Biesiada 1

Eclipsed

Short Story

Summer Biesiada, 11th Grade

 Biesiada 2

I could feel nothing at all. The cold wind and the piercing stares of the people moved me

to continue living out of necessity. My life was a meaningless blur. That is, until I was blessed

with the warmth of her kiss upon my skin and I was awakened to the truth. She was the first love

of my life. She brought me light. She brought me sureness. Nothing was a question with her. I

felt transcended beyond the material world I knew when I was with her. I thought no one would

ever again bring me the joy that she was capable of bringing me, and I feared those times in

between our meetings. Then I met my last love. It was unexpectedly that I stumbled across her,

in all her unique power. She brought me wonder, excitement. She made me question all that I

had previously known, but in a way that I wanted to discover everything there ever was. She

glowed with the past that had made her into who she was. I loved them both.

The woman in the sun. The woman in the moon. The girl on the earth.

I had to choose. So I chose both; and brought humiliation to my people in more ways than one.

Here is my story. In all its gruesomeness, in all its glory.

It was a Puritan town. My parents died when I was a babe, and I grew up a destitute

orphan of the Church, the adopted daughter of the priest. I learned very quickly to keep my

mouth shut about my skepticisms. I was often the victim of a public whipping, and made to do

the less desirable chores more than once. I was trained as a midwife and once I was of age, I used

the small amount of money I had gained to buy a modest house on the edge of town, cheap due

to its propinquity to the forest. Unlike the other children of the orphanage, the forest never scared

me. We had always been told tales of the Devil and how the forest was his dwelling. He would

bend those who entered to his wicked will, and that person’s soul was irretrievable. For me, the
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forest was a source of comfort; of course, no one else knew this. I would play a game in my

youth, attempting to get as close to the forest as I dared without getting caught. I knew I was

different from the other children, for this reason and others. My head was of flaming red hair, my

face of an intricate patchwork of stars sprinkled sporadically. The other children taunted me,

saying that I was Satan’s daughter, and my parents died of fright that they had created such a

depraved creature. They called me an imp. I preferred thinking I was merely a fae, unable to be

understood by such simple brutes.

Many years passed in this manner. I found it was easier to avoid the people of the town

rather than interact with them, so I became a recluse. I showed myself only when I ran out of

materials I could not produce myself or when a babe was due to be born. This did not hinder my

abilities as a midwife- I was the best in town. Not once had I lost a child, nor a mother for that

matter. The townspeople attributed it a gift from God, a restitution for taking away my parents so

early. I credited it to other forces, ones I was forbidden to speak of.

I found my life in the colony dreadful. Everyday was numbing, disappointing. Nothing

ever changed; I felt as if I was a ghost, doomed to walk the same path every day for all eternity.

The only time I felt comfort was in my cottage, where I could admire the forest freely. I was

enamored with the leaves dancing in the gentle breeze, the golden glow of the sun reflecting off

the top of the treetops, the winged insects floating effortlessly on the wind, the enchantment of it

all. I had only been living there for about two years before I began to hear the whispers. They

were carried on the air, small sighs almost indeterminable to the ear. They beckoned me to the

forest, urging me to join them. It took every bone in my body to resist. If a single person found

out I was even having these thoughts of sin, I would be hanged faster than they could say the first
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line of the Lord’s prayer. I delighted in hearing the whispers, a guilty pleasure which I relished,

but I knew I would never be able to act on my longings. And so it went like this for another year.

My beginnings of my deeds against the Church occurred on a Sabbath day in early July. I

had attended morning mass and gone to deliver a babe before returning to my cottage. The day

was sunny and warm, and I was fatigued by the modest and austere manner of my clothing. It

stuck to my sweaty skin like mud on a hog, and stray hair from under my coif was plastered to

my forehead. The buzzing of the sun at such a heat as this told how unbearable it was. A breeze

floated past every now and again, allowing for a short respite from the heat no doubt forged in

the very depths of Hell. I had just reached the door of my cottage, but something stopped me

from opening it- the whispers. Today was different from the past times I’d heard them. Usually

they would stay at a peaceful volume, but this time they grew until they reached that of an

implacable howl. I knew that I would be unable to deny them.

I pulled my hand away from the knob of my door, and retreated down the two stairs

leading up to it. I didn’t look to see if anyone was studying me. In a haze, I walked away from

my cottage and toward the forest. The whispers continued, louder and louder the closer that I got

to it. When I reached the barrier between my village and this unknown, uncharted territory to

what seemed an unworldly place, I froze. The whispers ceded. The wind ceased and the buzzing

of the sun could no longer be heard. I could feel that every moment of my life had lead to this

very moment. From my childhood I had revered this verboten place, and now, I was finally

going to see what lie beyond my dreary town, what forces compelled me so to this place. I took a

step forward, and the breeze returned. I took another step and the whispers began again, but

much quieter and much more elated. I followed their voices for many hours: it seemed they were
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leading me to a specific spot. I did not question it. I trusted them more than I had ever trusted the

God that my Church so wanted me to follow.

