Flight of the Sparrow (39 page)

“Ye must tell me what befell you—amongst the savages, I mean.” Esther sets the pot on the table with a bang and perches on the hearth stool. “Surely, ’twas a terrible trial. Your fortitude inspires us all.” She glances around the room but does not seem to notice the disarray that nearly drives Mary to despair. The kitchen is cluttered with chests and unwrapped bundles. A tall stack of Joseph’s books stands in the far corner, awaiting a new cupboard.

It is clear that the woman wishes to trade kindness for gossip. Mary thanks her for her visit and confesses that she is too weary to easily tell her of her trials this day, but will consider how to best share in the future what she has learned.

Esther nods, but her mouth has hardened. Mary is stunned by the boldness of her next comment. For all the gossip in Boston, little of it was told directly to Mary’s face.

“It’s been said you were forced to marry a savage,” Esther says. “That you didn’t want to return to your husband.” Mary stares, her mind momentarily frozen. She wonders how to reply, knowing that whatever words she chooses will be repeated throughout the town.

“No,” she says slowly. “’Tis a vicious lie, perpetrated by one of the Indians who had power over me.”

Esther studies her skeptically. “Well, of course you would have to say so now, would you not?”

Again, Mary is shocked by the woman’s impudence. She can think of no polite reply. A memory of Weetamoo flashes through Mary’s mind—she sees the sachem sitting beside Philip before the council fire, proud and regal in her belts of wampum and braided hair. Oddly, Mary finds herself considering what Weetamoo might say if she were in Mary’s situation.

She straightens to her full height and touches her breast, as if a necklace of wampum hangs there. She can almost feel the cool beads beneath her fingers. “Goody Allen,” she says, “please be kind enough to remember that you address the wife of your new minister. And remember as well that a gossip who prejudices the public against an innocent person can be sent to the stocks.”

The color instantly drains from Esther’s face. She sways back on the stool, so hard that for a moment Mary fears she will crash to the floor. Esther hastily takes her leave and Mary bids her farewell, though the woman’s hard countenance tells Mary she has not bested her. Esther will quickly spread the first rumors against her.

The encounter disheartens Mary. It seems that she will never escape her captivity. If, as Joseph and Increase believe, the Lord sent her afflictions as a judgment against New England, then why does Mary continue to suffer at the hands of the very people her ordeal was meant to save? She shakes her head in bewilderment and goes back to ordering her house.

•   •   •

T
he next morning, Joseph confronts her in the kitchen garden by the back door. She is on her knees digging up the soil to plant the thyme and coriander seeds she has brought from Boston. Before she even wipes her hands clean on her apron, he begins scolding her for offending Goody Allen.

“Do you plan to disaffect
all
the women in my new congregation?” His eyes flash. “I will not have my good name damaged by”—he pauses, and for a moment Mary thinks he has finished, but before she can collect her thoughts to respond, he continues—“by your—your
savage ways
.” His face is bright red and spittle flies out between his lips.

“Savage ways?” She struggles to her feet. “What hateful rumors have the gossips in this town already spread? And I have not yet dwelt here a fortnight!” She cannot bear to look at him, so she rushes into the house. She flies past Marie, who is making a beef pasty in the kitchen, and hurries into the parlor. There, Mary sets about unpacking a chest of crockery. It takes all her self-control not to throw every bowl into the fire. She recalls the time she rushed from Weetamoo’s wetu in a fury and paced up and down the camp. The walking had brought her some measure of calm and it strikes her that it might do the same now. If nothing else, it would help her think. She pulls her cloak from its peg in the front entryway and goes outside to walk the road, she knows not where.

She passes houses and fields and comes to the river, where a flock of black ducks paddles by the bank. No one is in sight, so she sits in the grass and watches the ducks. She is charmed by a mother duck leading four ducklings into the water. The spring air and the sunlit water gradually restore Mary’s spirits and after a time she returns to the house.

Joseph meets her at the door. She sees at once that his anger has disappeared. He looks shaken. “Where were you? You frightened me.” He takes her hands and pulls her inside where he surprises her by kissing her cheek, though it is broad daylight.

“Forgive me,” he whispers. “My words were unjust. I was overwrought.” He releases her and looks into her eyes. “But you must promise me that you will not run off like that again.”

Mary’s first impulse is to reassure him. Yet the short time by the river has been such a blessing—a brief taste of freedom she has not experienced since her time among the Indians.

“Please, Mary. Promise me you will keep to the house and yard.”

She looks at him. His eyes are kind and pleading and she feels her heart soften in response. Yet the thought of confining herself to the house dismays her. No, it
frightens
her.

“I cannot,” Mary murmurs, so low that he does not hear it at first.

He frowns. “What do you mean you
cannot
?”

“I cannot promise to keep to the yard,” she says more clearly, no longer murmuring. “I must be allowed to walk, Joseph. I must feel myself a free woman.” Something catches in her throat and she reaches out and grasps his hand. She knows that she has sinned in resisting her husband’s wish, yet she cannot hold her tongue. “You must understand—so much has been taken from me. You must allow me
that
.”

She is stunned when he squeezes her hand and gives her a half smile. She perceives it as a sort of reassurance. She is certain he does not understand how her hour by the river has comforted and provided her with the solace her prayers have not. Still, he seems willing to overlook her rebellion. At least this time. Perhaps she has misjudged him.

She does not confront Joseph on the subject again. Yet from that day on, she goes out walking regularly—to the river and along the unfrequented paths at the edge of Wethersfield—where she finds the refreshment and peace that enable her to bear the barbed tongues of the congregation. She feels profoundly grateful for this small freedom.

•   •   •

M
ary goes daily to market with Marie, carrying a basket on her arm. People smile at them and women often stop to talk. They explain that Wethersfield was once a frontier town like Lancaster, but has been long-settled and the surrounding Indians subdued. One summer morning, Goody Wickers tells Mary about the Pequot Indians, whom she says were once a warlike people until the English victory over them in 1637. Mary does not learn the details of the battle until several weeks later, and when she does, she is so repulsed that she can no longer bear to hear it spoken of. For it had not been a battle at all, but a massacre of women and children.
English soldiers had surrounded a Pequot fortress and set it on fire. Seven hundred Pequots burned to death. Mary cannot rid her imagination of the death screams and the anguish of the poor mothers as they watched their children being consumed by the flames. It sickens her and brings to mind once again the memory of Elizabeth’s body wrapped in fire.

Mary tries to explain this to Joseph, to put into words how her captivity has changed her perception of Indians. She tells him that the Indians treasure their children more than anything, and that death by fire is surely the most brutal of all possible deaths. She says that the history of the Pequot slaughter has surely spread among all the tribes. Perhaps it is why Philip’s Indians fired the English towns, believing that using their own tactics against the English was a just recompense.

Joseph listens closely, and waits until Mary finishes before he speaks. They are sitting on the bench in front of the house, for it is a warm evening and the kitchen is hot and stuffy. When Mary runs out of words, Joseph sighs and takes her hand from where it lies in her lap. “Have you forgotten the sovereignty of God? Remember, the Lord has chosen us to do His work here in this place. That means we must sometimes be the rod of His chastening.”

Her hand stiffens in his. “But surely we are not called to”—she can hardly speak the words—“
burn the
children
?”

He makes no reply but brings her hand to his lips and kisses her fingers. “You must not let yourself be afflicted by a battle that took place when you were but a child in England.”

“Nay, ’tis not this only that afflicts me.” She withdraws her hand and presses it back into her lap. “It is but one instance of what I fear is a greater sin.”

“And what would that be?” He has shifted on the bench to face her. In the growing dusk, she feels the sharpness of his gaze, like a knife scraping against her face.

Mary takes a moment to find words for her thoughts. “I wonder if we can be so certain of God’s purposes. Is it not possible that God also counts the Indians as His children?”

Joseph looks at her as if she has spoken nonsense. His silence is so heavy that she briefly looks away. She expects him to correct her, reassure her of God’s mighty presence. Remind her that the Bible is the only necessary source of understanding. At least he will accuse her of apostasy. But he says nothing.

The evening darkens and folds around them. Mary feels she can hardly breathe, yet the thoughts that have been ravishing her mind and heart for months seem to have a life of their own, and she fills the silence with them. “Is it not true that we can never be certain of God’s will? That even His wonders and signs may be wrongly understood? How can we claim righteousness when so many have suffered at our hands?” She utters these last words as a cry, for she is shaking. “Lately I have begun to think I can count on nothing but my own love for my children. And even that is sorely tested. Especially by Joss.”

Mary thinks she hears a rueful laugh escape Joseph’s lips, but she cannot be sure it is not her own sobs. He places his hand on her back. “Shhh. Mary,” he whispers. “You are overwrought. We will talk about this matter another time.” He rises and takes her hand and leads her to bed, where he joins with her for the first time since her redemption.

Afterward, she weeps in wonder and relief.

•   •   •

T
he next day, when Joseph returns from making parish visits, he tells Mary he has brought her a gift.

“A gift?” she says, looking up from her spinning. “What possessed you?”

“Hush.” He puts a finger to his lips. His eyes are dancing as they sometimes did when he courted her. He beckons her outside where, hanging from a hook on the gatepost, she finds a birdcage. It is bell-shaped, formed of thin strips of iron. Inside is a sparrow.

She stares at the bird, which flutters up and down, chirping.

“Do you not like it?” Joseph’s voice is filled with disappointment and confusion. “I had the cage made for you by Wethersfield’s own blacksmith.”

Mary turns to him and makes herself smile. “’Tis beautiful, finely wrought. I thank you for your kindness.”

Joseph seems satisfied with this, but Mary is stunned with melancholy. All she can think of is Sarah’s love for Row, her refusal to leave the bird the morning of the Indian terror, and the wretched ordeal that preceded her death.

She hangs the cage by the west-facing window in the kitchen. When Marie comes in from gathering eggs, she sees it and bursts into tears. One of the eggs rolls out of her apron and smashes on the floor. Mary comforts her and tells her not to mind the broken egg, but Marie is still sobbing when she turns away from the cage and places the remaining eggs on the table.

“It reminds me so of Sarah,” Marie whispers. “I do not think I can bear it.”

Mary nods, but can offer no more consolation, for she feels exactly the same.

The new sparrow does not sing, but spends its days sitting in its cage. Occasionally it utters a series of harsh chirps. Mary feeds it and gives it water each morning, but every time she opens the cage door to scatter crumbs, the sparrow pushes against her hand, trying to escape.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

With
Joseph’s resumption of his conjugal obligation, Mary hopes she will conceive another child. Since Sarah’s death her womb has ached with emptiness. But after four months in Wethersfield it is apparent that she is now barren, that the woman’s time of life has come upon her. She feels that God has once again forsaken her. When she expresses these thoughts to Joseph, he is surprised and suggests that she has misread the signs. When she assures him that she has not, that she no longer has her flows, he tries to soothe her with the thought that she should perceive her barrenness as a gift. The Lord is sparing her the dangers and sufferings of childbirth, and she should praise His holy name.