Post by Nydiva on Dec 4, 2011 17:31:11 GMT -8
This is to introduce a character I plan on using in a series of fanfictions. I've barely scratched the surface of my initial plan (the first of which will follow soon) and immediately went off on tangents collaborating with Niecie. Still, the character's background is the same for both "universes". Hope you like her!
(Note: the term “Negro” in this story is meant to reflect its use in a historical context and is not meant to be in any way derogatory. No offense is intended and I deeply hope that none is taken.)
My first memory was of my dearest Mamma gazing at me lovingly and singing a lullaby. My second memory was of a pair of wary, bright green eyes and a finger extended tentatively toward me. I liked the eyes; so I grabbed the finger and held on.
I was born on September 14, 1850, four years after the marriage of Joseph West and Marguerite Bober. This was the second marriage for Joseph West, who had been a handsome widower with a young son. Marguerite was a lovely, petite woman with dark reddish hair and hazel eyes, both of which I inherited.
Though I was nine years younger than my half-brother, James, there was no “half” to our relationship. I trailed Jim around as soon as I was able to crawl. For a rough and tumble boy, he was unusually solicitous and protective of me; and I think I knew, even then, that a large part of my life would be spent in helping him get out of trouble.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
“James, you were specifically told that Lissy is too young to go near the horses. And yet you put her atop Whirlwind.” My father sternly reprimanded his twelve-year old son. “She could have been killed. Get the switch.”
As fast as my toddler’s legs could carry me, I burst into the room and into tears. I flung my arms around my father’s leg and looked up pleadingly. “I wanted to ride the horsie. I...I climbed up. It wasn’t Jim-Jam.”
Let me explain, this was far from the first time that my brother defied parental strictures. He was an adventurous, energetic boy, forever landing in some sort of trouble. Since the phrase “Jim’s in another jam” was in constant use, I had shortened it into a nickname. He, in turn, dubbed me “Missy Lissy” or just “Lissy“. It stuck. Only Mamma ever called me “Dulcie”, for my middle name, Dulcinea. That name was a legacy passed along from her Franco-Spanish ancestors.
Anyway, my woeful-eyed tactic usually (though not always) worked on my father, and the threatened punishments for James were either lightened or absolved. It hadn’t occurred to me then that he knew a three-year old would hardly be able to mount a full-grown horse unassisted.
Jim and I became inseparable as we grew. He developed into a proficient equestrian; I was closely behind him in skill. He learned to shoot a gun with deadly accuracy, and clandestinely gave me lessons in marksmanship. Swimming - we were both like otters. Though highly intelligent, he sometimes struggled over his lessons (disliking the confinement of the classroom), while I absorbed every scrap of learning like a sponge and devoured every book, map, or newspaper that came my way. We were both on the impulsive side, but I had more patience.
While Jim occasionally defended me against a bully or two, I usually managed to get in quite a few licks of my own. I was equally quick to rush to his defense if the odds were against him. Of course, we had our small share of sibling tiffs (and we were both expert in teasing each other); but, on the whole, we complemented each other well.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
It was the late summer of 1857; I was about to turn seven. Father had gone into town and was long overdue in returning. Many hours later, the Sheriff knocked on our door. He glanced solemnly at me and then took Mamma and James aside. I had already acquired a knack for remaining inconspicuous but within hearing; and I slipped behind a chair.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. West,” he began, “There was some trouble in town. A mob was threatening to lynch a young Negro for touching a white woman’s hand when he picked up a dropped package.”
Mamma shook her head. “This is just the sort of prejudicial contretemps I’ve heard Mr. Frederick Douglass speak against. He’s a very fine man; Joseph and I admire him greatly.”
The Sheriff continued grimly, “Your husband tried to reason with them, but they weren’t listening. Then he offered to be deputized. He was killed while defending the boy.”
For a long, agonizing moment, Mamma simply stood still absorbing the tragic news. She quietly thanked the Sheriff and escorted him out. Jim was frozen to the spot with clenched fists at his side, and I was in my corner, softly crying. She gathered us into her arms.
“We will always miss him; but we won’t give up what he wanted for us. James, you will go to West Point in the fall as your father had planned.” Her voice reflected both sorrow and determination.
