Flight of the Sparrow (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Later,
Mary will trace the first signs of the Lord’s displeasure back to a hot July morning in 1672 when she pauses on her way to the barn to watch the sun rise burnt orange over the meetinghouse. She feels a momentary sinking in her bowels as it flashes like fire through a damp haze, putting her in mind of the terrors of hell. She has never been adept at reading omens. That is the gift and duty of her husband, Joseph, and other Bay Colony ministers. Mary sees the world matter-of-factly, as a practical, intelligible creation fashioned by God for the convenience of His people. As she plucks a paltry three eggs from under her anxious hens and slips them into her pocket, her chief thought is that by noon the heat will be suffocating. Yet, when she comes out of the barn, the ginger-colored hairs on the nape of her neck rise and she thinks she hears the Devil’s footsteps rounding the corner of the lane.

A moment later, she sees it is not the Devil, but Edmund Parker, in nightshirt and breeches, pounding toward her in his bare feet, hair flying about his head like tufts of white flame. His eyes bulge and the mottled birthmark on his left cheek burns dark red. Mary hurries to steady him when she sees his legs sway. They look as rickety as a babe’s.

“Mistress Rowlandson!” His fingers dig cruelly into her arm, yet she does not shrink from his distress. “I beg you, help me!” he cries. “’Tis my Bess. Her time has come.”

Bess. The daughter who has shamed him by conceiving a child during her indenture to Deacon Park in Roxbury. Bess, who has refused to name the man who got the child on her and so was cast out with no place to go except back to her father’s failing farm. The girl of whom the goodwives speak only in whispers, for fear the Lord will punish all of Lancaster for her sin.

“Where is Goody Turner?” Mary asks, wondering why he has come to her instead of the midwife.

His beard winks amber in the ominous light as he shakes his head. “Her daughter says she lies abed with the summer flux. But I think she refuses out of malice.”

“Malice? I cannot credit that.” Mary frowns, though she suspects what he says may be true. Every pious, God-fearing woman in this frontier town has kept her distance from Bess. They all believe that evil is contagious, that proximity to sin provides a foothold for the Devil, who can easily pass from one person to the next. “I’m sure she must be ill, if her daughter says so. The sweating fever has been abroad for a fortnight.”

“Fever or no, she will not help. Nor will any other.” His fingers dig yet deeper. “I’ve knocked on every door. There is no one else. I beg you, as a Christian, help us!”

Mary sees plainly enough where her duty lies. Indeed, how can she refuse? Did not Jesus command his disciples to help the poor and lowly? Did he not mingle with sinners? Edmund is beside himself with worry and she is the wife of the town’s minister. She has no choice but to assent.

Mary has been present at a dozen births, though never in place of a midwife, and never alone. The prospect frightens her, not only because of the risk to her soul, but because the girl is young and may
not be well formed enough to safely deliver a child. Mary has no birthing stool or linens with which to practice a proper midwife’s art. Yet Edmund is in such a state that she cannot delay any longer with talk of flux and fevers.

She hurries into the house, empties the eggs from her pocket and stuffs it with scissors and thread and what rags she can quickly find. She briefly considers taking her eldest daughter with her. Marie is dutiful and steadfast and could provide an extra pair of hands. Yet she is so young—only a few months past her sixth birthday—Mary does not want her badly affected if things do not go well. Even in the best circumstance, childbirth is a perilous business, and if Bess should die—or the child be born a monster—it could set Marie’s mind against childbearing for life. She instructs Rebekah, the servant girl, to keep a close eye on Marie and little Sarah, who is still so young she could easily toddle into the fire or drown in a puddle. She knows her son, Joss, will be tending the flax field with Joseph this morning. Her glance falls on the eggs she placed on the shelf and, at the last moment, she ties them up in a napkin to carry with her.

She and Edmund say little as they hasten over the hill to his farm. Neither has much breath to speak. Though it is just past dawn, the sun already pours down so fiercely that Mary has to wipe her face with her apron many times. There is no breeze; the heavy air reeks with the stink of pig offal and swamp water. The branches of the great chestnut tree by the meetinghouse droop while its leaves curl and wilt. They look gray in the light. Even the birds are still, as if they, too, sense the evils of the day.

