The Old Cape House (8 page)

He dug again. It was definitely something hard. He dropped the shovel and knelt on one knee. His hands moved quickly to remove more dirt, finally revealing the top of a wooden chest.

Early Summer 1715

EASTHAM – CAPE COD

IT WAS A COOL MORNING IN JUNE,
and Sam had been gone two
months. Maria lay within the safety of her bed. She wondered when Sam would come back? She scratched the tip of her nose, pulled the quilt up towards her chin and opened her eyes. Above her head, planks of
wood held the stairs in place that led to the long room where she
spun and wove her cloth. Her father’s snoring pleased her. She whispered, “Please don’t wake yet.”

The sun pouring through the window cast blocks of light on the
floor. Specks of dust floated across the room and into the kitchen
towards the hearth. For the past several mornings, Maria had struggled to get out of bed. Tired and nauseous, she had slept late again, and lay
silently dreading her day’s chores. The sky outside her window was a cloudless brilliant blue; she wished Sam were lying next to her.
Flickers
of Sam’s image holding her in his arms drifted in and out of her
thoughts. Even on this beautiful day, she had no desire to get out of her bed.

A great wave of nausea suddenly flooded her body, and she sat upright. Confused, she looked around her room, searching for any item out of place, but everything was as it should be. Anxiety stirred her mind as if it were a pot of stew. Am I with child? She placed her hands on her stomach and then covered her mouth. She wanted to vomit but pursed her lips together, trying to hold it back. Her hands
perspired as a rush of warmth flushed her neck and face. Maria
pulled
at her shift to loosen its hold on her clammy body. What have I
done?

Fear fell upon her whole being. If I am with child, she thought,
no one must know, not even Father. She swiveled her body around
and clambered out of bed. Her bare feet felt the grit of the sandy floor but she felt as if she were in a nightmare. She needed help. She needed Minda, the old PowWah. Quickly dressing, before her father awoke, Maria slipped in silence out the door.

She followed the path away from her house towards the coast, repeating over and over in her head, I am with Sam’s child... I need Minda. She’ll know what to do.

 Minda

Minda pulled back the brown, supple leather that was the door to her ‘wetu’. She took a deep breath to draw the fresh morning air into her body, then she prayed aloud, “Good Morning, ‘Kiehtan’, my
Creator. You are good to us; you give us another young season to
start life again. Thank you.” The old PohWah squaw smiled.

Looking around with love at the other wetus the medicine
woman continued in her heart. My people are still quiet in their beds. It is time for me to go and gather roots and herbs. Quietly closing the flap behind her, she turned inside and walked to the back of her small dwelling.

Her feet followed familiar steps on the soft dirt floor to her bed made from a raised platform of sewn reeds. She reached up to touch the primitive arched wall of her wetu that she had built many seasons ago. The sapling poles, tied with strips of cedar and layered with bark, made her dwelling round and secure. These pieces of bark still protect me well, she thought, tracing the rough edges with her fingers, as a mother would follow the lines of her child’s face. Minda shook her head back and forth as she noticed daylight coming through some of the reed mats that covered the bark roof. It will soon be time for me to sew new reeds. But she hid this reminder of extra work behind her thoughts so that she could focus on her task of gathering what she needed for her potions.

Before she took her leave on this peaceful early morning, she gazed upon a piece of smooth tan leather, tied by its four corners to the wetu poles above her primitive bed. Decorated with fanciful
drawings in colors of red from the cranberry, yellow from the
jewelweed and blue from the wild berry, this natural wall hanging kept her warm from chilly drafts and reminded her of pleasant summers and plentiful autumn harvests.

Minda indulged herself with a passion for painting. She reveled in it when the winds blew in early winter and the village was quiet. She cherished her solitude during this short time, when she could steal away to paint alone, before her people were forced by deep snow to move into the six-fire wetu.

Throughout the other seasons, she loved to see her drawings by the light of the fire as she lay in her own bed. A contented sigh came
from within her; she had a good life and a sense of pride surged
inside her. She pulled a large bag from under her bed and placed its strap over her head and onto her shoulder. Made out of brown deerskin, it was soft and smooth, decorated with beautiful painted symbols of the sun, moon and stars. She stopped to adjust its fit on her hip, then softly stepped outside, leaving her sanctuary.

 Minda could see in the eastern sky, Mishanok, the morning star. The soft coo of morning doves echoed through the forest’s canopy,
and in the early sunlight, drops of dew from the night reflected in
trees
like jewels. Leaving the clearing on which her village was built,
Minda entered the deep woods.

She was never fearful when she walked in these woods. The tall
trees were like warriors who stood close as brothers, their dense
branches
becoming shields protecting the Nausets. Only Minda and her
people knew the path she followed through this natural barrier. There were
signs and signals from fallen or twisted trees that would tell a
Nauset which way to turn, or warn them not to go further. Dangerous places were identified by secret markings. Passing an ancient tree with lines in its wood from the termite, Minda knew to be careful. To a Nauset it said, ‘Do not pass beyond this point’. To a white man it said nothing more than just old insect trails.

As she approached the last of the great cedars, she could hear the distant sound of the ocean waves making their tidal rush onto the beach. Minda knew she was near the end of the woods. She felt happy in her heart as she made her way among the trees toward the sea. At an age of fifty years, her moccasin covered feet flew along the path like a young maiden’s.

Early summer 1715

EASTHAM – CAPE COD

THE MEDICINE WOMAN EMERGED
from the protection of the forest and stared at the white man’s wooden meetinghouse built high on a hill that looked out to sea. Its location was a vantage point for the Eastham settlers; it enabled them to spot unfriendly foreign ships and served as a gathering place for religious services.

