Flight of the Sparrow (9 page)

Embers glow in the fire pit. The dark forms of sleeping Indians lie scattered nearby. Some have begun to move around. A stocky Indian approaches her, a wide-shouldered man with dark eyes. He gestures to Sarah. “Is very sick?”

Mary has heard it rumored that some tribes eat English children in lewd ceremonies, even murder their own offspring if they show signs of weakness. “She is strong,” Mary says. “She will soon be well.” The Indian reaches down and flips the edge of the cloak off Sarah’s head and shoulders. He touches her neck with two fingers. His fingers are black with grime. Mary feels a shiver of revulsion when she sees them set against Sarah’s fair skin. Is he going to choke her?
After a moment he withdraws his hand. He frowns but says nothing. When he leaves, Mary expels a breath she did not know she was holding.

She gets to her feet and pulls the cloak over Sarah again. The sun is rising. She walks as far as her rope allows and relieves herself behind a bush. As she stands up, she turns east and, through a gap in the trees, glimpses far below the hillside what remains of Lancaster: a scattering of burned houses, dark smudges strewn in the dooryards. Smudges that she knows are the bodies of people she loves.

When Mary returns to the rock, her cloak lies in a heap on the ground and Sarah is gone.

•   •   •

S
he runs back and forth, as far as the rope will allow, crying her daughter’s name over and over. She knows Sarah is not strong enough to crawl away on her own. Someone has taken her. Mary falls to her knees and begins to scrub the stone with her hands, as if she could pry Sarah from its icy interior.

She senses someone behind her, and then feels a hard hand on her shoulder. She looks up at the tall, English-speaking Indian.

Mary stares at him as his hand moves to the deerskin pouch that hangs from his belt. He takes out a knife.

She cannot help herself—she cries out a pitiful mewling bleat, like a lamb.

“Do not fear,” he says.

But she is afraid. She is terrified. He points the knife at her throat and Mary is certain she is about to die. The sorrow that covers her like a shroud is not for her alone, but for her lost children. For Sarah especially.

“Please,” she whispers, even as she bows her head to take the knife. “Please, I beg you. Have mercy.” She closes her eyes.

She feels the blade against her throat, feels it move back and forth across her skin. She is certain now that he is going to torture her with a slow death.
The force of the blade finally becomes so great it cuts off her breath.

The pressure is suddenly released and the rope falls to the ground. It takes her a moment to realize the Indian has not hurt her. He has set her free.

She takes three deep breaths. “Thank you.” Her voice scratches the air and then she is suddenly, brutally cold. Her jaw shakes and her teeth clatter in her head. The Indian picks up her cloak and hands it to her. Mary wraps it around her body, though she realizes, as the cold settles into her marrow, that it is not cold alone, but the chill of death.

“Do you know where my daughter is?” She can barely form the words. “Do you know where they have taken her?”

He returns his knife to its pouch. “Monoco’s son carries her on a horse.”

The name
Monoco
is familiar
.
He is the one-eyed sachem of the Nashaway tribe that sold land to her father and the other Lancaster proprietors. Mary has seen him swaggering along the town roads as if he built them himself. “Where? Where can I find her?”

He points, and without a backward glance, she runs in that direction, though the path is crowded with Indians. She races past them, thrashing through the snow. On the far side of a ridge she sees a horse and rider. Her legs sag under her and she grabs a sapling to keep from falling, briefly leaning against it before pressing on. An Indian calls out, mocking her flight, and another grabs her arm, but she wrenches away. When she finally draws near, she finds an Indian boy about Joss’s age riding the Kettles’ mare, clasping Sarah around the waist. Her daughter is moaning. Mary runs her hand over the mare’s flank and reaches for Sarah. The boy stares down at her without expression.

“Thank you,” Mary gasps. “Thank you for carrying her.”

