Diane Scott Lewis - Crazy Superstitions on Bodily Health

In researching my eighteenth-century novel, Ring of Stone-I delved into this research for a character, a young physician-I came across many interesting beliefs on how to cure sickness.

Before modern medicine lay people and some physicians held the belief that transferring the ailment to another object could cure you of disease. Since antiquity, and well into the eighteenth century, people believed that men reflected aspects of the natural world. It was a dominant strategy that explained the mysteries beyond the ken of the science of the day.

A man in late seventeenth century Somerset claimed that his brother was cured of a rupture by being passed through a slit cut in a young ash tree, three times on three Monday mornings before dawn. When the tree was later cut down, his brother grew ill again.

To cure jaundice, you took the patient’s urine, mix it with ashes and make three equal balls. Put these before a fire, and when they dried out, the disease leaves and he’s cured.

In Devon, to cure the quartan ague, you baked the patient’s urine into a cake, then fed the cake to a dog, who would take on the disease.

Even Richard Wiseman—a Barber Surgeon—who wrote Chirurgicall Treatises during the time of Charles II, believed to remove warts you rub them with a slice of beef, then bury the beef.

Color as well played a part in how health was viewed. "Yellow" remedies were used to cure jaundice: saffron, celandine with yellow flowers, turmeric, and lemon rind. John Wesley, who wrote Primitive Physick, in the mid-eighteenth century, suggested that sufferers of this illness wear celandine leaves under their feet.

Health was also governed by astrological explanations. Manuals intended for physicians and apothecaries included this "otherwordly" advice. Nicholas Culpeper detailed which herbs were presided over by which planets in his famous health text, Culpeper’s Complete Herbal. For example, if a headache was caused by the actions of Venus, then fleabane (an herb of Mars) would cure the malady.

However, the Vox Stellarum, the most popular almanac in the eighteenth century, took a more moderate view: "Men may be inclin’d but not compell’d to do good or evil by the influence of the stars." Yet this same almanac, in 1740, listed which diseases were prevalent in certain months—a vestigial form of astrological medicine.

Thank goodness more enlightened physicians, such as brothers William (a leading anatomist and renown obstetrician) and John Hunter (one of the most distinguished scientists and surgeons of his day) in the eighteenth century, came along to bring medical thinking into the modern world.

William Hunter

Though superstition among the lay people remained.

Information taken from, Patients, Power, and the Poor in Eighteenth Century Bristol, by Mary E. Fissell, 1991.

For more on myths and superstition, check out my novel Ring of Stone, where the myths of a stone ring in remote Cornwall may save a life while destroying another.

Here's the beautiful cover by Michelle.

　
To learn more about my novels: http://www.dianescottlewis.org


　

　
　

Where Did That Come From? by Victoria Chatham

             One of the joys of writing, for me, is doing research. I know some writers hate it and others view it as a form of procrastination but I love delving into history. Apart from the facts I do want to confirm, I frequently come up with oddities that just fascinate me. Some may be questionable, other folks may have a different version of where or why a saying evolved. The following list mostly derives from English history and the terms and sayings have been transported around the world as Britain expanded her trade and borders.

Bringing home the bacon. Having a pig to raise, or the man of the family bringing home some pork, was a sign of wealth. The pork was usually hung in the rafters of the home, close to the chimney, so it was handy for the housewife to cut slices from and to show off to visitors.

Chewing the fat. A term we think of today as people gathering around to have a pleasant conversation and that’s not far from the possible origin of this term. With visitors admiring the ‘flitch’ or uncut side of bacon hanging in the rafters, the householder would cut off a little of the fat to offer his guests so they would sit around and ‘chew the fat’. In addition, a flitch of bacon could be awarded to married couples who could swear to not having regretted their marriage for a year and a day. This old tradition purportedly still survives in some pockets in England.

Dirt poor. While wealthy people may have had slate or stone floors, poor people didn’t. Mostly the floors of their homes consisted of leveled dirt which gives us the saying ‘dirt poor’ to denote someone who really does not have very much of anything.

Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.  Do we really appreciate the luxury of the baths and showers we have today? Imagine living in a household where having a bath consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all the babies. By then the water could be so dirty you might lose someone in it. Hence the saying, ‘Don't throw the baby out with the bath water’ meaning not to lose something of value.

Four poster bed.  With only a thick straw thatch above you, there was nothing to stop bugs and other droppings falling into the house and messing up a nice clean bed. So beds with a post at each corner and a sheet hung over the top offered some protection. Over time the sheets became more elaborate canopies, including curtains surrounding the bed which could be closed to keep out drafts and afford privacy.

June Bride. Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May so still smelt pretty good in June. But, because many were already beginning to smell again, brides starting carrying bouquets of sweet smelling flowers to hide their body odor.

Pay on the nail. Outside the Corn Exchange in Bristol, England, are four brass tables or ‘nails’. They have flat tops with raised edges to stop coins rolling off. The four nails were made at different times, probably modeled after the portable tables used in fairs and markets, but the oldest nail dates from the Elizabethan period.  So, if you ‘pay on the nail’, you pay in cash and on time.

Peas porridge. You may be familiar with the old rhyme ‘peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old’. This refers to a time when everything was cooked in the same pot over the fire. What wasn’t eaten would be left to get cold. Meat was not readily available to the average family, so when the fire was lit on the following day it was mostly vegetables that were added to the pot.

Piss Poor. To dispose of the overnight waste from chamber pots, many families sold this commodity to collectors who took it the local tannery or woolen mill. The ammonia in stale urine was used to tan animal skins and to set dye in cloth. If you had to do this to survive you were ‘piss poor’, but the really poor people couldn’t even afford to buy a chamber pot so didn’t 'have a pot to piss in’.

Raining cats and dogs.  In an era when houses had thick, straw thatched roofs with no wood underneath, it was often the only place that animals could get warm. Cats, mice, bugs, all lived in the roof, but when it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof, so if it was raining really hard, it might be ‘raining cats and dogs’.

Upper crust.  Picture a beautiful, aromatic loaf of bread fresh from the oven. Guests would get the top, or upper crust, the family would get the middle section and servants and workers would get the sometimes burnt bottom of the loaf. Therefore, someone who is ‘upper crust’, would be considered special or of having some elevated social status.

Salute.  Who is not familiar with this sign of respect used by the military and most uniformed organizations? Especially poignant is the iconic photograph of a young John Kennedy saluting his father’s flag draped casket as it was carried from St Matthew’s Cathedral. The salute evolved from medieval times, when knights in armor raised their visors to reveal their identity.

Saved by the bell.  Today we use this term to indicate a situation being saved or solved at the very last moment, but it has a rather gruesome origin. Being a small country, when English parishioners began to run out of space for burials, they would open graves and coffins to reuse them. It was found that 1 out of every 25 coffins opened had fingernail scratch marks on the inside of the lid, and it was realized that people had been buried alive. A string was then tied around the corpse’s wrist and fed through a hole in the coffin lid, up through the ground and tied to a bell. Someone sat by the grave (hence the term graveyard shift for a night worker) so that if the bell was rung the coffin would be immediately opened to save whoever was inside it.

Threshold.  Wealthy people had slate or stone floors in their homes that, when wet and especially during the winter, could get very slippery. To avoid this they spread straw, called thresh, on the floor to keep their footing. Throughout the winter more thresh was added until, when you opened the door, it started to slip outside or was carried out on peoples’ feet. A thick piece of wood was placed across the door way to keep the thresh inside and became known as a ‘thresh hold’.

Wake.  Our ancestors’ table ware was often hazardous to their health. Plates were made of pewter and any food with a high acid content could cause lead to leach into the food causing death by lead poisoning. Tomatoes have a high acid content, so for 400 years or so tomatoes were considered poisonous.