It was nearly nightfall when the whispers finally stopped. I found myself in a circular

clearing. The grass appeared matted down, and small trinkets littered the perimeter of the space.

Strange metal coins sat here and there, as did decorative jewelry and watches. I knew they could

not have come from my town, as sumptuous ornaments were not permitted. There were colorful

pieces of glass, stuck in the ground at odd angles so they stood a certain way. In the setting sun,

the light shone through them, causing the color to point toward the heart of the circle. I followed

it, seeing another small trinket placed where the light was directed. I kneeled down to pick up the

object: a small poppet crafted of small bits of roots, branches, and cloth. For a crude effigy, it

looked remarkably similar to me.

A rustle in the brush alerted me to the presence of another- I looked up to see what, or

rather whom, it was. It was a woman of cocoa-colored skin, smooth and lustrous; she had ebony

hair resembling the thread of a screw, spiraling in every direction; her face seemed perfectly

symmetrical and glowing with a radiant smile. She wore the most sumptuous dress, woven of

gold thread, and had a metal ring between her nostrils. This woman was the most exotic I had

ever seen, yet there was something familiar about her; I was transfixed and smitten.

“Admiring yourself?” she questioned, pointing toward the small doll that I still held.

“I’ve met you before,” I answered hesitantly.

“Perhaps,” she replied with confidence. “I am Solase. I have long been observing you.

You are different from the other townspeople, I hear it in your soul. It has taken me a long while

to draw you here, my dear.”

 Biesiada 6

“Why would you want me here?” I asked, confused.

“Why, you are of the same nature as me!” Seeing the perturbed look on my face, she

stepped toward me. Solase pulled me from my kneeling position, and drew me close to her. In

my ear, she very delicately whispered, “​A witch.”​ With those words, sudden warmth overtook

my body. The suspicion I had long felt in my soul was finally revealed. I pulled back and gazed

into her amber eyes, the color of the sun through a glass of gin, and I knew it was the truth. She

laid a gentle kiss on my lips, and when I opened my eyes, she was gone.

I soon began to notice Solase in town: peeping through a window, hiding behind a

building, or even in the middle of the square, coaxing me to the woods. For many months, I

returned to her in the forest, where she taught me of things I didn't know existed. She showed me

how to grow crops and beautiful flowers within seconds. She introduced me to the animals

within her reign: the songbirds waltzing through the air, the furry animals jaunting along through

the grass, the burrowers dredging ever deeper into the earth. The forest fae enjoyed

accompanying us on these excursions.

I despised the time when I could not see Solase. She knew this, and said to me: “Then I

will give you a gift, my love. Stay with me tonight until dark, and you will receive it.” So I did as

she said. I stayed with her all through the afternoon, and until sunset. As the final rays descended

below the horizon, I dared to ask the question I had been holding on to and inquired about my

gift. “It will be here soon,” she replied, and vanished. I searched worriedly for her, as I had never

been in the woods so late. It was no use. She was gone.

“Who are you looking for?” a gentle, yet powerful voice called from behind me. I turned

to see a fair-skinned woman with blonde hair almost as light as her skin. She wore a dark robe,
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colored that of midnight, and embroidered with silver-threaded stars. As I looked at her, I knew

this was the gift that Solase had sent me. Almost as if she could see into my thoughts, the woman

replied, “I am Luna. I am of the same type as you and Solase, a witch. I rule the dark hours that

Solase cannot preside over. Come, I will show you.” She outstretched her hand to me, beckoning

me to follow her, and I took it.

She showed me the wonders which Solase was not able to reveal to me. Her impressive

power over water captivated me the most: she could bend it to her will. She could use it to

destroy or to create. Luna seemed to have the utmost control over this power, and I yearned to as

well. So she taught me: through the night, I was instructed by Luna in that and other magicks-

but she also left many open ends for me to discover myself, the greatest knowledge she could

have given me. I took to her like a moth to flame. She was soft-spoken yet powerful, and I was

drawn to her as I had been drawn to Solase so many months ago. Our bond grew with celerity.

I spent as much time as possible with Solase and Luna, as much as I dared with the

watchful eye of the church still over me. I was enraptured; my love grew everyday for them. But

I became restless; I ached so at the thought that I could not truly be with them. “One day,” Solase

assured me, “we will be together. The day before this coming Sabbath is special. Both Luna and

I are able to be in your presence at once. On this day, you will know what to do.”

I waited in apprehension. I visited Solase in the days and Luna in the nights leading up to

it with recklessness and more often than before, as they had advised me to. When the day finally

arrived, I was filled with anxiety. As they had promised, they both met me at my cottage. I

remember the date clearly: it was the first of August in 1636, at the height of the witching hour.
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“What am I to do?” I asked, looking toward Solase, then Luna. They both walked toward

me with certainty in their eyes.

“A kiss, for luck,” Solase said leaning toward me and kissing my right cheek.

“And a kiss for life,” Luna said, kissing my left side. Then they were both gone; with

their disappearance came a loud banging at my door.

