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Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast - Episode 334 - Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast Episode 334 – Fiction Double-Header: Down By the Tumbling Stream by E C Hallewell & Where You Go by Jennifer Nestojko - transcript

(Originally aired 2026/01/31 - listen here)

Submissions for the 2026 fiction series close today, so this episode’s stories were bought as part of the 2025 call for submissions. When I had my choices narrowed down to only one more story than I had slots for, I noticed that two of the remaining pool, taken together, were still below the 5000 word limit so there was no reason to say no to any of them. (Mind you, I’m not saying that these two specific stories were going head to head for a spot. Simply that it gave me an easy out.) I tend to view the word limit more as a budgetary cap, though doubling up on scheduling does have its own complications. The only other time I’ve had a double episode it involved two flash fiction pieces by the same author. So I’ll introduce and air the first story, then have a brief musical transition, then introduce and air the second story. Don’t leave too early!

Rather than flipping a coin, I’ve arranged them in chronological order of the setting. “Down By the Tumbling Stream” by EC Hallewell is set in the Cumbria region of England in the early part of the 17th century, before the English Civil War. It’s a tale of yearning and barriers and second chances with quite a twist at the end.

EC Hallewell grew up in the Lake District, England, and now lives in Scotland with a small child and a large hoard of books. The lakes and fells of their childhood often sneak into their writing, as does the windswept Scottish coastline. They tend to write sad, slightly strange queer tales. When they’re not writing, you’ll find them taking long walks by the water – any water will do! You can find them on Bluesky at https://bsky.app/profile/echallewell.bsky.social. See the links in the show notes.

We tried to arrange for a narrator with the proper local accent, but alas it didn’t work out, so I will be doing the narration for both stories.

This recording is released under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International Public License. You may share it in the full original form but you may not sell it, you may not transcribe it, and you may not adapt it. This statement applies to both stories in this episode.

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Down by the Tumbling Stream

By EC Hallewell

 

After the fourth time we slipped away, I knew we would be lovers.

From the melancholy hysteria of the harvest festival, we fled into the dark woods, laughing drunk, bumping shoulders and catching each other when we stumbled. Your hands were smaller than my husband’s, and so much kinder.

Under empty branches and a cloud-black sky, we walked until the din faded and the lakeshore willows gave way to hawthorn, ash, and oak. We came to Waters Meet and your bad hip was aching, so we crossed the beck to rest under the old rowan tree. Far overhead, the clouds parted, and the world lit up silver.

“I used to swim here when I was a lass,” you said.

“Aye, me too.”

We sat with shoulders pressed together, and watched the becks merge with a flicker and a swirl, catching starlight only to let it go.

True night was falling. Away from the festival, from our families, we might have been alone in the valley. Behind us, Skiddaw was a black wall; above us twined bare branches and then — the sky. A vastness veiled by scudding clouds.

“It’s almost too big,” you whispered.

I couldn’t reply, flattened by the mass of stars and their hard light.

“They’ll be singing the blessings by now,” you said.

“We could sing our own.”

“We should get back,” you said.

Before anyone noticed we were gone, and whispers flew from barbed tongues.

But to go back felt like failure. To give up the night and your shoulder against mine, and to wake in the morning wrapped in layers of skin like peeling paint, a wooden doll with an empty smile.

“We could go on,” I said.

“…We could.”

You hesitated, then brought from your pocket a small flask of fragrant juniper spirits.

“Made this for you.”

I held out a hand, but you lifted the rim of the flask to your own lips. Where it touched, it left an indent, one that would fit my finger if I were to press it there. You took a sip, then passed me the flask. With shaking fingers, I held it to my lips, inhaled the sharp berry scent, then drank. Liquid fire swirled around my mouth and shot to my stomach, setting me aflame.

“Is it good?” Your voice was low, rough from the spirits or from something I did not yet dare think about.

“It is.”

I tried to hand it back, but your fingers curled over mine and you pressed it to my chest.

“A gift.”

I swallowed. “Thank you.”

We went back to the festival, to orange lanterns and raucous song. The children of Hawse and Crossthwate were sleeping in piles like puppies in the warmth of the dying bonfires, watched over by mothers and aunts and grandmamas. And so, for a while, we sat beyond the edge of the light, bundled against the night in bright wool blankets.