Ale and whisky were served in lead cups and the combination often knocked the imbibers out for days. Anyone walking along a road could take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait to see if they would wake up. This was the origin of bringing food and drink for guests to partake of after a funeral.

So now you know. Do you have  any explanations for sayings in common use today? 

You can find Victoria on:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php

and on her blog at www.victoriachatham.webs.com

A New Life for Kelly McWinter ~ A Murder State of Mind by Jude Pittman

The Indian Creek Texas Mysteries have been revised for a second edition printing and are now available as A Murder State of Mind by Jude Pittman

Find the first book in this mystery series by clicking the cover. 

A Murder State of Mind: Deadly Secrets

Kelly McWinter, a retired cop who suffered a personal tragedy has been coming to grips with his personal grief and is once again feeling the pull to return to law enforcement. That decision escalates when he and Jake find one of the Hideaway’s favorite characters dead on the floor of the flea market.

Coincidences, the emergence of a secret life, a treasure, an heiress searching for her birth mother and the ulterior motives of some of the Creek’s own citizens all have Kelly scrambling to uncover the truth before his best friend ends up being convicted of a crime that Kelly is positive he didn’t commit.

Previously published as The Indian Creek Texas mysteries

"DEADLY SECRETS kept me guessing. Just when I thought I knew "whodunit," I'd turn the page and discover someone new with the means, motive and opportunity. If you like an entertaining mystery that will confound you until the very end, DEADLY SECRETS is for you. I highly recommend it and look forward to more from this talented storyteller." ~ 5 out of 5 stars, Marilyn Miller "Mystery Maven" 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00NRBS1JQ 

 

A Book Signing to Remember By Sandy Semerad

     As husband Larry and I drove from Santa Rosa Beach to my book signing at the BAM store in Destin, Florida, I had a flashback. 

     I remembered a story Robert Crais told years ago. Crais is an award winning novelist of detective fiction. At one time, he wrote television scripts for shows like Hill Street Blues, Cagney & Lacey, Quincy, Miami Vice and L.A. Law.

     

     Many readers would be honored to buy his books and have him autograph them, I thought. But apparently that wasn’t the case at a Walmart store, according to what Crais told a group at Sleuthfest, where he was the keynote speaker.

     

     He aggressively hawked his books and tried to engage customers, he said. He’s say stuff like, “Do you like detective fiction. Do you like mysteries?”

     

     One man replied, “No,” and then asked Crais to help him find the fishing gear, he said.

     I pushed that memory out of my head and told myself, my book signing would be successful. I was determined. I believed in my book, my baby, and I wanted everyone to read A Message in the Roses.

     Larry and I arrived about 30 minutes early. I placed six blue pens on the table beside a stack of my books. I was determined not to run out of ink.

     We put the bookmarks and an address book on the table and placed my poster on an easel. Luckily, the store positioned me near the front door. Before long, a potential customer walked in.

      Larry went into action. He sounded like a carnival barker, “This is your lucky day,” he shouted. “Author Sandy Semerad is autographing her critically acclaimed book, A Message in the Roses.”

     As he led this unsuspecting and somewhat stunned woman toward me, I asked her, “Do you like romantic thrillers?”

     “I prefer nonfiction,” she said.

      “Well, then, you might enjoy A Message in the Roses,” I said, motioning, in Vanna White fashion, toward the stack of books. “It’s loosely based on a murder trial I covered as a newspaper reporter in Atlanta.”

     I handed her a bookmark. She glanced at it and then picked up one of my books.

     We began a conversation. I asked her to sign my address book and said, “I’d be happy to autograph a copy of my book for you.”

     And so it went.

     With other signings, I’d learned to autograph on the title page, and I knew I darn sure needed to ask each person how to spell his or her name.

     I'd also learned to ask, “How should I autograph this?”

     Most people respond with, “Write whatever you want.” But I think it's important to write something personal, and it's easier to do that if you've shared conversation.

