Befogged

By Catherine JOHANN

Branded as a child witch, Winnie survives years of brutal rejection. She flees her village in the hinterlands of South Dakota, with plans to reverse her grim fate and prove everybody wrong. Her journey—from being rescued by Lakota Sioux elders, adopted by Midwest farmers, befriended by hobos, or becoming part of the WWII aircraft workforce—brings her to Los Angeles, where her search for happiness and love picks up speed. Will her resilient optimism and fantasist mind be enough to bend her dour odds?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine JOHANN
• Release date: Mar 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781393845805

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

ALSO BY CATHERINE JOHANN

SO YOU THINK YOU CAN CHEAT THE DEVIL?

BILLIONAIRE ANYWAY

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual living persons living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright 2010 © by Catherine Johann

Edited by VRENI MERRIAM

Cover by NATHALIE HARPER BLUE

Special thanks to SINISA SPAJIC

FOR NATHALIE HARPER BLUE

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Chapter 1

I’ve never known love. I have never been the voluptuous receiver of words such as ‘I’m in love with you,’ ‘Oh my darling!’ and so forth. No one has ever fallen in love with me—not when I was young and handsome, not when I was a mature adult, not then, not later, not now, never!

My hair, still brown and vigorous, should have turned white a long time ago; I am an old woman, and I despise it, and, to top it all off, ‘Love’ has never knocked at my door, and I’m enraged about that!

Born from a simple family of Slavic immigrants, my aims in life were grandiose, but fate decided otherwise, and throughout all my years, I have had to endure the painful spectacle of seeing my dreams abort, one by one, bit by bit.

I am cursed because I’m a woman, but I am doubly cursed because my youth vanished in pre-historic times, and even if deep inside myself, I feel greener than ever, society has long ago stopped noticing me.

I’ve always been fond of my striking features. I wouldn’t define myself as having ever belonged to the clan of cuties, but my strong bone structure, muscular limbs, big hands, and large feet had a charm that I always cherished with tenderness.

Even though I ceased years ago, to update the count of my birthdays, until not so long ago, I felt good in my body: I liked walking; standing on my feet; grasping things; feeling fresh air go down my lungs and I enjoyed the scent of lemon soap on my skin after a long, hot shower. I loved life, living, and being alive. Not only that, but I was a skilled engraver, and I will always be proud of it.

In my younger years, I was stronger than a horse. My teeth were so white and perfect then. Ironically, only my lower ones, the ones that never show when I smile, are still in good shape. One cold winter morning, I was trimming my plum tree a bit too hastily, and the last thing I remember was a large branch coming down straight at me. I woke up at dusk spitting blood and teeth, and my beautiful smile was gone forever!

Not that my real or even fake teeth have made a difference with love or just plain luck. They haven’t!

I love being who I am, but God, I can’t stand being a woman! If only I were a man—although I hate men!

Men are evil, stupid, and mean. My life has been miserable and ruined by them because I was not one of them. I should have been born a boy, grown into a strong and handsome man who would have taught these bastards an excellent lesson—starting with my male progenitor! My father ignited that never-ending dance of men abusing me, men taking ruthless advantage of me, men forcing me to endure in silence their physical and mental torture; besides, what kind of crooked man was he, my father, to conceive a prisoner child? What sort of selfish ingrate must he have already been in his younger years to take part in creating an innocent being trapped in the body of a girl?

My father! That cheap liar, that hypocrite wimp! Still alive and virile while his daughter is rapidly fading away, still loved and in love, still respected and admired by all, still a man among other men!

My father was born a monster.

Monsters never fall from grace.

Monsters never die!

I was born the last of my family and grew up in Druna, a remote village in South Dakota, peopled entirely by inhabitants of Czech origin. Both my parents were musicians. My mother, a courageous, hardworking woman, was a gifted pianist. My lazy father played the accordion. Poorer than the poorest farmers, we didn’t own a square inch of land, and the menace of the monthly rent for our tiny house and garden loomed over our lives like famished vultures. My mother sacrificed a brilliant pianist career for the illusion of love. Unfortunately, in those days, divorce was never an option for pious wives, and once she realized she had thrown her dice on the wrong man, she had already been pregnant several times. She tried her best to raise her big family with the proceeds of private music lessons and playing weekend country balls, and while she ruined her delicate fingers growing food or washing clothes in ice-cold water, my dad drank, played cards, chased women, and destroyed my innocent years shamefully.