We leaned closer over hot apple cider until your face blurred and the gaps nestled within our conversation grew longer. You told me you loved your husband, though you never wished to be a wife. You told me you loved your children, though you never wished to be a mother. I tried to understand, but the violent silence of my husband’s low stone cottage held few answers.

I asked myself again why you chose to run away with me, when you already had so much. And in a drunken haze I finally let an answer in when I licked cider from my lower lip and your eyes followed the movement and your own lips parted in a sigh.

But we were still too tame, creatures of our homesteads, dutiful daughters and wives.

And so we went home, and the long empty winter drew in. On the surface a wooden doll draped in undyed wool, underneath I dreamed of you as I darned shirts and whittled new spoons for my kitchen, pricking and slicing my wooden skin until I reached something real. My blood stained red the threads over my husband’s heart, and sank into the thirsty wood to touch every meal I made. I wanted to suck it out, but then my teeth would have been red too, and I was not ready for that. Instead, I sipped juniper and let your heat flow down into my belly, ran my tongue around the hole of your flask as my fingers slipped beneath my skirts.

Our villages were close enough to celebrate the harvest, to lend space on a cart for the sheep auctions over in Keswick, but in the hungry depths of winter we turned in on ourselves, shunned anything outside our separate circles of light, while out on the fells the starving wolves howled.

I saw you, once, in the distance. When the lake froze over and everyone rushed out in joy at the novelty of it. Away to the north, where the stream came down from Hawse. I recognised you from your stature, your feigned nonchalance, the way you held your bad hip as you skated across thin ice. You wove slow loops and occasionally span like the wind had caught you. I wanted to ask you to hold me, to teach me how to dance. But instead, I lent my niece a hand and pulled her along until she fell over from giggling, and then we went to my sister’s home for mulled ale and cake, while my husband chased blush-cheeked young women across the lake.

Spring came in waves; now unfurling, now shrinking from the frost, now tentatively opening again; a touch of bright colour where crocuses pushed up through the snow. Wood sorrel and wild garlic spread across the meadows and under the trees, and bright sap rushed in branch and twig and swelling bud. Green scents called my blood to run faster.

And, finally, the lake thawed completely and there was a new warmth in the air, and I dreamed each night of slipping into the water and drifting under the stars.

Lambing time came and went, and our villages prepared for May Day. The women hung garlands of yellow flowers and made grinning masks of twigs and grasses and green-stained wool; the men built great piles of wood on the shore by St Bega’s, ready to become blazing bonfires.

Young ones at the cusp of adulthood gathered in the lengthening evenings and thought their parents could not see the lingering glances, the pink cheeks and brushing hands.

I thought of you.

The sun shone bright and hot on our festival. I chased shadows down to the water, stood under weeping willows and watched wavelets lap at smooth stones.

In the breathless quiet of this sanctuary, you came to me.

Our husbands were gone to drink ale with the other men, your children to splash in the water and beg sweet treats of the baker. Veiled from the festival by trailing branches with their deathly soft catkins, we were almost alone.

Yours were the only eyes that did not fill me with discomfort. When they caught me, I did not want to look away. They were brown and soft and filled with liquid luminosity, and I felt rather than caused the movement of my fingers, my feet towards you. Like a lodestone to a heart’s desire, every part of me was drawn to every part of you.

You fascinated and frightened me. Beneath your neatly embroidered blouse and pressed linen apron, beneath your learned smile and the dazzling true one, beneath your skin, there was something more, something else.

“Hello, you,” you said.

I melted like candlewax.

“Hello.”

And in those two syllables were the things I could not say with my human tongue: let me lay you down and unravel you; I want to understand every part of you – would you want the same of me? If I rest my fingers on your flushed cheek, will you kiss me? Do you think of me late at night, in your bath, when your lips touch a tumbler of cool water? I want you to shiver when my mouth brushes your skin.

A fire is in my stomach. Come, love, come, away from the music and the people. Down by the tumbling stream, hidden by bramble thickets and sharp coconut gorse, we can be alone.

