To Chekov with Love

His stories always struck Anna Chertova to the core of her Russian soul. Her father, Alexei Grozdev Chertov, presented, Chekov's "Vanka" as a Christmas present on her tenth birthday.

Anna Chertova was born in a small village, fifty miles from Anton Pavlovich Chekov's country home in Melikhovo. Alexei Chertov, like Chekov's father, was a serf who toiled daily as a common laborer. Yet, there was always enough food and Anna never felt deprived. Cold, perhaps, in the freezing winters; but, never deprived.

Her mother, Yelena, was a capable cook and knew the fine art of stretching food, even baking Anna's favorite dessert, honey cake and paska, a delectable bread reserved for Easter celebrations.

Anna's childhood was typical of most Russian girls. Yelena made certain her young daughter learned to cook and sew. Her father insisted his daughter learn to read. The hours he spent reading to her and teaching her to read are some of Anna's most cherished memories.

By the time Anna was fifteen, her baking skills were such that her black bread was known all over their village as one of the finest. She loved cooking and baking and being at her mother's side preparing boiled potatoes slathered in soured cream and Russian caviar, piroshki or the traditional beef and beet salad for holidays. Something down deep inside screamed of a desire to shed peasant life. For girls of Anna's age that would mean studying at university. She knew her parents could never afford that.

She fairly feasted upon any books she could lay her hands on. Always, the quiet, honey-haired Anna could be found nestled with a book off alone in a corner or when weather permitted near the stream a few yards from her home.

Young men in Anna's village were conscripted to work as soon as they were able or they attended university. Most village sons worked because the cost to attend university in Moscow was not affordable for their peasant families. Some could attend schools that prepared them for jobs in law or coal, oil and gas industries.

When she wasn't reading another Chekov story, she was writing her own. Her mother grew concerned that her daughter was on a path that might steer her away from the traditional role of most Russian peasant women. Perhaps, she wondered, it was Alexei's doing that led their daughter to spend so much of her free time reading and writing. Unlike most girls her age, she wasn't fond of poetry.

"Anna, show your Papa what you write," Alexei said.

Yelena looked up from her embroidery with an expression of concern. She fretted over Anna's growing obsession with writing. Yet, she couldn't chastise the girl. Anna always finished all the chores she was given.

Alexei read Anna's treatise on the beauty of words. Instantly, he recognized Anna's talent. Her words were clear and without error, nearly on the level of advanced university students.

"Papa? Do you like what I write?" Anna asked.

Alexei glanced quickly at Yelena. In a single glance, Yelena knew what Alexei was about to tell the girl.

"Anna, you write excellently. But my dear daughter, of what use will this be when you marry and have children to tend to? You see how hard your mother works for the family," Alexei said.

Anna was disappointed and at once encouraged. Her papa saw her writing was worthwhile. She gave no answer. She was resolute that no matter what, neither marriage or children, she would prevail in her love of writing.

Alexei was not the man to waste time. Russian men appear as strong as metal on the surface. Inside, they hold a great love for those things they consider most valuable to their existence: fresh air, sunshine, good food, vodka for special occasions, family, education, music and art. Not always in that order. It is what makes them at once fascinating and as diverse as the colors in a rainbow.

He recognized that his daughter had surpassed the ordinary in her writing. He decided to quietly pursue the possibility of Anna earning a university scholarship. He spent the next year and a half writing letters of inquiry to university. Then, he had an idea. Instead of inquiring about a scholarship, he asked Anna to write for him. He knew he would send her writing to the professor at university in charge of literature.

Anna reached age seventeen on the very day the letter from Professor Sergei Baronikoff arrived by special post. Alexei read the letter inviting Anna to attend classes on scholarship.

"Anna, I have done something I hope you will like," Alexei said.

"Yes Papa?"

"Read for yourself."

Alexei handed the letter to Anna. Her watched her expression of delight. He had never seen her as thrilled, not even when he handed her the Chekov book, "Vanka," she so cherished as a child.

"Oh Papa, this news is so fine...so very fine!"

Yelena was not so sure it was fine. Her daughter would be living in the women's dormitories on the university campus with neither Alexei or herself to guide her.

Alexei caught Yelena's less than enthusiastic glance.

"Don't worry Mama. We send a good writer to university to become a great writer when she returns."

But, Anna would return only for holidays. The government of her country was once again in turmoil. Students at university were protected from the brewing hostilities due to the heavy weight of their studies. Secretly, many of them took part in revolts in ways that were less visible.

Anna was concerned only with studying, taking exams and getting the best grades possible. In the women's dormitories, she kept to herself. Her roomates, Irina Sharakova, an archeology student and Tanya Avetnikoff, a ballet student, thought Anna distant because she was always surrounded by books. Anna took full advantage of the university library. When she wasn't reading in the library during her free time, she spent it reading in her room.

By the time Anna was to graduate, her writing skills caught the eye of Professor Mikhail Genkov, himself a renowned proficient of Anton Chekov.

"Anna, you must try to develop your writing style. Do not copy the style of others," he admonished.

It was through Professor Genkov's constant urging that Anna realized he was correct. She knew she loved Chekov, but to emulate his style was wrong for her.

"Your love of Chekov is worthy. But, you must realize you can write what you know from the world you were born into," Professor Genkov said.

The world I was born into is uninteresting by the standards of peasant life in rural villages in our country, she mused.

How can I write from the world I was born into?

This was a question that would haunt Anna until she completed her education. The world she was surrounded by was dangerous and often like living atop a sharp knife ready to slice anyone who dared veer right or left of center.

She felt sad when it was time to leave university. Irina Sharakova was being conscripted into a group of archaeologists who would be working on antiquities in Greece. Tanya Avetnikoff was already a member of corp of the Bolshoi. Anna felt as if she had no direction.

More and more her country gravitated toward the works of the Prussian born philosopher and economist, Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin and their ideas of state capitalism. For Anna, this meant keeping her love of writing far less visible.

Anna, now twenty-five years old in 1904, stopped into a state run book store. She could see already the changes in literature. She was shocked at the headline in a newspaper: her beloved Chekov died in Germany. His body would be returned to Russia for burial. For Anna, Chekov's passing left her feeling as if there was an enormous hole in her heart.

Anna continued to keep her writing invisible to the public eye. She visited Alexei and Yelena twice a year on holidays and allowed them to read her writings. Alexei was proud; but, Yelena lived in fear her daughter would be exposed to the Bolsheviks now in power in government.

"Mama, a writer must have experiences, no matter the danger. It is how writers become great writers. I cannot write word after word of things that do not matter," Anna said.

"But daughter, you are a woman. Women cannot place themselves in danger because they cannot protect themselves as men can," Yelena said.

"Mama, I am not planning to return to Moscow," Anna said.

Yelena was thrilled. Her daughter was coming home!

"I am planning to do as Chekov did. I want to see how the starving people of our country really live. I want to tell the world so they will know Russians are deeply in need of help they will never ask for out of national pride. If no one tells the world of their plight, how will our country survive?" Anna said.

"And where do you plan to live? You have a very small income. Your father and I cannot provide more. Please, I beg of you. Remain here in our village. It is safe and far from the eyes of men in government who seek domain over all of Russia," Yelena said.

"Mama, I am planning to go to Tolyatti. I have read that there are many, many poor people there," Anna said.

"Tolyatti? But, that is a dangerous place where many men have no work," Yelena said.

"Mama, our daughter is a visionary. She cannot write what she cannot experience. Anna will be fine. Her experiences in Tolyatti will make her a more understanding writer," Alexei said.

Yelena's aging brow was deeply wrinkled when she and Alexei said goodbye to their daughter. It would be the last time Anna would see them.

It was as Yelena had said about Tolyatti. Men were jobless, homeless and...lawless. Anna found a small room in the home of Pietr and Maya Voltenski. It was located on the rim of the city and away from the shops and noise.

Tolyatti was not far from the sea. Yet, the climate was mild enough to be tolerable for residents. It was clear Tolyatti was suffering from lack of jobs. Anna helped the Voltenskis with her meager government stipend. She paid for her room but gave back by purchasing flour to make bread and whatever cheeses could be had in the mostly empty markets.

It was in Tolyatti that Anna would meet a man with a great impact on her life. Anna met Andrei Zolotnik as she walked to the market to shop for Maya and Pietr. He was dressed in a black great coat and cap.

The two collided during a sudden wild gust of wind. Anna was stuck by the man's height and his angular face that was framed by black hair and the dark eyes of a Gypsy. Since poor men picked the pockets of other men or stole purses from women to survive, Anna assumed this was the way of Andrei.

Instead, as they collided, Andrei smiled and tipped his cap.

"I am so sorry, sir," Anna said.

"It is the wind, I am afraid."

Anna didn't see Andrei again for several weeks. The next time they met, he was sitting with a cup of coffee in his hand at a table outside a cafe. Anna was drawn to the man. She walked toward the cafe and ordered a cup of strong tea. Although there was another empty place, Anna approached Andrei's table.

"May I join you?" she asked.

This was the most brazen thing Anna had done in her life and she wasn't even certain why.

"I am so sorry for the intrusion. The other tables are occupied," Anna lied.

"You. We have met before. That windy day several weeks ago," Andrei said, ignoring Anna's slight fabrication of the truth.

"Why yes. I do believe we met that day. We should introduce ourselves, no?" Anna said.

"I am Andrei Zolotnik and you?"

"I am Anna Chertova. I am a writer. My parent's village is near Melikhovo," Anna said.

"That is a long way from Tolyatti. Why are you here?"

"I chose Tolyatti because I wish to tell the story of the people who live here," Anna said.

"They have no story to tell. Hunger, starvation and deprivation is not a story. It is our way of life. Just as the curse of mindless poverty is our way of life," Andrei said.

Anna gave no response. She studied the man's manner and his features carefully, soaking them into her memory as if her mind was a sponge.

From the papers Anna could find, everywhere in Moscow there were whispers that the Bolsheviks were the ruling party and would soon establish a communist government.

She wondered how this would affect her future plans and her life in general.

"Anna, you didn't answer my question. Why are you here? Surely, you do not wish to make fools of the poor in Tolyatti," Andrei said.

"I want to write in the voice of the people of Tolyatti. My muse is Chekov since I was a child. His writing inspires me. You know Chekov?"

"Yes. I also know many Russian writers start writing in the voice of the people and end up making their voices like sharp knives. It is very dangerous at this moment in time to be a writer. Lenin does not approve of frivolity of any kind. Socialists all believe it is a grave offense against the state to waste time on such foolishness when there is so much work to be done," Andrei said.

"And you, Andrei? What do you believe?" she asked.

