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Enjoy an excerpt of Karen's novel:
THE GIRL CALLED ELLA DESSA by Karen Campbell Prough
Thursday, September 15, 1836
“Mama, talk to me. I can’t do
this by myself.”
Ella Dessa Huskey’s mama sat
upright on the bed. “It’s too soon. I need help.” The lantern’s dull glow
caused indistinct shadows to shift over the log wall and drift across the woman’s
thin face and tangled straw-colored hair.
“I don’t understand what to
do.” Ella knew nothing of birthing babies. Her twelve years of life hadn’t
included that experience. She felt a surge of panic, which caused her stomach
to roll. “Tell me what to do.”
Mama collapsed back on the flat
pillow. Sweat poured down her face. She panted, her blue eyes staring upward.
“Ella Dessa, remember,” her voice sounded weak but understandable, “I might go
to screaming before it’s here.”
“What do I do?”
“Keep clean sheets under me so
your pa can’t see the soiled bed. There’s more in my trunk.” She groaned,
twisted sideways, and shifted her narrow hips. “I can’t catch my breath. I’m
too tired. Ohh … another one’s coming.”
Her mama grimaced. Ella clamped
her teeth on her bottom lip and scrunched her face.
Just as the contraction peaked
and faded, the cabin door opened. The morning’s meager light slipped into the
grim interior. Her pa ducked his head, stepped in with an armful of dried wood,
and snatched the door shut with his right hand.
With one swift movement, Ella
leaned across the bed and let her disheveled hair hide the side of her face.
She placed her lips against Mama’s ear. “I’m skeered. He should go for Granny
Hanks. Let me ride there myself.”
“No— hush.” Mama’s sunken eyes
went shut. “It’s too late.”
“Meara?”
“Jacob?” The callous tone in
Pa’s voice brought Mama’s exhausted blue eyes wide open. Her quivering hands
wiped at the sweat on her forehead.
“Is Ella Dessa a help or is she
a hinderin’ you? If so, I’ll kick her outside.”
Ella twisted sideways on the
lumpy mattress and stared at her pa. Her initial panic doubled, and she
clutched Mama’s clammy arm. I won’t go, unless I’m told to ride for Granny. She
hoped her touch relayed those feelings to her mama. Words couldn’t be spoken
with Pa glowering at her.
“She’s a help. Leave her be.”
“Mama,” she whispered. “I want
to be here. But I fear I might not know what to do.”
Unable to answer, Mama shook
her head. Her colorless lips twisted with agony. She panted through the next
contraction, and her body sagged to the bed. “Don’t let it frighten you. Just
stand by to tie the cord. Ella Dessa, you’re brave. Remember that always.” Her
barely audible words drifted away. Her eyes closed.
Out of the corner of her eye,
Ella saw her pa squatting near the fireplace. His large-knuckled hands stacked
the split wood. The fire had died to gray coals, and the cabin chilled. She had
a hazy grasp on the birth process, and the immediacy engulfed and terrified
her.
With her thumb, she rubbed the
sweat from Mama’s eyelids. “How’s the pain?”
“Let me rest.”
“Pa?” She clenched her jaw and
turned toward him. “She’s too weak.”
He dropped a piece of wood. His
curse sliced through the room.
The irregular flicker of the
lantern threw a jumpy, distorted reflection over the sagging bed, and the
cabin’s one window cast a dull hint of daylight into the room.
“Oh, Lord, give me strength.”
Mama’s voice rose in a whispered prayer. “Let it be a son.” She clutched at the
bedclothes and moaned through colorless lips. With the mounting contraction,
she struggled to lift her head and upper body off the sunken cornhusk mattress.
Ella wedged a rolled blanket
behind her back. “Better?”
Mama grasped her knees, pulled
them toward the sides of her chest, and strained. A deep groan erupted from her
throat. “Awww. No— awww!”
Firewood clattered to the clay
floor and rolled. Ella whirled toward the sound. “Let me go for Granny.”
“It ain’t needed.” Pa pivoted
on broken-down boot heels, and his savage kick sent a stick of wood spinning at
her. “Yell for me when it’s here.” He crammed a worn-out hat over his unwashed
hair and shoved long arms into his coat. “I’ll be at the corncrib.”
“Pa, no. I ain’t never done
this. You ain’t gone for Granny. You can’t leave me to do this.” She ran and
grabbed at his worn shirtsleeve. “Stay.” Her fingers clung with determination,
even though she knew the danger of touching him.