The bank is green with damp moss and sedge. We sit, let our skirts soak through. Your fingers tremble as you reach for me; your eyes are wide as if you are afraid.

“We could go back,” I say.

“We could.”

With your fingertips, you trace the curve of my lips. Your words mingle with the hollow sounds of the stream. “You are like nothing I have known.”

I cannot speak. I let my lips fall open, take your finger between my teeth. As I bite down, you make a noise between a gasp and a moan, and heat rushes through me, undeniable. I reach for you and you for me and your lips are upon mine, as soft as I had imagined, and as hungry.

Slick tongues and teeth that leave marks; eager fingers seeking skin. With fumbling hands and panting breaths, we discard the trappings of humanity. My fingers brush your ribs, your tongue finds the hollow of my neck and you lick away a swathe of my skin. A moment of agony, then a soft warmth spreads.

Taking turns, we strip away layers with rough tongues that ache and burn. With each fresh revealing, there is further to go. We keep on and keep on, desperate in our need.

The sun scorches raw flesh and we slip into the stream, into cool water that dances over our heads as we tumble.

Claws emerge from the stubs of our fingers, and we rake at tattered remnants of the skins we have shed. The water carries them away, washes clean the brown fur underneath until it gleams in the fractal light.

At last, we are done.

The bank of the stream feels different under the thick pads of my paws. We drag weary limbs from the water and, spent, collapse onto the moss. Sleek furred bodies twined together, we nuzzle one another’s faces, drop gentle bites like kisses on round cheeks and black noses. In the warmth of the spring sun, we can close our eyes and finally rest.

We wake, and love the dance of the water, the heat of the sun on our bellies, fresh fish caught between sharp teeth. There is an echo, sometimes, in the empty night, of something left behind. But behind slips from our grasp like quick darting prey and we let it go, content to drift under the stars.

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Jennifer Nestojko has been a regular contributor to the Lesbian Historic Motif Podcast’s fiction program. “Where You Go” is the fourth story of hers that we’ve published. The setting is 17th century Germany and it shares the themes of yearning and second chances that the previous story featured.

Jennifer Nestojko is a writer and a teacher who lives near Monterey, CA. The past is full of stories, and the most intriguing are the ones that are hidden by other narratives. Jennifer wants to give voice to some of those stories and experiences, because they speak to the stories of those who are here now and may also be silenced by dominant narratives. She also just likes a good story and is excited to be part of this series. 

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Where You Go

by Jennifer Nestojko

 

The smell of warm bread filled the front of the house as Hilde removed the finished loaves and placed them on the work table, which was worn from generations of farm women preparing food for their families. Hilde loved the aromas that filled this part of her little domain and she loved the sense of moving in the same space as her mother and grandmother. She had grown up by this hearth, had shaped her first Easter loaves here, made her first soups and stews under her mother’s watchful eye. She wondered how much longer this would be her space. Too much had happened since summer’s heat and the harvest’s plenty.

Easter was just now past, with its baking and celebrations, and spring was moving forward. Hilde carefully covered the loaves with a cloth and looked at the flowers arranged in an earthenware cup in the center of the work table. That was Liesl’s work, and Hilde smiled to herself. It had been a hard autumn and winter, following the sudden death of Johan, and Hilde was gladdened by the sight of the flowers. Liesl was coming out of her grief at the death of her father.

Hilde checked on the hearthfire. It was still cool in the evenings, though she thought bread and cheese would suffice for her meal. Liesl was at the spring festival in town and had been given enough coin to buy her supper and some trinket. Where would she be without Liesl, she wondered. No one quite knew what she had given up when she married so that the farm’s legacy could continue. She had been an only child, and she was grateful for Hans, her son. Liesl could marry well and move to her new home as its mistress. As Hilde busied herself about, doing the little clean up needed, she wondered what life would be like once Hans and his wife took over the house and she went to the cottage down by the brook. Empty. That’s what it would be. Liesl would be near, but starting her own life soon. As it should be, she thought to herself fiercely.

As if summoned by Hilde’s thoughts, the door to the house burst open and Liesl came running in, her face alight with excitement. She was followed by a new girl, someone Hilde did not know, though Hilde twisted her hands in her skirts, trying to hide the shock she felt at such a familiar face on such an unknown girl.