"I believe you are a woman alone in a strange place at the wrong time in our country's history. I believe you should consider keeping silence about your plans for your writing or return to the safety from whence you came."

Anna should have sensed Andrei's words came from his desire to warn her. Yet beneath that desire, she saw something more...a man who was living on the edge of fear.

She hadn't been raised to waste time either. Her father had seen to that. Still, there was a clear vision of using time in worthwhile endeavors.

That night all alone in her room, the urge to write of the time spent with Andrei was overwhelming. She rose from her warm bed in her night gown and began to put pen to paper. She wrote without any direction. She wrote only what occurred and the nuances of what the conversation had been between herself and Andrei .

She discovered that deep inside of what occurred was something Anna realized was a much bigger picture. She needed to know how the common people accepted the Bolsheviks. She decided the very next day she would seek out Bolshevik sympathizers. She knew she would have to be careful about the questions she asked and to limit the number of sympathizers, if she could find any willing to talk.

On her way to market, Anna stopped to look at an artist's painting. A stocky, man with a bushy, red mustache started toward her.

"Madame is interested in my painting?" he asked.

"Why yes. I am; but, I am sure I cannot afford it. It is such a lovely winter scene of this city," she said.

"Madame should know art is not going to be allowed much longer in public places. Already, I have been warned to close my gallery," he said.

"But, art is an important part of all Russians. Will they close the Empress Ekaterina's palace with all its wondrous art?" Anna asked.

"I am sure they will. Madame must know artists today are some of Russia's poorest peasants. I would accept whatever you can afford to pay. I am ashamed to say, my poverty is such."

"What is your name, sir?"

"Pavel Kustodiev," he answered.

Anna browsed a few more of his works. She decided on one of his self-portraits. In this portrait, Pavel was much younger and Anna liked the rustic scenery in the background.

"I will have this one," she said.

She handed him fifty rubles. The man's expression of delight made Anna grin broadly.

"It is enough for your painting?"

"Madame is more than generous," he said.

He wrapped the painting in burlap and handed it to her.

"Might I ask what is Madame's name?"

"I am Anna Chertov," she answered.

"Is madame an artist or art lover?"

"I am a writer who is a Russian who also loves art."

Pavel smiled and took one step back to see this young woman who was a writer. It was grand to see a Russian woman brave enough to take on the challenge of writing in such times.

"Is madame published?"

"Not yet. In due time, I hope to present my first book to publishers."

"Monsieur, I am interested to know of Bolshevik sympathizers," Anna said.

Pavel shrank back as if he had been bitten by a dragon.

"Oh, Madame. You do not want to know such a thing."

"I want to know why the common Russian man and woman wouldsympathize with the Bolsheviks," Anna said, flatly.

"It is dangerous Madame. So very dangerous," he responded.

"It is of no worry to you, sir. I have only a desire to write in the voices of the people. You can see that I must understand what the Russian people think and feel. I must know from them why they trust Bolshevism."

The man leaned closer to Anna and whispered,

"The desperate trust those who keep them alive. In these times, being alive or dead has nothing to do with trust. It has to do with survival. A hungry man trusts Rasputin if that tyrant fills his belly.

Peasants want to work and earn a living to feed themselves and their families. This is what Bolshevism promises them," Pavel said.

Anna was shocked at how sharply Pavel expressed his feelings. She made a mental note of his expression, his demeanor and his opinion. Clearly, Pavel was anti-Bolshevism.

"Perhaps, our beloved country will be more well fed under Communism?" she asked.

"We will be better off when there is work for men and pay that allows them to eat," he hissed.

"Why is there so little work in Tolyatti?"

"Men work at digging coal to keep rich men warm in our bitter winters," Pavel said.

"Are they not paid for their work then?"

"A dead man who has been worked to his end has no need of pay," Pavel said.

"Pavel, you have been most helpful. I will pay you for your help," Anna said.

She reached into her purse. Just as she did, Pavel put his hand over hers to prevent her from paying him.

"But, you can use the money, no?" she asked.

"If the local authorities find I earn too much, they will confiscate my art and my personal possessions."

Anna saw the fear in Pavel's eyes. She felt as if the world she knew in her small village home and here in Tolyatti were like two strangers.

When she returned to to the Voltenski home, she saw tears in Maya's eyes and a very worried expression on Pietr's face.

"Has something happened?" Anna asked.

"Pietr is to be sent off to Yakutsk," Maya said tearfully.

"Anna, you know Yakutsk? I am to be in charge of miners there. Yakutsk winters are death to people who have never lived there. I will not make my wife endure it. She must remain behind. She wants to be in Yakutsk with me. I cannot allow it," Pietr said.

Anna was in shock. She didn't know why Pietr was being sent to a desolate, frozen part of Russia. It was where authorities sent those they considered a danger to their revolution. Pietr Voltenski was neither a writer or artist nor a threat to anyone. He was a small shop keeper who sold only government approved goods at government approved prices. Maya eked out her living as a seamstress in a small ladies shop in Tolyatti. This news angered Anna.

"Pietr, Maya will be alright here in Tolyatti. Together, she and I will raise enough money to keep your home here when you return," Anna said.

"Anna, you don't understand. The authorities mean I should never return!" Pietr said.

Maya began to sob loudly. Anna put her arm around the woman to comfort her. There could never be any consolation for dividing a husband and wife.

With Pietr gone, Maya and Anna kept to themselves. Whispers were rampant of a World War in Europe. Already the government was conscripting young men into the military.

"Why do men fight?" Maya asked.

"Because they lack the ability to grasp and hold onto peace," Anna responded.

The two women's days droned on endlessly in a bleak, mindlessly frigid Russian winter. Russians are the hardiest people in the world and nothing, not even temperatures of 50 degrees below zero, prevent them from their daily chores or their work.

This Tolyatti winter brought snow storms with fierce knife-like winds and snow drifts that covered the tops of smaller cottages in town and the windows on the first levels of two-story buildings. Yet, Tolyattans took it all in their stride. They bore down upon the snowy onslaught with their usual manner: Awake, dress warmly and don sturdy, knee-high leather boots. The sound of shoveling was everywhere.

In Tolyatti, Anna tread carefully when asking questions for the novel she was writing, "The Triumph of Tolyatti Peasants," She wanted to write her work to reflect the difference between Russian men and Russian women and their attitudes toward struggle, austerity and inequities imposed on them by the authorities.

She chose to combine the characteristics of all of the women whose paths crossed hers: her mother, Yelena, her former roomates, Tanya and Irina and of course, Maya Voltenski.

Anna studied their personalities, combing through each one of their basic instincts and sensitivities, looking for the common thread. She would do the same with the men she would write about like her own father, Alexei, Professor Genkov, Andrei Zolotnik, the artist Pavel and Pietr Voltenski.

Anna was given work in a shipping office. Her duties reminded her of a machine she once saw while on a trip with her father. The machine operated mechanically and without failure. Anna checked orders all day until her eyes grew tired and blurry. She rose with the sun, when and if,  the Tolyatti sun rose in winter and dressed quickly to avoid the cold air in the Voltenski home. Maya had to save on fuel. So, the two women slept in separate rooms with heavy featherbeds atop their bodies.

"It will be alright, Maya," Anna said, when Maya complained of the cold and austerity.

"Yes. I know. At least, we have a roof over our heads," Maya answered.

"We should be thankful for that," Anna responded.

"Be careful of too much thanks for too little. It has a way of making too little become much less. Then, we must be even more thankful," Maya chided.

Sometimes, the women mused about their happy childhood days.

"How happy I was in Petrograd," Maya said.

"I was also a happy child in our small village. I wanted nothing more than to write like Chekov," Anna said.

"You must curb your desire to write. If you are caught by the authorities, we will both be imprisoned. Oh how I wish my Pietr was here," Maya exclaimed sadly.

She sighed deeply and gazed out the window over her hot glass of tea, the traditional way Russians drink tea...a tall thick glass in a fine filagree holder, filled near to the top with tea flavored with dried orange rind and dusted with a bit of cinnamon or cloves. She held her hands close to the hot tea to keep them warm.

"It is the most difficult thing to be parted from loved ones," Anna said.

"Do you long for your parents?" Maya asked.

"I long for my parents as they were in the past. Our Belgorod village is no longer a cocoon where they are safe from outsiders who want to control them," Anna said.

"No one in Mother Russia is safe today. I hear whispers among the peasants. Our men are being sent to "the Eastern Front" and already Nikolai Nikolaevich has been named Commander-in-Chief by the Czar,"

"Will your Pietr go to there?"

"I do not have any letters from Pietr since he left. He fears writing to his own wife may be some type of code of insurrection and protest," Maya said.

"But, you are not a protester. You are a woman alone, thanks to the government," Anna said.

"Do you see? The authorities fear my anger at having my husband taken from me might cause me to start a protest!" Maya said, tears streaming down her face.

So much unhappiness in Tolyatti and so little hope.

"This endless bitter winter does nothing to help us hope for the better," Anna said.

"Life is an endless winter. We just don't know that when we are born," Maya said.

Anna had to agree. She lived a relatively happy life until she left college. Then, as if a curtain came down on the last act of a play with no audience to cheer on the players, life around her began to unravel.

The work in the shipping office made Anna feel insignificant. Yet, there was something about the paperwork that fascinated her. Tolyatti was growing as a shipping port. This meant more shipping papers to be checked and processed. If there was any value to her work, it was only the limited communication with men who required shipping invoices to be checked by Anna. The faces of these men told her that life beyond Tolyatti was not much better.

She adopted a philosophical mindset that she put into her writing. She described each man's face, his demeanor, speech and attitude. Most of these men rose from agricultural peasantry to a more urban status. Still, these were men who, in many ways, were pushed harder and harder by employers, most of whom  represented the Czar.

Anna thought about that in great detail. She knew, even as a child, everything peasants had came from the ruling class. Most Russians knew this to be a fact of their lives.

Anna saw her writing taking a very different direction than she intended. Instead of being a descriptive collage of her people, it was almost impossible to avoid injecting the impact authority had on each individual's life. She was soon to discover the degree of this impact.

All around her, people were dividing into ideological groups she wanted no part of. There were the powerful Bolsheviki, led by Vladimir Lenin and Alexander Bogdanov. There were also the secret splinter groups such as those founded by Martov and Marx. It was enough to make Anna's head spin.

She had to ask herself if she could believe in "any" ideology other than the peace and tranquility taught to her by her parents. But in these times, peace and tranquility was scarce and seemed to be anathema to revolutionaries. She wondered if she would be drawn into the commoner's realm of ideology.

She considered men like Pavel visionaries who possessed the only reminders of a society where peace could produce greatness. She wrote of visionaries and revolutionaries in a manner she knew, if discovered by the authorities, could land her in a Siberian prison.