As the old PohWah stepped around the timbered house, she
kept her distance by staying close to the edge of the woods. She
passed the
stone where an engraved T marked the property of Rev. Samuel
Treat. Minda could see the tall green grasses and cattails of the marsh as she walked.

Following the narrow path around his land, she felt proud that the reverend had always shown respect and kindness to her. When she offered words of advice to him on healing, he listened. He even spoke the Nauset language. In turn, she felt the reverend’s words would do no harm to her people and welcomed those Nausets who
had turned to his God. She nodded her head up and down in
agreement
with herself. Reverend Treat had made progress in quieting the
tension between the white settlers and the Indians.

A large grey rock appeared before Minda where her people
honed their arrows and tools. She slid her fingers along its surface, feeling
the long narrow grooves of many years of sharpening. In the
distance, a young woman sat on the trunk of a dead tree that had washed onto the shoreline. The dark haired girl turned her head back and forth as if looking for someone. As soon as she spotted the old woman, she stood and waved, beckoning her to come closer. Minda recognized Maria and quickened her pace toward her. As she climbed down the high dune, she remembered her promise to Sara Hallett that she would watch over the girl and teach her ways that would help her
grow into a happy and strong woman. She was pleased at how
quickly Maria took to the secrets of healing and the intricacies of the loom.

Minda understood how the young girl felt without a mother
because she too was motherless. She always held onto the heartbreaking day, at eight years of age, when her parents and most of the Narraganset people in her village had been killed. The survivors of that massacre; 102 children including herself, were taken to Boston and sold into
the homes of white people to become ‘civilized’. The Widow
Jackson, of Cambridge, had bought Minda and taken her into her home. Very kind at first, she’d given Minda opportunities to learn the ways of the white man, especially the craft of weaving, but she’d always been kept at a distance. She had offered no affection to the orphaned Indian child.

As she walked closer to Maria, Minda recalled her few pleasant memories during captivity. There were travels with the Widow, when they would visit friends during the summer in Eastham, and the North Parish of Harwich, near the village of the Nauset Indians. She always enjoyed these journeys away from Cambridge. They took her to familiar places like dense forests and the beautiful seaside. They reminded Minda of her childhood in Narraganset, when she would scavenge for herbs and roots with her mother, and gather favorites like sea lettuce, marsh mallow root for candy, and sweet grass for fragrant bracelets.

When the law finally allowed Minda her freedom, she left the Jackson House at age eighteen, but remained ever grateful for the widow’s benevolence. She took whatever money was saved from
selling her weaving and traveled as far east as she could go, to the
land
of the Praying Indians. There, she was welcomed for her knowledge in the traditions of the spirits and gifts of healing. Her magical ways, passed down by her mother, had assured her status among the
Nausets.

Minda shielded her eyes with her hand from the morning glare as she descended to the shoreline. She felt Maria’s fear as soon as they embraced. With a tender touch she pushed away strands of hair from the frightened girl’s face and asked, “What is troubling you?”

Maria pulled back. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.” She folded her arms across her breasts and draped her shawl over her stomach, as if to conceal something.

 Minda reached forward again to hold her. “Sit down, so we can talk.”

The two figures sat on the blackened tree trunk. Maria revealed her symptoms that sparked the notion of carrying Sam’s child.

Minda patiently listened. “It is possible that you are with child,” Minda concluded.

Maria stared at the old Indian as she explained who the father was.

“Maria, the laws of your church are very strict.”

Maria nodded her head, knowing what was expected of a young girl in her condition. Naming the father of the unborn child made everything acceptable while a girl carried the child, and upon its birth she would marry the named father. But if she did not know who the father was, or did not want to name him, she was branded a fornicator, treated as a whore, and eventually punished or banished.

The PowWah fondled a small loop of twined flowers on her wrist and looked at Maria. “Tell me more.”

The young girl’s voice trembled. “Few people in the area know who Sam Bellamy is; he only stayed a short time. What should I do? No one knows him. I’m so frightened!”

Very fond of Maria, and never having had children herself,
Minda cherished her as one of her own. Any advice that she would now speak would have to be given carefully. She cradled Maria’s face in her hands and spoke from the heart. “You must reach deep inside yourself and listen to the voice that speaks to you. You will hear it
telling you what to do.” She took Maria’s hands into hers and
continued, “If you choose not to carry this child, you must know that I have ways to help you.”

Maria stared out to sea.

Minda offered more words. “If you believe that Sam will return to you, and you have a true love for him, keeping his child will be
right. If you choose life, then let this little one inside you grow and blossom.”

Maria stood and placed her hands on her stomach. The old
PowWah held Maria’s shoulders once more and caught Maria’s gaze. “Let this be a sign of love. Remember, you are a strong woman. I will help you and our great Creator will watch over you.”

Early summer 1715

EASTHAM – CAPE COD

MARIA’S SLENDER FINGERS TRACED PATTERNS
through the sand as she sat near the water’s edge. She watched Minda gather sea lettuce and clams along the tidal flats. As the water slowly made its return along the shoreline, Maria thought about her options. She knew a healthy child was the common outcome but was also aware of the dangers of childbirth. Assisting Minda in several births, Maria had witnessed the pain and anguish of a little one’s death, either prematurely, by the woman’s choice, or the order of an angry father.

She sifted the tiny particles of ground stone through her toes and told herself that Sam would marry her. A decision must be made.

When Minda finished her work, she placed the found treasures into her shoulder bag and sat down next to Maria. “Today I am going to the North Parish to see Abigail. As of late, she has not felt well. Have you finished her cloth?”

“Yes, I have.... Why?”

“Then you must come with me.” Minda hoped she would say
yes.