I don’t remember when my mother’s aversion to me started, but all I know is that I was the embodiment of everything she loathed. I was the ugly duckling amongst her offspring—the irremediable mistake. I could never read music, had a zero talent for piano, didn’t care for dolls, refused to wear dresses, had no manners, always spoke the wrong words at the most inadequate times, and, most damnatory of all, I unwittingly awakened the dark zones of my father’s sexual perversion.

I loved trousers, open spaces, and climbing trees. I was a hurt tomboy searching for crumbs of affection and got burned from both the physical and emotional ends.

The need for survival taught me to block negative feelings against my parents. I learned to numb my wrath and crush the urge of instant revenge with dreams of splendor: I would become a wealthy, successful, powerful adult, and they would all see how wrong they had been in failing to perceive what the genuine me truly was.

Ruthlessly and relentlessly beaten by adults, kids, and adolescents, I separated myself from the low race of human beings and became a species of my own. Passing clouds, rain, wind, rainbows, forests, rivers, and fields became my teachers. Animals taught me the art of seeing, hearing, and fleeing.

I communicated both silently and vocally with all the flora and fauna around. I spoke rat, bat, dog, ant, frog, dandelion, clover, and mint. I was ‘nature witnessing nature.’ I talked to Mist and Dew, Brooks, and cornfields. I was transparent, and I was color.

My peculiar and intimate contact with the wild during the months preceding and following my seventh birthday imparted to my body and soul an aura that inspired uncontrollable fright in the hearts and minds of Druna’s populace. I felt the same and looked the same when I observed the reflection of my image in the mirror, yet to the villagers, I had metamorphosed into an oddball, an enigma, a mutant—a witch! That such a harmless child would be the object of dread was ludicrous, but by the time I reached eight, not a soul from my village dared approach me, look into my eyes, insult me, accuse me, or brutalize me.

From a defenseless victim treated like vermin, harassed, and spat upon, I became repulsive and fearsome, like a wounded wolf with rabies. Suddenly, and not to my overwhelming dislike, I embodied a living container of plagues and ills, and from that infamous Easter Sunday when my people officially anointed me as the reincarnation of a dangerous and mean vixen, my life irrevocably changed. Barring me from its lineage, my family rejected me as one does with rotten and damaged apples at the dawn of a long winter. My father’s hands and hurting snake miraculously ceased to explore the hills and caverns of my flesh, and I lauded this heaven-sent relief despite the whirlpool of insanity engulfing me. My mother denied she had ever conceived me; betraying me, she convinced everyone, including herself, that someone had switched me at birth and that my foreign blood was toxic as a deadly chemical. The non-existent support of my siblings turned sour. They ostentatiously shunned me except on those rare occasions when they launched elusive smiles at me as one throws a picked-clean bone to a ferocious mangy dog.

Irretrievably rejected from the Druna sanctum, I lost the connection with my human fabric and felt like a defenseless animal kicked violently by pointed metallic boots. Human ignorance and twisted minds threw me into the pit of witchcraft and sorcery long before my childhood had blossomed into adolescence. Yet, instead of shriveling like a dead fetus, I expanded and became an expert in reaping all the fruits of the hostile powers assigned to me. I crowned myself as queen and saw the inhabitants of Druna as my vassals; thus, my royal satisfaction swallowed a significant chunk of my frustration. 

There was a run-down barn stacked with hay half a mile from the village entrance, and it became mine, or so to speak. And since no one wanted me to roam the village at night to forage for food, my sibling threw leftovers and rags my way. Old bigots sprinkled holy water on houses, gardens, paths, and by-ways to defeat my evil spell, and I keenly took advantage of their mounting superstitions. I saved a calf, a pig, two ducks, and countless chickens by walking toward them just as farmers were ready to take their lives with axes or knives. I freed chained dogs, and no one tried to stop me.

My genetic predisposition made me acutely sensitive to the audible. I listened like a predator and pricked up my ears like prey. I spoke, growled, sang, hummed, moaned, and screamed. I even talked so loudly in my dreams that often, my voice pulled me out of the most profound slumber.

Queen of illusion holding a scepter of make-believe, I fell from my throne. Loneliness sank inconsolably into my young life, but glowing visualizations of my future granted me the patience to endure. When somber thoughts surged uncontrollably from the sadness of certain days and the sorrows of dreamless nights, I cuddled with the ersatz friends I had crafted with clay, hay, wood, and resin. Neither boys nor girls, my friends were as real for me as any living human. I dressed them, cleaned them, scolded them, shared thoughts with them, argued with them, kissed them and consoled them, laughed with them, and sang good night songs to them.