“Mutti, look” said Liesl eagerly, “This is Anne. She is here with the players.”

The players were a troupe of puppeteers who had fled from England some thirty years before and who traveled through the lowlands and high country, performing their plays and comedies. England had become hostile to players and their like, but they were well received wherever they went now. They came through the village every two or three years, always with new offerings as well as old favorites, such as Punch and Judy. Hilde had eagerly watched their plays once, when she was a girl. Before she was married. She had not gone down to the town festival for many a year, claiming to be needed at home when Johan took the children there. He had teased her about it, but she claimed to be just as pleased to have some peace for once.

“Welcome, Anne” replied Hilde formally, pleased to keep an even tone “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, thank you,” replied the girl, with a soft curtsy. “I shall have my supper back at the camp. I need to help get ready for tonight’s performance.”

“It’s a small play adapted from the English stage,” offered Liesl. She turned admiring eyes to Anne. “I know girls can’t do the acting, but Anne helps make the puppets and the costumes and all. She let me sew up a gown today. It had velvet and little pearls.” Liesl laughed: “I liked it better than if I were the one wearing it.”

Hilde frowned. “Liesl, you should not be getting in the way.”

Anne smiled at Liesl, and there were secrets dancing in her eyes. Hilde felt the stirrings of alarm, watching Liesl carefully. Liesl seemed to be leaning in to Anne; they seemed far more familiar than expected for a chance encounter.

“Oh no, Liesl is not in the way. She is quite welcome and a great help,” replied Anne demurely.

Liesl took a deep breath and turned to her mother. “I have wonderful news! They have asked me to travel with them for the rest of their circuit. I have always wanted to see more of the world; isn’t this a splendid opportunity?”

“Are you mad, child?” Hilde asked. “What about Matz?”

Liesl frowned and reached for Anne’s hand. “Matz and I are dear friends, yes,” she responded. “But I don’t see why he should mind. He’s known of my wish to travel for years.”

I haven’t known, thought Hilde. I never knew this about my own daughter. The thought stung.

“What about his farm?” asked Hilde coldly. “He needs a wife. You know that.”

“Then he should find one,” said Liesl, with a little stamp. “It shouldn’t be me!”

“And why not?” responded Hilde, still more coldly. She felt a deep anger rising up in her. “It’s a good life. He’s a good man.”

“I don’t want that life,” said Liesl coldly, matching her mother’s tone. That stamp had indicated a more fiery response was coming, but Hilde had seen the little tug on the hand from Anne, and she knew her daughter was taking that cue. It made her angrier, seeing Anne’s face, framed by dark curls, with that famed English complexion. That face – she couldn’t look at her for long.

“You don’t have much choice,” replied Hilde.

“What if she does?” interjected Anne. “What if my aunt and my family can watch over her? She is quick with the work needed for the costumes and the set. We winter near this town, so she can come back then.”

Hilde was watching Liesl’s face – she caught the tightening of her lips. She did not mean to return for winter snows. She did not mean to return.

“No, impossible,” she said. “Say your goodbyes now. This is foolish.”

Liesl said nothing. She stared at her mother for a moment, then turned away and walked out of the house, almost pulling Anne behind her.

Hilde was stunned. What had just happened? Her anger did not die down; it seemed to grow until it hurt too much to contain. She did not know how to release it, and in a blind rage she did the only thing she knew to do in such a moment. She cleaned.

In less than a month she was moving to the cottage. Sophie, Hans’ bride of three years, was more than able to take over. Hilde started sorting her clothing, packing most of it into the chest that had stayed at the foot of the bed her entire married life. It had been a wedding gift from her aunt, the one who had never married and who had been the village seamstress for years. She was the one who had taught Liesl such fine handwork.

Her entire life seemed to fit into that one chest. Some of her garments were turned swiftly into rags for cleaning, and she had little jewelry. The cuckoo clock, her pots and pans, her household figures, all seemed to belong to the house rather than her. She had her good aprons, for holy days and festivals, and she had two dresses for church, and then her daily clothing. Her hands seemed to fold without her having any involvement. They went about their tasks quickly, not needing direction. Not needing her.