Inside the mind of every Russian is the drive to see people and events from the deepest level. This often causes misunderstandings and outright disagreements. The wealthy in Moscow do not want to know of the poverty in Tolyatti, just as the poor in Tolyatti do not want to be reminded of the consequences of protest in Petrograd. The thread that ties all Russians together is their undying love of country. They may dislike or openly hate their leaders, but they never hate their country.

It may be said if you do not want truth presented to you in the most direct form, don't ask a Russian the question. You will not like the brutally honest answer. Perhaps, the need to be so direct originates from the sectarian diversity that exists throughout the country. Anna pondered this idea. She made notes to herself to study the difference in the regions throughout Russia. Just not at this point in time. Such study and research could potentially expose her as a writer stirring up sectarian revolution.

Anna liked to look out the window and try to see Pavel's artistic view of the landscape as he would see it in full color and with its rough and smooth edges somehow blending into a unique world of its own. She used this panorama and converted it into the words in her writing. She hoped it is what her beloved author, Chekov, would have approved.

She spoke to no one of her writing, save Maya, who continually warned her of the dangers of putting such thoughts to paper. Maya knew living with a writer implicated her in the government's view of writers as dangerous dissenters. She knew that at this particular time in Russia's history, writers were considered more dangerous than an invading army.

Anna loathed war and warring men. Always men find something to disagree with or to go to battle over. At this juncture, the entire world seemed ready to kill themselves for some belief Anna didn't understand. If not for the deep interest in her secret writings, her job at the shipping office had grown dull as dish water and mentally tiresome. Not that it was physically demanding. It was routine and lacked any intellectual stimulation. To any writer, routine is a death sentence.

"Maya, maybe when spring comes we can go to my parents' home in Belgorod," Anna mused.

"You mean we can go if the local authority allows us to," Maya said.

Anna shrugged her lean, mostly bony shoulders. She'd lost weight she couldn't afford to lose since leaving her parents home. Food was becoming scarce and Maya and Anna had to become more prudent and creative about the food they were able to buy. The shops in Tolyatti were beginning to show signs of less availability of goods and with scarcity, higher prices.

"I am sorry, Anna. I do not mean to dissuade you."

Anna gave no response. It was true that if they left Tolyatti for any reason, they had to get the proper travel papers or they wouldn't get through checkpoints.

The next morning the two women woke to a blizzard. Russians endure blizzards as no others in the world, except perhaps indigenous peoples of the most notherly part of the country who were born to subzero climates.

Already, Maya had begun to shovel a path to the street. Young men and old awaken before dawn to shovel snow, while the women tended to the paths to the street. It was a ritual of life in Tolyatti.

As Maya shoveled, Anna dressed and hurried to help her. Anna noticed that the biting cold caused Maya's eyes to tear. Anna handed her a handkerchief to wipe her face to avoid the tears freezing and cracking her skin.

"It must be glorious to live in warmer temperatures. At least, tears do not freeze," Anna said, trying to lighten the moment.

"I am thinking of my Pietr. He lives amid blizzards every day," Maya said, wiping the tears from her face.

When the two women finished shoveling, they headed in different directions to their jobs.

While the women were at work, Maya's home was searched. Anna's journal was found. The two women arrived home and thought there had been a burglary. Anna hurried off to her room and quickly discovered her journal missing.

"This was not a burglary! Maya! My journal is gone! The authorities have discovered me. I am so sorry. I promise I will make sure they understand you knew nothing," Anna said.

For nearly two weeks, the silence after her journal had been stolen was deafening. Anna paced in front of the fireplace in the kitchen nervously. She knew what was coming. She wondered when the authorities would come for her.

She needn't have wondered. As soon as the deep snows melted, the authorities came to her place of employment. Without a word from either of the two burly politsiya, Anna was led away. She would never again see the shipping office. She looked back at the other workers. Their facial expressions told all: They had been working with a revolutionary.

The two men took her to Pietr and Maya's home and demanded Anna hand over her personal possessions and books. She had only written a total of three journals.

"All of them!" they shouted at her.

"These are the only journals I have written."

"And books you read? Where are they?"

"You want cooks books?" Anna asked.

A meaty hand came down across her face. She was glad she had not taken any of Chekov's books with her. They were at least safe in her parents home. Or, so she hoped. She wondered now if she would ever see her parents again. They were elderly and not much use to the authorities. She hoped they would not hold her parents responsible for what the government believed was her "violation."

Anna was taken first to a local place of confinement. She hoped she would be released quickly when the authorities realized her writing was not in any way offensive, merely her observations. She was wrong.

In her confinement, she met with at least two dozen others confined for various offenses. To her surprise, Pavel was one of them.

"Pavel! You are here too?" Anna said.

"We will be here for only a short time before they decide what to do with us," Pavel said.

"But, your art work and your gallery. What will become of them?" Anna asked.

"You know what will happen. What always happens when men in charge decide you do not fit into their regimental thinking. They will set fire to it," Pavel said.

Pavel was right. She was brought before a local judge. It seemed as if her punishment was already decided before she was allowed to plead innocent of the charges lodged against her. This was the first time Anna heard the word, "Cheka" the committee that brought punishment upon Russians dissenters considered "enemies of the state" by Lenin's standards.

Anna realized she was considered one of those "enemies of the state." Her captivity would endow her with experiences and greater knowledge of Russian obsession with political repression of thought by men whose only real concerns were absolute power.

One name, Tukhachevsky, seemed to instill terror in the hearts of those labeled "dissidents." In whispers, she heard the name and the words "bloodthirsty," "savage," and "murderer" linked together. For the first time in her life, Anna was afraid.

"Anna, stay away from those who whisper in this place," Pavel warned.

"I cannot help to overhear their whispers," Anna said.

"You must! Do not in any way appear to be one of them," he added.

"I am a long way from my parents and my future is unclear," Anna said, tears welling in her eyes.

"Confinement here means we will be sent to Kharkiv," Pavel said.

"Kharkiv?"

"The purges of enemies of the state are confined to camps in Kharkiv."

Several days later, Anna heard the engines of the miltiary trucks. As night fell, those in confinement were hurried into the trucks. Snow fell heavily as the trucks moved slowly along bumpy, icy dirt roads heading south to the camp in Kharkiv. No food was provided. The trip would last nearly one day when trucks deposited their human cargo in a camp in a heavily wooded area.

"Pavel, will they provide food for us?" Anna asked.

"Anna, even in Tolyatti, hunger has grown to be a monster. Hunger is out of control for all but the wealthiest. The authorities are stealing food for themselves and hoarding it or providing it to their foot soldiers to make sure they can fight," Pavel said.

The group was hustled into a long log building with small windows. When Anna was inside, she saw it was just a single room from the entrance to the rear wall. Already, the building contained nearly fifty others.

"Take to your cots and do not speak with each other. It is forbidden," one of the foot soldiers said.

From the looks of those already in captivity, Pavel was correct. They would be fed only what the soldiers threw in the garbage. Anna felt her stomach roiling.

When she lay on her cot, her stomach rumbling for sustenance, she realized she committed no crime and yet she was a criminal.

As the last days of winter passed Kharkiv, Anna and those confined in the camp became quite creative about finding food. The soldiers looked the other way at those who fed from the scrub brush that poked through the twelve foot high fence around the camp.

"Anna do you not remember an old friend?" a painfully thin man with a white beard and thinning hair asked.

Anna stood back to take in the man's image more fully.

"I am Andrei, remember? Andrei Zolotnik?"

Anna reached forward to hug Andrei; but, he pushed her away.

"No. Anna you must not show familiarity here in this place. It will bring further punishment if you are caught," Andrei said.

Anna was shocked at the sight of her old friend. They had met such a long time ago. Anna mused that it was the wild wind in Tolyatti that day that brought them together. But, Andrei was not a writer. Why was he here?

"Andrei, why are you here?" Anna asked.

"My great sin against the Motherland was to be a scientist who knew to much the government wanted kept secret," Andrei said.

He knew Anna didn't understand.

"When we met, it was Bolsheviks who were in control. Now, it is the Stalinist Communists. And peasant people must follow like sheep," Andrei said.

"Andrei, please. Take caution with your words," Anna said.

"How long have you been confined here?" she asked.

"Nearly from the moment we met," Andrei said.

"I don't understand. You were a scientist then?"

"No. I was like you, seeking a way to earn a living. I found I could write reports for college students. That was my mistake," Andrei said.

"How so?"

"Those reports I wrote grew more deeply into advanced science theories the authorities did not like. I should have realized that even our great places of learning are under the watchful eyes of authorities," he said.

"Oh, Andrei. I am so sorry."

"There were several learned professors...Genkov, Brodkin, Vostunovski and even Ulina Valenova were whisked away for their anti-Communist ideas.

"Genkov? Genkov was my mentor and professor at university! Please say he was not killed," Anna said.

"I cannot say. My guess is these men and women of higher education were sent to die in those Siberian labor camps," Andrei said.

Life in Kharkiv seemed an endless routine of waking up to biting cold in the winter, stifling heat in the summer and being allowed "exercise" only in the camp's enclosed grounds.

As the early 1930s arrived, the camp commanders' only relenting came when they brought one grain sack of barley and told the confined to grow their own food. They stored it in their own shoes and socks to prevent soldiers from stealing it.

"Andrei, this is inhuman. We grow food as we are ordered to and they steal what little there is," Anna said.

"Do not speak of it. Here in this prison encampment, your thoughts are forbidden and punishable. You recall what happened last month when Vladimir Rostov suddenly went missing? He didn't disappear. He was likely shot to death when they found he was hoarding grain under the mattress of his cot," Andrei said.

"Anna, there is something more. A German leader's army is said to be crossing into Poland and Hungary. I overheard two camp soldiers say Bulgaria is taking the side of the Germans," Andrei said.

Anna introduced Pavel to Andrei. The three tried to avoid the watchful eyes of camp soldiers. But, all three knew their comradery was not missed.

"Of course, Bulgaria would take the side of enemies of Soviets. They are a monarchy. The Bolsheviks hated the Czar and killed him to rid the motherland of a monarch," Pavel said.

"Bulgarians will soon know their trust in Germans will come to naught," Andrei put in.

"So, Russia is vulnerable now to this German horde?" Anna asked.

"Russia is vulnerable to no one. Germans are unused to Russia's cold and its strong, hardy people. They dare cross into Russian land and their armies will freeze to death," Andrei said.

"Do you think our country will ever be at peace?" Anna asked.

"I think peace in Russia is a vision, not a reality. We live each day fighting to survive hunger, starvation, cold and war," Pavel said.

