A Mother's Lament by Samantha Sapp

Northumbria, Eighth Century

It began with a word Winnifred had feared for years: Christ. It led to her husband and daughter’s conversion, followed by a marriage proposal—and then, the understanding that her daughter would move northward with her soon-to-be husband. It was the end of everything she knew and loved—what the Christians referred to as their last judgment, when she and all the other believers in the old ways would burn for eternity.

“It will be alright, Mama.”

Winnifred skipped a pebble across the river, though this one she’d chosen blindly and it was entirely misshapen. It sank immediately. “I should be the one saying that to you.”

“Perhaps,” Alburga acknowledged. “But I’m the one sitting calmly, while you hurl rocks into the river like they are my betrothed.”

Winnifred laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t hate him, I promise. It’s his religion that I struggle with.”

Alburga nodded slowly. “I did as well, until I saw Him in a dream—Christ. He was sitting upon a throne, carved from thorns and a mighty oak, and it was blindingly beautiful. Perhaps you will see him in your dreams, too.”

“Perhaps.” Winnifred gave her a small smile, knowing full well that she would continue to dream of her children alone until her death. Looking in her daughter’s face she saw the image of her younger self, all high cheekbones and smooth skin. And that tone—that was the same tone she’d used on Alburga as a child. Somehow, the years had crept by, and her daughter was now who Winnifred still imagined herself to be. “There’s just so little time left,” she murmured.

Alburga frowned. “Until the wedding? There is still a month yet.”

Her daughter didn’t get it, but she would one day. All daughters learned that truth some day. Instead, she nodded along.

“And it’s not like I’ll never see you again.”

It was a sweet thought, but Winnifred knew better. Her own mother had died days after her wedding, and even if she lived to see the next generation come, her daughter—her last daughter, her youngest child—would be so far away. They never would meet again, but she couldn’t burden her daughter with such things. “You speak the truth,” she lied. With her hand, which had begun to wrinkle from the slow flow of time, she reached out to clasp her daughter’s—it was smooth and warm, and a little of that warmth spread to Winnifred’s heart. “What shall we do with our month together?”

Alburga hummed, eyes sweeping over the stream. “I want to hear your stories—all of them, any of them you can think of.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t lived a life worthy of many stories,” she replied with a wry smile. “You and your brothers and sisters are the greatest story of my life. But,” she said, sensing her daughter’s coming objection, “let me tell you a story I heard once, about a young wife like yourself. As I once was.”

Her daughter laughed. “It’s hard to think of you as a young wife.”

“It is hard to think of myself as an old wife,” she sighed, straightening her dress. “But old as I may be, I remember the tale well.” Clearing her throat, she began: “I sing this song of myself, full of sadness, and I will tell what I can of the hardships I have faced since I grew up. Recently or long ago, never more than now—always I suffer in exile. First my love left, across the rolling waves…”

---

Ulster, Eighteenth Century

The dinner Mary had made could not reasonably be called dinner, unless one was to abandon the basic concept of dinner itself and instead imagine it as stale bread and—well, merely stale bread. Mary’s husband knew better to placate her—he was tearing into the bread with a ferocity that scared her, his bloodied hands leaving pale pink splotches. Her daughter though had only spent fifteen years on this accursed earth; she still had too much hope and heart to know better.

“Thank you for dinner, Mama.”

Mary did her best to summon a smile. She picked at her own bread slowly, eating what she could stomach—which despite her hunger, was not much. For weeks she had been tormented with memories of family dinners as a child, rich with meat and fresh bread. She looked back to her meager meal and her stomach soured, so she abandoned the task of eating for the moment and turned to her husband. “Did you pay rent today?”

He ignored her, still tearing into his bread.

“Did you pay rent?” she repeated.

Finally, he stopped to speak, mouth still full of food. “I did.”

His words were flat though; she knew every tone and inflection of his. It was something she was forced to learn quickly in their marriage just to survive. With that tone, she knew he was hiding something. “How did you pay rent?” she asked, slowly and carefully.

“It doesn’t concern you.”

His voice was hard now. She knew she should stop, but she couldn’t. She wanted to know, and she was too hungry and weary to listen to common sense. “This concerns us all, so I need to know.”

He stuffed the last piece of bread into his mouth, standing up. “I borrowed the money.”

Dread settled into her gut. “From who?”

“You know who.”

In the corner of her eye, she saw Allison go pale. Sometimes her daughter seemed to have too much knowledge of the world, and she was right to show fear. Mary was panicking now herself—there was only one person she knew of that her husband could have turned to for the loan. “You know what he did to your brother when he couldn’t pay him back.”