     I’ve been told it’s best to have a person write out instructions to the author on what to say. I’m sure that’s good advice, but I didn’t do that.

     After I signed the books, Larry snapped our photos. That is, if they agreed to have their picture taken. If they did, I later e-mailed the photos to them, and tagged their names after posting on Facebook.

      Everyone at BAM was supportive. One of the employees, with the voice of a broadcaster, kept announcing, “Author Sandy Semerad is in our store signing her latest book A Message in the Roses.” She added blurbs about my book to entice customers. I complimented her later. 

     Should I have written my own announcement? Perhaps, but luckily, she did a superb job.

    After the signing, I got the store’s approval to autograph the remaining copies that didn’t sell. I’m hoping they’ll display them, prominently, with the bookmarks I left behind. Maybe they’ll place an “autographed copy” sticker on them. Did I mention I’m a hopeful optimist?

     I thanked the BAM employees and a couple of days later, I called to thank them again. As an afterthought, I sent a photo taken with the staff to the BAM marketing site with a brief e-mail about the signing. 

     Maybe I should send a snail mail letter to the store and include more bookmarks. I want them to remember my books and keep promoting them.

     Weeks before I started trying to arrange book signings, I asked Michelle Lee to design my bookmarks. These were helpful in getting the signings in the first place, I think. (I gave a copy of the bookmark with a press release and a list of distributors to the managers of two books store and asked them to order my books.)

    I downloaded the bookmark to Printing for Less. I should have ordered more than 500. I’m almost out. I’ve been distributing them like crazy.

     For the signing, I knew I’d need a poster. So PFL created one on foam board, not cheap, but sturdy. It looked sharp on the easel, I thought. The poster has my book covers and a promo blurb under each and my photo.

     The poster arrived in time, but not the postcards, I'd ordered. I should have ordered them a month before. They came the week of my signing, and I was working out of town. My poor husband distributed them as best he could.

     Two weeks prior, after I checked to make sure the BAM store had the books, I e-mailed a press release to local newspapers. I also created an event on Facebook and other sites and invited everyone.

     There were a few things I wish I’d done. 

     I should have placed a copy of my book with bookmarks at the cash registers. I should have asked Larry to hand out book marks and a copy of my book to customers we didn’t catch at the door. I was too busy hustling those who came in to do that myself.

     And maybe I should have placed a bowl of chocolate candy on my table or held a drawing to win a gift, perhaps a free book. I’m thinking I might do these things at my next one, which is Saturday, Sept. 27, at the Destin, Florida Barnes and Noble.

     A lady from B&N has already called to say my books are in. Wish me luck. I wish you could come by and spread the love. #booksigning  #AMessageintheRoses

     www.sandysemerad.com

http://bookswelove.net/sandysemerad.php

https://www.facebook.com/SandySemerad

A Love Affair With Writing by Ginger Simpson #BooksWeLove

If you know an author personally, you're probably familiar with the term, WIP.  We always have a "writing in progress" project, and although some may sit on the back burner for months while a new and more exciting storyline takes precedence, I'll bet every other writer out there shares my burning desire to finish that meaningful story.  I have that problem right now, but for a different reason.  I earlier explained in another post the difference between "plotters/pantsers," and I'm a pantser, so my heroine in The Well speaks more often than Yellow Moon.  

I know I'm going to finish Yellow Moon, because I already have the cover, but she's been one of the most difficult heroines to work with because she turns mute on me.  I can't SHOW you her story if she doesn't TELL it to me.  So, for today, I'm going to give you an example of The Well, hopefully to make Yellow Moon jealous.  *lol*

So, while I'm trying to pry words out of Yellow Moon's mouth, here's the story that Harlee is anxious to share with you.  I'm loving it, but I really want to get Yellow Moon to my publisher soon.  Oy Vey...what I wouldn't give to be able to plot...but I've tried it and it just doesn't work for me.