“Teresa Caelum! You have been charged with witchcraft and the wrath of God will soon

be upon you!” My blood ran cold. Was this part of Solase and Luna’s plan? It had to have been:

a kiss for luck and a kiss for life.​ I had to trust them now. I walked to my door and swung it open.

It seemed the entire village was there. I was greeted with screams of “Burn the witch!” and “You

will burn in Hell, heretic!” on all sides. I held my head high as I was marched to the townsquare,

where I was tied to a stake and told that I was “damned to eternal hellfire for my transgressions

against the Church.” With one swift movement, the fire that they held in their torches was

transferred to the dry brush beneath my feet. The heat slowly crept up my body, and suddenly I

was engulfed. I burned for what felt like an eternity. I tired of screaming and the townspeople

left- but I was still alive. Come morning, they found me scorched, yet still conscious. After

declaring I was indeed a witch, I was hoisted onto the backs of some of the men and brought to a

body of water. Heavy rocks were tied to my wrists and ankles and I was thrown in

unceremoniously, like a rotten sack of potatoes. The water was cold- refreshing. It washed away

my burns and I floated peacefully before being dragged back out violently. They were at their

final test- the hanging. I was pulled up the steps of the scaffold, and the rope was placed around

my neck: the only jewelry I ever knew. Solase and Luna had gotten me this far, and I trusted

them now. The platform dropped, and everything went dark.

 Biesiada 9

pesticide

Poetry

Summer Biesiada, 11th Grade

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spider.

beetle.

Moth.

detested.

despised.

deplorable.

they make up our very being-

each is within us.

climbing. crawling. creeping.

within our empty minds-

a masquerade ball of deceit.

the spider-

he spins his web in our brain,

unconcerned with the trivialities that life brings in its wake.

he cares only about the moment passing- his web is intricate. his dance is not new.

soon the cobwebs will be abundant;

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but- sometimes a fly is caught and the illusion confirmed, the connection concrete.

rarely is he ever so lucky.

the beetle- the beauty.

he holds our worth within his wings.

he is our reason for being- the ultimate desire we pursue is forever in his clutch.

his path is different every day- weaving, angular, undulating.

when his carcass falls for the final time- that is the death of our hope.

The Moth-

Her fragile wings carry the weight of the world. wars have been waged over Her infinite wisdom.

they pursue Her truth relentlessly. men with potent power unquestioned know less than the

destitute child. they convince themselves they have captured The Moth. but She will forever be

free- to let the bones and flesh know Her secrets would be to condemn them.

The Moth will choose Her partner- the spider or the beetle.

She may dance with both- or neither.

the spider and the beetle will come and go, but The Moth can never leave the ballroom.

and forever shall it be!

 Biesiada 12

iubar!

Poetry

Summer Biesiada, 11th Grade

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olive skin unblemished- reminiscent of those careful brush strokes found in the paintings of

kiprensky or stieler.

her beauty could never be captured, even by the most accomplished and adept of artists.

in any tangible form, her radiance is transient; only corporeally could anyone truly appreciate her

auroral and ostentatious personage.

her presence reminds one of the sweet hum of cicadas on a hot summer’s day, iced tea in hand

with the cubes gently clinking against the side of the glass.

she is the warmth of a sun encased in a porcelain bowl, small enough to bring to one’s lips.

a sip- but not too much. for you will become drunk with her everlasting love, her pensive ideals,

her stinging honesty.

but a sip- is invigorating, exhilarating. enough to give one the courage to pursue every dream

they’ve ever had with no perturbation.

that power is held by few- but should be cherished by many.

to the divine individual depicted:

be warned- this ascendancy should not be taken lightly; it can be admired only in moderation.

but do not let that force away your natural and resplendent allure- if anything, let it shine out and

draw those moths to its flame; give them the hope that they can cast off their dusty shambles and

join in the amorous dance you have created.

 Biesiada 14

Afterlife

Poetry

Summer Biesiada, 11th Grade

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Summerland; your film reel.

moments captured, without your knowledge.

round and round it goes, until the movie is done and the curtains close.

what will you take with you from the reel? your Reel-

Real? Reality is found in the eyes

the perception-

but a nuance: the smallest of disparities between a lover and an adversary

judge those you dislike, yet dare to ask only for love;

ask for acceptance, but close your mind and eyes to their truths.

Heaven; your oblivion.

A soft porcelain bound to break

will The Creator remold your pieces? will he give you another purpose?

or will he sweep away your broken fragments?

will he allow you to be taken by The Great Destroyer?

hypocrisy is a fire; leaping, bounding, sparks flying.

the skin bubbles beyond recognition

and the human frame is destroyed.

Karma; your queen.

 Biesiada 16

She will be the ultimate decider.

are you to become a lowly insect, destined to be squashed under the boot of those men you

wronged?

or will you become a great lion, the ruler of a kingdom, the newcomer to set the traditions of

centuries?

the song of your soul alone can answer that question-

it will be a tune of elation or that of melancholy.

each pitch determined by the day, each movement determined by the year.

Your Soul will sing for the Queen, and then you will know:

it was all up to you.