My Name Is Resolute

  Morning and night I carried pots. After a while, I was able to keep down my food by covering it with the towel first, holding my breath, and closing my eyes. I ate at the foot of the table if anything was left in the trencher after the family gobbled their fill. Sometimes there was little but drippings and a crust. Each night I pulled off the miserable shoes and I tried to rub my frozen toes to keep them from hurting so, but they hurt worse with every passing day. They stung so that I could not sleep at times. Birgitta watched me at every moment, quick to bring that rod down upon my shoulders. I crept into my small hole under the bearskin, more tired from work, more bruised by beatings, until I felt at last I might cry out in my sleep as Patey had done, “Not again!” I wrapped my feet in the bottom of my skirt and put them against the chimney, curled up like a housecat, waking stiff and cold.

  By the passing of another week I almost looked forward to the dumping of pots for the chance to emerge from the house, to look for a road or path, some way to leave. My main reason for staying, however, came as Mistress Hasken settled her girls for the night, telling them stories of “the old country,” as she called the place. It did not sound anything like the Scotland and England I had heard of, but was wintry as this, full of harsh people and wolves, as well. In one of the stories, a queen saved her three daughters from being eaten by wolves—massive hairy animals with teeth like daggers and a never-ending hunger—by throwing out their worthless servant girl when the wolves clawed at the door. At night, the howl of wolves in the distance made me too afraid to sleep, much less think of running. If only there came a night without wolves, I decided, I would know it was safe. I lay awake, after the stories and their shared kisses and tucking in of wrapped, heated stones from the fire. Every sound triggered my heart to beat faster, my eyes to open wider. An owl called. Something rattled in the thatch. I often slept with my arms over my face so nothing could claw at my eyes.

  Master Hasken was a puffed-up booby who fancied himself a scholar and philosopher, prating before a polished copper plate every Sunday morning. In another home equally as dismal as this, a crowd assembled and stood, there being not room for a single chair. I found a corner and crouched so I could rest my sore feet. Master Hasken fumbled the words of a psalm so that it came out that the Israelites had prepared a feast to eat their enemies. I covered my smile.

  By the time Meeting was finished, a stormy wind blew and sleet hit the house. They sent me to their house alone to build up the fire so it would be warm for them. I thought of escape, but where and how could I, in such a storm? They must have known I could not run away in such weather. Still, it was blessed to be alone. I pushed the coals with an iron rod, and fed straw into the fireplace. I looked out the door. No one yet, so I ran upstairs, pulled off my shoes and dug into Christine’s basket of stockings. I selected two pairs and put them on, one over the other, and got the shoes tied on just as I heard stamping at the doorstep. I nearly fell down the stairs in my rush, but I sat myself upon the floor, flushed and panting. I knelt, holding kindling against a mound of coals and blowing at it by the time they’d removed their wet blankets and cloaks enough to see me. Christine never mentioned that her store of stockings had changed.

  A couple of days later, while I melted snow, I watched from the corner of my eye as Mistress sat to spin thread of the goat’s wool. She had a round of wood with a spindle on it, and whirled it. Now and then she grunted if the thread broke. The woman was twiddly and had nervous episodes where she paced across the two small rooms, and sometimes up and down the narrow stairway fidgeting with her hands, shaking them as if they were wet and needed drying, or as if something dreadful were stuck to her fingers.

  “Are you listening?” Birgitta hissed, shaking the rod at my face. “I’ll have a word with Master Hasken about you if you are too simple to learn a thing.”

  Had she been talking again? I looked first at the tip of the rod, inches from my nose. I had no idea she had been talking and I followed its length with my eyes, up her arm and to her face. As I did I remembered Aloysius, the sailor. “I am listening, madam.” I smiled to prove it, though I had no idea what she had said. “Thank you for explaining, Birgitta. I shall not forget.” My answer took her off her guard, for she shook her head, blinking long and hard, screwing her eyebrows up. I nodded and stirred the stew bubbling on the hearth. “Would you have me put more kindling by the great fireplace or the lesser?” I asked, reaching for a chunk of wood.

  “Go and get more for the great one. Be careful,” she said, suddenly gentle, “and remember not to loosen any above and cause it to kill you dead. And get five more buckets of snow. Mistress will want tea for the honorable reverend. Last Meeting was for his and Miss Rachael’s Walking Out. Tonight’s supper is First Courting.”

