‘To warn, to watch over, to ask for vengeance. He is not sure. Just as the physical form is different from the creatures native here, so the spirit is foreign to him, so he cannot be certain. He says that to take such a journey shows great love, or great fear, or both. He thinks she is here because she fears for you. That which was done to her, could be done to you.’
That was the end of the audience. The old man rose in one fluid movement. He lit a taper from the fire and went to the far wall. Here he drew back a blanket, finely woven in stripes and lines and intricate designs, and went into a room carved into the rock.
Jaybird led me back through the caves, this time a different way.
‘What did he say about the young she-wolf? Did he say what happened to her?’ I asked when we finally emerged into the fading afternoon.
‘He did not know. One day she was not there any more. Maybe the pack drove her out, or ... ’
‘Or what?’
‘Or maybe they turned on her and tore her to pieces.’
A far from auspicious story. No wonder he did not want to tell me. Perhaps the old man was mistaken. Perhaps it is all in his imagination, a figment of native superstition.
‘How did your grandfather come by his name?’
‘A story for another time.’
We were quite a distance from the settlement, but I could hear the baying of dogs, and men crashing through the woods.
‘Hunters from Beulah.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They are the only white men for miles around. The people make no sound. I will have to leave you. Make sure they don’t see you. Your clothes.’
I had forgotten that I was dressed like a boy.
‘When will I see you again?’
‘Spring, perhaps. Or summer.’
‘So long?’
‘Soon we will be in the grip of winter. And Mohawks raid to the west and north. There is war, and rumour of war. The people are scattered. My grandfather travels to meet his brothers, find out what is happening to them.’
‘War? It has not been mentioned in the settlement.’
‘Why would it be? It is Indian killing Indian. White men take no interest in that.’
Entry 63 (late November? 1659)
Tobias goes out to hunt in the woods. He goes with two young men about his own age. Josiah Crompton, the son of one of the old settlers, and Ned Cardwell, Jethro Vane’s hired man. Perhaps they were the huntsmen we heard, although they made so much noise it would be a wonder if they caught anything, and Tobias and his friends seem very successful.
I met them today coming out of the woods, carrying turkeys and geese slung over their shoulders. Their dogs panted along by their sides, two rough-coated spaniels and a brindled hound. The dogs were filthy, mud caking their flanks, leaving only a narrow clean stripe down their backs. Tobias does not have a dog of his own. Dogs are not as common here as they are at home.
‘You did well.’
I joined them as they walked back, our steps quickening towards the low squat houses of the town. Although the hour was not late, night drew on apace. Smoke curled from the chimneys, spreading up into a sky heavy and grey, tinged yellowish at the edges with the closing day. The curfew bell sounds at dusk. All must be in by then; to be abroad is to be a nightwalker, and that is a crime. Another of the regulations that rule the town.
‘Aye,’ Tobias held up his trophies. ‘A turkey for Martha and a goose for Sarah.’
‘Give her a goose and you’ll be invited for supper,’ one of the young men winked at him.
Tobias smiled back. The understanding between him and Rebekah is well-known.
‘We could have done better yet. Coursed a hare down in the south meadow. Haven’t seen one hereabouts before. Old ’un, I reckon. Held itself odd, head awry, but it moved sprightly enough.’
‘You did not catch it?’
‘No,’ Josiah Crompton shook his head. ‘Outran old Tom here,’ he pointed to the hound walking at our side. ‘Got away into the woods.’
I leaned down, intending to scratch the patch of fur that was free of mud on the top of his long bony head.
‘Careful, missy. He don’ take to strangers,’ his owner warned, but what happened then surprised even me.
As soon as the dog’s amber eyes met mine, its forehead began wrinkling and it set to whining. It sat down, head on paws, ears back, rump wiggling, tail wagging, then it rolled over to show its mud-caked underbelly.
‘Well, well, I’ll be damned!’ Josiah Crompton tipped back his hat to scratch his head. ‘Never done that afore. In general, he’s a fierce old boy.’
‘Got an eye for a pretty girl, that’s the way of it!’ Ned Cardwell leered at me.
‘No call for that.’ Tobias put a brotherly arm round me, shepherding me away from them. ‘Come, Mary. Martha will be fretting and Sarah will be wondering where you have got to.’
Entry 64
The wolves are back. Last night I heard them, and the night before.
The wind blows from the north.
‘There’s snow at the back of it.’ That’s what Jonah says.
It is time for the beasts to come in from the fields. Jonah and Tobias have gone with John Rivers to herd them. I am in Martha’s house. Next door children tumble everywhere and I need peace to write my Journal. I write by firelight as she bakes. It is hard to know what time it is. The light is dim in here, the windows are covered in greased paper. We couldn’t afford glass, even if there was any to be had.
It seems darker than it should be. It cannot be much past noon. I open the door to see flakes falling, as large and delicate as downy breast feathers. They begin in ones and twos, slow and graceful. I call Martha to come and see. She bustles over, wiping her hand on her apron, curious to know what I am fussing about.
We look up at the sky, at the flakes whirling towards us, coming faster and faster.
