Father's Mansions
The Sea Island Edisto
by
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Even though two boys (an Islander and a New Yorker) were warned by the Island's superstitious,old maum not to go to the "big fields of Prospect Hill Mansion", they were determined to see it all at "first dark" -- that mystical time of summer in the South. What they saw and heard and experienced is the prelude for the story to come.
Terrified...the boys rose from their hiding place. On legs frozen by fear, they desperately tried to get away, pushing each other in panic and falling down the high stairs to the ground -- ant bites stinging as the mounds were disturbed.
In the black of night, afraid to turn on their flashlights, they found their bikes, rode and ran the long mile across the body jarring, rutted field to the paved road, fearing constantly the terrifying sounds would find them there in the desolate, eerie fields of night.
Down the road that cuts through the heart of the island, they hurried as the city boy cried uncontrollably. Low hanging branches of ancient Water Oaks that lined the road obscured the light the dark clouds threatened. And Spanish moss hanging from gnarled trees trailed gray, mysterious, air lightened tentacles above their heads.
The dank, opressive odor of decaying marsh and summer rot forced itself upon them. They passed the marshes -- black... black...dark of darkest night -- and turned onto the beach road where the welcome wind blew softly from the ocean
The low hanging moon was bright on the water -- precious light to the black waters. Glistening. Glistening. Without a word of parting the still sobbing city boy hurried to the warm and welcome lights of his grandmother's house. And the Whaley son turned onto the silent, sandy road to his dark house -- to his mute father, and suffering mother who could not share his fearful pain.
The Island air had been still and oppresive but now the beach winds from the water caressed the Island boy's face. He heard the familiar, incoming, high tide smash violently the soft, soft water of the ocean -- hard against the sand. Endlessly. Endlessly.
The young boy/man stopped to listen -- to accept the watery healing -- to be embraced by the Island. He walked to the ocean's very edge -- listening to the far away murmuring of the night sea. At his feet the constant and comforting swoosh of the water, baptised in blessed liquid removal -- drowning out the fearful sounds and painful memories of the dark country left behind. Looking to the heavens and the night sky the Island's boy saw myriads of stars glistening -- each one a gift. He took the life giving bread; he drank from the cup in silent and blessed communion with this Island.
And back in the wide, night fields and constant rivers and marshy creeks, the mansion house of Prospect Hill stood -- dark and silent. Holding...protecting its secrets...the blank windows of Baynard place looked into the black night and told nothing.
Even in terrifying fear, the Whaley boy knew he was an ordained son to this Island -- this glorious, mysterious, dark and light, God given jewel in the sea. His life was cotained by it. Embraced by it. Sanctified. Nourished. It was Holy Land that gave him life just as it had given life to Islanders before him.
He knew too, the whimpering city boy in the safe confines of his grandmother's house, knew nothing of such sacred and demanding bonds.
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About the Book
In that bountiful time before the War Between the States there were four thousand, four hundred inhabitants on Edisto Island off the South Carolina coast: 400 white. 4000 black slaves.
In those days of great wealth the Sea Island's precious, long staple cotton was sought after by the finest fabric markets of the world. And on the Island, still, those days are lovingly remembered as a time of grand, plantation mansions...of privileged and abundant living...where land barons ruled their worlds.
But those exuberant and extravagant days were only a part of the history of the Island. After the war the South was forced to change. And the members of the Baynard family of Prospect Hill mansion watched it all. This is a story of what they knew and saw.
The words you take from this book as yours form the living history of the mansion, Prospect Hill and give life and breath to the people who passed through its rooms on life's amazing journeys. It is a real story...as real as living. And it is told with great joy and heartbreak and learned strength.
It can only be a Southern story.
About the Author
Father's Mansions is a first historical novel for Phyllis Phillips. When she and her family moved to the South of the 60's it was a difficult time in history. Trying to understand the South of those days Phyllis realized it was necessary to know the stories of the past.
From a background in Literature/Theatre (MA degree)...professional theatre(Arena stage in WashingtonDC)...Producer.Hostess for SC ETV evening programing...raising four children in a political family...Phyllis Phillips has brought forth South Carolina's past and intriquing stories. Father's Mansions is one of those stories.
There are more to come!