February 19, 2010

Artwork by Lauren T. Hart

The Line of Lineage started over seven hundred years ago and has survived, despite seemingly insurmountable odds, through more than twenty-five generations of women.

Writings and keepsakes tell the story of a man, cursed to walk the earth for all eternity, vowing to keep watch over his descendants for all of his cursed eternity. But The Line of Lineage is at best only the accounts of one man's interactions with his descendants over the years. And much of that has been exaggerated, changed, assumed, embellished and even fictionalized.

Unlike my ancestry passed, my connection was not as direct as mother to daughter, for my mother marks the first link to be passed over in the chain. The truth is, my mother was far too hateful and horrid a person to be given such an honor and so the link was broken. My grandmother went to great length to ensure it's continuation with me, but as it is, these writings serve only to bring an end to the accounts of the Line of Lineage.

And with its end, marks a new beginning as I take up a new mantle: to document the lives not only of one, but of many. Of the immortals.

Every story must have a beginning and so I will start mine as it was presented to me, with The Line of Lineage. For my part I hope that my accounts will do justice to the lives, loves and losses for those whom I write.

 

Chapter 8 - End Of The Line

Eden

February 19, 2010

 

For the Lineage of The Cursed Man


On by The valley, down crest of the sea,
Lived a valiant man with daughters three.
Though for a son, his heart long desired
By Gods will, it was not to be.

His true love departed, he Wed to another,
And conspired with devils for a son born of she.
Though his soul sure be damned, a son he did have
Who died ‘fore the night saw its end.

The child’s mother soon followed,
And so laughed the iniquitous devils,
At the Cursed Man down on his knees

In sackcloth and ashes, he begged for forgiveness,
And to each daughter made this solemn vow:
Though his soul be cursed,
To live and toil his eternity on Earth
Forever their heirs he would keep.

Thus mother to daughter and each generation to follow,
Three Lines of Lineage began.
Alas, too soon and childless his youngest departed.
His eldest’s last heir went near five hundred year,
Give a year, give a month, give a day.

But one line remains, to give hope to his age
And this my dear lassie is thee...

Written by

Bethany Evadna Grange Morley
  June 1829

 

From the writings of Bethany Morley of the Line of Lineage:

22 August 1918 Thursday

          This journal is my birthday gift from my mother. She seems pleased that I am writing in it now. She also gave me a collection of journals and writings that have been passed down from mother to daughter in our family dating back a hundred centuries by the looks of them. She says that I must have them all read before I turn eighteen. She also said that I must keep a journal as well from now on, because it is our duty to continue the line of lineage. It's a simply horrid birthday gift if you ask me.
            Elizabeth has invited me to come stay with her family at their beach house this weekend. Now that is a magnificent birthday gift. Lyle is driving me to the Greiling's directly after lunch, as it's almost eleven now I really must go and pack.

 

10 September 1918 Tuesday

          Mother insisted I write. Had so much fun with Lizzie for my birthday. We went on lots of long walks, went swimming, played games and stayed up late talking. I loved every minute.
           Lizzie's father has sent her off to Yale. I miss her too much. I suspect she'll be back soon with a husband. At least I hope she'll be back. It would be awful if she married some clever idiot who moved her away.

 

20 November 1918 Wednesday

          It's been awful dull with Lizzie away. She writes but it's not the same as having her here. I've had nothing else to do besides lessons and chores so I have been reading the journals. Some of it is actually quite interesting, especially the parts about the beginning of the lineage. We are all descended from this woman named Katarina whose husband was cursed to walk the earth for eternity, and as penance for his misdeeds he looks after his female descendants, and has been for generations now. It sounds like a fairytale - or some other such nonsense - but mother insists that it's true.

 

1 January 1919 Wednesday

          I have made it my new years resolution to write in my journal at least once a week. It was mother's suggestion.
          Lizzie came home for Christmas. No Husband. She told me that there wasn't a lot of interesting prospects, but I heard her tell her parents that there were a couple of men who had shown interest in her and one whom she was sure would propose any day, but seeing as he was not from a very notable background, and the other two were both rich and well acquainted, she had already decided to turn him down. 
         I know she lies, but I wish I could be sure about whom she was lying to. Is it me - in order to protect my feelings? Or is it her father - because she's gotten a taste of freedom living away from home?

      Iona

 

10 January 1919 Thursday

          New years resolution intact.

 

15 January 1919 Tuesday

          I miss Lizzie. I haven't received a single letter from her since she went back to school.

 

24 January 1919 Friday

           Still at it.

 

3 March 1919 Monday

          Why do I bother?

 

10 May 1919 Saturday

          I just got news today. Lizzie is coming home. And the best news of all, she is un-engaged. I overheard Lyle and Randall Quigley talking the other day and somehow, Lyle's gotten it in his head that he'd like to propose to Lizzie. Obviously he's as crazy as a loon. Arthur Greiling wouldn't even consider it. The Dearings are far too lowbrow for his tastes... Plus, Lizzie would never go for a clod like Lyle.
            Lizzie and I have talked about the requirements of a decent husband and other than tall Lyle fits none of them.

 

From the journals of Iona Dearing:

(c) copyright 2010-2016 Lauren T. Hart