"What will happen if Germany invades?" Anna asked.

"Germany may invade; but, it will never conquer Russia. We fight enough among ourselves. How would an enemy control that?" Andrei asked.

Anna fell asleep that night thinking about Andrei and Pavel's words. How she wished she could write! But, in this camp, all writing implements were confiscated on sight.

Then, Anna figured another way. In summer, she picked several sprigs of purple berries to use for ink. She fashioned a "pen" from a small dried, hollow stem of a weed. She used fabric from a torn blouse to write her thoughts. Then, she pinned the blouse to her undergarment where camp soldiers were not likely to look. They'd already torn up floor boards in search of "contraband."

Anna realized when creative people are forbidden from excising their minds, they find other avenues, nearly invisible to the soldiers to store these items.

One of the men in the camp had been a sculptor. He found stones outside of their building and carved them into small figures. The one he carved for Anna reminded her of the tiny ballerina statue she once had in her room in Belgorod. To the naked eye, it looked like an ordinary stone. When turned upside down, the image was obvious. Anna was amazed at the ingenuity and craftsmanship.

Always, there was work to be done. The men worked hardest or so it seemed to Anna. They were forced into trucks to work for the authorities at their summer homes.

In Russia, the hardiest farms grew root vegetables and grain crops like wheat, flax and barley. Sometimes the captives were deposited at large pig farms. The women were put to work creating flour from grains or preparing root vegetables to be marketed in Moscow. The days began at sun up. They were fed soup or mash twice a day, barely enough food to keep them alive. Yet, most of those in the camp proved to be survivors.

"Pavel, what will become of us when the Great War is over?" Anna asked.

"We are Russians in our blood. I suspect if they cannot keep us confined due to the high costs of the camps, they will release those they consider the least dangerous enemies of the state," he answered.

"Yes. But, you will live the rest of your life always like a bug under a microscrope," Andrei said.

Anna sometimes wondered if death might provide more freedom than life in the mother country. If she was going to be constantly watched by the government, how much freedom would she really have?

"Anna, you are a grown woman and quite a talented writer. It is the Russian writer who will save this country from itself. You know Russian leaders find it difficult to accept change. Use your memory of Chekov and his writings and your own to show the people life can be free and they truly do have choice.

"You are a visionary, Andrei Zolotnik," Anna said.

Anna knew Andrei Zolotnik's thoughts were always that of the visionary. Yet, she also knew that it is only in retrospect Russians learn from the mistakes of the past.

The Great War ended by 1945 and as Andrei predicted, Germans died at the Russian borders from the cold. Many believed the Great German leader's dream of controlling Russia was the reason his armies lost all their power.

As the world settled into a cold war, Andrei was right about Anna's future. The number of those confined dwindled over the years as older men and women died of starvation or labor exhaustion.

Now, at war's end all that remained were twelve captives: Anna, Andrei, Pavel, the sculptor Igor Zhenkov and eight others, from various parts of the country. All were released. But, it was as Andrei predicted. Each was returned to the town of village from whence they came so authorities could keep them always under constant surveillance.

In Tolyatti, a vigorous 67 year old Anna Chertova began putting her life experiences into a book. She completed her original book, "The Triumph of Tolyatti Peasants," as she planned, telling the story of Andrei, Pietr and Maya Voltenski and of course, Pavel Kustodiev.

Her new book would be titled, "The Sugar Beet Roots of Russian Women." The title was an indication of how Russian life is sweetest to those who plant their roots like the famous Russian sugar beet crops. Always the Chekovian metaphorist, Anna knew those who chose to read her book would understand the meaning.

Of the few friends she'd made in her lifetime, only Pavel remained. Maya begged the government to allow her to live with her husband in Yakutsk and they granted her appeal.

Alexei and Yelena Chertov died while Anna was in imprisoned in Kharkiv. Anna knew the watchful eyes of the Soviets, even in 1949, would make a trip to her parent's graves in Belgorod impossible. She was too old now to take the chance of offending the government. It would be another four years until the cruel Josef Stalin would die and Nikita Kruschev would replace him.

Anna Chertova's books were not best sellers and maybe never would be. But, her love of writing began with her love of Anton Chekov, Russia's greatest writer.

The Lady in the Lighthouse

Boatsmen and sailors laid claim to seeing a lady standing in the window at the top of a Penobscot Bay Lighthouse for three decades. Some said it was a young woman with long dark hair. Others believed it was an older woman with salt and pepper hair. All agreed it was a woman. There was just no changing their minds that they imagined this vision or that, perhaps, it was the glint of sun on the Penobscot Bay waters that caused this peculiar apparition.

The lighthouse was typical of many of the designs of lighthouses along the Atlantic Coastline. It was a brick affair, approximately 75 feet tall, that was a guide for seafarers who traversed the oftentimes turbulent waters around land off the coast of Maine.

The coastline steadily smaller with each storm  until all that remained high above the cliffs was the white, cone-shaped column with the black trimmed light at the top of the lighthouse.

This lighthouse was unique in that it sits upon a sharp, angular "arm" that juts outward into the bay. It is difficult to imagine the dangers that occurred in the deep, dark bay waters before the lighthouse was built. When fogs or storms at sea rolled in, vessels were dashed against the rocks and sailors became part of the legendary Davy Jones Locker.  This is what occurred with the vessel, "The Montmorte" in 1875.

The route to the lighthouse "arm" from the mainland was treacherous. During the later Colonial years, the lighthouse was the subject of many rumors that it had peculiar low hanging fogs that caused shipwrecks and strange sightings.

The Tale of the Lady in the Lighthouse
A deckhand on a the ship, "Montmorte" was on duty on a cold autumn night in 1875 as the vessel headed toward Penobscot Bay loaded with cargo made in the colonies. Deckhand, Jean le Coeur, was the first to see the shape of the jutting arm and the lighthouse above in the dense fog. He called his sighting to the first mate. The Montmorte began to veer to the right to avoid the rocky coastline and to head toward Phippsburg where it was to unload its cargo.

As the ship drew closer to land, he saw the figure of a woman at the edge of the shore, her long hair flying in gusty winds. He ran to the first mate to tell him what he saw. The first mate, Yves Roche, used his telescoping glass to see the figure up closer. With the dense fog, he saw only a muted shape that appeared to be standing like a vision at the edge of the shore.

The first mate  approached Captain Renier and asked what should be done.

"We are Frenchmen. We do not leave a woman in distress stranded. Approach the waters and send a skiff ahead to investigate and bring her aboard. We are only ten miles to Phippsburg. We will hand her over to the proper authorities there," Captain Renier said.

The first mate prepared for the rescue. Jean le Coeur was one of five sailors chosen to rescue the stranded woman.

As their  small craft approached the rocky shore, the woman was not to be seen. The first mate led the party toward the lighthouse.

"Sir, the lady must have gone round to the other side of the lighthouse," Jean said.

"Find her. We must make haste. The fog is heavier and we need the Montmorte away from these treacherous waters," Yves Roche said.

Lettiere and de la Croix went around the lighthouse to the east and le Coeur and Jacques Chenier went round to the west.

"Are you sure you saw a woman here?" Ambroise Letierre asked.

"I am as certain as I stand upon this ground. She must be here," Jean replied.

When the four sailors all returned without the woman, Yves Roche decided they must check inside the lighthouse.

"But, sir. The lighthouse. It is locked," Didiere de la Croix said.

"No matter. There must be entry or we go back to the ship as fools who have seen a phantom," Yves Roche said.

Jean Le Coeur was quite adept at dealing with old locks. His father had been a locksmith in Batteau, Quebec and his grandfather before him in Lyon, France. He taught Jean the art of slipping locks and was dismayed when Jean was unable to quell his romance with the sea and take up locksmithing.

Once open, the wood paneled lighthouse door led to a large circular base that was sparsely furnished, save chairs and one small table on the facing wall. The black, wrought iron, circular staircase went round and round, each with rooms at separate levels, as they climbed the steps to the top of the lighthouse where the large cone shaped lamp was situated. The large glass lamp had a long wick and wood bin that keep the flame burning.

The men checked the rooms at each level. No woman was anywhere to be found.

"Look there! Ambroise yelled to Yves.

Le Coeur, Chenier, de la Croix and Lettiere all gathered around Roche.

Yves Roche walked toward the small damp spot on the floor. He looked up to see if perhaps a leak could have caused it. But, he saw that the rim of the light was securely set against the bricks with cement.

He was puzzled. He knelt down near the spot. By his calculations, the spot was approximately 36 inches in diameter. He placed the fingertips of his right hand on the spot. The men glanced quizzically at each other and then back at their first mate.

There was something else he noticed as he stood erect. He walked over to the window on the seaward side of the interior wall. It too was damp as if someone had stood against it. He stood back several paces.

"There was someone here, Jean. Of that there is no doubt. See there? The damp shape near the window forms the shape of a cloak," Yves said.

Sailors are very superstitious by nature. Now, the four sailors believed this lighthouse to be haunted.

"Sir, if a woman was here, where could she go in such dense fog?" Didiere asked.

"That is a question I cannot answer. We cannot linger here. Our ship awaits and the cargo must be delivered on time. Let us return to the Montmorte," Yves said.

The five sailors spent no more than forty minutes in their quest to find the mysterious woman. It wasn't Jean Le Coeur's imagination. Yves Roche, Ambroise Lettiere and Didiere de la Croix all saw the woman too. The men felt as if they'd been tricked by the fog. Now, they would have to go, hats and caps in hand, to Captain Renier and tell him they found nothing.

As soon as the five men exited the lighthouse, they could barely see their ship. The fog was so dense the dim beam at the top of the lighthouse barely extended more than an eighth mile equidistant in circumference on the dark waters of Penobscot Bay.

The men rowed back to the Montmorte. To their horror, the ship was gone as if it never existed.

"Mon Dieu! Yves Roche screamed.

"Our ship!" Le Coeur echoed.

The dark, lapping waters of Penobscot Bay had grown angrier than when they'd left their ship.

"Sir, There are no signs of the crew. It's as if a maelstrom pulled it into its vortex. Shouldn't there be at least some sign of the cargo? How can a ship disappear so?" de la Croix asked.

"We must return to the lighthouse for now. Perhaps, if there are survivors we will be able to organize their rescue," Roche said.

The men knew there was no need for rescue. The ship and all its crew were gone. As Jacques Chenier and Ambroise de la Croix rowed the small craft back to the lighthouse, once again they thought they saw the woman. This time at the top of the glass window of the lighthouse tower.

"Look there, Sir! In the lighthouse tower window! It is the woman!" Jean le Coeur screamed.