Her husband finished his bread, wiping crumbs from his face. Still, a few remained in his scraggly beard. “What do you want me to do? I can’t fix a bad harvest, and you see how hard I’m working—Christ, look at my hands! It’s pay rent, or die. Would you rather us die?”

“By putting our fate in that man’s hands, now it’s pay the loan or die.” She glanced over to her daughter, who was watching them with wide eyes. “Allison,” she said in a strangled voice, “would you mind stepping outside?”

Wordlessly, she did just that.

Mary turned to her husband, tears staining her cheeks despite her will to keep them in. But will required energy, which required food, which they had little of.

“We’ll be okay,” her husband said, lacking conviction. “We need to have faith. If we can make it through the year, we’ll be okay.”

“But how are we supposed to go on?” she whispered, too tired to brush away her tears. “What do we have here? The graves of our sons? A family that took away your inheritance? A parliament that hates Presbyterians? How are we supposed to go on?”

To that, her husband had no answer. Instead, he watched her quietly. And for the first time since Allison’s birth, Mary could not understand the look on his face.

---

Florida, Twenty-First Century

“I’m not gonna be the asshole who abandons her sick mom.”

“Lee—”

“No.” She sat across from her mother on an old busted couch, arms crossed. The TV whispered softly in front of them, recounting faraway events in faraway lands, because the TV was always on now. Stories came and stories went, slipping away into the obscurity of each moment. “You’re sick, and you’ve only got a couple years left. I’m going to be here for them.”

Her mother replied, voice too frail and raspy. “I may have a couple years left, but they’re not good ones.” Her eyes reddened. “I forgot your name the other day, Lee. It’s getting worse. I worry that in a few months, I—”

A clattering came. Lee’s daughter crawled into the room, pushing her little toy boat on the floor, making charming sound effects to go with it. It seemed there was a storm on the ocean-carpet, and people were falling to their doom at alarming rates.

“Winnie starts school in August,” her mother pivoted. “Don’t you want to move somewhere with better schools for her?”

“The schools are fine, I survived.”

“Yeah, and you got pregnant before graduation. Not that there’s any shame in that,” she added, too late to spare Lee her feelings, “but the people here are small minded, and you’ve never been that. And I know—” she chewed on her lip. “Lord, this is awkward. But I know you getting pregnant was an accident, given your complete lack of interest in men.”

Lee flushed a deep red. “Mom!”

“Ain’t no shame in it,” she fumbled, words falling out just a bit too fast. “I’m sorry if I've been a bit closed-minded in the past, but I think you should be somewhere where you can find love, and that ain’t here.”

Lee looked to her daughter playing on the floor. It was awkward enough having this conversation with her mom, let alone her daughter too. “Winnie, would you mind playing in the other room?”

Without a word, still enraptured in her own world, she sailed the boat into the kitchen.

“Maybe you’re right,” Lee sighed, brushing aside a stray lock of dark hair that had escaped her ponytail, “but she comes first.”

“Of course she does, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find love. Marrying your dad was a choice I made out of necessity, and I loved him in my own way, but I wish I could’ve had a grand romance. It’s too late for me, but you have that chance now with your ‘best friend,’ who offered to let you and Winnie move to Atlanta with her.”

Lee’s cheeks burned hot. “It’s not like that. Nothing’s happened between us, and she was just saying that to be nice.”

“Pshh, nothing has happened yet. I’ve seen my share of pining, and that girl has got it bad for you—nearly as bad as you have it for her.”

“Mom!”

She cackled. “Oh, the small joys of making your daughter embarrassed.”

“God, I feel like a teenager again,” she groaned.

“Good. So go be a lovesick girl, move to Atlanta with your ‘friend,’ and live your life.”

“I don’t want to leave home though.” She swallowed. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Her mother waved her off. “Home isn’t a place, it’s people. I’m fading, dear. There’s not much of me left. Your home is Winnie and your friend.”

Lee bit her lip. “Our family has been here for two centuries, it ain’t so simple.”

“Two centuries is a drop in the ocean of time. Where do you think our family lived before?”

Lee shrugged. “Europe? Germany?”

“Germany was your dad’s side,” she scoffed. “We’re Scotch-Irish, the original frontiersmen of this country. You’ve got that adventure in your blood, girl.”

“Our family was also poor and the women all had like thirteen kids. And Europe seems way better than here—maybe they made a mistake.”

“Then go back,” she scoffed. “But if our family had stayed, we would have endured famine and wars. It’s impossible to predict the future, but you can understand the present. And right now, Atlanta seems a lot better than some dying old Florida town.”