He does not respond. She doesn’t know if he’s proud, stupid, or simply doesn’t understand English. She does not care. Walking beside the horse with her hand on Sarah’s leg, Mary is flooded with gratitude. For the Lord, who has preserved Sarah’s life and given Mary reason to hope. For the Indian boy who carries her daughter. And for the tall Indian who cut her free.

CHAPTER SEVEN

They
walk west through frozen wilderness, stopping only to sleep when it grows dark. Mary trudges along, trying to keep up with the Kettles’ mare, to stay as close as she can to Sarah. On the third day, the boy riding the mare offers her his place. His kindness surprises her and she briefly wonders if it is a trick, if riding the horse will cost her more than she is willing to pay. Yet she quickly accepts, unable to resist the opportunity to hold and comfort her daughter, though the awkward heft and twist of her torso as she climbs on reopens the wound in her side.

Every motion causes Sarah pain. She groans and grinds her teeth and rolls her head back and forth on Mary’s chest. She cries out, “I shall die!”
over and over, while Mary alternately tries to hush her and murmur encouragement.

From the mare’s back, Mary sees the line stretching out in front of her. She watches warriors hurry the captives along, prodding them with their war clubs when they stumble. She looks in vain for Joss and Marie, but spots Ann Joslin, sees her reel and nearly drop Beatrice. Elizabeth Kettle has her head bowed and weeps as she walks, continually rubbing her face with her sleeves.

It begins to snow. The flakes fall fast and the wind catches them. Snow stings Mary’s cheeks and clots on her eyelashes. It is difficult to see more than a few rods ahead. As they start down a long hill, the mare stumbles. Sarah and Mary fly over her head and crash to the frozen ground. For a moment, Mary cannot see and gropes wildly for Sarah. She hears a scream and wonders if it comes from her own throat. Then Sarah groans and Mary’s eyesight clears. She runs her hands over her daughter, seeking broken bones, new wounds. The mare has disappeared. The snow has stopped and three warriors stand nearby, pointing and laughing, plainly mocking Mary’s plight. Shaking with pain and humiliation, she picks up Sarah and moves back into the column of walkers. She feels as if her brain is banging against the wall of her skull. She has had nothing to eat or drink except melted snow since the attack. She wonders how long it will be before her strength gives out. And what will happen then?

The warrior who captured Mary, whom she has not seen for two days, appears and signals that she must walk behind him. They come to a place where the trail widens and climb a low ridge. In front of her several warriors have stopped at a wide gap in the trees and are pointing at something in the distance. When she reaches the spot, she sees a great Indian village spread out below her, hundreds of clustered domed shelters of varying sizes stretching along a river like knots on a rope. The word
wetu
comes into Mary’s head. She has heard of these Indian hovels but she never imagined there would be so many in one place. Threads of smoke rise from the dwellings into the frigid air. Huge trees line the river, which is silver with ice under the gray sky.

The column’s pace picks up; some of the warriors run down the hill; others hurry the captives along. Mary hears women’s voices chanting high, hawklike notes. As they enter the village, Mary is able to take only a few steps before the women are upon her, crowding around and peering, jabbering in their strange tongues,
plucking at her clothes. They prod Sarah’s cheek to see if she will respond, but she lolls senseless in Mary’s arms.

Some of the women carry infants on their backs, strapped so tightly to boards they cannot move their heads. They gaze out at the world like tiny statues. Older children, dressed in shirts and furs, chase one another, laughing and weaving among the groups of women. Mary is shocked that no one scolds them, or even seems to notice them at all.

Her captor pushes his way through the crowd of women, gesturing angrily. Mary plods after him, carrying Sarah in her weary arms even as she searches the crowd for a glimpse of Joss or Marie. They come to an open place where hundreds of Indians are milling around. A few rods away Mary sees a warrior who seems to be selling Ann Joslin’s son to an Indian woman. The woman waves her arms, shakes her head, and repeatedly pokes the boy’s chest with her fingers. Fear is written plainly on the boy’s face. Mary wants to comfort him, assure him that all will be well, though, in truth, she has no such assurance. The Indians are as fickle as the weather, changing their demeanor on a whim, fierce one minute, charitable the next.