She focused so hard on not thinking the next thought, feeling the emotion beneath the anger, that she failed to hear a rapping on the door, nor did she hear the door open. She slowly became aware of the figure at the entrance to her room, watching her. Hilde looked up, knowing, almost, what she was going to see.

A woman of her own age stood there, dressed much like she was dressed. She had dark curls peeking out from beneath her coif and, even now, a clear English complexion. Hilde did not know how to read her expression. She did not know what betrayal was on her own face.

“I figured,” she began, and then couldn’t speak for a moment. “Anne?” she asked.

The woman kept her hands beneath her apron. “She is my niece,” she replied. “Unlike you, I never married. My sister died when Anne was an infant, and I have raised her as my own.”

“Mary,” began Hilde, and then stopped. Mary kept looking at her, her brown eyes more of a mystery than they ever had been.

“Mary,” she began again. “I had to. I had to. I had no choice.”

“No?” asked Mary. Then she sighed and reached out a hand to Hilde. Hilde looked at the outstretched hand a moment, then reached out her own, accepting the help to her feet.

“Ach,” she said, “those girls do not appreciate their youth.”

Mary was silent as they went out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She sat on the offered stool and calmly accepted a slice of warm bread with honey. Neither woman spoke for a few minutes, breaking bread together.

“I waited by the brook for you,” Mary said, her words like pebbles tossed into a pool.

“I told you not to,” replied Hilde, defensively. This wasn’t real; she had imagined this conversation for years when she was younger. It was mad that she thought it was happening now, that Mary was actually here, eating her bread.

“I know,” said Mary. “I was hopeful, and then I was angry.” She looked at Hilde. “Then, I was sad. I have looked for you when we have come to your town.”

Hilde looked away. “I could not go. I had made my choice.” The only choice, which made it no choice at all.

Mary sighed and reached across the table, taking Hilde’s hand. “Would it have been so bad to see me, so bad to speak to me in the marketplace?”

Hilde refused to meet her glance, but she gripped Mary’s hand tightly. “Yes,” she said.

After a moment Mary let go of her hand. She stood, straightened her skirts, and then walked swiftly to the door, opened it, and walked through.

Hilde stayed up all through the night, sitting in Johan’s old chair, which had always been the more comfortable. She did not bank the coals but kept the small fire in the fireplace going, watching the flames. She watched as the logs were consumed by flame, watched as they crumbled to ash only to be replaced by new logs. In the morning she knew the ashes would be swept away, by her, possibly to be of some later use in making soap or in the garden or for deterring pests.

Sophie was more than capable of such tasks, and she had more energy. Hilde could help here and there and she could keep the cottage, but such a role was nothing more than a burning down to embers before becoming ash and then nothing. Even in the midst of her bleak reflections, her lips twitched at the idea of becoming soap. That could be very interesting, actually, as long as she wasn’t used for dishes. She had had enough of washing dishes.

Hilde had been dozing in the chair, but woke as the door opened. It was Liesl coming home in the early reaches of dawn, opening the door quietly, as if hoping that her mother was still sleeping in her bed.  Hilde had always been up early, but that was because Johan needed to see to the animals, and that was a task for Hans now.  Sophie was the one waking early and Hilde sometimes woke just past dawn’s light. Liesl obviously hoped that this was one of those mornings as she tiptoed to the stairs. Hilde feigned sleep, and Liesl crept up to the loft. Hilde heard her moving about the room, and the thumps did not sound like the noises made when preparing for sleep. Like mother, like daughter, Hilde thought, wearily, remembering her own packing. Liesl was not planning to stay; she was sneaking out and leaving with her new friends. She felt the start of tears against her eyelids and swiftly suppressed them. She had much practice in keeping tears away.

“Well?” she asked, startling her daughter who was trying to miss the creaking boards on the stairs. Hans had been so much craftier at sneaking out. Liesl had never tried to do so, until now.

“Mother?” Liesl said, looking around the shadowy room, and finally spotting her.

“Were you going to sneak away, like a thief?” asked Hilde. “What, no goodbye?”