“But, Mother, you’ll need me now to run the breeding farm. There’s too much for you to handle alone.” Jim said in a stubborn tone of voice.
“No, my dear, I’ll be selling the farm. It will provide enough funds for you to attend school. Dulcie and I will be able to live off the income from my trust.”
What seemed like endless weeks of argument followed. Jim was adamant about not wanting to leave us. I was torn between protesting the separation from my brother and the desire to ease Mamma’s new burdens. But in the end, the farm was sold, and James grudgingly went off to the academy in New York (after complaining that I nearly drowned him in a flood of tears). A small house was found for Mamma and me in Silver Springs, Maryland, on the outskirts of Washington, DC.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Life in Maryland was different from anything I had known before. A new, more sophisticated, world of manners and mores was to be discovered and acquired. Time passed, and not only was I given lessons in music, dance, deportment, and languages; but I also acquired a keen interest in medicine and science. Mamma indulged me in these whims - even when my chemical experiments sometimes produced incendiary results.
But it was not all lessons and work. Mamma and I frequently took advantage of our proximity to Washington, DC, and attended theatre regularly. The moment I first stepped into a theatre, I felt as if I had truly come home. I was awed by the huge, glistening chandelier hovering importantly from the dome of the theatre. My hands delightedly caressed the softness of the plush red velvet seats. And - oh - the stage! Ablaze with lights and populated by the most magical beings my dazzled soul could imagine.
Luckily for us, Mamma had a distant cousin who was the manager of the prestigious Ford’s Theatre. With Alonzo’s help, we saw all manner of entertainments - from concerts to animal acts; low comedies to melodrama - and everything in between. But my favorite of all were the works of William Shakespeare.
I especially remember a production of The Tempest. The power of Prospero, the grace and loveliness of Miranda (I wished I could BE her), Ariel’s mischievousness, the handsome Fernando - but I was fascinated most of all by Caliban. He was squat, swarthy and hunched, with a bulbous nose, jutting brow and unruly mop of coarse, black hair. But, oh, his gleaming dark eyes! They were sweet; they were sad; and they were kind. Something about them locked into my heart.
After the performance, we were escorted backstage by our cousin to meet the cast. I looked around in vain for my unlikely hero.
“Ah, Artemus,” called Alonzo, “Come meet my cousin and her little girl.” A tall, handsome, meticulously dressed young man made his way across the room.
“Artemus Gordon, may I introduce Mrs. Marguerite W....”
“You’re Caliban!” I interrupted ecstatically.
Alonzo laughed, “And you were bragging about your makeup, Gordon. The child saw right through it.”
Artemus crouched to my height. He gently placed each of his hands on my shoulders and surveyed me thoughtfully.
“I’ve fooled members of my own company with that disguise; how did you know it was I?” he asked.
The answer was now directly in front of me and I was mesmerized by them - those lustrous dark brown eyes with myriad emotions gleaming in their depths. Even the incipient laugh lines around his eyes added both character and appeal.
“Your eyes. You have...nice eyes. I like them.” I managed to stammer.
His response was a wistful smile and the barest stroke of his hand on my hair. It felt so right; I tilted my head to prolong the contact, wishing I could suddenly add a dozen years to my own age of eight.
“You have a very observant daughter, Mrs....?”
“But how did you look so mean and wrinkly?” I demanded.
“Dulcie!” Mamma chided. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon, she can be a little impulsive.”
“Not at all.” Artemus replied. Turning to me he asked, “Would you like to see how I do that?”
“Could I? Yes, oh yes!” I quickly turned, Oh, Mamma. May I - please?” I doubted if I ever wanted something so badly in my life.
“Yes, you may. If you remember your manners this time.” But it was said with a fond smile.
“I will. I promise. Thank you.” I nearly tripped on my tongue trying to get the words out as quickly as possible.
Artemus extended his hand, and I firmly clung to it as he led me to a nearby dressing room. He pulled out a well-worn box and I peeked inside. There were rows of little colored sticks and small pots of creams in different shades.
“Let me show you how this works.” he said. He began gently dabbing splotches of dark pink on my cheeks and nose. He added a grayish cream under my eyes and drew lines with the little stick by the sides of my nose and mouth. He penciled a few strokes on my forehead and by my eyes. His eyes dancing with pleasure, Artemus turned me to the mirror. A wizened old woman stared back at me. I giggled.
