Black Rainbow (21 page)

There were no flowers now. The glowing daylight colors had faded into shades of gray and black. But the grass was still lush and thick, the stream still whispered over the rocks; and on the opposite side of the clearing was the stone Jane
remembered. It was as high as a tall man, pierced by a roughly circular opening. Megan was kneeling before it. She went down on all fours and crawled into the hole.

One part of Jane's mind—the waking, sensible part— found the act pitiful and grotesque. Another, deeper segment of consciousness acknowledged the ritual and found it fitting.

Megan emerged on the other side of the stone. When she stood up she caught her foot in her skirt and made a soft sound of annoyance. Then she saw Jane. Brushing off her dress, she came to meet her.

"Lizzie told me," she said calmly. "The women come here from all over the parish. Farther, even."

"I know. They call it the Toman stone. They believe . . ." Jane could not finish.

"Yes, that's just it—don't you understand? They believe."

"Oh, my dear____"

"Are you going to tell Edmund?"

"No, Megan."

"I've tried everything else," Megan said, in that same cool, remote voice. "You don't understand, Jane. You are sweet and loving, but you don't understand." She made a strange, formal gesture, that took in the stone and the quiet glade.

"We must go back now," Jane said, in the tone she would have used to a small child. "It is very late."

"Yes, of course."

The path was so narrow they could not walk side by side. Jane followed Megan, holding her by the shoulder. Her teeth were set so hard that her jaw ached; she had the feeling that if she relaxed that one set of muscles, all the others would fail and she would start shaking.

The Toman stone was visited by barren women. She could have accepted Megan's sudden and unexpected descent into the grossest of pagan superstitions; desperate needs produce desperate acts. What frightened her was Megan's unearthly calm.

When they came out of the wooded part of the path and
started to descend the hill, Megan said abruptly, "I hope you don't despise me, Jane. I know it was foolish, but it can't do any harm."

Her voice was so normal and her comment so sensible that Jane could hardly believe the change. Cautiously she ventured, "You don't really think—"

"That a dirty old rock with a hole in it can help me conceive?" Megan laughed. "It's rather like throwing salt over one's shoulder."

"I do that myself," Jane admitted.

"I know you do." Megan gave her a quick affectionate hug. "I suppose you thought I was up to no good, creeping out at night like a burglar. How did you happen to see me?"

They discussed the subject fully as they descended. Megan was her old self, mocking her own folly and making jokes about what Edmund would say if he ever heard of her escapade. Jane was reassured. If the mad performance had made Megan feel better, as it obviously had, who was she to decry it? Yet she could not entirely dismiss the feeling that something significant had happened—that she and Megan had not been alone in the moonlit glade when Megan paid homage to the Toman stone.

Jane's first impulse was to follow Charlie and ask what was ailing him. But the blank-faced, silent men intimidated
her. She had never met this sort of thing before and did not know how to deal with it. Lifting the reins, she urged Molly to go on.

The old village looked much the same, except for the expected signs of heat and drought. Mrs. Miggs's shop had not changed—and there was Mrs. Miggs on the same old stool, with what appeared to be the same strip of bright blue knitting. Hearing the shop bell, she looked up. Her eyes and her open mouth formed matching circles of surprise.

"I don't blame you for being startled," Jane said, smiling. "But I assure you, Mrs. Miggs, it was not lack of inclination on my part that kept me away so long. I am so glad to see you are well. And Granny Miggs—I suppose she is in her own house now—how is she?"

Mrs. Miggs replied that her mother-in-law was indeed in her own house—God be praised—and that the old lady had survived, out of sheer perversity, the pestilence that had struck down so many of the young and beloved. Leaning against the counter, Jane prepared for a comfortable chat, like many another she had had with Mrs. Miggs. It was not long before she realized her companion was suffering from the same peculiar ailment that afflicted the mill workers. Her responses to Jane's questions were brief and awkward; her eyes kept slipping away, toward the door. Finally she mumbled that it looked like rain, and was there anything special Miss Jane wanted?

Miss Jane, somewhat taken aback, mentioned several items, all of which Mrs. Miggs procured with an alacrity as uncommon as her offer of assistance. Jane lingered, turning over the piles of merchandise and watching Mrs. Miggs' nervousness grow. No one came in the shop, and that, too, was unusual. She knew it would be futile to ask for an explanation. Mrs. Miggs might be a "foreigner," but she shared the villagers' reticence. If she had anything to say she would say it; if she chose not to speak, nothing could persuade her to do so.

Finally Jane gave up. She paid for her purchases, asking that they be sent, and left the shop. Instead of returning home, she rode on down the street. She had a small sum of money she wanted to give the vicar, to dispense to those in need. Perhaps he could explain the alteration in the town.

St. Arca was not really a market town; most of the farmers preferred to take their produce to the larger village of Northgate. Presumably a weekly market had been held at one time, or the Market Square would not have earned its name, but it could never have been a sizable affair, for the square was not very large or very square, only a wide space surrounding the spot where several roads met. The largest building fronting the area was the inn, a modest little structure so old that it appeared to have grown like a mushroom instead of being created by human hands. Like all old buildings, it had settled over the years until there was not a straight line or a right angle anywhere in the whitewashed facade, and the inn sign, commemorating some long-forgotten monarch, had faded until only the dim outline of a crowned head could be seen.

A crowd had gathered in front of the inn, spilling out across the square. Most were men—the men she had seen in the mill town, waiting for this very event? As she came closer, she heard a voice rising and falling in formal oratory. The speaker stood on the carriage block, but even with that addition to his height his shock of gray-streaked, unkempt hair was barely visible over the heads of the crowd. His voice belied his meager stature; it rang with a metallic fervor that carried quite a distance.

"Will you stand for injustice, brothers? Will you let the heel of the tyrant grind you into the dust? You ask for bread and they give you a stone! Are you curs cringing under the lash of oppression, or freeborn Englishmen who are not afraid to fight for their rights?"

The first to see Jane was the landlord, who was leaning against the gate, his arms wrapped in his apron. With a
guilty start, he stepped forward and caught the speaker by the arm. "Here, now, that's enough o' that. This ain't Speakers' Hall."

As the crowd became aware of Jane's presence, a growing murmur arose. A few of the listeners edged away, their caps pulled down over their eyes, as if anxious to avoid recognition. Others shifted uneasily, opening a path that gave her a clear view of the man on the carriage block.

The words "dwarf" and "hunchback" came into her mind, and were dismissed; he was neither, yet his limbs and body were subtly misshapen, as if stunted by disease. From the twist of his narrow shoulders rose a head as noble and commanding as that of an antique conqueror, a Caesar or Pompey. The fierce hawk's eyes focused on Jane, and the chiseled mouth curved in a grimace of hate. She had never seen him before in her life.

The landlord had prudently disappeared. The crowd swayed like a field of grain in a strong wind. Then from somewhere in the front ranks of the spectators an arm reached up and tugged at the speaker's coat sleeve. He turned an angry glare on the newcomer, who was hidden from Jane's view. After appearing to expostulate for a time, he shrugged and got down off his makeshift podium. The crowd broke up. Knots of people drifted off in one direction or another, giving Jane a wide berth, except for one man who came directly to her and grasped Molly's bridle.

At first she did not recognize him. He had been cleanshaven before; the dark beard and sideburns altered the character of his face, and the cap pulled low over his forehead hid his eyes. Before she could object to his unwarranted liberty he spoke—and his voice she did know.

"Miss Jane, this is no place for you. Come out of it, quick."

"Sam!" He put his finger to his lips, and she obediently lowered her voice. "Oh, Sam, I am so happy.... Where have you been? Why did you go off without a word to me? What in heaven's name is happening? Has everyone gone mad?"

He had turned the horse and was leading it back in the direction from which she had come. He chuckled softly.

"You haven't changed, Miss Jane. Still asking questions too fast for a man to answer."

"I have so much to ask—"

"And I'll answer. But not here. Look scornful at me and stop your smiling; there's spies and blacklegs everywhere."

"Blacklegs?"

"Best go back to the shop. You'd want a rest and a cup of tea, like, after your fright at being carried off by a desperate rough-looking stranger. I'll join you there."

Not once had he raised his eyes to her face. He did not do so now, only slapped the mare sharply on the rump before he walked away.

Instead of moving faster, the mare gave him a look of pained reproach. She had known him immediately, and had not expected such treatment from him.

When Jane reached the shop, Mrs. Miggs was standing in the doorway. "Lord forgive me, miss, I ought to've warned ye-"

"There was no cause for concern, Mrs. Miggs." She followed the woman inside. "I am to meet—"

"Hush." Mrs. Miggs gestured toward the back of the shop.

Jane went through the curtain into Mrs. Miggs's parlor. It was as cluttered as the shop, but a great deal neater. Sam was waiting; he stood pressed against the wall by the back door, where he could not be seen from the window.

"If anyone comes in the shop, you'll just be resting here by yourself," he said, holding a chair for her. "I'll be out the back—and you haven't seen me, nor no one."

"I am about to scream with exasperation," Jane said crossly, as she sat down. "What is wrong with everyone? Even Mrs. Miggs acts like a conspirator, and—"

"You'll have to let me do the talking, Miss Jane," Sam said, with a faint smile. "We must not take much time, and I've a deal to tell. You cut yourself off from us—"

"Not by my own choice, Sam."

"I know that. Some others aren't so sure. I left here sudden-like because—well, mainly because Mr. Mandeville had taken against me, and I saw I would never get on where I was. That time at the house, when he spoke so sharp—it wasn't the first time I had stood up to him in a way he didn't like. May be he has other reasons—but that one would be enough for him.

"I've been working in Birmingham. 'Twas there I met Jackson—the man you heard speaking. He's a union man, and so am I, Miss Jane. I don't hold with all Jackson's ideas. He's a violent man, Jackson; and if you knew his history you'd understand why. I'd never go so far as he wants to go. I'm for changing the law, not breaking it. But without unions we haven't got a chance."

"Father never approved of unions."

"In his day, may be there was not the need for them. But the old ways aren't always the good ways, Jane, and times change."

She did not notice his use of her given name; it sounded quite natural. "Then Mr. Jackson is stirring up our men? To what, a strike?"