Flight of the Sparrow (40 page)

Yet Mary cannot bring herself to praise God for unfruitfulness. She continues to secretly yearn for a child. For many children. She longs to be surrounded and distracted by them. She wants them hanging on to her skirts as she goes about her duties. She wants to hold infants in her arms and press them against her breasts. She wants to kiss their necks and bellies, to delight as their laughter fills the rooms of her house. She wants their warm, lively bodies around her all the time.

Marie senses her sadness, and gently questions her about its cause. Mary tells her the truth—that she wishes for another child, but is past conceiving. Marie looks her full in the face and speaks words that could have come straight from her father’s lips: “God wills only what is best for us, does He not?”

Mary murmurs that she is right, that her desire is probably sinful, and she will strive to turn her thoughts to other matters. Yet whenever Mary chances to meet a woman whose belly is swollen with child, she feels a sharp pang in her own womb.

•   •   •

O
ver time Mary settles back into her old routines. If she was formerly contaminated by Indian ways, as her husband believed, she is now infected again with English customs. She keeps a clean and orderly house, and prepares savory meat pasties and sweet breads for Joseph and the children. She attends public worship and visits the sick. She reads the Bible with Joss and Marie and oversees their prayers. The fact that she is no longer able to pray herself is a dark secret she reveals to no one. She bows her head and sits in respectful silence at the proper times, so no one but the Lord Himself knows her transgression. It is clear to Mary that she is not saved. But no one—not even Joseph—dares to accuse her of any lapses. In Wethersfield, she is known as the woman who suffered at the hands of the Indians. Since her encounter with Esther Allen, she has not been pressed to divulge the particulars of her story. Gossip and imagination have already supplied those details.

Marie seems to adjust well to her new life. Like Mary, she has experienced some relief in moving to a new place. She, too, had been reluctant to describe her experiences during the time she was a captive. But one morning, six months after their resettlement, Marie reveals something of them to Mary.

They are in the stillroom off the kitchen, making mustard plasters, when Mary asks her what she knows of Joss, for he has spent little time at home in the previous month. “I fear that some
wildness has tainted him,” Mary says. “He cannot be still. I do not know where he goes.”

“To the riverfront or the woods,” Marie answers quickly, and then seems to regret the telling, for she glances furtively around the room, as if her brother might be hiding in the shadows. “Please, do not tell him I told you.”

Mary drops more black mustard seeds into the bowl and quickly grinds them to powder with the pestle. She hands it to Marie so that she can add the proper amounts of flour and water to make the plaster. “But what does he do there? I can think of nothing—”

“Mother, he wants to be a sailor. He cannot bear staying in one place day after day. He wants always to be moving.” Marie bends over her work as she speaks. Her words flow out like a swarm of bees, as if she cannot release them fast enough.

Mary wonders aloud if his restiveness is born of his time among the Indians and, though Marie does not answer directly, she mixes the plaster so violently that it slops onto the table. The girl quickly wipes it away with the corner of her apron. “I oft dream of Indians. Sometimes the dreams are sweet.”

“Aye, I understand,” Mary says softly. “’Twas a powerful time. It cannot help but change us.”

Marie goes back to stirring, but Mary sees that her arm is shaking. “Marie.” Mary places her hand on her daughter’s wrist, so that she has to drop the spoon. “You may tell me anything. It will not shock or dismay me.” Mary wonders suddenly why she has not sought her daughter’s confession before. Has she been so absorbed in herself that she cannot perceive Marie’s sufferings?

“It was a hard life,” Marie says. “The first days there was so much work I sometimes thought I would rather die. But then”—she takes a shuddering breath—“once I grew accustomed to the toil, they treated me like one of their own. They were kind and tender. Sometimes it was even fun.” She pauses again and Mary releases her
arm. “I do not think the Indians are devils, Mother. The woman who saved me risked her own life when she brought me back to the English. If any had caught her, she would have been slain.”

“That was an act of extraordinary kindness,” Mary says.

