Alis (18 page)

“Such cases? What does that mean?”

He was not looking at her. With his forefinger he was tracing a precise, small circle on the table over and over; he followed it with his eyes.

At last he said, “There have always been marriages made, not by mutual consent or for the high companionship that should exist between husband and wife, but for . . . other reasons.” He stopped a moment, as if the subject pained him, and then went on.

“You know this yourself. Sometimes parents choose and insist, even though the Book rules otherwise, saying that marriage is no marriage where there is no consent.”

She stared at him, unable to believe what he had just said. Then she burst out, “But if the Book forbids, how could I . . . how can we . . . ? Did I consent?”

“Wait, Alis. Do not interrupt. Let me finish.”

He spoke sharply—he was again the Minister to whom she must defer. In the dry, reasonable tones she had heard so often when he and her mother had argued about some Community matter, he went on. “You say you did not consent to our marriage, but you came back from wherever you went, did you not? You took your part in the ceremony. You are sitting here now—the door is not locked; the windows are not barred.”

Bitterly she said, “It was not true consent. What else could I do?” “You could have stayed away.” His hesitation made her wonder whether he knew that she had been to the city. Its ragged towers and stinking alleyways rose in her imagination. She thought of Joel and Edge. Perhaps they would succeed in crossing the sea to the new life she might have shared with them, or maybe the deep would swallow them up. She could have gone with them. She could not explain this to him.

He said softly, “You chose this.”

She was silent for a while. She saw that he was right but her spirit rebelled.

“Then it is the same with you. You said that you had no more choice than I. But you also chose. You
could
have said no after all.”

His finger was again tracing circles on the wood of the table. “You are right, Alis. I, too, had a choice.”

“Then why?”

He was silent so long she thought he had forgotten her, but at last he said, “The reformers dominate the Great Council these days, and the Great Council decided that all Ministers should be married. When I would not choose a wife, they sent the Bookseers. You know how this is done?”

She nodded her head. She knew that decisions could be made by opening the Book at random and finding guidance in the text on the page. He went on, “It is a way of finding out what the Maker wishes, though the texts are not always easy to interpret. But in this case there was no doubt: three times the Bookseers let the pages fall open, and three times the signs were unmistakable. I could not but think that the Maker had spoken.”

He got up and crossed to the cabinet with its shelves of leather-bound books. Carefully, he removed the largest volume and brought it across to the table.

“See.” He had opened the book and was running his finger down the page. When he stopped, she leaned forward to read the text:
Who is the girl at the gate?

He said quietly, “I was coming up the cart track from Master Amos’s when the Bookseers rode into Freeborne. You were swinging on the gate at the entrance to the long field. We all saw you.”

He turned the pages of the Book slowly and then stopped. At the top of the page she read the words:
The Elder has one daughter; she is the chosen one
.

She shuddered. It seemed as though her path had been laid out long ago. Had she ever had a choice?

He found the last text:
All life is sacred
.

She frowned. “What has that got to do with me? It is just a saying.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “I thought so, too. I rejoiced for a moment, thinking that I was saved. For the three readings must agree or it is not binding. But look at the initials.”

She saw at once:
Alis
. Horror clutched at her throat. It was like being trapped in some dark place. Galin had closed the book.

“You see how it was. Your parents could have refused; I could have refused. But had we done so, there would have been no place for us anywhere in the Communities of the Book. We three, and you, too, would have been outcasts.”

He paused, with a brooding look on his dark face, as if his thoughts troubled him. “Besides, we would not defy the Maker, and in any case the Maker is not to be defied. No doubt whatever He willed would have come about.”

She considered this. If it was indeed the Maker’s will that she should marry this man, she had certainly meant to defy it. But here she was, married to Galin after all.

“What is the point of our being able to defy Him, if He always prevails?”

He smiled grimly. “Perhaps our defiance is part of His will.”

“But then, in truth, there are no choices. If we obey, it is His will, and also if we disobey? Whatever we do, He has willed it?” She gave him no time to speak but rushed on. “But what is the point of being alive at all? We are just—”

His face darkened. He said sharply, “Cease, Alis. There is blasphemy in what you say. And it is dangerous to think such things.”

She had never truly considered any of this before. The Maker had been a remote authority, interpreted for her by others. Now her mind was full of questions.

“But I don’t understand. How can it make sense? Is everything we do, every tiny thing, His will? Whether I drink ale or not? Whether I walk down to the stream or not? Whether I dabble my hands in the water or sit on the stones in the sun? And when I speak—if I choose this word or that—is He choosing for me? I am His puppet then and—”

He was on his feet, breathing heavily, his fists clenched. “Cease, Alis, I command you. Such words must not be spoken.”

She was silent, afraid. What had she done? She had blasphemed. Would he whip her? Would he make her stand before the Community in the prayer house and confess? Gazing up at him in dread, she thought she would rather die than endure such shame.

He seated himself again, still breathing like one who has run a race, but his face, which before had been flushed with rage, was now livid, the great sweatdrops standing on his forehead.

“Alis, you are the Minister’s wife. You, of all people, must not say such things.”

She saw that she had frightened him. She longed to ask if he, too, had such ideas, but she did not dare. Husbands and wives were supposed to be equal but he was her senior by many years, and he was the Minister, too. He might think it his duty to punish her. She was afraid of him.

He did not seem disposed to punish, however. He looked exhausted. “Go to bed, Alis.”

She stood up and then hesitated. Should she not bid him good night? But he looked up and said vehemently, “Go!” and she went.

Only later, as she lay in her narrow bed, did it come to her that he had not commanded her to her knees to beg forgiveness of the Maker for her wicked words. Nor had they knelt together to say the evening prayer.