Liesl looked confused, came down the rest of the way, then stood, defiant. “You told me I cannot go. I am making my own choice. I won’t let you stop me.”

“That would be good dialogue for one of your puppet shows,” said Hilde, standing up. “I am sure I have heard those lines before.”

Liesl snorted. “You never go to the shows. What do you know?”

Hilde put her hand on Liesl’s hair, admiring the gold that still shone even in the muted light. Her own hair once was that shade. “Is it Anne?” She stroked her daughter’s braids, much as she had when Liesl was younger. “Do you love her?”

Liesl choked a little and blushed. “She is very kind to me, Mutti.”

Hilde sighed. “You love her like you do not love Matz.” She almost laughed at the shocked look on Liesl’s face. Mothers know nothing. They never had.

“Liebchen,” she said, and sighed again. Why was this so hard? “Liebchen, tell Anne to keep you close and keep you safe. You have my blessing.”

Liesl stared at her, trying to parse out the layered meaning in her mother’s words. Tears came more readily to her eyes than her mother’s; a few slipped down her cheek.

Hilde embraced her daughter. She had so much to say, and no words ready for the speaking. “Send word now and then,” she whispered. Liesl nodded. Hilde released her. “Come back and visit,” she said. “Anne as well.”

After Liesl had left, tears still in her eyes, Hilde felt a bit lost. Her anger had changed shape; it now tasted of grief as well. She had been angry for so many years, despite her good life. Her husband had been a kind man and a friend. Her children were gifts. Yet underneath it all she had been angry, and now she understood that her anger had always been paired with grief.

Soon she would be moved to the small cottage. There had never been choices for her, not really, not with so many expectations hanging on them. They were the expectations of others, but they were real and she had felt their weight. Now she was old and done and out of the choices she never really had possessed.

She drifted over to the small secret cubby beneath the stair; it had been her hiding place since she was five and her aunt had shown it to her. She opened it up and drew out an old box wrapped in cloth. She sat it on the table while she had her small breakfast. She missed her husband; his death had ripped a hole in her life and changed everything. She missed her daughter with a fierce ache that burned deep inside, even though she had left only an hour past. She missed her son, though he was nearby.

She missed herself, who she had been, who she was at different moments in her life. Who was she now that husband, daughter, and son were swallowed up into their adult selves or into death?

Hilde tidied up and, sick of her own company in that empty space, so familiar and yet no longer her own, she grabbed the box and walked outside, draping a cloak about her, for the morning was cold. She walked down to the brook, following the winding little path worn by many feet before her. The leaves were showing their new green and there were daffodils and tulips adding color against the boles of the trees. The brook rushed along, finally coming to a small pool and quieting its chatter. In the summer it was a deep brown with shafts of light through the trees turning the depths golden in spots. She loved it, even though it had always made her think of another pair of brown eyes. Johan’s eyes had been blue, similar to her own.

There was a spot where tree roots wove a comfortable seat, especially now since her backside was more cushioned than in former years. She nestled into it, feeling the comfort of its familiarity. She had come to the brook with children and spouse many times, but this space was her own. There were other pools, suitable for children swimming on hot days; this one was too small. It did not feel foreign to her, as her own house was becoming foreign. Had it been just yesterday that she was baking bread and remembering her mother and grandmother, had been thinking of her place in that long chain of women? Of course, she had still been aware of losing that place.

There was a soft murmuring of water here, not the laughing chatter or the louder rush amongst the rocks that could be found elsewhere. It soothed her, and Hilde listened to it for a long while before picking up the box and unwrapping it, gently folding the cloth and laying it aside. The box had been lovingly carved with small faces and trees and flowers, and she traced the face of one particularly amusing gnome that had always been a favorite.

She heard the steps down the path and knew who must be coming. This had been their meeting spot, so long ago.

“Open it,” Mary said. “I did not know that you had kept it.”

Hilde opened the box, removing the small puppet that was nestled within. Its face had been carved with the same care as the box, and it wore a faded dress of velvet. It had a crown on its head. “I would never have thrown it away,” she replied. “Never.”

She waited for Mary to respond with something pithy and bitter – you threw me away – but Mary just sat near her on a protruding root. They had once fit together in the nest of roots.