I looked like, like...of course! In a cackling voice, I began reciting a passage from “The Scottish Play“:
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Artemus’s lovely eyes grew wide - this was far from a typical child‘s recitation. “You’re a born actress; or will be when you’ve grown up.” He paused for a moment. “Wait - I want you to have this.”
He took a small carved box from the dressing table and transferred some of the contents from his own larger makeup kit. With a suitably theatrical flourish, he pressed the box into my eager hands.
“Oh, oh, oh!” I was nearly speechless with delight. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon.” I impulsively leaned over and planted a shy kiss on his cheek. I could feel myself blushing scarlet under the layers of makeup.
Artemus chuckled at my awestruck gratitude. I let the rich, warm sound wash over me. I wanted him to laugh like that all the time; I wanted him to be happy. I wanted something that I couldn’t yet define.
“I think it’s time to turn the ugly old witch back into a pretty little miss.” Artemus said. He called me pretty! I was dazzled. Then he began to gently wipe my face as I stared back, intently memorizing every aspect of his. “There. Now run along back to your mother.”
Giving my shoulders a soft pat, he sent me on my reluctant way. The next week, the troupe had moved on and my child’s heart was devastated.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Two more years passed; and though James and I had faithfully written each other all this time, he hadn’t been able to visit in three years. That was happily about to change. Mamma and I waited anxiously at the train station in Washington DC. The train pulled in and I spotted a familiar figure disembarking at the far end of the platform. How proud and handsome he looked in his cadet’s uniform. I hurtled down the platform and leapt into his arms.
“Lissy, oh Lissy!” said James, with a catch in his voice. “How my Missy Lissy has grown!” He held onto me tightly as I simply blubbered his name. Finally releasing my stranglehold, he turned to embrace Mamma as well.
It was a happy reunion, though the threat of war loomed ever closer. Jim made sure that the sedate rides we took turned into pelting races, and he was pleased to see that I hadn’t lost any of my equestrian skills. He also made sure my marksmanship was still honed. Oddly, he insisted on showing me fighting maneuvers he had learned at the Academy, plus a few tricks he had learned elsewhere. I didn’t think anything of that at the time; I was simply happy to be in his presence again and pleased that our camaraderie hadn‘t waned one bit.
Melissandre (“Lissa“) West - The Early Years
(Note: the term “Negro” in this story is meant to reflect its use in a historical context and is not meant to be in any way derogatory. No offense is intended and I deeply hope that none is taken.)
My first memory was of my dearest Mamma gazing at me lovingly and singing a lullaby. My second memory was of a pair of wary, bright green eyes and a finger extended tentatively toward me. I liked the eyes; so I grabbed the finger and held on.
I was born on September 14, 1850, four years after the marriage of Joseph West and Marguerite Bober. This was the second marriage for Joseph West, who had been a handsome widower with a young son. Marguerite was a lovely, petite woman with dark reddish hair and hazel eyes, both of which I inherited.
Though I was nine years younger than my half-brother, James, there was no “half” to our relationship. I trailed Jim around as soon as I was able to crawl. For a rough and tumble boy, he was unusually solicitous and protective of me; and I think I knew, even then, that a large part of my life would be spent in helping him get out of trouble.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
“James, you were specifically told that Lissy is too young to go near the horses. And yet you put her atop Whirlwind.” My father sternly reprimanded his twelve-year old son. “She could have been killed. Get the switch.”
As fast as my toddler’s legs could carry me, I burst into the room and into tears. I flung my arms around my father’s leg and looked up pleadingly. “I wanted to ride the horsie. I...I climbed up. It wasn’t Jim-Jam.”
Let me explain, this was far from the first time that my brother defied parental strictures. He was an adventurous, energetic boy, forever landing in some sort of trouble. Since the phrase “Jim’s in another jam” was in constant use, I had shortened it into a nickname. He, in turn, dubbed me “Missy Lissy” or just “Lissy“. It stuck. Only Mamma ever called me “Dulcie”, for my middle name, Dulcinea. That name was a legacy passed along from her Franco-Spanish ancestors.
Anyway, my woeful-eyed tactic usually (though not always) worked on my father, and the threatened punishments for James were either lightened or absolved. It hadn’t occurred to me then that he knew a three-year old would hardly be able to mount a full-grown horse unassisted.