As if they were nasty, he
plucked her fingers from his sleeve. His cold inflection spoke of his disdain.
“Take yer hands away— gurl. This be jest another untimely birthin’. She’s goin’
to kill it, ag’in. I got more important things on my mind, like a bear-damaged
corncrib to repair.” He reached for the door latch and disappeared into the
frosty dawn.
His frail wife writhed in pain.
But he didn’t look back.
Fury and alarm choked Ella. She
knew her mama wouldn’t kill her babies. Her pa just didn’t care. Crisp air
rushed in at the wide-open door, and her hands shook as she closed it.
Mama struggled for another
hour, growing weaker with each contraction. And Ella cried tears of relief when
the blue-tinged baby, resembling a skinned rabbit, arrived. The infant slipped
from its mother’s tortured body, onto stained sheets between skinny bent legs.
A short span of eerie silence filled the cabin. The shrill screams of tormented
birthing ceased.
She stared in disbelief at the
infant until it gave a pitiful wail. “It’s here, Mama. It’s … here.” She
stammered on the simple words expressing her astonishment. “It’s a real baby.
This ain’t nothin’ like the pigs and cows droppin’ young. Mama, did you hear
me?”
“It’s alive?” The woman sank
back on the feather pillow, not bothering to examine the baby. Matted hair
framed her head. The muslin gown, soaked with perspiration, clung to her
emaciated form. Her once-beautiful face lacked color. She shook with chills.
“If it’s a girl child, I want it named Aileen, after my mam. Aileen … such a
soothing sound.” Her blue-veined eyelids closed.
“It is a boy. He’s awful little.”
Ella spoke in hushed tones and marveled at the miniature human and the miracle
of birth she’d witnessed.
The baby’s concave chest
heaved. Delicate arms waved in the air, as his bluish-tinged legs and feet
curled and drew tight to his body. He made pitiful raspy noises with every
breath he tried to draw into his lungs.
With her eyes still shut, Mama
smiled. “Ah, a boy. Let your pa name him.”
“Pa’s at the corncrib.” She
shoved sweaty strands of hair out of her eyes. “He walked out.” She lifted a
square of material and tried to wipe the quivering damp infant.
“Just as well.” Mama’s voice
lost strength.
“The fire went out. He ain’t
helped with that neither.” Bitterness welled inside her. She pressed her lips
together to prevent another string of heated words.
“Don’t fret. The kettle of
water will still have warmth.”
“He should’ve stayed!”
“Stop talking of him … like
that. He’s done enough by you.”
“I don’t understand. Done what
by me?”
“Hush. This be a woman’s trial.
God’s punishment. Clear your brother’s throat and mouth with your finger. Has
the cord stopped beating? Tie it like I showed. Keep him warm. I need to rest,
I’m … so tired.” Sighing, she closed her light blue eyes. “Jacob Huskey can now
stop bothering with me. I done paid the price for his name, accepted my duty. I
bore him a live one. A son.”
“I’m not sure ‘bout it, Mama. I
don’t know if I can cut it.” Her fingers trembled. She wrinkled her nose while
she concentrated on tying two narrow pieces of cloth about the slippery cord.
It reminded her of spilled hog guts at butchering time, and she shuddered.
“You can do it.”
“It’s makin’ me gag.” Soft
moans of disgust escaped her lips as she used a knife to slice at the shiny,
supple cord. “It’s done!” She felt as if she had run a lengthy race. “He’s his
own sep’rate self.”
“I knew you’d do it. You’re a …
brave child.” Mama’s bloodless lips formed the low words with short puffs of
air. “Ella Dessa, stay that way. Keep faith in God … alone. Without His touch,
we can’t stay strong. Don’t let no man beat you down.”
“I won’t.” She lifted the pot
of lukewarm water out of the fireplace and set it on the clay floor. She used a
dipper and poured water into a shallow pan. “I’ll clean the baby.”
She washed the baby’s body and
bundled a scrap of blanket close around his trembling form. She felt older than
her years as she cuddled her brother and rubbed her nose over the softness of
his head. Ella drew in a deep breath. His sweet scent reminded her of baby
rabbits plucked from a summer nest of dried grass.
She tucked him into the bend of
her mama’s blue-veined arm. It took a moment or two of patting and jiggling
Mama’s shoulder to get her to open her eyes.