‘The old lady is plucking her geese again,’ she says and then glances over her shoulder, a look both quick and furtive. Such superstitions are frowned upon here and Martha is fearful, even if there is no one to overhear her.
By late afternoon the snow has thickened to a whirling, turbulent mass of white on grey, making it hard to see beyond a few feet. It is covering quickly and, as yet, there is no sign of John, or Jonah and Tobias. Rebekah comes to ask if we have seen them. Flakes billow in as Martha trips back and fore to the door like a worried old hen. She looks out anxiously, fretting in case they have lost their way, or fallen into a drift or some such. I point out that it has not been snowing long enough for that, but she will not rest until she sees her menfolk back safe at home.
Eventually Tobias and Jonah struggle up the path, one side white, holding their hats on, squinting from under the brims as the snow drives into their faces. The beasts are similarly covered, snow lying thick upon them like a second pelt. Rebekah asks where her father is. He is out looking for sheep. He must find them and pen them. They will be lost in drifts if left to wander, for the snow here can lie very deep.
They leave us to settle the animals in the bier. They have to go back out to help him.
Entry 65
Sheep are stupid creatures. Without dogs to herd them, they scatter; gathering them up is a difficult business. Most were got back safe, but two were found the next morning, half-devoured, their blood staining the fresh snow.
Entry 66
There is no heating in the Meeting House. Breath steams and streams from our nostrils, glazing the walls and fogging the frosty air.
The Reverend Johnson took the sheep for the theme of his sermonising as limbs lost all feeling, noses and cheeks grew numb.
‘“All we like sheep have gone astray ... ”
Of all God’s creatures, I dislike being compared to a sheep the most.
‘“Like sheep they are laid in the grave; death shall feed upon them ... ”
‘The Elders which are among you I exhort ... ’
He looked to the front rank where the El
ders sat before him, black clad, still and unmoving, as if carved from coal.
‘“Feed the flock of God ... And when the chief shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory ...
‘“Likewise, ye younger, submit yourself unto the elder ... ”’
His gaze shifted to the rows behind and to the side, where children sat, boys with their fathers, girls with their mothers. They will find no difficulty in obeying this instruction. Stubborn or rebellious behaviour towards a parent is a hanging offence.
‘“Yea, all of you be subject one to another, and be clothed with humility: for God resisteth the proud and giveth grace to the humble.”’
His gaze took in all of us, his eye hooded and unblinking.
‘“Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”’
The eye ranging over us is as fierce as the one painted on the pulpit.
Entry 67 (December, 1659)
Winter sets in like a siege. The snow lies piled to the eaves and each day is more bitter than the last. The world outside is reduced to grey, black and white. We are confined inside for much of the time, never moving far, only crossing the few yards between Martha’s house and ours.
The days shorten towards Christmas, except there is no Christmas here. It will be another working day, no different in any way, except of course if it falls on the Sabbath.
Rebekah and I cross the space often. I go to see Martha, but she goes to be with Tobias. They sit off in a corner, murmuring to each other. Away from the circle of the fire, the room is perishing, but they would rather freeze and keep the privacy that the darkness affords them. Martha is supposed to act as chaperone, but she is tolerant of lovers who want to be alone. Rebekah often accompanies Tobias when he goes to see to the animals in their bier next to the house.
Martha and I are making a quilt for their marriage bed. We match pieces of cloth from Martha’s stock. Tobias has made a frame for her, and Martha has begged wool from those who keep sheep, adding to what she has gathered from hedge and thicket. I have helped her wash and card it to make the padding. What we lack will be made up by old blankets, rags, shirts, and stockings holed and worn beyond repair.
The backing cloth is pegged to the frame, the packing laid, the top put on the other two layers. Martha marks the top out for stitching. Martha chooses the patterns, sketching them on with a bit of chalk: roses such as grew in her garden, the acorns and oak leaves of the woods round her village, kisses for true love, hearts for the marriage, snails and spirals circling round and round in never closing eternity. We work from the centre out, finishing with an unending vine that will twist round the border, and must not be broken for it denotes long life.
Rebekah is not allowed to help. Rebekah laughs and says that she will do the same for me when she is an old married lady. She teases me. She has changed lately, no longer shy and reserved, but smiling and laughing, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. She is like another girl.
Entry 68 (January, 1660)
It is January, and the cold grows worse, bringing with it cruel afflictions. Kibes and chilblains we had at home, but here feet and fingers can become so gnawed by frost that the flesh rots. Besides ordinary coughs and rheum, there is a lung sickness which has some spitting blood. Jonah has been so busy visiting the sick and dispensing remedies that he has fallen ill himself.
Sickness has taken a toll on the Sabbath congregation and this Sunday there are even more empty spaces. Elias Cornwell is not there, either, and Reverend Johnson must preach alone. His wife Goody Johnson is missing, along with half a row of her little ones.
After the service, Martha was summoned to Reverend Johnson.
‘You are to attend my wife.’
‘She is sick?’ Martha looked alarmed. Goody Johnson is big with child.
‘Not her. Some of the children are unwell.’
‘What ails them?’