She heard him come up the stairs slowly, as if his feet dragged with weariness. She tensed. Was he to be trusted? But the footsteps did not come along the passage. She heard the door of the other room open and close. There were noises from beyond the wall, and then silence. He was lying between the wedding sheets. Perhaps he was staring up into the darkness as she was. She could not imagine his thoughts. Now she must try to sleep. She must not think of Luke. That was done with. He was dead and the worms fed upon his flesh.

She put her hands over her mouth so that the man she had married could not hear the sound of her agony.

N
ights and days were equally bad. Galin kept his word and neither came to her room nor demanded her presence in his bed. But that was the only relief. Always, she lay open-eyed in the dark until the small hours. If she slept, it was only to dream of Luke, and then she must wake to remember that he was dead. To get up, to face the day with its duties and encounters, was harder than anything she had ever done.

Her mother came to help her set up in her new home, bringing extra linens, a small spinning wheel that had been her grandmother’s, pots of preserves, and other needful items. While she put away the things and inspected the household, Hannah dispensed advice. “I have made a copy for you of your grandmother’s recipe book: you must cook dishes that are wholesome and good to taste but not overindulgent to fleshly appetite. And I will inquire about a cast-iron pot for you, so that you can make your own soap when autumn comes.

Sift the ashes before you make the lye and remember that too much of it, and the soap will burn the skin.”

Alis thought wearily of the long process of soap making.

When they went to put away the sheets and bedcovers, Hannah brought out some small muslin bags of sweet-smelling herbs, one of which she placed in the linen chest. “These bags must be renewed in the spring, for they will lose their power, and then the moths will get into your garments and bedding. And do not allow Martha to make up the bags but do it with herbs you have dried yourself. Or if not, I will give you what you need from my own store. This chest is of good cedar, which keeps out the moths, too, but the lid does not fit closely. Your father shall come and amend that.”

Alis listened in silence. The moths might eat every stitch of fabric in the house for all she cared. On and on Hannah talked, casting anxious glances at her daughter from time to time, but Alis would not yield her a look or a smile. Why should she?

Galin had tactfully removed himself while all this was going on. He returned as her mother was making ready to go and Alis saw them exchange uneasy looks. When Hannah had gone and they sat at their meal, she said coldly to him, “You are not to talk of me to my mother behind my back. I will not have it.”

He flushed a little. “It is only that we are concerned. You look as if you never sleep, you are so pale. And you scarcely eat.” He indicated her plate. “You will surely make yourself ill.”

She said nothing. If she became ill, if she died, they would be punished as they deserved.

He was watching her. When she remained silent, he said in a neutral tone, “Your father is much troubled about you, too.”

Again she did not reply. An image came to her of her father’s face, the tears of joy in his eyes on the day she had returned to Freeborne. After a moment she took up her knife and began to eat.

 

 

Alis shrank from public scrutiny, but pride would not let her remain indoors. When the time came for the first prayer meeting, she dressed with particular neatness and gathered her courage to accompany Galin. He stood at the door of the prayer house to greet people as they arrived, but Alis went to the front bench where she had always sat with her parents. They were already there, seated together. She did not look at Hannah but slid in swiftly next to her father, squeezing his hand in reassurance. Then she bowed her head as if in prayer so that her mother would not try to speak to her.

When all the people had arrived, Galin took his place at the front. She had seen him there, week in and week out, all through her childhood; she could not believe that now she was a married woman and that this man was her husband. It seemed like a dream, except that she knew she was trapped in it forever.

He spoke the opening prayers and then said, “And now in silence, let us look within, and listen also, that we may know the truth of our hearts and hear the voice of the Maker.”

Alis shut her eyes. The Maker would not speak to her, but at least she need not look at Galin anymore, or try to keep a proper expression on her face. She had been sitting stiffly upright, afraid that the congregation would notice if she wavered from her rigid posture. Now she could relax a little. Behind her, people bowed their heads, folded their hands in their laps, disposed themselves for silent contemplation.

Alis listened. She could hear her father breathing softly beside her. A child whispered and was hastily hushed. Farther back, a bench creaked from time to time. Occasionally a shoe scraped on the stone floor, or cloth rustled as someone changed position. Gradually the hall grew quite still and she sat quietly, grateful for the respite.

But of course, it was too much to hope that after the obligatory period of silence there would be no testifying. One after another, members of the congregation stood up to speak about the virtues and joys of marriage. The old baker, rambling enthusiastically in praise of the example Galin had set for them all, was silenced eventually by his embarrassed daughter. Alis sat looking straight before her, desperate for it to end. She felt that everyone was watching her, judging her behavior—her body ached with tension.

Afterward, though she longed to leave, Galin stopped to speak to several people, including a tiny old woman, recently widowed, her lined face full of sorrow.

“How are you today, Mistress Hester? You are keeping your spirits up, I trust.”

Her lip trembled. “Ah, Minister Galin, that’s what I shall not be able to do again in this life, I fear. I must bide now until I can see my Joshua again, if the Maker permits. I must pray He will—for whatever our sins, we loved each other well, and what’s the use of love if it comes to nothing at the end?”

“Have faith, Mistress Hester, have faith. The Maker is good and knows what is in our hearts. And you have your friends to comfort you. I shall come to see you by and by. We will sample some of your seed cake, and sit and talk of Joshua.”

A smile lit up her sad face for a moment. “You’re a good man, Minister Galin, and a blessing to this Community. The Maker grant you as much joy in your marriage as I had in mine.” She looked up at Alis. “Make much of him while he is yours, my dear. He’s a deal older than you, and you’ll be left like me, I daresay. My Joshua and me were the same age and yet he’s gone before me.”

The blood burned in Alis’s cheeks. Fortunately, old Hester did not wait for a response but turned away to answer a neighbor inviting her to take the midday meal with him and his family. “Master Daniel, most kind . . .”