As they approach, Mary can hear Bess moaning. It is not a house, but a hovel, so rudely built that few men in Lancaster would see fit to house their oxen there. She sees rot along the sill and cracks between the clapboards. There is only one room, for Edmund’s farm never prospered. Who can tell why some fields flourish and others do not? Some people question Edmund’s skills as a yeoman. Others insist he
once committed a dark and unspeakable act that now prevents his success.

The door stands open, sagging on its hinges. Mary steps inside. There is no fire in the hearth, no bedstead, no boards under her feet, only hard-packed earth for a floor. The
single window is covered with a torn flap of parchment, heavily oiled with hog fat. Bess is hunched on a pallet of blankets, her skirts hiked up and her fists jammed into her thighs. With every moan she tosses her head and rocks back on her heels.

Mary hesitates, shocked at how young the girl looks. Her bones have only recently knit into the shape of a woman. Beneath the grime-streaked face, her features are soft—almost delicate. How old is she? Fourteen? Fifteen?

Her brother, John, sits beside her on a low stool but he offers her no comfort, merely sits with his hands dangling between his legs. He deliberately avoids looking at her, but gazes up at the smoke-blackened rafters. Mary takes in the slump of his thin shoulders, the restless tapping of his feet, and is reminded of her favorite brother. Josiah had the same awkwardness and coltish looks at that age. Mary was six when he was born, old enough to be responsible for watching over him, yet still young enough to enjoy his company. They had fashioned their own secret language as she showed him how to do the children’s chores: feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, weeding the kitchen garden. It saddens her that she cannot remember a word of it now. She wipes her face with her apron. The morning’s heat has already penetrated the hut’s thin walls. Buzzing flies crisscross the room and swarm over the parchment window.

Bess makes a sudden sound—a combination of grunt and groan. Mary collects her wits and puts her hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“John, you must lay a fire and fetch water. We will need a tub of it before we’re done.” He scrambles to do her bidding, clearly glad that he has been asked to do something that will free him from the stool.

Edmund comes in and stands just inside the open door. He looks stricken, and is plainly waiting for a sign from Mary as to what he should do; men are usually banned from witnessing a birth. She asks him to close the door, and then thinks better of it, for she will need all the light and air available. Unlike Goody Turner, she cannot gauge the progress of a labor by her hands alone.

“Nay, leave it open,” she says, and begins giving orders. “Bring in as much straw as you can. We must cover the floor to soak up”—she hesitates—“the fluids. Find something clean to wrap the child in when it comes. And collect whatever strengthening food you have.”

He shakes his head. “We have naught but scraps of bread.”

“Then you must beg some from a neighbor. Broth. Stew. A pottage. Go to Goody Kerley’s house; she is my sister. Tell her I have sent you and she will provide. Your daughter must have food and drink or she will faint with her pangs.” Mary turns from him and kneels beside the girl.

“Bess!” She puts her mouth near the girl’s ear. “Bess, I’ve come to your aid.” To her own surprise, she adds, “All will be well.” She’s not sure what possesses her to say this, since she has no assurance at all that it is true.

Bess turns her head and Mary sees the childbed fear in her eyes—a fear she knows well. She has seen it on the faces of her sisters as they labored. She has felt it on her own. Everyone knows that bearing a child can carry a woman to her grave.

She also knows that Bess has another reason to be afraid—a reason Mary dreads—for it is required of all women, wed and unwed, that they confess the name of their child’s father. They must do this during the most difficult moments of labor when the pain strips all self-control from them. Though she knows this is for the good of Bess’s soul, and will assure her a chance of salvation if she dies, Mary has no taste for the custom. She has endured the pangs of labor herself and knows that in the darkest hours of travail, a woman can be
persuaded to reveal her most shameful secrets, to confess the vilest sin. A woman is not herself at that time, but only a vessel for the terrible power of her womb. Mary has no desire to press Bess for a revelation. The girl is without a husband—isn’t that shame enough?

Gossip has it—and all Lancaster believes—that the child’s father is her master, Deacon William Park, that he likely forced himself on her and then threatened her with the lash to procure her silence.