Lee frowned. “So what, I abandon you and everything I know, just to hope that things might be better?”

“Yes,” her mother nodded. “And you do it for her.”

At that moment, Winnie had made her grand reappearance, still playing with her toy boat.

Lee’s eyes stung. “I can’t leave you behind.”

“You’re not leaving me behind. These days you can call any time you like, and pretty soon I’ll need to move into assisted living anyways. You know this is for the best.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

Her mother gave a small smile. “Maybe not, but life isn’t a straight line. Once you set a course, you don’t have to keep going. Just do the best you can.”

Lee walked across the room and took her mother into her arms. She was too frail. Lee closed her eyes and held her tighter, memories flooding back of being little and wrapped up safe in her arms. She could only hope to be half the mother to Winnie that her mother was to her.

---

Atlantic Ocean, Eighteenth Century

The boat was Hell, Mary was convinced. It was small, dark, and cramped. When she had gone out on the deck, the sea around them had been barren. The waves didn’t help either; their slow churning back and forth had her stomach in constant fits—a stomach that was mostly empty. A third of the ship’s food had been improperly stored, so they were all on starvation rations, and of course, the sickness. They were crammed together like plague rats, and plague rats they became. She wasn’t sure where the sickness had come from—perhaps from some dead man’s disease, or the worms in the water. Regardless, it had started with a cough, then a fever, and now full-body weakness.

It was all she could to keep her eyes open, idly staring up at the ceiling. The only movement beyond that she could manage was the slow brush of her thumb, sliding in and out of the smooth divot of an old stone, a small gift from her mother and her mother before her. A distant memory of family and home, both of which were an ocean away.

Laying beside her was Allison, who had also fallen ill. But unlike Mary, she had recovered quickly—Mary wasn’t sure what she would have done if she hadn’t. Thrown herself overboard, likely. She had seen death too much lately, and too close. She had seen it in their home, her husband’s blood painting their floor red.

Dear Lord. She couldn’t think of that, not right now.

Leaving to America with an indenture contract tucked into her dress had been the only option left. She’d been expecting hard labor on the other side. She’d been expecting poor conditions on the ship. She hadn’t been expecting this though—laying helpless in its underbelly, Jonah in the belly of the whale, staring up at the impenetrable darkness above.

At once, she was overcome with chills and tremors. Something too cold settled into her bones, and her breath came short. A darkness began to spread in her gut.

Lord, she hadn’t thought she’d be able to feel it coming, not like this.

“Help me, quick,” she whispered, summoning everything she had to stand. She couldn’t, not quite—but with Allison’s help she managed. “We’re going up to the deck.”

“But Mama—”

“Don’t worry, love. I can do this.” Stealing her breath, she took a step on her own. And another. And another, and then a few moments later she had made her way to the ladder.

The first rung was the hardest. It took everything she had to make it up, but then it was just a matter of momentum. Rung after rung, she climbed. But then, a slip—her hand fell off, and her body was pulled backwards. But then another hand, there to brace her—Allison’s. Frantically, Mary grabbed the ladder again and with one last burst of everything she had, she was met with fresh air.

She sprawled out on the deck, panting and trying to regain her strength. Allison climbed out a moment later.

“Mama?” she asked, voice fragile.

In her voice, Mary could hear her fears—her suspicions at what this might mean. And Lord, looking at her she didn’t seem like a girl anymore—she was only fifteen, but she looked more of a woman then Mary ever felt she was herself. Perhaps that was because Mary’s first pregnancy came at sixteen, and part of her felt crystalized in that moment. Perhaps her daughter just had too wise a head on her shoulders at too young an age.

“Mama?” she asked again, more insistent.

“Help me up, and over to the rail.”

Obedient as ever, Allison helped her stand up again. They shuffled to the rail, every footstep the trial of a lifetime. The clouds above were dark and ready to burst. The waves below danced violently, locked in conflict. In the horizon was an albatross, screaming its warning to the world—this was a moment of danger, and Mary knew precisely what it meant for her. She had known the moment she felt the chill, but she had not been willing to give up. Not until she had felt the kiss of the wind and ocean spray again. Not until she had smelled the sea, and in it traces of home. She could almost imagine that some of the sea spray here had traveled with them, all the way from Ulster.

“Go, my dear,” she whispered.

“Mama?”

“Fetch for help, but stay below deck. Don’t come, don’t look. Promise me that.”

Fear was written clear across Allison’s face, but still she did as she was told. She had always been a better daughter than Mary. Instinctively, she reached for her stone and let all her old memories flood back. Of those years of love and fighting as a child in their little house near the sea, and the sheep they’d raised. Of the first time she’d laid eyes on her husband, when he had still been so full of life and mirth and wit—but he was gone, and now she would be too.