“It really should see the stage again,” Mary said. Hilde felt the ache inside of her grow.

“Liesl could make it a new dress,” she offered. “Since she will be leaving with you.” She could not keep the echo of loss from her voice.

Mary put her arm around her, drawing her close. Hilde held herself stiff for a moment, then relaxed. “I like the dress it has,” Mary replied. “It was made by the most amazing seamstress.”

Hilde laughed. “Liesl is much better at that than I ever was,” she said. “She has a better sense of color and her stitches are more even.”

Mary held her closer. “Liesl is Anne’s. You were mine.”

Hilde watched the water, not knowing what to say. She remembered the girl who had found love in the most unexpected way. She remembered their little staged shows here by the brook, with no audience but for a few robins and a saucy squirrel. There has been kisses exchanged, and more. The sun was making its way to the pool, lighting parts golden brown. She had once watched for nothing but the golden lights of Mary’s eyes and the shape of her smile. Now Mary was leaving and taking Liesl with her. For a moment she despised the cottage, which was a lovely cottage with roses and small windows and charming cupboards. It did not deserve such hatred, really.

Moments passed, and then it seemed as if an unspoken question had been answered. Mary sighed and stood up. “I must be going; we will be travelling by nightfall.” She turned towards the path.

Hilde also stood up and watched as Mary started up the path. Something within her shifted, or perhaps she finally heard the question Mary had been asking, and she cried out. “Mary – Mary,” was all she could say, and then twenty years of withheld tears erupted, and she bent over, shuddering with sobs.

“No, no, dearest,” Mary murmured, rushing back, holding her, pressing kisses onto her hair, onto her neck, rubbing her back. Hilde held on tightly, trying to stop her sobs. Finally, she quieted, and tried to step away. She looked into Mary’s brown eyes, and then Mary pressed her lips to hers. The years fell away for just a moment.

After, Mary brushed aside her own tears. “I heard Liesl’s story,” she said. “When she said she had a choice, that she wanted a choice. I thought, so many years ago, that you had made a choice, but you really didn’t see that there was one, did you?”

Hilde nodded. No, she had been tied to this place, but she found that she was no longer angry that Liesl had choices, even if her own were over or had never been.

“Dearheart,” Mary said. “So much has changed. I am hopefully wiser as well as older, and I stopped being angry years ago.” Mary cupped Hilde’s face in her hands, looking tentative, but hopeful. “Would you wish to come with me now? This time?”

Oh, Hilde thought. She did have choices. She smiled up at Mary, a shy smile that became a grin.

“Well,” she said. “It’s a good thing that I have already packed.”

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Show Notes

This quarter’s fiction episode presents two stories:

• "Down By the Tumbling Stream" EC Hallewell, narrated by Heather Rose Jones.
• "Where You Go" Jennifer Nestojko, narrated by Heather Rose Jones.

Links to the Lesbian Historic Motif Project Online

• Website: http://alpennia.com/lhmp
• Blog: http://alpennia.com/blog
• RSS: http://alpennia.com/blog/feed/
• Twitter: @LesbianMotif
• Discord: Contact Heather for an invitation to the Alpennia/LHMP Discord server
• The Lesbian Historic Motif Project Patreon

Links to Heather Online

• Website: http://alpennia.com
• Email: Heather Rose Jones
• Mastodon: @heatherrosejones@Wandering.Shop
• Bluesky: @heatherrosejones
• Facebook: Heather Rose Jones (author page)

Links to EC Hallewell Online

• Bluesky: @echallewell.bsky.social

Ouch!  I hadn't meant to skip posting blogs while I was traveling, but somehow I got distracted, despite having everything lined up and ready to go. It might seem strange that I spend so much attention on research into historic intersex issues, given that my topic is lesbianism. I'll discuss the "why" in detail in my book, but the simple explanation is that ambiguous gender creates a context for understanding how people defined and reacted to gender anomaly. And one of the historic attitudes toward same-sex desire was that it was a gender anomaly, rather than a sexual orientation.

The current cluster of articles I'm blogging are on general topics around gender and sexuality. This one addresses both transgender and intersex themes while also looking at a range of gender non-conformity.