During these austere childhood years, my life apprenticeship yearned for interaction with other humans. What hurt me the most in being so meanly rejected by all was to be severed from a conversation with others of my race. Often I feared that my mother tongue, left unattended, would vanish from my brain and that, once gone for good, I would become like a demented monster belonging neither to the world of humans, ghosts, or animals.

As much as I loved my dolls, they weren’t enough to fill my vacuum, so I anchored imaginary social posts throughout the fabric of my persona and, from the desolation of isolation, I created a rich fictional universe filled with ebullient beings that shared their lives with mine. More real than real, these personalized beings were very talkative, and since they borrowed my timbre to speak, I could never silence my voice for too long.

I never grew tired of listening or taking part in the animated conversations ushering out of me unbidden and playing endlessly with the rich gamut of sounds whose points of origin I could never determine with accuracy.

Caught up in the turbulence of this lively inner universe, I sometimes wondered if there was even a bit of my voice that was my own. My voice, and to a lesser extent my breath, was a highway borrowed by foreign entities whenever they needed it. Listening to the distortions of sounds spatting out from my throat and lips gradually absorbed the remaining of my personality so that when I vanished from myself, I scarcely noticed it.

But things weren’t so complicated: the universe hadn’t forsaken me but gifted me with benighted company. My thoughts were my own, but my voice belonged to the beings inside me whose primary purpose was to confirm that my aloneness was only a mirage.

Winters, springs, summers, and autumns came to pass; then another wet spring followed another harsh winter.

On one early April afternoon, as small patches of blue pierced the dark clouded sky, I stepped out of my retreat and paid my regular visit to the tadpoles in the forest pond. Suddenly, while I was there, rain clouds burst into a massive deluge sparked by explosions of thunder. Lightning jolts pierced the dense forest canopy, knocking down some of the oldest and tallest trees. Paralyzed by fear, I lay flat until the menacing storm chased me from my bed of clay. I ran down the North field praying to the sky to kill me clean or spare my life, but please, oh please, not to strike or harm me.

My bare feet slithered on the wet grass and, with the swiftness of a wild hare, brought me home in one piece. I entered my barn and yelled out both the discomfort of my drenched and freezing flesh and the relief of my safe return: Zima, Zima, Zima, Zima!

As I rubbed my wet hands together, I felt a presence nearby.

A real human presence.

I wasn’t alone. Someone was there!

I wiped my runny nose with my fingers. The odor of sophisticated perfume blending with the vapors of wet hay and rotting clover overwhelmed my olfactory senses. Whoever had dared trespass into my domain was a woman. Some Druna whore dared to violate my premises! 

Feeling a presence behind my back, I spun around. 

A shivering young woman who sported none of Druna’s inhabitants’ traits was approaching me. She didn’t look like a prostitute and couldn’t belong to my village.

My name is Adeline, she shyly presented herself.

The hesitation and innocence in her voice showed she was in her early twenties at most. Drenched in her head-to-toe white attire, Adeline looked miserable. I was familiar with clothes of dark shades, black being the most prevalent since, from close relatives to distant acquaintances and neighbors, there was a never-ending mourning process in Druna. In my village, besides nurses, brides, baptized infants, or first holy communions, no one wore white in those days. Adeline wasn’t wearing nurse or bridal attire, and even though her dress was rain-damaged, one could tell it could only belong to a person of wealth. I wondered what such a strange, out-of-place was doing in my barn. She couldn’t be an angel because she had no wings, no golden halo, and no dry immaculate dress with long sleeves. Who was she? Floods of questions assaulted me from all directions, but my tongue stiffened as I stared mutely at this enchanting person who was less than three feet away from me. She looked too fragile and kind to present any immediate danger. Eyes never lie, and Adeline’s crisp and blue ones seemed honest as she twiddled nervously the tips of her dripping wet curly blond hair with long fingers perfectly adorned with carmine red nails.

Using my eyes as weapons and keeping them riveted on Adeline’s puzzled facial expression, I counted the seconds between raging thunderclaps and lightning flashes. Fifteen... eighteen… thirteen… twenty-four! The sky’s electrical swords had moved a hefty twenty miles away from Druna. I didn’t know how much damage had fallen over the villages nearby, but the storm had spared my barn and my life.

Waves of relief from my stomach to my chest overwhelmed me. I thought about rushing toward my dolls and hugging them, but I lacked the desire to do so. I whistled, forced out some Ohs and Ahs, and shoveled a few ‘Zima’ and ‘Yuppies’ with my tongue and jaws, but to my dismay, no one was there!