She has little time to ponder, for in the next instant her captor sells her.
Like an ox at a market fair,
she thinks. Her buyer is a straight-backed warrior whose long hair is drawn back and caught at the nape of his neck with a band of beads and feathers. He has broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. His features are regular except for his large nose, which looks as if it has been broken several times. His eyes, nearly as black as his hair, make Mary think of demons.

He hardly looks at her, but grabs her sleeve and pulls her along twisting paths to a large wetu covered in bark, where he throws open a flap of grease-stained skins and signals her to enter. When she does not move, he gives her a shove and she stumbles through the opening. The skins fall back across the doorway behind them with a dull thump. Sarah moans. The smell of dirt and smoke and
grease nearly overwhelms Mary. All she can see at first is a fire, sunk in a stone-lined pit. Smoke rises straight up and disappears through a square opening in the roof.

Her owner says something in a rush of words that sounds like the grunting of pigs. Mary stands, weak with fear, as a woman comes forward from the shadows. She has a long face and a straight nose, wide-spaced eyes and a strong chin. She stares with a gaze so hard that Mary looks away.

The woman takes Mary’s chin in her hand and turns her face from side to side, studying her closely, as a man might study a cow or an ox in the marketplace. She pokes Mary’s cheek, pries open Mary’s mouth and runs her fingers over her teeth, curls her hand about Mary’s upper arm and presses the muscles there. She lifts Mary’s skirts and rubs her legs, touches her breasts, examines her wound. At last, she seems satisfied.

“Mattapsh,”
she says, gesturing.
“Yo cowish
.
”
Mary does not move. When the woman speaks again, the warrior puts his hand on Mary’s shoulder and presses her down hard onto a mat of skins. She kneels there, uncomprehending, as he lectures her in his tongue.

The woman steps forward.
“Quinnapin,”
she says, dropping her shoulders toward Mary, as if a closer proximity will help her understand.
“Quinnapin.”
She touches the man’s chest and nods vigorously.
“Quinnapin.”

“Quinnapin,” Mary repeats, slowly understanding that she is speaking the man’s name.

“Nux,”
the woman says, nodding.
“Sachem.”

Mary recognizes the second word as a title of authority. She dips her head, indicating that she will cooperate. She will not resist or try to run away. Not while Sarah lies dying.

The woman places her hand on her own chest.
“Weetamoo,”
she says, firmly.
“Sachem.”
She taps her chest again.
“Weetamoo.”
She turns back to Quinnapin and rattles off a long string of Indian
words. Dizzy and weak, Mary resettles Sarah on her lap, doubting that either she or her daughter will live.

Quinnapin abruptly leaves the wetu. Weetamoo sits down next to the fire and takes up a wide strip of deer hide onto which she begins sewing small black and white beads. Mary has seen wampum before, strung onto necklaces and belts; she knows it is made of shells and the Indians place a high value on it, treat it like money. It has always seemed to her an amusing form of currency, but she finds herself fascinated as she watches Weetamoo. So much time and care are required to string the tiny beads, let alone to craft the elaborate black and white patterns, that she wonders if the Indians value wampum not for its intrinsic worth, but for the patience required to prepare it.

Mary kisses and strokes Sarah’s feverish face and examines her wounds. The torn red flesh of the girl’s abdomen is no longer seeping blood, yet the smell that rises from it tells Mary it is going putrid. She tears a new strip of cloth from her underskirt and ties it over the ragged flesh. She says a prayer, begging God for mercy. She can think of nothing else to do. She peers at the great mats of woven reeds hanging on the sides of the wetu. Rude wooden platforms draped with animal skins stand along the walls. The stink of dirt and furs fills her nostrils. She lies back on her mat and falls away from the pain, sliding into a blessed darkness.