The Well

Oklahoma Panhandle - 1894

Hot winds drove a herd of tumbleweeds across endless acres of sod–broken and dried by the sun.   The devastating drought in Oklahoma continued on, leaving everything parched or dying. Using the rope crank, Harlee Wagner lowered the bucket into the well. She swiped at the perspiration on her brow with the sleeve of her dress.

Each time she fetched drinking water for the family, the rope attached to the wooden pail reeled closer and closer to the end. What would they do if the well ran dry? They'd already given up bathing, and Ma only prepared one meal a day, using mostly dried meat and vegetables she'd preserved. Harlee’s younger sister, Hannah, complained the most, but sacrifice was inevitable if they were to survive.  

Drastic times called for change. The horses needed water every day but Harlee no longer filled the trough. Instead she gave them small amounts from a pail. The chickens seemed unaware of their plight and pecked unaffected at the ground, searching for insects.  

A small dirt devil swirled across the corral and moved like a ghost-like apparition through the weathered fence and then disappeared from sight behind the barn. Rain was certain to come and things would improve. She needed to cling to that hope. 

“Well, that was a durned waste of time.” Pa stomped by, his rifle resting against his shoulder and a frown on his face.

“Whadda you mean?” Her words stopped him before he went inside.

“I mean there’s not an animal around for miles that I saw, at least. I think they’ve all gone in search of something green to munch on instead of all this dried grass and weeds.” His leathery skin gave him a much older appearance despite not having a single grey strand in his auburn hair, and worry deepened the sun-etched creases in his brow. The wind fluttered his wispy hair into his eyes, and he huffed his annoyance and brushed the thin strands aside.

“How about fishing?”

“Open those brown eyes of yorn. Have you seen the lake recently?” His brow furrowed. “There’s more bloated trout dead on the shore than I can count. If it don’t rain soon, the lake is going to shrink into a pond.”

Her pa went inside and slammed the door. Harlee winced. At seventeen, this was the most severe season she’d witnessed in her life. Her stomach growled with hunger and her dried mouth cried out for a long, cool drink. The plants in the garden were as withered as Harlee’s heart. She wanted to leave Oklahoma, mainly because her chances of finding a beau, especially miles from nowhere, were slim to none, and most likely she'd end up an old maid. The family had only lived on the ‘farm’ less than a year, but the men who stopped by to see her pa were definitely not even close to her age.

A glance at the shack they called home served as a reminder there was no real reason to stay in this God-forsaken place, but Pa saw something here she didn’t and remained determined to make this their permanent home. Perhaps his decision was based on being driven from every other place they'd lived…either by crooked tax men or cattlemen who didn't want to share the range land. Pa came from a small town in New England that raised sheep and saw that as his calling.

Harlee cranked the bucket up and shielded her eyes against the sun while looking longingly at the sky for any hint of rain. A few wispy white clouds drifted across a sea of blue, and in the distance, vultures circled some poor critter either dead or dying. Her heart ached for such a gruesome end to life.

“Are you gonna take all day getting water?” Eleven-year-old Hannah poked her nose outside. “I’m mighty thirsty, just in case you care.”

“Hold your horses, would ya? If you think you can fetch a bucket full any quicker, you’re welcome to try.”

 Hannah stuck out her tongue and then disappeared back inside the house. No surprise, she wouldn't put forth any effort. As the youngest, she was spoiled rotten…and probably would still be even if the babe Ma lost when Harlee was her younger sister’s age had survived.

Harlee turned her attention back to the chore at hand. The bucket crested the well’s top, only half full this time. The water used to be so high, she often bent over and stared at her reflection. Doubtful she could see it now, she crawled up on the stone ledge and peered over, searching for any hint of her likeness. Stretching farther . . . she still saw nothing but emptiness. The old stone beneath her grip gave way, sending her tumbling into the black abyss, her head striking rock. Numbed by shock, her scream froze in her throat. 