Jim and I became inseparable as we grew. He developed into a proficient equestrian; I was closely behind him in skill. He learned to shoot a gun with deadly accuracy, and clandestinely gave me lessons in marksmanship. Swimming - we were both like otters. Though highly intelligent, he sometimes struggled over his lessons (disliking the confinement of the classroom), while I absorbed every scrap of learning like a sponge and devoured every book, map, or newspaper that came my way. We were both on the impulsive side, but I had more patience.
While Jim occasionally defended me against a bully or two, I usually managed to get in quite a few licks of my own. I was equally quick to rush to his defense if the odds were against him. Of course, we had our small share of sibling tiffs (and we were both expert in teasing each other); but, on the whole, we complemented each other well.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
It was the late summer of 1857; I was about to turn seven. Father had gone into town and was long overdue in returning. Many hours later, the Sheriff knocked on our door. He glanced solemnly at me and then took Mamma and James aside. I had already acquired a knack for remaining inconspicuous but within hearing; and I slipped behind a chair.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. West,” he began, “There was some trouble in town. A mob was threatening to lynch a young Negro for touching a white woman’s hand when he picked up a dropped package.”
Mamma shook her head. “This is just the sort of prejudicial contretemps I’ve heard Mr. Frederick Douglass speak against. He’s a very fine man; Joseph and I admire him greatly.”
The Sheriff continued grimly, “Your husband tried to reason with them, but they weren’t listening. Then he offered to be deputized. He was killed while defending the boy.”
For a long, agonizing moment, Mamma simply stood still absorbing the tragic news. She quietly thanked the Sheriff and escorted him out. Jim was frozen to the spot with clenched fists at his side, and I was in my corner, softly crying. She gathered us into her arms.
“We will always miss him; but we won’t give up what he wanted for us. James, you will go to West Point in the fall as your father had planned.” Her voice reflected both sorrow and determination.
“But, Mother, you’ll need me now to run the breeding farm. There’s too much for you to handle alone.” Jim said in a stubborn tone of voice.
“No, my dear, I’ll be selling the farm. It will provide enough funds for you to attend school. Dulcie and I will be able to live off the income from my trust.”
What seemed like endless weeks of argument followed. Jim was adamant about not wanting to leave us. I was torn between protesting the separation from my brother and the desire to ease Mamma’s new burdens. But in the end, the farm was sold, and James grudgingly went off to the academy in New York (after complaining that I nearly drowned him in a flood of tears). A small house was found for Mamma and me in Silver Springs, Maryland, on the outskirts of Washington, DC.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Life in Maryland was different from anything I had known before. A new, more sophisticated, world of manners and mores was to be discovered and acquired. Time passed, and not only was I given lessons in music, dance, deportment, and languages; but I also acquired a keen interest in medicine and science. Mamma indulged me in these whims - even when my chemical experiments sometimes produced incendiary results.
But it was not all lessons and work. Mamma and I frequently took advantage of our proximity to Washington, DC, and attended theatre regularly. The moment I first stepped into a theatre, I felt as if I had truly come home. I was awed by the huge, glistening chandelier hovering importantly from the dome of the theatre. My hands delightedly caressed the softness of the plush red velvet seats. And - oh - the stage! Ablaze with lights and populated by the most magical beings my dazzled soul could imagine.
Luckily for us, Mamma had a distant cousin who was the manager of the prestigious Ford’s Theatre. With Alonzo’s help, we saw all manner of entertainments - from concerts to animal acts; low comedies to melodrama - and everything in between. But my favorite of all were the works of William Shakespeare.
I especially remember a production of The Tempest. The power of Prospero, the grace and loveliness of Miranda (I wished I could BE her), Ariel’s mischievousness, the handsome Fernando - but I was fascinated most of all by Caliban. He was squat, swarthy and hunched, with a bulbous nose, jutting brow and unruly mop of coarse, black hair. But, oh, his gleaming dark eyes! They were sweet; they were sad; and they were kind. Something about them locked into my heart.
After the performance, we were escorted backstage by our cousin to meet the cast. I looked around in vain for my unlikely hero.
“Ah, Artemus,” called Alonzo, “Come meet my cousin and her little girl.” A tall, handsome, meticulously dressed young man made his way across the room.