One last time, she turned to gaze at the sea. She wanted to burn the image into her soul—of the sea, the sky, the world rumbling and too terribly alive. Of the distant albatross, wings wide as the horizon. But she couldn’t. As she closed her eyes, all she could see was dark hair, freckles, and a face that looked almost like her own, left all alone.

---

Northumbria, Eighth Century

Winnifred’s voice was hoarse, but she was determined to finish. “Too often my love remembers a home full of joy. Woe to those that must of longing in life abide.”

Then a silence. The stream babbled, carving its usual path—though that was a lie. Each day, the path was just a little different. It was painfully different now, because beside her there was nothing but a barren bank. Just yesterday, her world had been so full of life, but now her last bird had left the nest, flying northward to seek her own future.

Winnifred was alone.

She had her husband, and he was kind enough, but he was a man—there were things he could not understand. He had been excited for Alburga’s wedding, and perhaps she should have been too. She had put on the performance of a lifetime, smiling and flitting about in preparation, and had done well enough to fool everyone but Alburga. But her daughter had known—she was just as perceptive as her mother, a trait Winnifred was glad to have passed on.

That last day had come, as all last days and judgements come. They had sat by the stream together, just as they had done each day before. For her last story, Winnifred had repeated the one she began with—the wife’s lament. And staring down at the stream now, the moon wavering on its surface in a perfect reflection, she knew she had made the right choice. Their story was a circle, fully closed, with no end or beginning—the cycle of history and generations, another link in the unbroken chain of mothers and daughters. And tonight, caressing the stone her daughter had given her, she had felt compelled to tell the story again, just in case in some way, in some life, her daughter could hear.

The stones were Alburga’s idea, a way to ease the pain for both of them. The stream had been so central to her life—she had grown up splashing and playing in the banks, until she was old enough instead to wash laundry in it, until she was old enough to be married, and then had spent each evening listening to her mother’s stories on its bank. She had wanted to take a little piece of it, so that she could carry with her a little piece of home.

They had waded into the river together, each searching for the perfect stone to give the other. By some divine fate, they chose twin stones—both river-smooth and the deep black of the night, with the faintest bright speckles. A kind of night sky they could gaze into, so that whenever their world felt a little too empty or bare, they knew the other was there with them.

The stone in her hand was smooth and warm. When Winnifred closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the touch of her daughter’s hand in her own. She dragged her thumb back and forth, repeating a prayer to the gods of a dying generation, in hopes they would listen and keep her daughter safe. In a way, she could understand the appeal of her daughter’s faith—it was the story of a parent and child, of sacrifice and rebirth, of eternal rest—but she could not love someone else’s child more than her own. Still, she hoped with desperation that her daughter was holding her stone, praying to her god too.

---

Atlantic Ocean, Eighteenth Century

Allison had to go back. She couldn’t abandon her mother, she couldn’t—even if it meant disobeying her. Her legs trembled as she climbed up the ladder and back up to the deck, knees almost giving out on her. But they didn’t. The ground beneath her shifted with the roiling waves, as if the ship itself wanted to throw her off balance and block her every move, as if God Himself wanted her to stop, but she didn’t. Reaching down, she clasped the hand of a woman her grandmother’s age, and did her best to haul her up the ladder and onto the deck. As she did, they tumbled onto the deck together.

Allison and her mother had rarely talked with the other passengers; everyone was sullen and hard, too weary to do anything but endure. But when Allison had first fallen ill, when her own mother had been too sick to take care of her, this woman had helped and treated her with kindness. Now, she was Allison’s only hope for saving her mother.

Allison scrambled to her feet and pulled the woman up. Quickly, she hurried over to her mother, the woman in tow. The storm was almost upon them, and the air was whipping with reckless abandon. Behind them, the ship’s sail cracked with it, drumming out a tortuous moan as the fabric seemed to stretch impossibly far against its frame. Each step she took was slick from the first drops of rain, yet still she forged onward.

But when Allison got there, her mother was still—too still.

They were too late. She was gone, just like her father.

Gone.

She felt the tears come on all at once, panic flooding her chest—she was alone, utterly alone in a cruel world that had taken her father and mother.

But as she cried, the old woman simply eyed her, tilting her head back and forth. And finally, when there was a pause in her tears, she spoke in a rasp, barely audible over the wind and waves. “How old are you?”

Allison sniffled. “Fifteen.”

She shook her head. “Not anymore, you’re nineteen now.”

