger behind dull grey fence, and watch from afar the spectacle that is a play. If there be a god, save me! For my own plight was the very inspiration for the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, and out, memory preserved in marvelous prose for all eternity. Nigh, all will know the suffering of myself at the death of Kail, as the separation in death of Romeo and Juliet. Lord Shakespeare, know you now, you have rightfully earned your acclaim, from the public, from the queen, and thus, from my own soul.