Chenier and de la Croix's attention was momentarily diverted. When a large wave battered the small craft, it was dashed against the rocky shore at its deepest curve. Yves Roche seeing their danger screamed out; but it was too late. Huge swells lapped, pushing all five men overboard just as a powerful undertow swirled them to their deaths.

News of the disappearance of the Montmorte spread across Atlantic Canada and northeast United States. The disappearance was most peculiar because there had not been major storms reported in the region on the evening of the ship's disappearance.

At first, some thought the disappearance was due to the cargo theft. That made no sense to experienced sailors. Why sink a ship loaded mostly with kegs of molasses, scrolls of burlap and crates of spices, fruits and vegetables? The Montmorte was merely trading cargo purchased by Quebec traders for goods made in the Colonies. The ship had previously held cargo like lumber for construction and decorative, hand wrought metal works.

There was another kind of trade among French Canadian and Colonial sailors: the rumor about the "lady in the lighthouse." Now, shipping routes were remapped to avoid the possibility of another eerie shipwreck. A fog bell was added to protect sailors. But, the rumors about the "Siren of the Lighthouse" remained.

In 1879, another ship ran aground. This time, it was due to a wild storm fifty miles at sea from the lighthouse shoreline.

A passenger ship, Orion, bound for Moncton with seventy passengers aboard, mostly business men and several of their family members, left Boston Harbor on a bright, sunny June morning. The weather was grand for sailing with waters stock still.

Captain Artemus Hilliard and his crew of twenty sailors prepared the Orion at the crack of dawn. Supplies were brought aboard and stowed in the cargo hull as usual. These were basics like food and other necessities for the crew. Passengers were expected to provide their own supplies for their personal needs.

Captain Hilliard called for the crewman to haul anchor and the ship started out to the open Atlantic for Penobscot Bay by seven that morning.

"No finer weather!" First Mate, Roan Candish said.

"Perhaps, a little too fine," Captain Hilliard replied.

Candish knew sea captains to be skittish and superstitious. He ignored the Captain's remark and would come to rue that he had. He watched as Captain Hilliard retired to his cabin to study their route. It was one the Orion traveled once every month for the past two years weather permitting.

Passengers spent their time either in their cabins or mostly, on deck, enjoying the heavy scent of salt air and perhaps if they were lucky, seeing a pod of porpoises or herd of whales in the open sea ahead. This trip, Candish noted, there were four children aboard.

Being a Scottish sailor all his life, he had his own superstitions. One of them was children aboard a ship. He felt as if children were a magnet to the sirens of the sea and portended some kind of disaster. He approached them warily as he continued his shipboard duties.

By noon, passengers took their midday meal on deck with a full sun overhead. The Orion sailors retired to the mess galley for their meal of kippers, thick loaves of bread and cheese.

The Orion was intentionally kept at a slow speed, about 18 knots, to give passengers the opportunity to enjoy their sail. The only time the speed accelerated was if there was a problem that caused loss of time.

Should an unexpected storm occur, Captain Hilliard might choose to increase or decrease the ship's speed. The expected time of arrival for this particular trip to Moncton would take three days at 18 knots and passengers could expect to alight at the port just after sunrise on the the third day.

Day One and Two passed uneventfully. The morning of Day Two had a warning missed by all but the Captain and crew...a red sky. Captain Hilliard knew the old seamen's belief: Red sky at dawning sailor take warning."

As the ship sailed north into the basin of Penobscot Bay, the evening of Day Two fell on a glorious rainbow colored sky of mauve, purple, deep rose, orange and dove grey. It was most breathtaking for Orion passengers who were awed by the sight.

Almost without warning, rain poured out of the sky as if a rain barrel had broken over the entire ship. Passengers ran for their cabins as sailors scurried about to secure the ship's riggings. Swells of the bay water began to lap over the ship's sides, spilling sea water over the entire deck.

Sailors scrambled to grip anything they could to maintain their balance. The ship pitched wildly to and fro in the turbulent waters. Torrential rain and swirling winds caused the ship to veer off course for more than five miles...within sight of the lighthouse.

"Captain, look the lighthouse! Just ahead."

"There's a figure in the window. Do ye see it?" Candish yelled.

The crew all turned to see the shadowy figure of a woman. Some of the crew rubbed their eyes.

"Tis she, the siren of Davy Jones Locker!" the crewman MacDarvish yelled.

"Silence to ye all!," Captain Hilliard ordered, trying to keep his ship from sinking.

The crew of the Orion watched the lighthouse lamp grow dim. Suddenly, it began to flicker wildly. Then, it went totally black. With no guide away from the rocky shoreline, the helmsman struggled to keep the Orion on course to no avail. The Orion and all its crew went down within less than ten minutes.

All aboard the Orion, save Candish, were drowned or dashed to their deaths upon the rocks.

Candish, half-drowned, belly full of sea water and aching in every part of his body, awoke on the small rim of the beach at the foot of the lighthouse.

"I'll be thanking God for saving me," he told himself.

He struggled to stand erect and fell once more upon the wet sand. He crawled slowly to the base of the steps that led in jagged formation to the parapet of the lighthouse. Clawing with all his might along rocky steps, he finally reached land at the top.

He heard a carriage and hid his head at the edge of the rocky cliff. He was afraid the Orion may have been a victim of looters who deliberately turned off the lamp in the lighthouse.

He watched as a sturdy man entered the lighthouse.

Must be the keeper Candish thought.

Something told him not to make his presence known. He knew not why. The lighthouse keeper drew a large key and unlocked the lighthouse door.

Candish was puzzled. The Orion crew all saw a woman, not a man, at the top lighthouse window.

If the lighthouse was locked, who was that woman? Was she, as MacDarvish said...the Siren of Davy Jones Locker?

Candish was just about to make his appearance known to the lighthouse keeper when he saw the man leaving with something slung over his shoulder, large and long. Candish decided it must be a piece of equipment.

He made his move toward the man.

"You there! Can ye assist a poor sailor near drowned?" Candish asked.

"Drowned you say?"

"Yes sire. The ship Orion and all its passengers lay now deep beneath the sea," Candish said.

"I shall send my man to provide ye a horse and transport to safety. I must hie away now," the man said.

Then, he slung the long parcel from his shoulder into the back of his wagon.

Candish realized the man hadn't locked the lighthouse door, his parcel weighing heavily upon his shoulder.

He wondered if the unlocked door was deliberate. Curious, Candish waited until the man and his wagon were gone. He walked into the lighthouse. Nothing seemed amiss. He climbed the winding wrought iron steps, noting rooms along each level.  He stopped to open doors to the rooms. When he reached the topmost level, he saw that the man's boots had left wet, sandy footprints.

He walked toward the lamp. There was fuel aplenty for at least one full day of illumination.

There was no reason for the lamp to go dark!  Candish thought.

He looked out the window where he saw the woman the night before. He could see for miles into the now placid waters of Penobscot Bay and further even.

Candish walked to the opposite side of the room and saw the man and his wagon a mile down the sandy path. He hurried down the steps, around the leeward side of the lighthouse which lay in shadow.

He knew not why he felt some strange sense of foreboding. Yet, there was no sign of looting on the shore that lay below the lighthouse.

The sound of the horses drew nearer. Candish positioned himself where last the man had seen him so as not to arouse suspicions that  he had entered the lighthouse.

The man brought his wagon to a halt.

"I say there sailor, Are ye the only survivor of the wrecked ship?" the man asked.

"Aye, sir."

Without warning the man drew out a long gun and fired. Candish was dead. The man then carried Candish's body down the rocky steps and waited until the next wave came to shore. Candish's body was carried out to sea.

The man returned to the wagon and rode off. He collected his day's bounty of cargo from the wreckage of the Orion and left. He rode to the small village of Mantok to sell the Orion's loot. Villagers are not prone to asking any untoward questions, particularly when it was the lifeblood of their village economy.

Everyone knew something odd was going on at the lighthouse. No one dared speak of it in public, not even when the same man in a wagon loaded down with ships' cargoes made an appearance.

Mantok Village lay at the far end, opposite lighthouse point at Penobscot Bay. It wasn't even located on a map because it had a population of under 30 people, most older men retired from life at sea.

One of these old salts was an Englishman, Jack Bloggart, who boarded his first ship at age fifteen. He'd run away from his little village home in Cornwall when he got nicked for picking pockets. Jack knew his only escape was to hop aboard one of the vessels in port. Without ever looking back, he spent the next sixty years of his life aboard one ship or another.

When at last at age sixty-two a howling storm sent him flying on the deck of the Artismore, a broken leg put an end to his sailing days. He settled in Mantok, found himself a young wife who bore him a son and died soon after his son's birth.

Jack Bloggart may have been a valuable seamen; but, he was an abusive husband to his wife, Mayetta, a half breed French Canadian and Maliseet Indian.

Jack found Mayetta as most sailors do...dockside, in a pub and waiting for a man to be her anchor. Mayetta was already with child, a fact Jack figured out when his "son" Jacob was born a tad too "soon." It was of no consequence whose son Jacob really was. Jack had one foot in his grave and he knew it.

The winter of 1868 took Jack's life when a terrible run of "influenza" spread like wildfire throughout the village. Some believed it was sailors who brought the cursed influenza on them.

At Jack Bloggart's funeral, Mayetta already had her eye on another "anchor" to save her from the poorhouse. Simon Rafferty, a handsome, big burly, always drunk, Irish  leatherwright caught Mayetta's eye and within a week, Jack Bloggart's son and wife moved into Rafferty's seaside home.

Jacob grew up hiding from Simon Raffety's drunken rages and constant beatings bestowed upon him and Mayetta. When Jacob was eight years old, Mayetta took flight and was never seen again.

Having no desire to raise Mayetta's son, Simon requested Jacob be made a ward of the court. He was sent to live with Henrietta Shamley, a woman who had aged long before her dotage. By the time she took Jacob in, she was seriously debilitated and turned the child into her very own personal maid servant.

Jacob hated the sight of the old woman more than he hated Mayetta abandoning him. He thought about poisoning the old woman. Then, he realized he'd end up in a worse situation in prison, perhaps.

"Boy! You finished your chores?" Henrietta asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Shamley. The laundry is done and your dinner is nearly ready," Jacob said, dutifully.

"Well, ye best see to it my dinner is not cold as the sea's winds," she croaked.

Henrietta Shamley often whipped Jacob with her walking cane. Not that she ever used her cane or, for that matter, walked more than a step or two. She sat all day in her room in an overstuffed chair looking out her second floor bedroom window, muttering to herself. Jacob swore she imagined there were others in the room with her.

