Postmaster General
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Drumbeats and horses. Guns and blades.
Immortal war that will not end
A terrible sight a blood cloud does shade
Some of us fighting our once-called-friend.
The sounds of explosions beat my Wall.
The strangers are here; they try to enter.
I won't allow them;
They took everything from me.
The quill left his hands as Jeremiah Roberts rubbed his face. The night air was filled with the sound of distant battle, carried to his ears by the cold Pennsylvania air. The war had lasted far longer than anyone had anticipated. Early on, it was expected to be a family affair. Jeremiah remembered taking his daughter, Rebecca, to the side of the battlefield.
He and Rebecca sat in their carriage on a hill near the engagement. No one expected anything more than a quick battle, but the carnage was more than anyone could have predicted.
As the Higher fought the Lower
the field was stained red
We spectators cried
As the monster was fed
Roberts again turned away as he heard Ruth stirring in the room next door. He absentmindedly adjusted the burning lantern next to him as he thought about her situation. Ruth was a former slave, she was temporarily staying here on her way towards the Canadian border. Mister Roberts was a writer, abolitionist, and active conspirator in the Underground Railroad so he was more than willing to allow Ruth into his home.
The worm which flees from the crow
Seeks shelter on this road
It pleads for help, in this world
This world of no hospitality
As Ruth made her way into the room, guided by another small candle, she noticed Jeremiah sitting at the table, burning the midnight oil. She had often seen him writing. Anymore, he was sleepless and it could be seen on his face. The war had taken so much, and it was likely to take him before a peace was made.
Ruth sat there, shielding the candle from the cold breeze that seeped through the cracks in the old wooden walls. Her face wracked with concern as she watched the most gracious man she had ever met fall into disrepair like this.
At one time, Master Roberts had amber curls which spread to his neck, a flowing mustache of exceptional grooming, and the deepest blue eyes capable of making the ocean envious. His physique was not that of a soldier, but he was more than able to take care of the everyday chores like chopping firewood.
Now, a mere shadow of his former self, Ruth watched Roberts slouch in his handmade chair, pouring over his parchment with ink quill in hand. The master's amber curls had turned to wiry grey clumps. His mustache had lost the pompous aire it once carried and now sat limp along his lip. And the blue eyes that could once woo a lass from a mile away, now remained eternally glossy and faded.
As I stare at this page
I am reminded of a time;
A time of happiness, the Age
I cannot help but smile
The master stood and turned to face Ruth. She saw that he had not slept in days, the desprevation hung around Roberts like a fog. The two stood, interlocked in an unnoticing stare. Ruth noticed a lack of response to the master's eyes; there were deep bags below them with a glazed look that showed there was no reaction to what they took in.
She made a move towards him, trying to assist. "What can I do?" she asked, hoping in some way that she could save him from the pit she found him in. "Please, come lay down," Ruth set down her candle and lead Jeremiah to his bed. The structure had been made by a happier and livelier Master Roberts, and sank under his weight, mimicking its makers spirit.
Jeremiah did not speak. He sat in bed until Ruth pushed his body down. The caring ex-slave ran to fetch a towel from the cupboard and a bowl from the kitchen. She skillfully filled the bowl with water from the pump outside, and soaked the towel to cleanse the shell of a man. Ruth began to sing as she dampened the man's forehead. The beautiful melody carried throughout the home and flew along the night air. Her voice, though low and raspy from a long life, displayed perfectly the tune of the song.
In times of trouble look up to the Lord
He is mine though I will not hoard.
Happiness and piece of mind
Brought about for all mankind.
Honey, peace be to you,
May all your troubles be gone.
Peace be to you,
This world can't do no harm,
Oh, In those times of trouble,
He'll send help on the double
Ask for it and forgiveness is yours
And take what you will from God's golden shores.
As she finished her song, Ruth looked down into the glaring eyes of the man she now found herself nursing. His movement was unnatural, his hand was embracing the other and seemed to almost twitch over his stomach. Ruth examined his hands and found that he was not twitching, but rather trying to write. She raced to the desk, grabbed the ink, quill, and parchment and bared witness to what he wrote.
'Peace be to you,
May all your troubles be gone.
Peace be to you,
This world can't do no harm.'
The siren spoke these words to me
Breath leaves me now
My last words to you
Bury this body by Hers.
A poet to the end. Ruth watched as the quill fell from the lifeless fingers which once fervently embraced it. In her grief, Ruth sang.
In times of trouble look up to the Lord
He is mine though I will not hoard.
Happiness and piece of mind
Brought about for all mankind.
Honey, peace be to you,
May all your troubles be gone.
Peace be to you,
This world can't do no harm,
Oh, In those times of trouble,
He'll send help on the double
Ask for it and forgiveness is yours
Where you are going, there are no wars
< Message edited by Sheriff Duncan -- 5/13/2010 18:57:22 >
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