“He’s right here by you. See?”
Ella touched the baby’s diminutive hand and caressed each perfect curled
finger. “Look at him. He ain’t cryin’, now.”
The baby’s convulsing limbs
relaxed. His face took on a waxen appearance.
“I’ll look later. Ella Dessa,
remember … I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She leaned
to kiss the baby’s cool cheek. “This be home, little brother.”
“Ella? I feel …” Her mama grew
silent.
Disjointed Trails by Karen Campbell Prough
My path
to a published book has been a lengthy and disjointed trail. But it started
when I was about eight. A wooden bookcase in my grandparents’ Michigan farmhouse
teemed with books written by James Oliver Curwood and other old authors. Their
descriptive words fueled my first dreams of becoming a writer. But my mother
planted the seeds.
Those
seeds took hold, sprouted, and grew my wild imagination. She let me cut up her outdated
catalogs and create paper doll families, who soon lived crazy adventures! We made
furniture out of cardboard, and I learned to entertain my two younger brothers
with tales of mystery and intrigue. Poor boys, we didn’t have a television in
those days, so they had only my storytelling.
Karen's Ah-hahs To Tweet:
Author's Bio:
I grew
up, got married, and most of my writing was stored in a box. But after our first
child was born, I entered a short story contest and won a full-course meal for
two at a fancy restaurant. During the following years, a few of my fiction and
nonfiction stories showed up in magazines. And then one of my books gained some
the interest of a publishing house … until their review board met. That book now
resides in a dusty box under my bed.
Writing is
fun. You can get lost in another life or imagined world. You might urge your
characters to avoid danger and find the right person to marry. But life sometimes
takes its toll on a writer. Discouragement hovers, whispering the lines from
all the rejection letters you compile. Family members go on with an authentic life,
and they leave you sitting on the porch of a haunted mansion, which is piled high with moldy, rejected
manuscripts.
A few
years ago, I wrote a story about a lonely child living in the mountains during
1836. My imagination took over, and I felt compelled to tell Ella Dessa’s story.
I wrote and wrote, and my children moved out to follow their own path in life.
Interest
in my writing peaked at three different writer’s conferences. One agent said she
wanted to represent me, but proceeded to chop the story to bits. And then Joyce
Hart, at Hartline Agency, took interest in my book and asked for my manuscript.
But after a year, they said the market wasn’t good enough—but they loved the
story! A southern publishing house wanted it, but finally said no—they went
with a nonfiction book instead. A large publishing house looked at my book
three times, but said it was too long and not their style.
But their
words helped me search for help. Eva Everson took on the job of editing and
soon told me she was in love with the characters. But when the editing was done,
the book remained too long. Months later, I divided the large book into three
manuscripts and fleshed them out.
I
attended the Blue Ridge Christian Writer’s Conference and from that conference,
I signed with an agent. Thrilled, I began more edits on book one, but the
contract with the agent was soon canceled. She had to retire because of health
issues. Despair took over, but so did stubbornness!
I attended the BRCWC once more. While there, I got enough courage to sit down
with an agent from Hartline Literary Agency. Through that agent, I made a
connection with Linda Glaz at Hartline Literary Agency. It was a full circle. I
was back to the same agency, which had loved my book years before. Linda decided
to make me one of her writers! And tucked under my arm was three books—not just
one.
Ella Dessa
could be your neighbor, a child who suffers from rejection and sorrow. But
blossoming within my character were the words her mother whispered more than
once. They were strong, comforting words, telling Ella not to accept
humiliation from anyone—that she was strong. Ella’s battered and beaten mother
read words from the Bible and pointed to them. She told the girl there would be
someone who loved her and she shouldn’t accept less.
THE GIRL
CALLED ELLA DESSA is the first book of a long journey. I could have given up.
Many times, I almost did, but the need to write pulled me to continue. It stood
in my mind as a story, which needed telling.
Karen's Ah-hahs To Tweet:
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Karen C. Prough @KCampbellPrough shares tough
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Author's Bio:
Karen Campbell Prough writes historical fiction
and a broad range of short stories. Seven of her short stories have been
published in a variety of magazines. She has won awards at the 2014 BRMCWC and
the 2015 FCWC. Her first book, The Girl Called Ella Dessa, came out
April 2015.
Karen knows her life-long desire to write comes
from God. The love of books and the heartfelt urge to be a storyteller has been
with her since childhood.
Places to connect with Karen:
