f.She was deemed unfit for marriage, so her father married her off to the strongest slave, Virginia, 1856.f

My name is Eililanar Wetmore, and this is the story of how I went from being rejected by society to discovering a passionate love that changed the course of history.

Virginia, 1856. I was twenty-two years old and considered disabled.

I lost the ability to move my legs when I was eight years old, due to a fall from a horse accident that resulted in a fracture of my spine, and this forced me to use this wheelchair made of mahogany wood that my father ordered.

But what no one understood was that the wheelchair wasn’t what made me “unfit for marriage,” but what it represented. A burden.

A woman who cannot be with her husband at parties, a woman who is not supposed to have children, who cannot manage the household, nor fulfill any of the expected obligations of a Southern wife.

Twelve marriage attempts arranged by my father ended in the same number of rejections, and each one was harder than the last.

“She can’t walk down the hall.” “My children need a mother who will run after them.” “What good is it if you can’t have children?” This last rumor, completely false, spread like wildfire in the Virginia community.

The doctors speculated about my fertility without even examining me. Suddenly, I was no longer just a disabled person, but a defective person in every way, which was significant for America in 1856.

When William Foster, a fat, drunken fifty-year-old man, rejected me even though my father offered him a third of our annual inheritance earnings, I understood the truth: I will die alone.

But my father had other plans. Radical, shocking plans, completely outside all social norms, to the point that when he told me about them, I thought I’d misunderstood him. He said, “You will marry Josiah, the blacksmith.” You will be his wife.

I looked at my father, Colonel Richard Whittemore, owner of 5,000 acres and 200 slaves, certain that I had lost my mind.

Let me tell you about Josiah first. They called him “the monster.” He was eight feet tall and weighed 300 pounds of hard muscle, sculpted by years of hard work in the blacksmith shop.

His hands could bend iron bars, and his face inspired terror in the hearts of all who entered the room. People feared him, both slaves and free people.

The white visitors to our farm would stare at him and whisper, “Have you seen the size of that man?” And Timor has a monster in his forge.”

But here’s what no one knew, what I was about to discover: Josiah was the kindest man I had ever met.

My father called me into his office in March of 1856, a month after Foster’s rejection, and a month after I had given up hope of remaining single.

He said to me plainly, “You will not marry a white man. That’s the truth. But you need protection.

When I die, this inheritance will pass to your cousin Robert.

He will sell everything, give you a pittance, and leave you dependent on distant relatives who don’t care for you.” I said, knowing it was impossible, “Then leave the inheritance to me.”

“Virginia law doesn’t allow it. Women can’t inherit independently, especially…” He gestured toward my wheelchair and couldn’t finish the sentence.

“So, what do you propose?” “Josiah is the strongest man on this plantation. He’s intelligent; yes, I know he reads in secret, so don’t be surprised. He’s healthy, capable, and from everything I’ve heard of him, he has a good heart despite his great size.

He won’t abandon you because he’s bound by law to stay. He will protect you, provide for your needs, and take care of you.”

The logic was terrifying and unyielding. I asked him, “Have you asked him?” He replied, “Not yet. I wanted to tell you first. What if you refuse?”

My father’s face seemed to have aged ten years in that moment. “I keep trying to find a white husband for you, and we both know I will fail.”

And you will spend your life, after my death, in a boarding school, dependent on the charity of relatives who see you as a burden. He was right.

I hated that he was right. “Can I see him? Talk to him properly before making this decision on our behalf?” “Of course. Tomorrow.”

Josiah was brought to the house the next morning. I was sitting by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway.

The door opened, and my father entered, then Josiah had to duck—literally—to get under the doorframe.

My God, how enormous he was! Six feet of muscle and sinew, his shoulders barely clearing the doorframe, and his hands bore burn marks from a forge that looked capable of crushing stone.

His face was weathered, his beard thick, and his eyes scanned the room without settling on me.

He stood with his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped, in the posture of a slave in a white man’s house. The nickname “beast” was well-deserved; he looked capable of tearing the house down with his bare hands.

