Carver's Future Wife

Transcribed by Charity

Through the trees and up the rope ladder. Where was she? Where was that dazzling creature that had cast her spell over him like a net, in that fervent first meeting only days before? John had dressed, prepared himself, ran rakish fingers through lanky blond curls. He desired to make a good impression... yes, there she was! Inside a woven bower of brush and leaves that made up a charming nook.

She looked up, and although for a moment a look of irritation surfaced, it was wiped away in a dazzling smile that broke forth like sunlight through the clouds. "You came back," she said softly, almost disbelieving. "Why?"

John rested a hand upon the structure, his playful countenance warm and welcoming as she lay aside her book. Honesty, he decided, would be the safest course. "I wanted to see you again," he quipped, and her face drew together almost forcefully, as if she had to intimidate herself into a look of condensation.

"I should be very angry with you." Her tone was firm, and yet those eyes... haunting him, teasing him without meaning to... enjoying his company, he was sure of it. 

"And are you?" 

The smile again broke through and she shook her head helplessly. "I don't know," she admitted freely. "I haven't decided yet." She watched as he carefully approached, sitting down beside her in the nook. After a moment, he edged closer, and leaned forward, as if to brush his lips against her cheek. Like a frightened deer, she bolted, biting back tears, trying to calm herself with a trembling hand. John rose involuntarily behind her.

"What is it?"

She turned to him, tears already staining the flaxen cheeks, the brown eyes doubtful and penitent. "You don't know," she said softly, "how much danger you're in."

What danger could exist in this fantasy world, ruled by such a magnificent queen? "I don't care," he said gently, terrified that she would flee. "I want to talk to you and get to know you better."

"You can't!" The outburst was unexpected, and frightened even Lorna. "When you know more," she softly digressed, "you'll hate me."

"Why would I hate you?" John asked in surprise. What evil could emerge from this creature's soul? Nothing but glimmering shafts of light!

"Because!" her tone was forceful, for it had been pulled from her, "I am a Doone!" Her anger intensified, half in tears as he stepped back in something akin to horror. "They call me their queen. I am heir to this little realm of violence!" 

John looked as though he had been struck violently across the face. His eyes, disbelieving, desiring her to recant and say it was no true; his soul battling with violent memories -- his father at Porlock, murdered by a Doone. The cold stare of the brutal Carver, the harsh tones of Sir Ensor who had sent them away when they begged for justice. Lorna sensed his apprehension, and in a tearful but plain tone, asked, "Now will you go?" Something desired to stay, but the truth, the pain, the pressing memories, were too much and he bolted. Bolted into the wood, away from that little nook and the raven princess who became lost behind him in her own tears.

But he could not free her from his thoughts in the days that followed, found himself restlessly dreaming in the midst of work. He looked upon his father's ring where it lay gleaming in his palm, dancing in the evening light. Would his father forgive him this one sin, for being so deeply attracted to this mysterious creature, this Lorna Doone? 

It grew to be too much, and he gave in, following the treacherous cliff path into the valley that was always vibrant and alive in the sunlight. He saw her from behind, or rather, saw her skirts as she leaned against the bark of a tree, thoughtfully studying the ground. Her companion he did not see until it was too late, as he crept up the bank and neared. The redheaded young woman with her leapt to her feet, brandishing a stick like a sword.

"Mistress!" she gasped, arousing Lorna from her daydreams. "Keep away!"

Lorna cast one astonished look into his eyes and then turned back to her. "It's all right, Gwenny!" she consoled, her voice like water rippling in the brook. 

"You know him?" The words were formed disbelievingly with a hint of chastisement, for this man was clearly not a Doone. Carver would kill him... kill them all... if he knew of this.

"Leave us," Lorna pleaded, and Gwenny reluctantly gathered up her skirts and went, keeping a visual in the trees. John watched her go and then turned to the object of his affections.

"I tried to stay away," he confessed, feeling as though he were falling into a swirling world of sunlight that beckoned from her smile. "But I can't."

They sat beneath the trees, talking softly in the warm afternoon while Gwenny faded into the background, watching anxiously the movement in the trees, certain that they would be discovered. John felt no fear, for he was near to Lorna, her slender form almost leaning up against him as they talked. It was a wonderful moment, a magical moment, interlaced with concern, for the subject was upon her grandfather and the Doones.

"Did you never know your mother or father?" he queried with obvious pity, for he could find no safer stronghold than his own mother's arms. Lorna looked at him sadly and then her eyes fell to her lap, to the slender fingers that rested there, waiting a long instant before replying, "My mother died giving birth to me and my father is Ensor's eldest son. He was killed when I was still a child."

"Are they kind to you here?"

"Ensor sees to it that I am treated with respect." Lorna's face grew grave. "I love him dearly for it. I daresay what will happen when he is no longer here."

A wisp of a smile crept into John's blue eyes and for an instant he was a boy again, a boy with a wonderful idea; to slip away and never be heard from again. To flee the pirates of his imagination. But they were no longer imagined, but very real... Lorna's protectors and at the same time her jailers. "You could escape."

Lorna looked at him unimpressed. "And go where? This is the only home I know. Besides, Carver will never let his future wife leave."

The earnest eager face faded into a snarl of disbelieving jealousy; not at Lorna, but rather her cousin Carver. He could remember vividly the glaring eyes, the voice raised in anger, the cool countenance with which he plundered the village. Even the thought of Carver's hand upon Lorna's, much less more than that, arose in him a violent disposition. "His wife?!" he cried with distain, and Lorna could not meet his eyes for a moment. Did she feel it too? The longing, something that pulled them together?

"Even Ensor say's I should marry him," she requited at last, eyes lowered.

"And will you?" he demanded.

For a mere instant, her eyes met his and he found something of a challenge in them. "I will only marry a man that I love," she said simply, meaningfully, and his smile came forth. There was still hope!