I'll let you in on a little secret. Shakespeare's Sister may be my fourth published novel, but I actually wrote it when I was 23-24 years old, long before I wrote The Vampiric Housewife series.
Shakespeare's Sister
Chapter One
1597
Stratford-upon-Avon
It took her a moment to realize that she was underwater. It wasn’t the icy coldness, the penetrative wetness, nor was it the distortion of watery vision that told her where she was. This realization of being submerged had been divulged by some sublime knowledge rather than any sensory cognizance, for she possessed no such means.
Then, just as her Bible told her, God divided the light from the darkness. Or rather in her circumstance, divided the darkness from the light. Her infantile vision slowly revealed the murky water of the rocky river, a blur of dark, rich blues, blacks, and greens. Calmly and consciously she waited for that inevitable burning sensation to fill her bosom, for her arms to fight the heaviness of her waterlogged dress, to flail for help or grasp for something to hold onto. But the burning sensation did not fill her chest, and her limbs remained lifeless. No panicked screams cried out from her mouth either. It then occurred to her that she could not hear the rush of the water in her ears or the beating of her own heart. She heard nothing except her own thoughts. The silence in her ears was vast, black, deafening but oh so sweet . . . so tranquil, no children’s whining, no grunts of her husband’s delight. She relished in the serenity of such blessed silence.
The turbulent current rammed her body into a rock hidden by the rapids and flipped her over like a fish on a skillet. Buoyantly, she bobbed up and down though she felt no motion. Water ran off her eyes like dew off a morning petal. The dismal gray sky clearly foretold a cold rain coming and another frost, probably the last of the season. Simon should cover her garden and make sure the boys dressed warm tomorrow for . . . for . . . she could not hold onto the thoughts or the people attached to them. She did not want to hold on any longer.
She caught glimpses of the broken twigs and slimy seaweed matted in her tangled curls, hardly the vast procession of flowers that accompanied poor Ophelia to her final resting place.
A group of peasant women stood on the bank washing their laundry, hands raw from the icy water, backs stiff and sore from scrubbing. A young maiden looked up, her mouth agape in a silent scream, a finger extended towards her with an absurd urgency. A woman of marriage ran towards the fields to fetch the men. Before the farmers could arrive, her body banked on some rocks, a massive mop of hair washing over her face. Through the strands she saw a group of curious young lads come charging towards the river shore with hopes of adventure. Their mouths moved in excited whispers, but—wait. She heard it, like thunder in the distance on a midsummer night. Touch it. No, you touch it. She could hear their young voices, the mixture of fear and excitement. They began a daring duel to mask their fear and prove their early manhood until finally the largest pair of shoes came near. She knew a stick poked her in the shoulder though she did not feel it. With earned bravery and authority, the boy declared, “It’s deader than a door nail.” The other boys cautiously approached her with their own knotted sticks, each poke harder and braver. The women yelled at the lads, “Get away from there! Have you no decency!” but the children laughed, ignoring the admonishments. The men arrived and pushed the boys roughly aside. One man pulled the hair from her face. In his hardened brown eyes she could see her own reflection. Her own eyes were wide and empty as if their green pigment had drained right out into the river, lips obscenely agape and a ghastly shade of white, her skin a tinted blue and swollen with water like an overstuffed sausage. Her pearly teeth shone through a mutilated cheek. It must have been torn and bloodied by some jagged rock or perhaps nibbled on by a hungry fish. She should have been terrified by the gore she saw in the farmer’s eyes, but she felt nothing. Not horror, nor even relief. That body was no longer hers.
“Who is she?” the young maiden asked, her posture and expression sickly.
“Simon Smith’s wife, I think. The daughter of John Shakespeare,” the farmer said.
“Aye,” another man quietly confirmed.
“Judith,” one of the women whispered, covering her mouth. Judith recognized the woman as the midwife who helped birth her last child. “Oh, poor Judith. Fare thee well.”
It was then that she felt herself rising, pneumatic and weightless. She could see her appalling corpse and the swollen, raging river. The sadden look on the midwife’s face, the curiosity on the faces of the lads, and annoyance on the men’s. The young maiden suddenly fainted and the crowd turned away from the body to tend to her. Everything was becoming smaller and smaller, shrinking in significance and importance, as she lifted higher and higher. And then . . . there was nothing. Judith Shakespeare was dead.