“
Christian
kindness.” Her daughter’s tone surprises Mary with its force. “Is it not Christian to risk your life for another?” Before Mary can respond, Marie continues. “Yet she had no faith in Christ. She was not Christian, but heathen.” Her voice fades, and again she starts to wipe tears from her face with her apron. Mary yanks the apron corner from her hands, fearing that she will blind herself with the plaster. Marie seems not to notice. “I do not understand this. And I cannot ask Father.”

“No,” Mary whispers. “You cannot.”

“And it is worse because I do not know what became of her,” Marie says. “There is so much hatred—so much fear. I worry that she has been sold for a slave.”

Mary nods. Tears burn her eyes. “I, too, mourn. So many I knew died or were subjected to English cruelties.” Her voice thickens; she cannot continue. All she can do is take Marie in her arms as if she were a small child again.

•   •   •

H
er daughter’s anguish sharpens Mary’s. She broods about her captivity, wondering what has become of the people she lived and worked with for three months. She knows that Philip and Quinnapin and Weetamoo are dead. But what of the others? What of Alawa? Did she die with Weetamoo? What of the boy who carried Sarah with him on the horse, whose name she never thought to ask? And what of James? Did he return to his apprenticeship, or is he still in Natick?

She thinks of her narrative, regretting that she left it with Increase. She tries to imagine how she might better tell the truth of her experience. It is not enough simply to remember what happened.
She wants to understand and explain what it
signifies.
She wants to give her captivity its true meaning and weight.

She considers confessing her spiritual dryness to Joseph, but she knows already that he will counsel her to prayer and fasting, will read long passages of Scripture to her. She knows none of this will lift the weight of her discomfort and confusion. During their family prayer sessions, as Joseph reads the Bible and prays over them, she sits listening with her eyes downcast, even though her heart is in turmoil. One evening she is surprised to find that she is not alone in this. Joss, perched on a stool with his face turned to the floor, leaps suddenly to his feet and blurts, “Not everything is a sign from God. Some events just
happen
.”

Mary lets out a small gasp. Not in shock, but in recognition of the truth.

“Nay, I’ll not have you blaspheme,” Joseph chides darkly.

“Is it not a sort of blasphemy to avow that God is always chastising or rewarding His people?” Joss asks. “Might not some things be beyond our knowing?”

“Aye,” Mary says. “Is it not conceivable that God may act on whimsy?”

Mary is astonished when these questions silence Joseph. For a moment he glares at her, but then bows his head and closes his eyes. Mary does not know if he is praying or contemplating her heresy, but she is no longer interested in finding out. She rises and announces that the hour is late and they must all go to bed. Then she quickly leaves the room.

•   •   •

J
oseph is not silenced for long. On Thursday evening, in public meeting, he delivers a stinging sermon on the terrible consequences of forsaking God—a sermon he preaches with rare venom. A sermon Mary knows he has crafted especially for the ears of his family.

“Consider the signs of our forsaking God,” he cries. After two
hours of exhortation, his voice has grown hoarse, yet the force of his conviction stills everyone in the congregation. “Chief among them is a deep and high ingratitude.” He looks at Mary, and then up at Joss, who sits in the back gallery. “Hear the word of the Lord, from the book of Amos, chapter eight: ‘Behold, the days come, saith the Lord God, that I will send a famine in the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the word of the Lord. And they shall wander from sea to sea, and from the North even unto the East shall they run to and fro to seek the word of the Lord, and shall not find it.’”

Mary looks down at her lap. Beside her, Marie also bows her head, though Mary suspects it is from fear of her father’s anger as much as the Lord’s. When worship is finished and the congregation has filed out, Mary continues to keep her eyes averted from her husband’s, for she does not want to acknowledge the truth of his words, nor the fear they have set in her heart.

She hurries home and does not speak with Joseph until that night, long after the children have gone to bed. He sits late by the fire writing while Mary reads her Bible, or tries to. Her eyes cannot focus on the page but keep jittering off in all directions. As he puts away his pen, she speaks.

“I know you meant your sermon for Joss and me,” she says. “And I am grateful for your attempt to guide us.”

He rises and steps toward her. She closes her Bible and stands to face him. “You must not misunderstand what I have to say, Joseph. But the truth is, I can no longer claim a hope of salvation. I do not believe I am one of God’s Elect.”

He shakes his head. “Nay, Mary, you cannot be the one to know such things.”

