The Lioness of Boston by Emily Franklin

Author:Emily Franklin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: David R. Godine, Publisher
Published: 2023-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

June 1875

Dear Julia,

Nearly halfway through 1875, and we have reached Smyrna, where we shall board a steamer for Piraeus⁠—

I stopped journaling and correspondence when the heat grew too much and when I grew ill from some piece of fruit that did not agree with me. I lay in bed, damp and miserable, wondering if this was a sign of things to come. Even after my stomach was restored and I was able to return to travel, a feeling of doom shrouded my mind.

An ocean of sand.

I stood amidst waves as though I looked at water and only then realized I’d seen it incorrectly. And perhaps this was what I was learning⁠—the moment I thought I understood myself, the world shifted from water to sand. The desert view of Monet’s work.

I put my foot in the sand and felt it give way⁠—solid and shifting at the same time.

I was good at noticing details: each bright poppy, curve of lip, particular typeset on a page. But faced with the great expanse of emptiness, I felt those larger dueling emotions, of contentment, which is always only temporary, and sadness, as I was always aware of everything being ephemeral. Such were the thoughts at the end of a journey⁠—for what was I here and what might I be returning to?

And yet here was this sand.

Layer upon layer for so many thousands of years, layers that would outlast me, outlast the camel herd, everyone I had ever met or would meet. The sand would ripple and move but remain here, empty and fine, prone to ferocious windstorms that produced pink-hued tunnels and prone also to undoing those tunnels, seeping back grain onto grain.

Ahead a figure approached me, likely bringing me back to the tents for dinner⁠—lamb stew cooked on an open fire and portioned into bowls so we would eat with our right hands.

I gave a small wave to the figure, who, as she approached, appeared to be floating on the sand, as I could not see anything other than her eyes and the top of her cheek. She looked misshapen. Her outfit gave the appearance that she had not stepped into it the way one did a gown but rather that she had been wrapped in it⁠—gauzy muslin that sheathed her body, her shoulders, her head, her legs. Upon closer inspection, her misshapen form was due to a large bulge across the front, and I wondered if perhaps she had her arms crossed over her chest in a small stance of defiance, which made me smile.

When we were face to covered face, she saw my focus on her form. She returned my smile⁠—two women alone in the desert exchanging wordless conversation. From under the folds of fabric, the mere slips of cotton, the protrusion wriggled, and she managed to extract an infant, naked to the air and gorgeous as the sand and sky. Without warning I felt my heart buckle. The woman locked my gaze as I could not fight the tears welling in my eyes.

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