Like his father Jack Bloggart, Jacob was fifteen when he ran away. He didn't run far. With no where to go, he took up nightly residence in the lighthouse, using a sliver of wire to enter. By day, he made sure he wasn't seen. The thick copse of trees to the rear of the lighthouse was his easy escape. Then, he made his way to the nearby village, stole whatever food he could find, returned to the woods and waited again till dark.

The lighthouse had a keeper who was an ancient old salt. Jacob watched from the woods as the old man unlocked the door of the lighthouse. His job was to keep the fuel well stocked so the lamp would not go out.

One spring morning, the old man started toward the door and collapsed. When Jacob returned at dusk, he saw the man's body lying there. He didn't know what he should do. He couldn't afford to expose that he'd been living in the lighthouse at night. He also knew that the local government might blame him for the man's death.

He decided to carry the old man's body to the shore and let the sea take it.

He took the key from the key to the lighthouse from the man's hand and the few bits of change in his possession and placed rocks in the man's pockets. As soon as the tide came in, Jacob watched as the waves carried the body out to sea. As soon as the body floated about fifty feet from shore, it disappeared beneath the waves as Jacob expected.

That night, he thought about what he should do next. He realized no one would question the man's disappearance so long as Jacob kept the lamp lit. If someone eventually figured out the man was gone, Jacob would say his "father" died and left him the duty of keeping the lamp lit.

He needn't have worried. The old man had no family that villagers were aware of. The old man, like so many others in Mantok Village spent his youth aboard ships. He'd prepared his entire sea life for a wreck and often fell asleep at night thinking of his survival. For him, salvation was the overturned skiff seamen used to come ashore.

He never married and had no children. He fell in love once as a young man with Amanda Folcome, a winsome lass a few years younger than his twenty four years of age.  She worked as a barmaid in her father's dockside pub.

Being always at sea and having lived through near misses of shipwrecks, he felt it only fair not to wed his beloved. He suffered constant night terrors where he often screamed out in his sleep. He was too ashamed to expose his suffering to a woman as precious as Amanda.

Aboard ship, he kept the lock of flame red hair and a tiny gravure of her in inside his watch fob. Whenever the ship pulled into port, the first thing he strained to see was his Amanda atop a widow's walk waiting for him. They were lovers for several years, even those last few months when her pleadings for him to stay ashore seemed to border on hysteria.

One early winter's eve as his ship pulled into port, Amanda was no where to be seen on  shore. His heart was broken when he was told his love by her father she succumbed to a siege of influenza. He tried to recover from the depths of his broken heart, even to seeking the company of other women. He was not above bedding some of them when he'd had too many tankards of ale.

Old men on ships are soon put to shore as he had been.

When the lighthouse was built, he was drawn to it like a magnet and hurried to apply for the job of keeper. He lived out the remainder of his life in service to protect other seamen from ship wrecks like the one that gave him nightmares to the end of his days. For the most part, Mantok Villagers saw him so infrequently, the rumor went about he was just an apparition.

With the old man dead, Jacob was able to live in the lighthouse for two full years before anyone ventured there.

The first stranger to approach was Thomas McKenna, a village land surveyor.

"Good day to ye sir," Thomas called out, seeing Jacob on the beach at the foot of the lighthouse.

"Good day. What is your business here?" Jacob asked.

"I am Thomas McKenna, a land surveyor. I am here to keep a record of the land upon which the lighthouse stands."

"To what purpose?" Jacob asked, breathlessly scaling the rocky steps.

"Every ten years, we are allowed to apply for funds for the upkeep of this lighthouse. Are ye  lighthouse keeper?"

"Yes. I am. I took over the job when my father passed on two years ago," Jacob lied.

"I see. Are you aware your "father's" village home is in need of repair?" Thomas asked.

"No sir. I am not. My father spent most of his time living here in the lighthouse when he became too old to make it back to the village. See there? That's his horse and wagon. I use them only to replenish the fuel for the lamp to keep it lit and for any supplies I need," Jacob said.

"Ye are an unfamiliar face in the village. Where are your accommodations now?" Thomas asked.

"The lighthouse. With storms so frequent, it makes no sense to live in the village. When my father died, he wanted to be buried at sea. The lighthouse, as ye may understand, is my respite from my grief over my father's loss," Jacob explained.

Thomas McKenna knew not why; but, he had feelings of mistrust of the young man.

"Well, I shall go about my inspection of this place, if ye please," Thomas said.

Jacob was worried. He had not considered that the old man had a home in the village. Now, he realized he would be responsible for repairs. He also considered that he could sell it or allow it to be a rental for the few summer visitors who wandered off course and needed a place to stay.

Thomas McKenna saw that the lighthouse interior was in pristine condition. He inspected the exterior and surrounding land mass. He found nothing that warranted any note of violation.

"Ye have done a good job of maintaining the lighthouse," Thomas said.

"That is how I spend my days and nights," Jacob answered.

"Do stop and consider your "father's" village home in need of repair. I am sure ye may bring it to a safe, livable condition," Thomas said.

Thomas patted Jacob's shoulder and mounted his horse and with a wave of his hat, he was gone.

Jacob hastened to the old man's village home. It was more a small cottage than a home. The land surveyor was right. The roof was in need of repair. Several of the shutters on the front of the cottage hung loosely and were ready to fall in a strong wind. The grass around the cottage was knee high.

The mean furnishings consisted of a table and chair for eating meals, a small post bed and several oil lamps. The rough-hewn cupboard had only a tea pot, cup and saucer and a single dinner plate with a chip on the rim. The only utensils were a hand wrought cutting knife, a spoon and fork. The fireplace needed a good cleaning and Jacob figured the flue as well.

Jacob realized this run down cottage was no place for a rental. Instead, he decided he would keep it for his own. He heard a knock on the cottage's slatted wood door.

He opened it to see a postmaster with mail in his hands.

"Are ye the old man's kin? I saw your horse tethered out front," the postmaster said.

"Yes. I am his "son," Jacob lied.

"I have several stacks of mail your father has not collected for nearly two years. Is he about?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry my father passed away two years ago. Hence, his uncollected mail. Might I take it?"

"Well, ye being next of kin,.Ye be entitled to claim it.  He has several of his lighthouse keeper pension vouchers needs cashing at Mantok bank. I used to do it for him. Shall I see to it for ye?"

"No. That won't be necessary. I am trying to clear away my father's papers. I need to go to Mantok to settle things there," Jacob said.

The postmaster handed Jacob two stacks, five inches high of correspondence.

It took Jacob the entire night to go through all of it. To his amazement, there was nearly one hundred dollars in pension vouchers. Jacob hastened the very next day to Mantok to cash the vouchers.

"Sir, do ye wish to deposit the cash in your father's account?" the bank clerk asked.

"My father never spoke of an account at this bank. I do not have his bank journal," Jacob said.

"No need. We can withdraw the money in his account and set up an account in your name."

"Can ye tell me how much will be withdrawn?"

"Just one moment. I will check for ye."

When the bank clerk returned with a small sheet of paper, she showed Jacob the entries. The old man had squirreled away nearly all of his lighthouse keeper pension vouchers.

"As ye can see, sir, Mr. Penworth was quite a wealthy man," the clerk said.

"Will ye be wanting the small box he left here in safe keeping?" she asked.

The clerk returned with a hand carved wooden box with a metal hasp. Jacob didn't want to appear hasty and decided not to open it in the clerk's presence.

He withdrew the money the old man had in life savings and hastened back to the lighthouse. The first thing he did was open the wooden box. He sat down at the small table and tried to open the hasp. It had obviously not been opened in a while. He drew out his pocket knife and forced the hasp open.

The box had only one item in it: a old watch with a fob. Instinctively, Jacob wound the timepiece and held it to his ear. It began ticking. He pushed the tiny lever at the side and the engraved silver cover opened to show a photo of a young, slender woman with long hair. She was a beauty...even Jacob had to admit.

But, he wondered,  Who is she?

Now, Jacob finally had a name to put to the old lighthouse keeper: Lowell Penworth. He wondered in his time alone in the lighthouse just who Penworth had been and who the woman was in the gravure he'd hidden in his watch.

On stormy nights, Jacob climbed the stairs to check on ships passing by. The sea went dark as a cave during storms with wind lashing huge waves against the shore. Jacob knew the value of controlling the lamp in the lighthouse.  In the wildest storms, he deliberately allowed the lamp to grow dim or he snuffed it out himself. In the short time he took over the lighthouse, there had not been one shipwreck. Not until a peculiarly warm September evening.

Jacob calculated that keeping the lamp in the lighthouse lit most of the time would keep prying eyes from his business. His business, being of course, living on the money old Penworth left behind. Wealth in the 1800s was a matter of one's station in life. Jacob Bloggart's station had been more than humble. It was awash in deprivation and abandonment. For Jacob, Penworth's money would be sufficient to carry him long into the future.

The only thing Jacob Bloggart lacked was a woman. That was about to change. On this curious evening, the humidity was like a blanket that wrapped around one's body and fairly suffocated the air from deep within the lungs. Jacob spent twilight battening down and securing the exterior area of the lighthouse.

He hadn't been a seaman; but, he lived in the lighthouse long enough to recognize the sense of foreboding where weather was concerned. He felt certain the blanket of humid air blowing in from the sea was a sign of a storm.

Not for lack of money did he wish for a shipwreck. Mostly, it was for lack of something to do. Living in a lighthouse meant mostly minor repairs to keep the weather at bay. Now and then, he even took the trouble to secure rocks spit out by the waves to keep the shore line from eroding.

As twilight advanced into night, Jacob felt thick, pellets of rain on his back. He hurried to put the horse into the stall at the rear of the lighthouse.

The village is a long walk. Got to make sure the horse is safe this night.

Jacob's sixth sense about the storm was correct. By nine o'clock that evening, he realized there must have been a wreck. He hurried to don his raincoat and boots and scurried down to the shore. All he saw were bits of wooden crates. Not much in the way of cargo washed ashore.

Must have been a tourist ship, he thought.

The shipwreck of the Orion had by now been a legend. But, still Penobscot Bay ship owners continued to take passengers to Moncton via Boston. Jacob believed it was a fool who would not understand the danger of the rapidly changing tide from the Atlantic Ocean along the coast and the swirling waters of Penobscot Bay. This particular storm reminded Jacob of all he'd heard about that famous shipwreck.

Jacob didn't refuel the lamp...just in case the ship had lost only cargo and was still trying to reach the shore. He did think it curious that only a few empty wooden crates were all that washed ashore. He thought perhaps there was some other reason for this oddity.

The storm raged on into the early morning hours while Jacob slept safe and secure inside the lighthouse.