“No.” She raises her hand, palm out, to keep him from touching her. “I know that God has forsaken me—and I Him. That is enough, surely, to condemn me to eternal damnation.”

His scowl deepens. “Did you not hear a word I said this night?”

“Aye, I did.” She extends one of her hands toward the fire, in the hope it might warm her, but her fingertips remain numb. “I heard every word, Joseph. I heard myself in your condemnation of sinful New England. In your description of those who forsake the Lord.”

He gives a loud sigh. She sees that he is agitated, that she has angered him yet again. She knows that she must say what she has to say quickly, before she loses courage. “The truth is—the truth that you do not want to recognize—is that my time in the wilderness has changed me. Forever. I am not the helpmeet you once had. I am no longer the meek and godly Christian wife you married and fathered children upon. I am lost in the wilderness, far from God’s presence.”

Then Joseph surprises her. In spite of his rigid bearing and stony gaze, he takes Mary’s hands and draws her to him. “We must pray for guidance,” he says gently. “You must not lose hope. Truly, God has not forsaken you. Not after all you have suffered.”

Mary is nearly moved to tears by his rare tenderness. “But that is my point, Joseph,” she finally manages to whisper. “If my ordeal was of God’s making for New England’s redemption, then it appears to have failed. For I see no benefit to New England or myself that compensates for the great oppression—the injustice—of what we have done—are doing—to the Indians and the Africans.”

He releases her then, almost pushes her away. Mary is not surprised, for she knew before she spoke that he would find her thoughts repellent. His scowl returns and an angry flush rises in his face. For a moment, Mary thinks he might strike her. Instead, he turns and begins to pace the length of the room.

“You try me severely, Mary. Have I not exhibited an extraordinary patience with you? Have I not counseled you and prayed for you and read Scripture to you day after day? Yet this is your recompense—this stubborn refusal to submit to my wisdom?”

She shakes her head. “God alone can save me, Joseph. You yourself have said so.”

“Aye, God alone. But you must exhibit a proper
inclination
toward His will. You must soften the soil of your heart so that He may plant the seed.”

He waits for her response, but she says nothing. Nor does her face or body betray any inner tumult. She has, somehow, in the long months since her release, fashioned a kind of peace with herself.

“’Tis a dangerous business to try God’s patience, wife. He will not endlessly indulge your obstinacy.”

“So you have oft told me,” she murmurs.

“And you think my words idle?” His voice rises.

Mary takes a step backward, for his look alarms her. “Not at all,” she says. “Nothing about you has ever been idle.”

Whether he perceives the insolence in her remark or not, he does not say, but quickly turns his back and leaves the room. Mary does not know where he sleeps that night, for he fails to join her in their bed. She does not see him again until morning, when she comes in from milking the cow and finds him sitting at table, awaiting his breakfast.

Neither of them mentions their argument. Neither apologizes. Mary is sure that he will eventually raise the issue again, but that time never comes. Only three days after his sermon, when they are all seated at table on a bright Saturday afternoon, Joseph dips his spoon into a meat pie and raises it to his lips. As he opens his mouth, a troubled look contorts his face. He drops the spoon, clutches his chest, vomits and slumps sideways in his chair, dead.

For a moment Mary has the odd thought that he has been shot. It is as if she has suddenly returned to Lancaster and is reliving that terrible day. Even as she gets to her feet, she glances at the window, her eyes searching for some sign that an arrow or bullet has pierced the glass. But there is neither arrow nor bullet. Joseph has been slain not by Indians, but by God.

Mary stands with her hand pressed to her mouth. Only after several minutes pass does she think to look at Joss and Marie. They sit, staring at their dead father. Mary finds her voice and sends Joss for the doctor, though it is plain her husband is beyond reviving. She sends Marie to fetch a neighbor. And for a few moments she is left alone.

She stands very still in the middle of the room. She thinks briefly that she should be doing something, but she cannot make her limbs move. She becomes aware of the hiss of the fire in the hearth and the sweet yeasty smell of the bread she set baking. A gust of wind shudders against the house clapboards. The sparrow utters a sharp chirp and begins hopping up and down, flapping its wings.