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OTHELLO
By Julius Lester
Excerpt:
All morning she had sat in the window seat of her room. Looking down into the courtyard of the castle she could see peasants hurrying back and forth from the storehouse to the kitchen. The soldiers were returning, and once again the Great Hall would be loud with laughter and singing. And once again, she would take her place between her father and him at the table.
Desdemona turned her gaze outward beyond the castle walls. The castle sat on the crest of a hill. A broad road with trees bordering either side led from the gates to the lip of the crest. From there the road twisted and turned around the mountain to the village at the bottom. Her grandfather had built the castle in times more fierce than this. Fear of enemies, not convenience, had dictated his choice of where to build. Now, when enemies were few, all that remained, according to Desdemona’s father, was the inconvenience. She supposed he was right. The ride up the mountain was difficult, especially when it rained. But once you reached the top, the sight of the broad, straight avenue and the towering castle at its end rested the spirit as few vistas she had ever seen.
Sometime that afternoon the men would ride over the crest and onto the avenue. From how they rode she would be able to tell if there had been a battle and how they had fared. Not that she could recall a time they had not returned in triumph during the year since the King had had them housed there.
Only a year? she mused. How could that be? She had known Othello for only a year? But memories of him permeated all her sixteen years. She knew intellectually that she had not known him even when her mother died almost two years ago; yet, when she thought of that time, she could see him standing by the bier. Love had remade her past as if it were a drab suitor in need of a velvet cape.
But did she dare call what she felt love? And was it truly love if it was not returned? She thought he liked her. He had indicated as much in the message Michael Cassio had brought her on his behalf before they left a month ago. But in the life of a young woman, a month was more than enough time for doubt to become as plentiful as pollen. What could he see in her who had never been farther than London? He had lived twice as long and seen more of the world than she knew there was to dream of. Oh, how she loved to hear his stories of the strange places and strange customs he had seen. Being with him was a continual adventure. |
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