Harlee hit the water, creating a splash, although not a very big one. Pain shot through her head, and she grabbed her scalp to soothe the ache and found a huge lump had already formed. Something dripped down the side of her face. Was it water? She touched the dampness, licked her hand, and confirmed by the coppery taste it was blood. Her attempt to choke back tears failed when the throbbing intensified and matched each beat of her heart. She cried until she got the hiccups, and leaned her head against the wall, waiting for them to stop.

  She jerked upright and stared up, noting the sun directly overhead. “I must have dozed off.”  Raising her hand, she checked her head and found the bleeding had stopped. “Oh, thank you God, I needed something positive about this day.”

  The light cascaded down the well and highlighted the greenness of the walls and the murky color of the water. Gathering her wits, she struggled to her feet, wiped sodden hair from her face and gasped when the water’s depth barely reached her thighs. “Oh, Lord, we need this precious liquid for so many things, but taking a swim wasn't one of them.”   

As the shock of her fall faded, she faced an even greater fear than how injured she was–how to get out of the well.  “Help me. Ma! Pa! Hannah! Someone! Heellllppp!” She yelled until she had no voice left. 

No answer came from above.

 Time ticked by and she grew weary. Her elbow, evidently skinned during the fall, joined the dull ache in her head, and her knees begged her to sit. The blue sky above darkened with the approaching night, and Harlee sagged into the water, letting it lap to her chin while she rested against the stony interior. Why hadn't someone come to look for her? Especially her impatient little sister?

Despite her discomfort, Harlee slept and woke with a crick in her neck and fingers wrinkled from being under water. She glanced up, praying to see someone peering back, but strangely, no longer saw the sky. Could it still be night? Straining her eyes, she noted light leaking around what appeared to be a cover. Her mind whirred. Was this all a bad dream? The fact that she sat in water, confined in a stone prison confirmed the truth. But why hadn't someone missed her, and why did they cover the well unless her family thought her dead? 

 With a hoarse voice, she shouted as loud as she could, but still no one responded. Trying to find a bright spot, she remembered the circling vultures. “At least I cheated those gluttonous birds out of a meal,” she muttered as tears plunked into the water, barely making a ripple. Death would surely claim her anyhow. Maybe the grim reaper already had and she didn't realize she'd passed. Resting a hand on her bosom, she searched for a heartbeat.

****

 Her soaked dress cloaked her like a second skin, and the slime from the well’s bottom coated her skinned palms. She crinkled her nose at the musty smell and kept assuring herself help would come, but her cries bounced off the walls and went unanswered.

Harlee’s strength waned more and more by the morning of the fourth day, and she prepared to die.  Her measure of time came by means of daylight filtering around the well’s sealed edges, and she no longer had hope of rescue. After wanting water so badly, she taken only small sips a few times and now dreamed of Ma’s buttermilk biscuits. An imaginary aroma masked the musk and hung teasingly in the air.

  Numbness enveloped Harlee’s body and outlook, but didn't dull her curiosity about her family.  Maybe they hadn't given up on her, instead perhaps something had happened to them?  At the thought, she embraced herself to quell her increased shivering.

Harlee inhaled a deep breath, drawing in the unpleasant aroma she'd avoided by shallow breathing.  The lack of air inside the well made her light-headed and the smell made her gag. The thought of sitting in her own urine soaked clothing added to her nausea. She retched a few times, but threw up nothing but bile. The bitter taste in her mouth matched the rancidness of the well’s bottom.  

 She positioned herself firmly against the wall, bending her knees and planting her feet against the opposite wall. Drowning wasn't a preference and there was enough water for that to happen. With any luck, she’d just fall asleep and wake up in the beautiful garden Ma read about in the Bible one Sunday. 

 The pictures the hallowed words painted colored Harlee’s mind and her muscles relaxed. Her head lulled to her shoulder. If her time had come, she was ready, despite lamenting she'd die without knowing the pleasure of having a husband and children. Still, at this moment, anything had to be better than the wet, damp hell that claimed her. Her eyes closed and then squinted tighter against a light much brighter than she'd ever seen. Was it the door to heaven? 