My invisible radiant friends, who up to now had borrowed my voice, were gone. Left behind, I was one with and within myself for the first time since I could remember.

I was whole and alone in my mind and body. 

Albeit eager to tour my new wholesome psyche, I oriented it toward the woman stealing my barn’s oxygen. I didn’t know how to proceed with a reality so foreign to the realms of my imagination. I clapped my hands and tried to welcome Adeline with warm words and a smile, but it had been such a long time since I had spoken normally with a human being that my throat was dry and my jaw stiff. I waited for Adeline to break the ice, fantasizing that she would launch a witticism so irresistible it would blast to smithereens the clumsiness of my social skills.

The angry rain on my leaking roof diverted my concerns. I watched rivulets grow into rivers and puddles into lakes as my barn suffered the first symptoms of inundation. There was a reason, out of all the bible stories, the great flood was the one that had impressed me most. Adeline was perhaps a genuine angel sent to rescue me from the floods and the heavenly fire. I wondered if she had the power to materialize boats or wings.

I left my daydreaming when I noticed her blue lips and shivering body. I had guessed wrong. Adeline couldn’t be a celestial messenger or a supernatural entity. The ethereal bodies of angels were invulnerable to temperature fluctuations. Angels didn’t shiver, unlike my surprise guest, who looked frightened, exhausted, and cold. Her young womanhood still carried tight bonds with the girl she had been in the past not so remote. Adeline’s glowing face was taut with the strings of innocence and animated by enormous blue sapphire eyes that moved swiftly like two searchlights in the darkest of nights. Her refined features and scarless skin bespoke a golden upbringing in a cozy home full of love, laughter, and soft voices. To be in the company of a stranger who belonged to a world foreign to the brutal one that had given birth to me made me feel awkward and prompted me to act heedlessly. I stood under the streams of frigid water gushing through the roof leaks and gesticulated to Adeline: Your turn now!

Oh my! I certainly wouldn’t do such a thing! she responded in a tone revealing that her porcelain features harbored a creature with a temper chiseled by sharp crystals. Adeline’s answer took me a little aback.

If we do not stay warm, we might die of pneumonia. Should we run for help? We need blankets and a hot soup, she continued.

I have everything we need. I live here. Come, I said.

Adeline followed me with surprising docility. Her face radiated an irresistible candor as I dusted off my vintage oak chest with the tattered sleeve of my oversized hunter’s jacket and pulled out a treasure of torn wool blankets and ripped-down comforters.

Strip naked and rub your skin with moss, then dig a hole in the patch of dry hay behind that wood pile! I commanded.

I beg your pardon? Adeline looked at me wide-eyed.

Get in there! Close your eyes, I dictated. Don’t look my way until I tell you to. And I won’t look at you either.

My thoughts churned vigorously. Shyness had retreated, and now blunt authority had risen like a dragon. My dragon, the one resting dormant in the confines of my repressed emotions, had finally awakened! I had, long ago, learned how to manipulate my voice to neutralize the destructive barbs hurled at me, but that evening my tone conveyed the most sublime sensation of centeredness.

Adeline’s smile extended from ear to ear.

Yes, captain, she whispered as she moved away with the entire stack of my prized blankets, the ones that I had been generous enough to share!

Hey! I lashed out, trying to stop her.

Hey! she responded with a smile as if I were just playing a friendly game with her.

My heart lacked the will to be rude. I couldn’t scold her for lack of consideration because the situation wasn’t that alarming for a tough kid like me.

Survival had already given me its share of crash courses, and it was pretty reasonable to admit that, compared to blizzards and deadly winters, the ambient temperature was almost pleasant and undoubtedly bearable.

Meanwhile, dripping wet clothes hindered my every move. I stripped naked in a flash and rubbed my skin against a compacted bale of hay, but prudishness cut short my usual urge to whip my blood until it became hot as torrential lava. Instead, I swiftly sorted through a pile of dry grasses and roughly braided my selection into a primitive skirt to hide my genitals from the scrutiny of a stranger. I robbed a large rag from one of my life-size straw dolls, wrapped it around my shoulders, and hurried towards Adeline, who had built a deluxe nest amid the driest and softest haystack.

You chose the best spot, I grimaced.

Oh! Adeline exclaimed as if coming out of deep sleep.