As the only woman present, it is Mary’s duty to extract a confession from the girl, yet she wishes with all her heart that it was not required. What good can come of it? Deacon Park is wealthy and proud, with a reputation as a righteous man. All the shame will fall on Bess’s thin shoulders. She will be branded a liar and temptress, and worse. She will be doubly condemned for trying to bring down a God-fearing and pious man.

Soon a fire is leaping on the hearth and John has hung a kettle of water over it to boil. Edmund brings in armfuls of straw and he and John spread it over the floor. Edmund leaves and returns with a wedge of cheese and a pot of broth. He warms the broth while Mary rubs Bess’s back to ease her pain. She persuades the girl to walk with her, up and down across the room.

“It will hurry the babe along,” Mary assures her, supporting Bess with an arm around her waist.

They walk only a short time before Bess’s pains are too strong to continue. Mary eases her down onto the pallet and asks Edmund to leave. “There are duties I must perform,” she says. “Things that must be kept from the eyes of men.” He nearly runs out the door in his haste to escape these women’s mysteries. Mary quickly closes and bars it behind him.

She whispers a prayer, begging God for strength, then kneels beside Bess. “The time has come, as you knew it would,” Mary says. “You must confess the name of your babe’s father.”

Bess shakes her head and sets her teeth in a desperate grimace.

“There is no protecting him, Bess. The truth will be revealed. You cannot save him, but you can save yourself from the flames of hell.”

“I cannot,” she whispers, then moans and clutches her belly as another pang overwhelms her.

“Just speak his name,” Mary says, “and you will have all the aid you need.” She leans over the girl and places her hands at the base of the swollen belly, pressing firmly. “I beg you, Bess, say it. All Lancaster knows this was your master’s doing, but
you
must declare it true.” When she does not answer, Mary presses harder. Bess’s eyes snap open and she screams.

Edmund beats on the door with his fists. “Stop!” he cries. “For God’s sake, you must not torture her! Let me in!”

Mary ignores him. “You must speak the name. Else I cannot help you.”

Bess screams again. “’Tis no Christian thing you do, Mistress Rowlandson!” Edmund shouts. “This is a Devil’s game!”

“The name of your master,” Mary says, the words scraping raw in her throat. “Just say it and be done with this.”

Bess shakes her head violently, setting her teeth and closing her eyes, her whole body thrashing beneath Mary’s hands. Mary begins to lose her purchase, yet she knows she should not relent. Suddenly, Bess goes limp; her face grows dark red and seems to fold in on itself. She sobs; tears run from the corners of her eyes and Mary’s own eyes blur. Beyond the door, Edmund is silent.

The girl’s mouth opens and an unholy wail escapes her. It has in it the sound of bones scraping across broken rocks, the sound wind makes as it rages through desolate winter forests; it makes Mary think of ice crusting on the doorsteps of burned houses. It makes her think of death.

“Say it,” Mary whispers, but her resolve has turned to water. “Just speak his name. I beg you.” Her voice catches on a sob. Duty or not, she cannot continue.

She takes her hands away and stands up. Silently, she berates herself as a poor, weak woman who does not have the resolve to do what is required. Yet she cannot make herself do more. She wants only to comfort Bess and ease her pain. Mary kneels again, puts her arm around her, and tells the girl she will not hurt her anymore.

“Have no fear,” Mary says. “Your travail will soon be done.” Bess moans again. Mary opens the door and motions Edmund in. She helps Bess move higher on the pallet and asks Edmund to sit behind her, to support her head and torso while Mary helps to ease the child out. “Hold her well,” Mary says as she parts the girl’s knees and bends to her task.

•   •   •

M
ary stares down at the wet infant wailing in her arms. A healthy, strong boy, with a sheath of wavy black hair slicked to his scalp. His skin is the color of well-steeped tea. It takes her a moment before she believes what she is seeing—the child’s father is clearly not Deacon Park.

She looks up and meets Edmund’s eyes. He, too, has seen the boy’s dark skin and black hair. He smiles.

“A boy,” Mary announces. “You have a son, Bess.”

“Is he well?” The girl’s hands reach for the infant.

“Aye,” Mary says. “’Tis a fine, lusty boy. Hear how he cries!”

“I have named him already,” Bess whispers. “Silvanus.”

It is unwise to name a child so soon; there are too many dangers to be faced in the first weeks after birth. But Mary has no heart to warn her. Let her enjoy what little peace she can.