“But I—”

“You’re nineteen, and in need of indenture. That wasn’t your mother, it was your aunt. You heard she was coming, so you convinced her to smuggle you along with her, in hopes of finding indenture in America. Do you understand?”

Allison shook her head, unable to wrap her head around what was happening—she was an orphan, trapped on a ship of death, headed to some strange land she did not know and understand. How could she even begin to think of legal technicalities?

A soft touch came on her shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, truly. But you need to understand. The laws depend on your age, so you’re lucky that God has blessed you with a body that looks older than you are. If you tell them the truth, you will have to serve nine years as a servant, instead of five. You want that?”

Allison shook her head, wiping her eyes dry. Still, they stung.

“Good. I’ll attest to your age, but you will have to convince them yourself. They will take you into the court to assess your age, so from now on you pad your chest. You lower your voice. You frown, wear your mother’s clothes, put your hair in a bun, whatever you can do to seem nineteen, understood?”

Allison couldn’t reply, couldn’t do anything but feel a new surge of tears well up.

The old woman grabbed Allison by the shoulders now, eyes as fierce as the waves rocking them. “You have to be strong, girl.” Her voice was iron, corroded and cutting. “You have to be stronger than you ever knew you could be.”

Swallowing down her feelings, Allison managed a nod. She looked down at her mother, so small, so frail—in a way, her mother had always felt so young. At times volatile, at times joyous. Always though, she sacrificed for her.

And now she was gone.

Allison sank to her knees, reaching for her mother’s hand one final time. Her skin was cold and damp from the spray of the sea. But cupped in her palm was something smooth—the stone. With shaky hands, Allison pocketed into her own dress.

All at once the rain picked up, now a thunderous barrage of heavy drops. With it came a man ambling over with heavy footsteps, doing his best to shout through the storm. “She’s dead, eh? Are you her daughter?”

Allison flinched and looked up. The man’s face was kind, but weary—they were all too weary. She dipped a hand into her pocket, caressing her mother’s stone, trying to let her anxieties roll off.

He shouted again. “Girl, was she your mother?”

Allison shook her head and pitched her voice, hoarse against the wind. “No.” She cleared her throat and pushed through with a lie that was bitter on her tongue. “She was only my aunt.”

It would be hard. It would be near impossible. But if she had come this far, she could keep going. She would just have to hope that somewhere, somehow, there could be more to life than suffering.

---

Georgia, Twenty-First Century

Lee wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, looking down at the box she’d just finished unpacking. It was kitchenware—rusted pots and bent spoons—things her mother insisted she take. Most of it was worthless, but still precious beyond words. She caught a stray whiff of macaroni, and her stomach grumbled in anticipation—Danica had been kind enough to cook dinner to celebrate their arrival, and it was almost done in the oven. Beside Lee, Winnie was also pawing her way through a box, pulling out items in an effort to help.

“Mama, what’s this?”

Lee glanced over. “Some kind of rock, I guess. Must have fell into the box by mistake. You can put it back outside, if you like.”

Winne frowned for a long moment, her brain tossing over what seemed like an immense choice. She looked down at the rock, dark as the sky at night, worn impossibly smooth from the slow stream of time. Slowly, she dragged her clumsy fingers across the surface, and only then did she notice the little specks of white, twinkling just like stars. “I think I’m gonna keep it.”

Lee laughed. “Sure thing, dear. Just put it in our room.”

Winnie smiled and bounded off.

Behind her, Danica sighed and moved to stand next to her, close enough that Lee could feel warmth radiating from her. “She’s such a sweet kid.”

Lee leaned over, just enough to rest her head on Danica’s shoulder. “I’m lucky, and I thank the universe for her every day.”

“She’s lucky too, to have you.” And then softly, her arm slipped around Lee’s waist.

Lee smiled, leaning in a little closer, feeling lighter and freer than she’d ever felt before. “All I know is that you’ve done so much for me. I could never thank you enough.”

“I appreciate the thanks,” she drawled, “but it’s not needed. Having you here is a joy.”

Lee licked her lips, her voice dropping low and hoarse. “When you moved away, it felt like I was sleepwalking through life. But now I feel awake, I feel alive around you.”

“Alive,” Danica whispered, her lips close enough to Lee’s ear that she could feel the faint whisper of heat with them. “That’s a good way to put it. So how about it, Lee. You wanna live with me?”

“I’m already here, ain’t I?”

Danica laughed and held her tighter, and Lee returned the embrace, sparks blooming in heart. So many years had slipped by—too many. But now she had a chance to live life on her own terms, and overcome with hope, she prayed—to which god or gods she wasn’t sure—but she prayed that one day, her daughter would have the same chance as her.