And you took all the warm things, but that’s all right… I sure don’t want you to die on me; don’t worry, I’ll be all right. I’ve been through worse. I kept talking as I swiftly arranged my quarters close to hers. You can keep the warm blankets, but we must share this spot, I said to prevent the possibility of rejection.

Oh sure, please, come closer. It is becoming quite pleasant here. I can already feel my body temperature rising. But perhaps you should take my spot—this is your place, after all—and I certainly didn’t mean to take all your blankets!

Adeline spoke with a sophistication that felt very inappropriate in such chaotic surroundings. I locked into a deep silence. When our eyes finally met, she launched an effusive flow of thanks and apologies. I responded with gibberish. My thrill at having an actual conversation, and with a kind, polite, and educated woman no less, miraculously replaced my frigid blood with a hot current that rose to my head and inebriated me most pleasantly. The luxury of a private talk with a sophisticated person was a priceless gift that had fallen straight from a special corner of paradise, and by the time nightfall spread its tentacles, I had metamorphosed into the most social being I could ever be. Yet, having talked about this and that, I had utterly failed to introduce myself.

Adeline’s clairvoyance and poise solved my quandary; just as I was wondering how to introduce myself to her, she deftly stole my topic and made it hers.

My name is Adeline, as I mentioned earlier. Adeline Berriford. Forgive my lightheadedness, but I am eager to know your name.

My name? Which one? You mean how I’m called? I asked. I was so baffled by the synchronicity of my guest’s thoughts with my own that the urge to kneel and give thanks pushed me even deeper into a mental slow motion.

I am… I am Winifred, I stuttered, Winnie for short.

The sound of my first name gliding out of my mouth troubled me. Winifred and Winnie were integral parts of who I was, but they felt like misfits because they came from my parents, who didn’t respect me let alone love me. Beyond these primary considerations, the main reason for my unease as I revealed my identity to Adeline came from a lack of familiarity with hearing my name pronounced aloud.

Diplomat in the art of peace, Adeline coated me with the right words. You have the most beautiful and unique name. Winnie! I am so very privileged to have met such a lovely person with such an exquisite name, she said as she folded rags and tattered blankets into a neat pile between us.

Adeline’s elixir worked wonders, and I wouldn’t have minded bathing under her waterfall of compliments until a deep slumber captured me away from the awareness of my flesh. But all of a sudden, I saw that Adeline’s lips had turned purple again. Convulsive shivers had taken command of her muscles. I grabbed her elbows in my hands and moved them back and forth as if to rekindle the dwindling impetus of her body to stay alive.

Look at you! How can you be warm? You lied! You are cold as ice. What’s wrong with you? Get up! I summoned.

I am stronger than you might suspect, you know, Adeline rebelled.

No time and place to feel offended. Get up! I said. You must jump, jump, jump until your forehead drips with sweat. Then you must scrub and scrub your skin with bark and straw. It will make your blood so hot. The wool will keep the heat all night long, I spoke with the authority of an adult.

All right, I will jump then, Adeline declared as she stood up with apparent difficulty.

Move, move, move! Start moving now! Copy exactly what I do, I commanded.

Adeline followed my orders and mimicked my impromptu gymnastic session with the discipline of a nun. It took an eternity to see tints of pink spread through the surface of her exposed skin, but when it finally did, Adeline sat by my side and wrapped my ragged wool shawl around her slender limbs with the grace of a princess. She imitated my guttural sounds of relief and pleasure. Then we screamed even louder as we jumped back into our respective holes, where we buried ourselves under a foot or so of hay.

Thank you very much, thank you so much! I feel so much better now. Thank you, Winnie.

I didn’t reciprocate Adeline’s extravagance of thanks. Yet, they overwhelmed me with gratitude for being recognized as something other than a nuisance. Still, the words that had prompted such elation soon triggered an impatience bordering on rage, because now they seemed devoid of heartfelt resonance.

No more thanks, please. Too many! One was plenty enough, I said.

To my utter dislike, Adeline began apologizing profusely.

None of that either… I want real. I want honesty. I want the truth, I interjected.

My abrupt tone sealed an uncomfortable silence around us, but nothing in the universe could resist Adeline’s charm.

Well, I mean what I say! I am so happy! And now I’m warm. These moments are glorious, Winnie.

I know. I’m toasty here. You should see my burrow…. I hesitated.

Burrow? Do you have a burrow? she asked with sincere curiosity.

In the dead of winter, it’s so cold even right here… oh no… we couldn’t stay here when it’s so cold that snow is warm in comparison, I declared.

I foresaw the delights of