Reverend Johnson looked at a loss, as if he did not concern himself with the ailments of children.
‘That is for you to discover.’
‘I mean how do they suffer? Do they have fever? Do they cough?’
‘Cough. Yes. They cough so we get no sleep. I can hardly think. I want you to put a stop to it.’
‘I’ll do what I can. Mary –’ Martha turned, about to tell me to go and get her basket.
‘You are Mary?’ The Reverend Johnson’s gun-barrel eyes were trained on me.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mary? The orphan girl who lives with John and Sarah Rivers?’
I nodded.
‘I have heard about you.’
‘Heard what, sir? Good report, I hope.’
‘Not entirely.’ He stroked his beard. ‘I have heard that you wander the woods.’
‘Only to gather herbs and plants for Jonah and Martha.’
‘I have also heard that you have much to say for yourself. Tell me, Mary. Do you shun the Devil and all his works?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Do you believe in God? Do you live by His Word?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ I nodded vigorously. What is this catechism?
‘Let us hope that you do. For I am His representative, here, in this community. Do not forget that. There is nothing, nothing that I do not know about.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Are you obedient?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I kept my eyes down, trying to look suitably submissive.
‘Make sure that you are. Remember: “Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft,” so it is written in the Book of Samuel. See to the children, Martha. I do not want to hear them tonight.’
He left us without another glance.
Entry 69
The Reverend Johnson’s house is the largest in the settlement. It is as big as some I saw in Salem, standing two storeys high, built out at the sides and roofed with gables. Goody Johnson has asked us to come every day until the children are better.
Martha treats the Reverend Johnson’s children with a linctus of coltsfoot and liquorice boiled in honey with a touch of vinegar. She rubs their chests with goose grease, binds them with flannel, and makes them breathe in steam from a kettle in which she infuses leaves from the forest: pipsissewa, bergamot and native mints.
The children are recovering. The congestion is easing. They will soon be better. It is Goody Johnson herself who worries Martha. Apart from where the great bulge of the baby shows, she is very thin. Martha is concerned that carrying a child may be sapping her beyond her endurance.
Entry 70
Winter bites hard into the lives of all of us. The cold is unrelenting, it is colder if anything, and food is getting scarcer, fresh food scarcest of all. Jonah fears scurvy may break out as it did on the ship. His stock of lemon juice is all but exhausted.
The men go out to hunt when they can, but the game has fled the woods hereabouts and what they do manage to catch is hide and bone.
What we can spare, we share. I have been summoned by Goody Johnson. Martha offers to go herself, but Goody Johnson says that I must go, that Martha will not do. She has a favour to ask of me.
Entry 71
Goody Johnson welcomes me in. Her eyes are huge in her head, and as she smiles, her skin stretches back to show the skull beneath her skin. I have brought tonic for her, from Martha, but fear it will do little good. It is though the child inside is feeding off her, consuming her to the very bones.
She is a good woman and knows our stores are low. The children have recovered well and she wants to show her gratitude. She loads me down with gifts of food which we share between all of us. Corn, peas, beans, oatmeal, loaves she has baked, and even a few precious apples, their skins wizened, but their flavour the sweeter for it.
‘Now, the favour.’ She takes my hand; hers are cold and so thin, the skin stretched to transparency. ‘The Reverend Johnson’s nephew, Elias, is busy compiling his Book of Wonders but the cold causes painful swelling of the joints in his hands, making it difficult f
or him to write. I have been scribing for him, but my strength often fails me. He tells me that you can read and write and have a fair hand, and will make a tolerable substitute. Are you willing? If you come, of course you can eat here, and I’ll make sure you have something to take home with you.’
How could I refuse? She has given me enough to feed us for a week.
Entry 72
I do not see the Reverend Johnson often when I visit, and I am glad of it. I did not like the way he questioned me. His strange catechism made me nervous. He never eats with his family and keeps to a separate part of the house, as far from the noise of the children as possible. When I do see him, he ignores me as if I am beneath his notice.
Elias Cornwell has his own study, a little room tucked at the top of a set of winding stairs. It is small and dark with wood panelling. A fire glows in the grate and good candles stand on a table strewn with papers. It is here that he works on his pamphlet. It began as the journal he kept aboard ship but is now to be called:
g
A Book of Miracles, Providential Wonders and Many Remarkable Things (which may probably come to pass)
By
Elias Cornwell
g
I think the title too long, but do not see it as my place to remark upon it.
He hopes to travel to Boston, in the spring when the roads are clear, and deliver it to a printer there, but he is a long way off from that. He has amassed a very great, and very odd, collection of stories. Some are his own experiences; our remarkable sea deliverances, our journey here under providential guidance. He also has an account of the miraculous founding of the town itself, as told by Reverend Johnson and the original settlers. The rest is a ragtag collection of signs and portents, dreams and miracles collected from goodness knows where. Strange lights, comets burning across the skies, houses riven with strange hauntings and noise from invisible drummer boys, women and beasts who bear monstrous progeny, conjurors’ books which refuse to burn and I do not know what else. I do not know who is gulling him, but he has more old wives’ tales here than any village crone keeps in her noddle.