Blurb for Serial read: The Beckoning
Carra Mason has fulfilled her dream to become an Egyptologist. She has just started working for renown archeologist, Samuel Barstone, when a man from ancient Egypt starts haunting her dreams. "Come, come, come to me, Carra. I am waiting for you." Carra thinks nothing of it at first, but when the dreams continue, she decides to go Egypt and confront where they take place: inside the Queen's Chamber in Great Pyramid. Accompanied by her "boyfriend", Richard, who dislikes Egypt, Carra finds more than an answer but a plan that was set into motion four thousand years ago by the man in her dream . . . one that will change her life forever.
AND NOW . . . Here is a sample of my writing.
It happened while I was cleaning the attic. An old box - not a chest with hinges or any such thing, just a plain box of wood nailed together, even the top - was nestled inside an old chest. Something about it beckoned me. I set it aside and moved on to the next pile, but my eyes always drifted back to that box sitting conspicuously on the floor. Sweat ran down the side of my face, reminding me it was hot. What the heck, I thought, wiping the rivulets away. I might as well take a break. Bending over, I picked up the box and headed down stairs.
Unlike the attic, the downstairs of my house was air-conditioned. Entering the kitchen, I set the mysterious box on the counter and poured myself a tall glass of ice water. Liquid relief flowed down my throat until it got too cold. I set the glass down and reviewed my discovery.
Now that I had it in better light, I could see the box was old . . . I mean really
old. Even the nails looked odd. Definitely not the sort I’d use today. I thought back to the chest I found it in: Mom’s. Hmmm, Mom was born in 1922 and this box looks older than that. More like 1490.
Startled, I looked around. Now where did that date come from?
More curious than ever, I went into the garage and fetched a hammer. It took me a while, but eventually I pried the two nails holding the top of the box out. They were rusted but still nail-worthy. I laid them on the table. Apprehension flooded me. What was inside that needed to be locked away? Removing the lid, I peered inside.
What I saw was oblong and leather-wrapped. A book? A journal?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t from the United States. Like most Americans, my heritage was diverse: English, Irish and Scottish on my Father’s side, and French and German on my Mother’s. I used to kid around and say I was Heinz 57, after the sauce made by the company Heinz. We had been in the Americas since the 1600’s. Any connection to Europe was long gone . . . or so I thought. Reverently, I withdrew the object and carefully unwrapped it.
It was a journal written in spindly handwriting by Agatha Hueghe. Wow! What a find! I wonder what she has to say? Nothing more was needed. I opened the book, disappointed to find it written in German. I thumbed half-way through it and, lo and behold! The German turned into English, at least a semblance of English. The ink had been written by a quill and was faded. It took some time, but, equipped with a tablet of paper and an ink pen, I translated what fifteenth century Agatha wrote into modern day English. I am writing this down so my ancestors will know the truth. I have been accused of being a witch and am waiting for the clergy to come take me to my death. Witch hunters - nothing more than superstitious old fools trying to rule the world through fear - have been abound for hundreds of years. However, ever since Pope Innocent VIII asked friars Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger to publish a full report on suspected witchcraft, the Malleus Maleficarum has been the bane of my world.
I am not a witch that lies with the devil and his demons. Nor do I cause crops to fail, men’s penises to droop, and babies to die. No witch I know of does that, except those who like to scare people, and the people, by their own fear, cause the ‘spell’ to work! Idiocy is what it is. I am a healer, as was my mother, and hers before her, and down the line. I left Germany and moved to England, but witch hunts are just as bad here as they were at home. All my knowledge of herbs and plants will die with me. I do not want to bring a curse upon my only daughter. She has been secreted to France where there is a bit of hope for her to live a fear free life. Any connection to me has been eradicated.
So . . . why am I writing this? In hopes that one day men will come to their senses and realize witches are not evil but the wise women we were once proclaimed to be. Maybe then all the natural cures our Heavenly Father gave us in the form of plants will be re-found and used for the good God intended it to be.
I am almost out of ink. My quill has gone dull, and my candle is soon to gut and I will have no more light in which to finish. I will wrap my journal in leather and place it in a wooden box nailed shut and bury it beneath the thrushes on the floor by my bed. I have faith God will have it found when it will be safe to read. Only then will I be vindicated.
~Agatha Hueghe, 1490
I was stunned - and sad. How different things were in Europe as oppose to how they are now. No doubt there are still people who believe such foolishness, spouting the Bible as their source: Exodus 22:18, “Thou shall not suffer a witch
to live (KJV), and Leviticus 20:27, “A man also, or a woman that hath a familiar spirit
, or that of a wizard, shall surely be put to death; they shall stone them with stones; their blood shall be upon them.” (KJV). Passages like these gave superstitious old fools, as Agatha called them, the right to kill hundreds of thousands of people - who knew how many? Only God.
What people didn’t realize was many of the words had been changed to fit the language of the era, so - the word witch could have been something else, perhaps a Priest or a High Priestess of a pagan religion? Idiocy wasn’t the word for it. Barbarianism is more like it, greed and the desire to rule. Man-made laws forced upon the ignorant, as most people back then were not schooled . . . unless one was rich.
Smiling, I closed the journal, rewrapped it in leather and placed it in the box, but I did not nail it shut. Whoever found the box and brought it to America was a mystery. Maybe it had been my great, great, great, great, Great Grandmother Teresina, as she was the ancestor who arrived in the new world.
Either way, it did not matter. God had seen the journal arrived in the right hands . . . mine, Agatha’s great, great, great, great, great, great, great granddaughter, an herbalist, healer, and witch in my own right. It seems I followed the family tradition. Thanks, Grams!
By: M. L. Huey