- Literary elements (i.e. structure, tone, diction, mood, irony, and figurative language) to craft a narrative.
- Structural features of drama (stage directions, character attributions/tags, dialogue, monologues, and/or soliloquies) to craft a script.
- Multidimensional characters to develop themes and create socio-political metaphors.
The day was breaking, and the air was heavy with the weight of mourning. My four sisters stood beside me, garbed in black, as we prayed for the safe return of Freniere. I knew that if he was lost, our family would be shattered beyond repair. The candles flickered, threatening to burn out, mirroring the dim hope that flickered in my heart.
Staring out at the upcoming dawn thinking about what I would do if my brother doesn't come back alive, I caught the glimpse of a shadow. Curious, I held a candle and advanced towards the window thinking that perhaps there was a bird or some other creature that got in accidentally. As I turned the corner, what I saw was no creature. I saw an angel, resplendent in his handsome features and chiseled jaw. His skin tone pale just like an angel without a speck of imperfections. Has God finally answered my prayers? How is there a handsome angel in my house? Was he really sent from god? His eyes, a piercing green, held me transfixed until he spoke.
“'Tell your sisters to go back, I come to tell you of your brother. Do as I say.” His voice rang out like church bells, breaking me out of my daze.
I did as I was told, telling my sisters it was just my imagination. At this point I was desperate for instructions. My brother is probably dead, having not come back since midnight. Be an angel or devil, I would follow this divine messenger’s words. Of course, how could someone as handsome as that be a devil. The next words he spoke shattered me.
“But what I have to tell you is of the greatest importance. Your brother fought bravely and won the duel, but wait. . You must know now, he is dead. ”
When those words came out of his mouth, something in my head shattered. Although I knew that it is most likely what happened, it was hard to wrap my head around. I wasn’t able to process his next words until he left in a flash. The words seem to hit my head, especially what he said next. Take charge and take over the plantation? How am I, a woman, supposed to do that? That has never been a precedent? It's not socially acceptable but I am to do as I must to keep my family up and running. Keeping a stone face and taking powerful strides, I go and take over my brother's position, hoping for the best.
The days were bleak. We were outcasts, ostracized by the other families. My former friends shunned me, and my sisters complained incessantly, making me question if what I did was the right thing.
My thoughts were consumed with him, and I often found myself lost in reverie, reliving our interactions. Was his instructions truly correct? This was until one night as I was managing accounts, a voice spoke seemingly out of nowhere.
“ Don’t turn around!” I recognized that voice instantly. It was that angel from before and a part of me longed to see his face again.
Yet I followed his instructions and continued to stare at my account book.
“I know it's tough right now, the other people talking badly about you don’t understand what you and your family are going through right now. You must hold a ball for a philanthropic cause. It will help reestablish your relationships with those who were once close to you. Your wealth would convince them.”
I hung on his every word, desperate for any guidance he could give but there was something else I wanted more. Just a single glimpse on his face. So I began to beg him.
“Please just let me have a look at you. You know all about me but I don’t know about you. You helped me so much, yet I couldn’t even get a look at my benefactor?”
I have never said those words before. There were tears coming down my eyes yet there was no response. It was what felt like silence for an eternity until it clicked. I turned around and indeed he had left just like he came.
Again, I did as I was told. Yet this time I was wondering was he truly an angel? Why would an angel not let me look at him? My thoughts were occupied with him so much so sometimes I would blank out and think of our interactions when I was doing accounts. I longed for him to return.
The seasons passed, and winter came again. I remarried, and the weight of my burdens lightened as I savored my time with my new husband. I almost forgot about the mysterious benefactor who had helped me so much until one evening when news of a plantation fire reached me. I sent people to help fight the flames, but the incident left me with a sense of unease. How could a plantation catch fire? Was it arson?
As I recorded my thoughts in my diary, I heard the voice again, instantly recognizing it as that of my benefactor. "Don’t turn around," he said. "I've never brought you harm. I ask you now for a key, and your promise that no one will try to enter that room until tonight. Then I'll tell you all."
Desperation tinged his words, and I hesitated for a moment before asking, "Why have you come to me tonight?"
“Did I not help you at the very moment when you most needed guidance, when you alone stood strong among those who are dependent and weak? Did I not twice offer you good counsel? And haven't I watched over your happiness ever since? Give me the key to a room. Let no one come near it till nightfall. I swear to you I would never bring you harm”
Then suddenly another thought raced through my mind. I didn't want to believe it.
“And if I don't . . . if I believe you come from the devil!”
I turned around just as he put out my candle. I was unable to take a good look at him. His back contrasted the dark windows and he slowly spoke “If you don't, and if you believe me to be the devil, I shall die.”
I relented and gave him the key. I followed his instructions again for the third time. Perhaps it would also be the last. Not wanting him to vanish again I locked the door from outside. I wasn’t able to sleep that night thinking about our interaction. Thoughts would race through my head. If he was the devil, why would he help me in my darkest times? That's something an angel would do, why would he do it instead? If what he does is good, is he still a devil?
The following evening, I approached the door to the room with trepidation, knowing that what I would find inside could shatter my beliefs and perceptions. As I saw him, I was still as entranced as the first time. He hasn’t changed a single bit even after a year. It was at this point my suspicions were confirmed. He was the owner of the plantations that burned down. The one with the slaves disappearing. The one where the slaves were accusing him of voodoo magic.
“You are the one who came to me before, and you are the owner of Pointe du Lac. You argil”
“I mean you no harm, I need only a carriage and horses . . . the horses I left last night in the pasture” He didn’t deny it. I was hoping he would. Or for him to come up with an excuse for me to believe. But he didn’t. Instead he looked nervous and desperate.
“What are you! You're from the devil. You were from the devil when you came to meet me the first time” I pressed him as I walked up holding my lantern to his face.
“The devil,” He finally answered. He seemed to be in pain when answering that question.
At this point everything was a blur. I hoped it could have been my dream. I hoped that he wasn’t actually from the devil. I hoped I didn’t see him this last time. I hoped I would have still believed him to be an angel.
Everything passed so quickly. I seemed to have noticed hands on both my wrists and a lot of shouting. I was disoriented but eventually the hands let go and I was thrown to the ground. I got up and I don’t know what came over me. It was as if I was possessed again. I continued questioning him, tears trickling down my face.
“Why did you protect me last night! Why have you come to me alone!”
I performed the sign of the crass and held the lantern I was holding in front of me.
“ Did you expect me to go up in a puff of smoke?'And where would I go?”
I wasn’t able to answer him.
“And where would I go, to hell, from whence I came? To the devil, from whom I came? Suppose I told you I know nothing of the devil. Suppose I told you that I don't even know if he exists!”
He looked at the door with a pause before continuing.
“I don't know whether I come from the devil or not! I do not know what I am!' I shouted at Babette, my voice deafening in my own sensitive ears. "I am to live to the end of the world, and I don't even know what I am!”
Then he left again like he always did leaving me alone with my thoughts. And this time he didn’t come back.
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