“Artemus Gordon, may I introduce Mrs. Marguerite W....”
“You’re Caliban!” I interrupted ecstatically.
Alonzo laughed, “And you were bragging about your makeup, Gordon. The child saw right through it.”
Artemus crouched to my height. He gently placed each of his hands on my shoulders and surveyed me thoughtfully.
“I’ve fooled members of my own company with that disguise; how did you know it was I?” he asked.
The answer was now directly in front of me and I was mesmerized by them - those lustrous dark brown eyes with myriad emotions gleaming in their depths. Even the incipient laugh lines around his eyes added both character and appeal.
“Your eyes. You have...nice eyes. I like them.” I managed to stammer.
His response was a wistful smile and the barest stroke of his hand on my hair. It felt so right; I tilted my head to prolong the contact, wishing I could suddenly add a dozen years to my own age of eight.
“You have a very observant daughter, Mrs....?”
“But how did you look so mean and wrinkly?” I demanded.
“Dulcie!” Mamma chided. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon, she can be a little impulsive.”
“Not at all.” Artemus replied. Turning to me he asked, “Would you like to see how I do that?”
“Could I? Yes, oh yes!” I quickly turned, Oh, Mamma. May I - please?” I doubted if I ever wanted something so badly in my life.
“Yes, you may. If you remember your manners this time.” But it was said with a fond smile.
“I will. I promise. Thank you.” I nearly tripped on my tongue trying to get the words out as quickly as possible.
Artemus extended his hand, and I firmly clung to it as he led me to a nearby dressing room. He pulled out a well-worn box and I peeked inside. There were rows of little colored sticks and small pots of creams in different shades.
“Let me show you how this works.” he said. He began gently dabbing splotches of dark pink on my cheeks and nose. He added a grayish cream under my eyes and drew lines with the little stick by the sides of my nose and mouth. He penciled a few strokes on my forehead and by my eyes. His eyes dancing with pleasure, Artemus turned me to the mirror. A wizened old woman stared back at me. I giggled.
I looked like, like...of course! In a cackling voice, I began reciting a passage from “The Scottish Play“:
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Artemus’s lovely eyes grew wide - this was far from a typical child‘s recitation. “You’re a born actress; or will be when you’ve grown up.” He paused for a moment. “Wait - I want you to have this.”
He took a small carved box from the dressing table and transferred some of the contents from his own larger makeup kit. With a suitably theatrical flourish, he pressed the box into my eager hands.
“Oh, oh, oh!” I was nearly speechless with delight. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon.” I impulsively leaned over and planted a shy kiss on his cheek. I could feel myself blushing scarlet under the layers of makeup.
Artemus chuckled at my awestruck gratitude. I let the rich, warm sound wash over me. I wanted him to laugh like that all the time; I wanted him to be happy. I wanted something that I couldn’t yet define.
“I think it’s time to turn the ugly old witch back into a pretty little miss.” Artemus said. He called me pretty! I was dazzled. Then he began to gently wipe my face as I stared back, intently memorizing every aspect of his. “There. Now run along back to your mother.”
Giving my shoulders a soft pat, he sent me on my reluctant way. The next week, the troupe had moved on and my child’s heart was devastated.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Two more years passed; and though James and I had faithfully written each other all this time, he hadn’t been able to visit in three years. That was happily about to change. Mamma and I waited anxiously at the train station in Washington DC. The train pulled in and I spotted a familiar figure disembarking at the far end of the platform. How proud and handsome he looked in his cadet’s uniform. I hurtled down the platform and leapt into his arms.
“Lissy, oh Lissy!” said James, with a catch in his voice. “How my Missy Lissy has grown!” He held onto me tightly as I simply blubbered his name. Finally releasing my stranglehold, he turned to embrace Mamma as well.
It was a happy reunion, though the threat of war loomed ever closer. Jim made sure that the sedate rides we took turned into pelting races, and he was pleased to see that I hadn’t lost any of my equestrian skills. He also made sure my marksmanship was still honed. Oddly, he insisted on showing me fighting maneuvers he had learned at the Academy, plus a few tricks he had learned elsewhere. I didn’t think anything of that at the time; I was simply happy to be in his presence again and pleased that our camaraderie hadn‘t waned one bit.