  I loaded up the box by the fireplace, my arms as full of wood as I could carry. I collected snow and sat to pluck floating bits of twig and leaf from the pot as the snow melted. I kept my hands in the warm water until it got hot. Mistress and the older girls spent the morning preparing a leg of goat that had been hanging inside the woodshed where it had frozen solid. I marveled at that. Had it hung in a shed at Meager Bay, flies and wasps would have cleaned it to the marrow in half a day. Later in the afternoon as the preparations slowed and bread rose on a board, all the daughters assembled for “school.” I sat on a small stool behind them, happy for a change from my endless tasks. I remember having been told I’d be schooled, but this was the first time in two months of living with them that any mention was made of it. As the girls recited addition by rote, I tried to join in, sensing a rhythm to what they were doing. Arithmetic seemed to be a pattern of things, such as three threes made nine. I smelled the goat shank boiling in its pot and roots roasting in the coals. My mouth watered. My stomach made meowing sounds like a hungry cat, and Rachael frowned at me for it.

  We were an hour into school when Reverend Johansen arrived with his leather satchel and his Scriptures. Master Hasken answered the knock on the door himself. Birgitta showed him to the single real chair and Master sat upon the family bench. Mistress Hasken intended to give our little schooling an airing before him, for she did not dismiss us from our places. I used my hiding place behind the girls to study this reverend. He had a kind expression, and a sadness about the eyes that was appealing despite his thinness. Perhaps he would save me.

  Mistress broke the silence, saying, “Rachael, what is the greatest sin?”

  I thought about stealing stockings, while Rachael said, “There are seven major sins. The greatest of these is sloth, because under its cloak abide all the others.”

  “Good,” said Mistress, nodding. “Now, Christine, what are the seven detestable sins?” Christine gave no answer. Lonnie sat without speaking, a string of drool escaping her lips. “Mary,” said Mistress, “clean her face.”

  I waited and watched. Reverend seemed unamused.

  “Mary! Clean her face, I said,” the woman demanded.

  I grew aware after a moment that she meant me. I had been called “Mary” all these days but could not reply to it when caught off guard. I pulled up a bit of my skirt and swiped it across Lonnie’s face while turning my eyes to the ceiling. Nothing repelled me more than slaver running from a mouth.

  Christine mumbled something and her mother nodded, head inclined toward the girl, as if by that motion she could produce words from Christine’s mouth. Mistress said, “She knows them by heart. She—she speaks softest of the girls.”

  I folded my skirt so I could not see Lonnie’s mouth spot on it. The reverend appeared bored. I wanted to jump at him and shout the wrongs done to me. I made a noise, accidentally scooting my stool a bit.

  Mistress eyed me and her face changed somewhat. Her smiling lips thinned out and her brows lowered. “Mary? Do you know the detestable sins?”

  Pa always said if you wanted a man to befriend you, get him to talk about himself. If I could get the man to feel fondness toward me, to feel pity and perhaps admiration for my ma’s teaching, perhaps
he would take me home to her. What more would a parson love than to talk about his philosophies? Perhaps he needed asking. Perhaps I should ask him. Ma had never spoken of a list of such things as detestable sin. I said, “I—I am sure that Holy God detests all wickedness.”

  The reverend raised one brow and nodded.

  Mistress said, “Mary, the kettle is hot. I’ll serve Parson some tea.” She had laid her teapot and tea safe on a kerchief at the table. She seemed uncertain at its preparation. They drank nothing but hard cider usually, as there was naught else to drink. I knew all about tea for I had helped my mother so often. I hurried to the fireplace and pulled the trammel with a crooked rod she used for it. As Mistress tried to whittle the corner off the tea brick, she said, “Of course we never use tea often. We keep frugal.” I poured hot water into the old teapot, and with a look on my face and a nod, took the tea brick from her, breaking it as Ma had done, dropping it in, to stir with a fork. Mistress began to smile but stopped herself and turned away from me. “Lonnie?” she went on. “What is the greatest commandment?”

  “Honor thy father and mother,” Lonnie sang out, clapping her hands. “My father and mother, honor them, honor them, ho-nor them.”

