Captured Souls
English Lake District, 1858
Lewis set the bouquet of Daffodils on her grave. Her tombstone lay towards the back of the churchyard, next to the old stone wall that enclosed the small cemetery of St. Bede. Engraved at the top of the tombstone were two hands clasped together—a testament to their everlasting love. Below the engraving, the epitaph read: Harriet Parker. Her light will shine eternally. Requiescat In Pace.
“Rest in peace, my love,” he said tenderly, “When the time comes, we will walk hand-in-hand once more, as we used to.”
It was just a few months ago that they had settled in the village of Elterwater, where he found employment as a bookkeeper at the gunpowder plant. Harriet was delighted when he told her the news. She loved the countryside and was eager to leave the crowded streets of London behind to begin a new life in Elterwater with him. They took up residence in a cozy cottage by a gentle stream, one of the many waterways that fed into the main river powering the factory. While he was away at work, she roamed the region in search of inspiration for her artwork, a series of landscape paintings commissioned by a dear friend of hers. It was during one of these outings that she came to discover the church at St. Bede.
The small church stood alone in a meadow along the western edge of the lake, two tall elm trees flanking the low stone wall surrounding both the church and its cemetery. A small wooden gate facing the rear of the church provided the only entrance into the church grounds. On the opposite shore of the lake, a series of imposing, craggy peaks towered above, dwarfing the church in comparison.
Beautiful beyond words, thought Harriet as she absorbed the subtle details of the scenery that lay before her, this will be an absolute joy to paint.
She went there almost every day, with her easel and pochade box in tow, painting the church and its surroundings for hours on end. On a singularly hot and humid afternoon, as Harriet was putting the final touches to her painting, a great thunderstorm caught her by surprise, forcing her to seek shelter under the canopy of one of the great elm trees. “Of all the rotten luck,” she said out loud, as a clap of thunder broke overhead and a sudden gust of wind swayed the towering branches above her.
That evening Lewis arrived home to find a clergyman waiting for him outside his cottage gate.
“Reverend Anderson, what brings you here?” He glanced past the reverend to the closed door of the cottage. “Has Harriet not yet returned?”
Clearing his throat, the reverend replied in a subdued voice, “As you are probably aware, there was a violent storm this afternoon. Mrs. Parker was caught unawares and took shelter under an elm tree by the church yard. One of its large boughs broke free by the fierce wind, badly injuring your wife. By the time I found her, there was little I could do to save her. I’m so sorry, Mr. Parker.”
Lewis stood in silence, then the meaning of the reverend’s words took hold and he felt sick, his head spinning and his legs ready to give way. He swallowed hard and said unsteadily, “My…Harriet…”
The reverend nodded slowly. “You can take some solace in knowing that I had time to administer her last rights, Mr. Parker. Before her parting, she asked that I convey her final words to you—that she loves you, and that she wishes to be buried at St. Bede’s cemetery. She passed away peacefully soon after communicating this to me.”
Suddenly, the reverend reached out and caught Lewis by the arms before gently laying him down on the ground. The poor fellow had fainted.
Her tombstone cast its long shadow in the waning daylight. “It’s time for me to go, Harriet, but I’ll be back soon.” He was about to leave but after a moment’s reflection spoke to her once more. “By the way, I almost forgot to tell you, there are some lovely forget-me-nots growing next to the hedgerows we planted, a vibrant azure colour. I’ll collect a bunch and bring them with me tomorrow. They will complement the daffodils quite nicely.”
Reaching out, he placed his hand on her tombstone. He held it there for a minute before turning away and slowly heading towards the gate. This was the most difficult part of the day, leaving her all alone in the small graveyard. Just ten minutes more, he muttered to himself. I can’t face the thought of going back to an empty house just yet.
He wandered among the tombstones, noting that most appeared quite old, the headstones stained green with the encroachment of moss over time. He read some of the dates as he walked past. Seventeen-eighty-nine, seventeen—
He suddenly paused and focused his attention on the epitaph beneath the date. Most of the words were too worn down to be read, while others were encrusted with fungal growth. But a few letters stood out clearly, as if recently scrubbed clean.
“H-e-l-p” he murmured. Below these, two more letters were visible; “m-e.”
“Help me,” he said in bewilderment. “How very queer.” He scanned the epitaph carefully once more, but those were the sole decipherable letters. Hesitantly, he walked up to the tombstone. The engraving at the top featured a bible. This must be a grave of a minister, he thought. He tried to decipher the name. The first few letters read ‘Brad’. He used his nail to scrape away at the dried moss that covered the remainder of the name. Small flakes of green fell away revealing the letters ‘dock’.
“Braddock,” he said in a slow, puzzled voice. “I’ll ask Reverend Anderson about the name, perhaps Braddock was a clergyman at St. Bede. Uncanny about the message, though. Just a rare fluke I suppose, such events must occur sometimes. Still…I can’t shake the feeling that there is something to this. Perhaps—”
He broke his train of thought to look up towards the gate. Darkness had settled in, and a sudden feeling of unease fell upon him as he fixed his gaze at what looked like the silhouette of a man.
“Reverend Anderson?” Lewis asked in a lowered voice.
There was no reply as the shadowy figure faded into the darkness.
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