Jacob awoke to a brilliant sunshine on the morning after the storm. He prepared his morning meal of coffee and a biscuit. He climbed to the top of the lighthouse as was his daily habit and added fuel to the lamp. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something lying on the sandy shore. He strained his eyes to see.

Probably, just driftwood. Or, maybe, more of the cargo I saw last night, he thought.

He hurried down to the beach. Whatever it was that washed ashore had not come from the normal direction of the lamp's beam. Oddly, he saw in the distance that whatever it was that washed ashore was lying motionless, save the occasional movement of waves crashing against it, nearly beneath the rocky parapet of the lighthouse cliffs.

He walked closer toward it and realized it was just a bundle of rags. He was about to let the tide carry it back out to the bay when he heard a moaning sound. He ran back toward the bundle on the shore.

He heard the moan again. As he approached nearest to the bundle, he saw it was not a bundle of rags, but a woman!

He  bent over her form and tried to revive her. She moaned again.

"Who are ye" Jacob asked.

The woman made no answer. He carried her to the steps of the parapet and up to the door of the lighthouse.

The woman opened her eyes, screamed and fainted. Jacob carried her inside the lighthouse. He placed her on the same cot the old man left behind. She slept for nearly eleven hours.

Jacob went into the village to buy antiseptic for her cuts, purchased more fuel for the lamp and a few food supplies. He kept as low a profile as he could. Most villagers thought he was another wandering stranger. The only other villager who recognized his face was the bank clerk he spoke with years earlier.

He arrived back at the lighthouse at four in the afternoon. The young woman lay motionless on the cot. He thought at first she might be dead. When her heard her moaning in her sleep, Jacob she feared she might have internal injuries.

He ate a sparse meal and poured himself a mug of coffee. Then, he headed up the steps to check on the lamp. With the sunny morning and brilliant sunny afternoon, it was not likely a storm was due for that evening. He only lit the lamp when he knew the schedule of ships passed in good weather.

When he descended the steps, he saw that the woman was wide awake.

"Who are ye" she asked.

"Jacob Bloggart, madam," he answered quickly.

"Why am I here?" she asked.

"Ye do not recall?"

"No, sire. I don't. How long have I been asleep?"

"Near upon a day and a half," Jacob answered.

"Who are ye?" Jacob asked.

"I am...I..my name..I do not remember!" she screamed.

"Ye have no memory?"

"No sire. I seem to have a fog in my mind," she said.

"Do ye recall how ye came to the lighthouse?"

"No sire. I cannot force the memory to my mind," she answered.

Jacob was uncertain of what he should do. He glanced at the woman and could see she was fair of face and figure. For the first time in his life, he had feelings he was unfamiliar with. He studied her oval shaped face with the large brown eyes. Hers was a face framed by masses of auburn ringlets in tousled hair that fell ethereally to her perfect shoulders.

She looked at him with wondering eyes.

If ye cannot recall your name, do ye recall how ye came to be cast upon the shore?" Jacob asked.

Jacob sensed the woman had not been washed ashore in a shipwreck. There was no lingering evidence there had been a shipwreck. Was it possible she was deliberately cast adrift?

"Ye having no memory of your name, I will call ye Sarah."

As the days passed, Sarah regained her strength. She was not of frail stature. In fact, Jacob saw she had good strong bones and long limbs. He reasoned she might be of help to him. Not that his daily chores were particularly laborious.

"Sarah, since ye have no memory, I shall put ye by here in the lighthouse. Ye will have some measure of safety until your memory returns."

Sarah made no gesture of acceptance. In fact, most of the time, she remained silent and motionless. At times, she seemed nervous. Jacob wondered if her body had healed, but her mind had not.

For the first weeks after his discovery of the woman on the shore, the woman he called Sarah had great vacancy in her eyes. He thought this was due to the woman trying to regain her memory. She remained in the lighthouse night and day moving about only to look out the window.

Jacob thought it best to outfit a room for her on the third level of the lighthouse. He purchased a new cot, a small writing table and chair and an oil lamp so that she might write down any recollections she had.

By the end of the first month of Sarah's appearance, it was obvious to Jacob the woman might have been cast ashore because her mind was erratic. Jacob decided to test his theory.

He took Sarah by the hand. She quickly recoiled from his touch.

"Sarah, we are going to go outside today. Ye have not been in daylight since I found ye."

The expression on the woman's face told Jacob she didn't want to leave the lighthouse. It was as if the lighthouse was her safe haven from a world she didn't know or, perhaps, didn't want to know.

Jacob led the woman outside the lighthouse. She began to scream loudly.

"Sarah! Stop that caterwauling this instant, do ye hear?"

The woman hissed at Jacob like a reptile and recoiled from his side. Cackling, she ran back into the lighthouse.

Jacob knew for certain now the woman was not of sound mind. He was sure he was not prepared to live with someone who was not sane. He left Sarah to remain inside the lighthouse. He had his daily chores and needed to go into the village. He still had much to do at the old man's cottage. He had already repaired the leaky roof himself and tightened the shutters on the windows.

He decided to work inside the cottage to restore it to habitable condition.

Inside the cottage, he cleaned the fireplace and flue. At least, if the lighthouse became too cold in winter, Jacob had another means of shelter. He could leave Sarah in the lighthouse. He couldn't trust her feeble mind to being in the village.

After working for most of the day in the cottage, he ate the cheese and bread he brought with him and washed it down with a bottle of wine. He saw why Penworth had hung onto the cottage. Living in the lighthouse day after day was quite stifling and overwhelming.

Sated from his late afternoon meal, Jacob lay upon the cot and feel asleep. When he awoke, it was the dark of night. A full moon was shining. He hurried off to the lighthouse. There was an acrid of odor of smoke about. He assumed it was simply from fires burning inside villagers' homes. These late summer evenings so near the bay often meant cold nights.

The odor of smoke grew as he neared the lighthouse. From a distance, he could see there was a strange bright light at the top of the lighthouse.

That cannot be the lamp, Jacob reasoned.

"Sarah!"

He had almost forgotten the lighthouse now had another occupant. One whose mind wasn't "right."

He bolted through the door of the lighthouse and hurried to the top level. Smoke poured out from beneath the door to the room. He heard Sarah's voice muttering in some garbled language he didn't recognize. Then, he heard her cackle and heard a shrill scream that set his bones to terror. He kicked hard on the door.

The room was nearly ablaze. Jacob grabbed his jacket and began to douse the flames.

"Sarah! What have ye done? Ye nearly set the whole lighthouse on fire!" he yelled.

Sarah danced around in a circle and paid no attention to him.

Jacob realized the woman was insane beyond his original belief. He was certain she must have escaped from an asylum. The nearest to Mantok Village was a privately owned madhouse known as Kirkmore located sixty miles southeast of Moncton.

Jacob wondered if it was possible Sarah escaped from a madhouse and stowed away aboard a ship in port. He decided to restrain Sarah and lock her in her room.

Sarah continued dancing about and singing an unintelligible tune. Jacob grabbed Sarah by the arm and yanked her out the door and down the stairs to her room. He locked the door and hurried down the stairs to find ties to restrain the mad woman.

Upstairs, from within her room, Jacob heard Sarah tossing the furnishings about. He hurried up the stairs, unlocked the door and saw the woman had completely shredded her outer garment. As he moved toward her, she grabbed the chair on the floor and lunged at him. The two circled the room for several minutes before he was able to back her into the wall. Sarah swung the chair, hitting Jacob in the chest. Jacob grabbed the chair as hard as he could. Sarah clung to the chair for dear life.

Jacob was able to subdue the mad woman by swinging the chair as hard to a right angle as he could, forcing her to the floor. He dropped the chair, pulled out two pieces of rope and moved toward the cringing woman sitting on the floor with her back to the wall.

The look in her eyes told Jacob she was still in a rage.

"Sarah! I am restraining ye for your own good! Ye will no longer be allowed to remain without restraints until ye can be in control of your wits"

"Control of my wits? Control of my wits?" Sarah shrieked, laughing and laughing hysterically.

Jacob tied her wrists together. The minute he did, Sarah rose and escaped his clutches. He picked up the chair and used it to corner her again.

"If ye cannot be trusted, ye shall have restraints on your legs. That be what ye wish?" Jacob said angrily.

Sarah glared at him with flames in her eyes. She understood enough reason to know she didn't want her legs tied too.

She began laughing hysterically again. Jacob closed the door to her room and locked it.

It is good the lighthouse is far from the village. The sound of her laughter will not be questioned by the overly curious, he thought.

Jacob's problem now was what to do with the woman. He thought about dragging her down to the sea from whence she came and leaving her to drown.

She would have anyway, he thought.

No one would know she was ever here. Other than keeping her locked in her room, her mind is too far gone to trust she would not once again set the entire lighthouse afire.

Jacob decided to remove the leg restraints. When he tried, Sarah kicked at him furiously. He felt she should have minimal movement about the room. It wouldn't do for her to become so immobile he would need to become a nurse to her every need.

Sarah's mind was gone, but not sufficiently to keep her from thoughts of escaping. Jacob left food for her on the small table while the mad woman prowled back and forth as though oblivious to his presence. If she ate any of the food, she did so after tossing the tray and table to the floor.

She stared out the window each time she heard Jacob coming and going to the village. She had begun to bite down hard on the restraints on her hands. So vicious were her attempts to remove them that she literally bit into her own outer wrist and had sores where her teeth had drawn away skin.

Whenever she heard Jacob in the lighthouse, she remained as still as if death called her. She wanted him to believe she was no longer alive. Then if he came to check on her condition, she would use the table to batter him over the head and escape. That opportunity never came.

Instead, when Jacob worked outside the lighthouse, Sarah continued to try to jiggle the handle on the door, hoping the lock would become damaged.

At night, Jacob heard the woman shrieking as if she had seen a ghost. Perhaps, in her failed memory she had.

One night her shrieking was so ungodly. Jacob rose from a sound sleep and hastened up the steps to see if perhaps she had deliberately hurt herself or tried to kill herself. He unlocked the door to her room to see her sound asleep and writhing in the most peculiar way. She reminded Jacob of an eel he'd once seen from the shore. Black as night and wriggling like a snake.

The words she screamed out in her sleep were in old Gaelic. Jacob wondered how that could be. When he found her, she spoke English well. She rose from her bed while sound asleep.

She is walking in her sleep!

Jacob knew not to awaken a sleep walker, especially not one without a sound mind.

Sarah walked from the window facing the the dirt path to the opposite window that faced Penobscot Bay. As quick as an arrow headed for a bull's eye, she picked up the chair beneath that window and tossed it at Jacob.