Then my father spoke: “Josiah, this is my daughter, Elilanar.” Josiah looked me in the eyes for a moment, then looked back down at the floor.

“Yes, sir.” His voice was surprisingly soft, deep but quiet, almost gentle. “Elilanar, I’ve explained the situation to Josiah. He understands.

He will be responsible for your care.” My voice returned, though shaky.

“Josiah, do you understand what my father is proposing?” He glanced at me quickly again. “Yes, miss.” I will be your husband. I will protect you, I will help you.

“And you agreed to this?” He looked confused, as if the concept of consent was foreign to him. The colonel added, “He had to, miss.” “But do you truly want this?” The question made him flinch.

His eyes met mine, dark brown, surprisingly soft for such an imposing face. “I… I don’t know what I want, miss.” I am a slave. What I want usually doesn’t matter. The truth was harsh and fair.

My father closed the door and said, “Perhaps it would be best if you spoke alone. I’ll be in my office.” Then he left and closed the door, leaving me alone with the enormous seven-foot slave who was supposed to be my husband. We didn’t speak for hours.

Finally, I asked him, gesturing to the chair across from me, “Would you like to sit down?”

Josiah looked at the delicate piece of furniture with its embroidered cushions, then looked at his massive body. “I don’t think this chair will hold me, miss.”

“Then the sofa.” He carefully sat down on the edge. Even sitting, he was much taller than I was.

His hands rested on his knees, each finger a small, hardened, scarred lump.

“Are you afraid of me, miss?” “Should I be?” “No, miss.” I would never hurt you, I swear. “They call you a monster.” I trembled. “Yes, miss.” Because of my size, and because I look frightening. But I am not a monster.

I have never hurt anyone, not intentionally. “But you could, if you wanted to.” “I could,” he looked at me again, “but I won’t.” Not to you. Not to someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Something in his eyes—sadness, resignation, a gentleness that didn’t match his appearance—convinced me. “Josiah, I want to be honest with you.” I don’t want this any more than you probably do. My father is desperate. I am not suited for marriage. He thinks you are the only solution.

But if we are going to do this, I need to know: are you dangerous? “No, miss.” “Are you cruel?” “No, miss.” “Are you going to hurt me?”

“Absolutely not, miss.” I swear on everything I hold dear. The seriousness was undeniable; I believed what he said. Then I have another question.

Can you read? The question made him tremble. Fear flickered across his face; reading was forbidden for slaves in Virginia. But after a long moment, he said calmly, “Yes, miss.” I taught myself.” I know it’s not allowed, but…I couldn’t help it.

Books are doorways to places I will never go.

“What are you reading?” “Anything I can find.” Old newspapers, and sometimes books I borrow. I read slowly, I didn’t learn well, but I read. “Have you read Shakespeare?” His eyes widened. «Yes, miss. There’s an old copy in the library that no one touches.

I read to her at night, when everyone is asleep. “What are her plays?” “Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Tempest.” Her voice became more animated despite herself.

“The Tempest is my favorite.” Prospero controls the island with magic, Ariel longs for freedom, Caliban is treated like a monster but perhaps he is more human than anyone else. He stopped suddenly. “Excuse me, miss.”

“I talk a lot.” “No.” I smiled, a genuine smile for the first time in this strange conversation. “Keep talking. Tell me about Caliban.”

And something extraordinary happened. Josiah, the enormous slave known as the Beast, began to discuss Shakespeare with an intelligence that would have impressed university professors.

He said: “Caliban is called the beast, but Shakespeare shows us that he was enslaved, that his island was stolen from him, and that he was deprived of his mother’s charm.”

The monster is called Prospero, but Prospero came to the island and claimed ownership of everything, including Caliban himself.

So who is the real monster? “You are looking at Caliban with eyes of pity.” “I see Caliban as a human being

 He was treated in a way that is unworthy of a human being, but he is still a human being. He remained silent for a moment. “Like…”

“Like slaves.” “Yes,” I finally said.