I wrote this for a competition at my school, sorry about the font changes, I wrote it using two different computers, and two different versions of word, then had to copy paste it.
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I tie my bonnet beneath my chin for the thousandth time and wonder once again how it would feel to let my thick golden hair fly free just for a day, to let it tangle with the leaves and dust that dance in the wind. How I long to dance and sing and be free! But dancing is a sin, so they’ve told me, or rather beaten into my mind, for all my seventeen long, restricted years of life. And singing is a sin as well, but, oh, I do relish Sunday hymns, the one time a week when singing is permitted and our Puritan voices rise like the voices of angels.
Five years ago, in 1583, my parents decided that we needed to move to the “New World” in order to redirect our focus toward God. And so here I am, trapped on Roanoke Island, with nothing but prayer to focus my days on. I long to go back to London, where the commotion and clamor of the streets lulled me to sleep, and where all kinds of interesting performances were shown on street corners, and the taverns lights shone all night. It was forbidden, but at night I would open my windows and listen to the bawdy music flowing in from the streets. Alas, there is no music here, only the sound of crickets, and the snaps of branches as large animals move laboriously through the underbrush just beyond our forts walls.
“The week before Easter, the day being fair, the sun shining brightly, cold frost in the air,
I went into the forest some flowers to find there, and there I did pick my love a posy.” I start to murmur the words to a popular song, and then caught myself, remembering that in the silence here in the fort, one slipped word can bring damnation. I finish dressing, and step out of our small house into the dawn light. I grab a basket from by the door, and start to head out toward the gate of the fort.
“Good morning, Elizabeth.”
“Hello, James,” I reply to the boy standing watch at the gate. We are of an age, and being the only two of our age, our parents plan for us to marry. I study him closely for a moment. Light brown hair and kind, yet clever, hazel eyes combine with a strong jaw and dimpled smile to give him a trustworthy, amusing aura. His height, broad shoulders, and obvious strength would make him a catch for any girl, but the mere fact that my parents plan to arrange my marriage makes me physically ill.
“Elizabeth? I asked if you were going out this morning.” James snaps me out of my reverie quick as a shot.
“What? Oh, yes, sorry. I am going out. We’re out of blueberries, and the season’s almost over. I need to get more while I can.
A flicker of a smile crosses his face, though he tries to hide it.
“You know you don’t need excuses to leave. This isn’t a prison,” he jokes as he opens the gate for me.
Mayhap not a prison for you, but for me…? I think, but instead say, “Yes, James, I know,” and step out.
“Oh, Elizabeth? Be careful. Mr. Ewen saw fires nearby. The reverend and some of the men went out to see who they are. I assume it’s the natives though, so stay where I can hear you, just to be safe.”
“Of course,” I reply, but in my head (and my heart) I say “Never.” I walk down the path, letting out a sigh of relief when I can no longer see the fort.
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“I saw a maiden fair as flowers, she sang me a song, and we danced for hours,” I sing as I gather my fruit. We truly were in need of blueberries. “Stay where I can hear you,” he’d said, but I had wandered much farther than that, for if they hear my singing, I’ll spend a day in the stocks, and Father will confine me to the house thereafter. I find a clearing, set aside my basket, and, while humming the tune of a raucous song, begin to skip and twirl and jump and dance.