She wasn't sleep walking at all. Jacob backed out of the room and locked the door. The howling and shrieking went on long into the early hours of the morning. At dawn, Jacob awoke to dead silence. He had never in his life felt afraid of anything. But, a mindless woman with such cunning was a serious danger. He knew he had to get rid of her. But how?

He thought about just leaving the lighthouse unlocked in the hopes she would wander off into the woods. He realized she could also wander into Mantok village where authorities would become aware of her.

He decided to ride off to Kirkmore to find out if Sarah escaped from the asylum there. It was a two hour ride. He had to secure her in her room where she had only the two small windows on either side of the walls. He decided to remove the chair and table in the event she got it into her head to use them to break the glass panes.

He put his ear to the door. It sounded as though she was sleeping. He was wrong. Sarah was wide awake and had such a keen ear that she already was prepared for Jacob's entry.

Jacob had the good providence to open the door to the room ever so slowly. Sarah stood behind the door with both hands on the chair. With Sarah no where in sight, his instinct was to shove hard on the door. The wild woman shrieked and screamed from behind the opened door. The chair fell in her hands fell to the floor.

"Sarah! Be ye at peace a'fore I tie ye to the cot!" Jacob yelled.

"Nay Sire! Ye shall not!" Sarah responded.

Jacob grabbed the fallen chair and simultaneously pushed on the door to keep the woman from escaping.

With one hand, he tossed the chair outside the room.

"Now! What will ye try next?" Jacob asked.

Sarah slid to the floor.

"Sire, I am in pain! Shall ye torture me further?" she asked.

She sounded somewhat lucid. Still Jacob knew not to trust her mental state.

"If I set ye free into this room, will ye be calmed?"

"Aye, Sire."

Jacob hurried toward the table, slowly, slowly, releasing his grip on the door. Set free from the bonds of the door behind which Jacob cornered her, Sarah was more wild eyed than ever. Jacob grabbed the table as a shield and backed out the door. Sarah lunged this way and that trying to get at him.

Once outside the door, he held onto the table with one hand and pulled the door closed with the other.

The shrieking and wailing began once more.

"Now ye have nothing but a cot. Will ye destroy that too? Do that and ye shall be sleeping hard on the stone of the floor," Jacob said, through the door.

As Jacob readied his horse and wagon for Kirkmore institution, he looked up at the lighthouse and saw the woman from the window.

"There she be and there she shall remain until I can be rid of her. And please God, I will be rid of this devil woman!" he said aloud.

The ride to Kirkmore took two hours on back roads of dirt, often muddy, as roads were apt to always be in the Penobscot Bay region.

When finally he arrived at Kirkmore, he tethered his horse and saw several patients wandering about the great expanse of lawn. The red brick building was impressive to be sure. It stood far enough from the main road and was set back nearly into a large wooded area that framed the building.

He saw several men in work clothes tending the landscape and patients sitting on the veranda at the front of the building. He warily walked into the building and was met by a nurse in a grey and blue uniform.

"Can I help ye, Sire?" she asked.

"Yes. I need to speak to someone about a patient who may have escaped," Jacob said.

"Excuse me, Sire? I am not aware of any missing patients," she said.

Seeing Jacob's determination, she asked his name. He lied and said his name was Jacob Penworth.

"Penworth, ye say? We did have a patient, a woman, Amanda Folcome," the nurse said.

"Is she still your patient?"

"No. Sire. I am afraid she hanged herself in her room. She is buried in the institution cemetery yonder, there being no living relative to claim her body. She was quite mad when she was brought here to Kirkmore by a Mr. Penworth. Oh now, that  was some years ago,"

"Did ye know Amanda?" she added.

"No. I did not. How long was she a patient here?"

"Oh my. Let me see. I began working here ten years ago. Amanda was already committed five years earlier. I can find the file on her commitment to Kirkmore,"

"No need. When a patient is committed, is this done at the request of family or are mad patients committed by the authorities?" Jacob asked.

"That depends on the patient's situation. Of course, Amanda was committed by the authorities at the demand of her father. She was a woman alone with a child," the nurse said.

"A child?"

"Aye. There are many women abandoned by the sailors in the fleets. They come ashore and find women like Amanda, she was a barmaid in her father's pub before she went mad. So her story goes,"

"What of her mother?"

"Like many women, her father was her only living relative. We have no record of her mother, living or dead," the nurse said.

"So, if a person be mad, it is only for someone in authority to see they are committed?" Jacob asked.

"Aye sire. They are dangerous to themselves and others. There was her child to consider."

Jacob realized Sarah had not been a patient at Kirkmore. With the information he received from the nurse, he saw nothing substantial to identify Sarah further. He thanked the nurse and made his way back to the lighthouse.

All the way, he thought about the mad woman Amanda Folcome. Was it possible the child the mad woman left behind was Sarah? He rejected this idea. There was no proof.  Still, the nurse had piqued his interest enough that he wanted to know who Amanda Folcome was.

What was it the nurse said? Amanda was the daughter of a man who owned a pub?

Jacob tried to link the location of Kirkmore to the local region where Amanda's father might have owned a pub. He wasn't about to scour four counties to find a man who by now was probably as dead as his daughter. But, Jacob did know sailors always hang onto stories, names of pubs and barmaids.

The only pub in Mantok was run down and barely patronized by seamen, or for that matter, anyone. This was mainly due to the fact that there was no shipping port, just rocky shorelines all along the beach near the lighthouse.

Jacob returned to the lighthouse. It was eerily quiet. Too quiet.

What, he wondered, was the mad woman up to now?

He hurried up the stairs to Sarah's room. He saw the door to the room was wide open. She escaped! He saw how she managed it. The lock on the inside of the door had been jimmied.

He hurried down the steps and out of the lighthouse. He saw her footprints in the sandy soil. It led to the path out to the main road.

He jumped into his wagon knowing Sarah could have been gone as soon as she saw his wagon from the window disappear in the distance.

If she was in the village, the village people there would discover her.

Jacob continue to follow her footprints until he reached the village. She was not to be seen. He worried she could hurt one of the villagers in her mad state of mind.

He decided to stop into the old pub to quench his thirst. It had already seemed a long day even though it was only late afternoon. He glanced around the darkened room. There she was sitting at a table at the back of the room, oblivious to her surroundings.

"A tankard," he said to the barkeep.

"Aye, sire. A tankard it shall be," the barkeep responded.

"Not many patrons today," Jacob remarked.

"Not many patrons most days," the barkeep said.

Jacob shrugged feigning disinterest.

"Ye be the lighthouse keeper?" the barkeep asked.

"Aye. Who is the lone woman?" Jacob asked, knowing it was Sarah.

"Odds of fate. First, the old lighthouse keeper, Penworth goes missing.  Then, ye, his own son, appear in the village. I never heard old Penworth mention a wife or a son," the barkeep said.

"My father was a patron here?" Jacob asked.

"Aye. After he was injured in a shipwreck, he never went back to sea. Sailors are rare in this village. Most were spit out by the swirling bay waters upon the shore as old Penworth was. He took a liking to my daughter when both were young. Alas, she went mad when Penworth went to sea and thought she be abandoned by him," the barkeep said.

"Was your daughter's name Amanda?" Jacob asked.

"Aye sire. How do ye know of it?"

Jacob pulled out the watch fob out of his pocket and opened to the gravure.

"This be your Amanda?"

The barkeep was in shock.

"Aye sire. That be my Amanda. A true beauty she was for sure. Too beautiful. I ran her off when she was with child of Penworth. She brought forth a daughter. But, the child was as mad as the mother," the barkeep said.

"Your surname, it be "Folcome?"

"Nay. Folcome was my mistress name, Eliza Folcome. She sauntered into the village one day, stole my heart and my money and ran off. My name is James Morley. Eliza returned only after she claimed Amanda was my offspring. Just  left her daughter here in the bar. What was I to do? I raised Amanda, but I could see she was as wild as her mother. Something not right in her head. I kept her here to help me keep the pub. When Eliza stole my life savings, I nearly lost this pub. If it was not for Amanda helping to keep it clean and in order, ye would not be drinking that tankard."

"Ye said afore, "odds fate," what did ye mean?"

"See that woman at that table? She is Amanda's daughter by Penworth. I would know that face anywhere," James Morley said.

"How can ye be so sure?"

"She has wandered into the village afore."

"She lives in this village?"

"Oh nay, Sire. No one would have her. She suffers bouts of madness like her mother. She wanders onto ships that run aground or end up in the bay waters. Sailors toss her ashore. But, she's like a siren of the sea. Can't be got rid of for good.

Old Penworth took pity on her and tried to keep her and her mother safely locked away in the lighthouse chambers. In the end, Amanda had to be committed.

Her daughter was still a child and Penworth cared for her, here in his village cottage and also at the lighthouse. Until he saw the child was as mad as the mother. Penworth wrapped her in a bundle and took her from the lighthouse to the cottage usually under the cover of darkness because in her state of madness, even as a child, she is lethal enough to kill a grown man."

"Why is she here now?"

The barkeep put his hand to his temple as if to indicate that Sarah was in a state of madness.

"Ye must have heard of the many shipwrecks in Penobscot Bay, sire. Villagers believe Amanda and her daughter snuffed the flames and caused ships to sink," the barkeep said.

"Aye, I have heard of them. What will ye do with the her now?" Jacob asked.

"Be warned. She will return to the lighthouse as her mother always did. Keep caution as your guide. Should she appear at the lighthouse, be prepared to defend your life," Morely said.

"What is the woman's name, sire?"

"Morelitha. An ungodly name for a child. Morelitha Folcome."

Jacob Bloggart paid the barkeep and left the pub without glancing at the woman he named Sarah.

He drove his wagon back to the lighthouse, hoping Sarah would not return. But, return she did, not more than five hours later.

Jacob locked the lighthouse door from inside. Sarah pounded on it. He refused to open it. Then, her pounding ceased.

Was it a trap? Was she lurking about somewhere just outside the lighthouse? He grabbed his musket and slowly opened the door. If he had to kill her to save his own life he would. She was no where in sight.

He walked around to the windward side of the lighthouse. The shore below was empty. Suddenly, he heard the lighthouse door slam hard. She was inside the lighthouse!

He tried to unlock it, but something lay against the door. He began pounding on the door. Finally, Sarah opened it and using his own pistol, shot Jacob dead.

The mad woman laughed and laughed hysterically at the dead body at her feet. With the strength of ten men and her adrenaline pumping hard, she dragged Jacob's body to the shore. She loaded his pockets with rocks and waited until the tide rose and carried him out to sea.

Morelitha Folcome hurried back to the lighthouse as twilight cast an eerie glow. She climbed the steps to the top level where the lamp flickered. She bent over and with a single breath, blew it out.