The bucket banged her atop her head. “Ouch!” The pain brought back her voice.

“Holy shit ” A deep voice sounded above. Surely, God didn’t curse. Then who?

Harlee tried to adjust to the daylight filtering down the well by holding a shielding hand to her forehead. She looked up, but the dank and dark prison had stolen her vision as well as her voice.  Weakness robbed her of the ability to stand. Despite only hearing a voice, she continued to peer up and pray. Finally, she managed to see her rescuer’s outline. 

“Help me,” she managed to rasp out.

He leaned farther over the opening. “Are you alive?”  

Seemed like a silly question since dead people didn't speak, but she stifled her sarcasm, not wishing to risk her rescue. “I-I think so.” Harlee barely had the strength to respond, but the idea of being set free gave her a voice.

“Hold on. Let me see if I can find something to help get you out.”

Out? The word sounded more beautiful than any other she'd ever heard, but when he disappeared from her sight, panic seized her heart. Was she hallucinating?  

The blue sky loomed overhead and the smell of freshness drifted down to replace the wet, musty stench she'd endured for so long. She released a pent-up breath when a fuzzy silhouette re-appeared.

“This place is deserted, but I did manage to find a good, hearty rope. The one attached to this old bucket is so rotten, it wouldn't hold up a feather. Do you think you could manage to tie this one around your waist and climb out while I pull?”

Tying something around her waist wasn't the problem.  Her legs had grown weak and she doubted she could stand. Still, the idea of living appealed more than dying. “I can try.” She braced herself with the sides of the well and forced herself to her feet. Her head spun and she feared she might faint. The rope unfurled as he released it. His comment about the place being deserted didn’t make sense, but then nothing did at the moment.

With shrivelled and weak hands, Harlee secured the braided horse hair around her waist, and gripped the lifeline with all the strength she mustered. “Okay, I'm ready,” she called up to her rescuer.

“I’ll pull and you use your feet to walk up the wall.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Well, if I have to come down there and get you, there'll be no one here to pull us both out.  You've got to try.”

“All right. I will.”

She made a first step and a second. Water dripped from her body and splattered into what remained in the well. Her limbs trembled and the coarseness of the rope nipped through the thin material of her dress and chafed her skin. On her third step, her leg gave out and she slammed against the wall, knocking the air from her lungs and scraping her cheek against the rough stones. The stranger slackened the rope, allowing her to collapse back into the water. Harlee massaged her burning face and even in the dim light saw blood on her fingers. She used the wet hem of her dress to soothe the burning and dab the wound.

“Are you okay?” His deep voice resonated and brought her to her senses.

Would anyone who'd been trapped in a well for days be just fine? She took a deep breath and resisted asking him if he was serious.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He yelled louder.

“Yes. My cheek is bleeding and my hands are raw, but I’m ready to try again.” Determination drove her as she rubbed her sore hands along her skirt.

“Okay, I'm going to start pulling again, so stand up and hold on tight.”

Her mind whirred with questions she hoped to ask. Harlee struggled to her feet and took a firm grip on her lifeline. “Pull,” she instructed.

Despite the pain, she concentrated on each step, unwilling to waiver until she reached freedom.  Her palms and fingers burned and the top of the well appeared miles away. Still, she made sure she kept one foot anchoring her in place before she moved the other. Many times she wanted to surrender, but looking up into the blurred face of her hero gave her the strength she needed to continue.

After what seemed forever, sunlight warmed Harlee’s face and a breeze caressed her soggy skin. The stranger grasped her beneath her arms and hauled her over the well’s edge. Her feet touched the ground, but overcome by weakness, she sagged against him. He swept her into his arms as if she was nothing more than a feather and cradled her like a mother would her babe. “There, there, you're going to be fine now.” 

Somehow, in desperation, she believed his soothing words.

Okay...I'm either going to keep working on this on or choke the words out of Yellow Moon.  *lol*