  When I turned to hang the kettle of hot water back in the fire, a coal popped and a spark flew toward me. I kicked at it, intending to send it back into the bank of coals, but it caught in the hole of my tattered shoe. Pain shot through my toe. I cried out, holding forth the iron kettle. Lonnie came running to me and held her hands under the hot kettle as if I would lay it into them. “No!” I cried. “Lonnie, move your hands!”

  “Mary,” Birgitta said, coming at me, “you earned three strokes for raising your voice to the misses of this house.”

  My hands sweating and the handle slipping, I held the kettle with every bit of strength I could find. I cried, “Lonnie! The kettle will hurt you. Get away.” At last I could keep it suspended no more and my arms began to fall lower.

  Birgitta reached forward and took Lonnie’s hands in hers, leading her away. I set the kettle on the floor and shook my shoe. The spark had no more light in it but smoke came from my shoe like a candlewick just snuffed. Tears poured down my face.

  “What is all this?” asked Master. “Pick up that kettle, Mary!” It was such a small room to have so many people, he could not see what had happened to my foot. He raised his fist, ready to fetch me a clap on the head.

  “I am sorry, Master,” I said, ducking my head. In that moment, a picture of Cora, bowing and ducking in Patience’s stolen shoes, appeared in my mind. My toe hurt too badly to think more. “I did not want to hurt Miss Lonnie.”

  Reverend Johansen came to my rescue, saying, “I believe her voice was raised only in warning, Hasken. Let the serving girl have some tea for it.”

  I did get a cup of their tea but it was just as ordinary as any I had had. The food was better than usual, and plentiful, though I had to wait until everyone had taken their fill before me. My portion of potatoes was one small nub no larger than my thumb, and the bread had fallen into the pot and was sopped by the time it got to me. The women all stayed hushed as the parson and Master went on about the threat of the French fort not far away. They talked of Indians and the parson said he could speak Indian language and gave forth with some stirring words no one could understand, of which, it seemed, he was proud. The evening wore on and the fire burned low. I felt cold, then hot, my eyes burning as if I had been too close to the fireplace.

  The Hasken daughters lined up to bid farewell. I felt a trembling take my bones. I had no time left to plead to him to take me home. I could travel with him wherever he went. Despite Patey’s warning, I thought, I would gladly pay him two gold rings to take me. I sprang from my place on the floor, hoping to elicit recognition that I had something important to say.

  “Mary? Come stand behind the girls,” coaxed Master, with a grandiose wave of his arm. “The staff may attend the departure of our guest.”

  “Our children,” said Mistress, “shall bid you farewell with a Scripture verse.”

  Well and aye, I thought. The girls shall speak to the parson, and I was girl enough for that task. I inched my way into the line of them, standing next to Lonnie. Rachael recited a long and, to me, meaningless verse. The parson corrected her, saying, “The word is ‘thine,’ my dear, not ‘thy.’ Thine own.”

  Rachael bowed and curtsied and replied, “God’s blessing on your travels, Reverend Johansen.”

  I looked back and forth between Rachael’s face and the parson’s. Betrothed? The parson was older-looking than Rachael’s pa. Why, that would be like Patience marrying some old, old man like Rafe MacAlister! I shuddered. Christine and Lonnie recited. I stared at the parson.

  Master said, “Fetch the parson his cloak, Mary.”

  “Yes, Master.” I did my best and most gracious curtsy, despite my toe hurting beyond mercy and my clothing smelling of rot. I saw a quiver at the corners of his mouth. He was dampening a smile. I had his sympathy! I ran to the peg and lifted down the cloak to keep it from the dirt floor. “Here, your lordship, reverend sir,” I said, holding the cape as high as my arms would reach. It blocked my face from his view so I spoke through the wool, in the moment it took him to slip on the cloak and fasten the frog. I began a verse, saying, “‘As the hart—’” My eyes went to Master’s face. At his frown I lowered my voice to a whisper and chattered fast as my lips would move, “‘As the hart panteth after the books’—I mean brooks—‘water-brooks: so panteth my heart after—after—Thee’!” I raised my brows more, trying to sort out whether I could ask him to take me away at that moment. “I should like to hear your philosophy about the Psalms.” I shuddered, nearly falling to my knees in a faint, my head swimming as black spots swirled before my eyes.

  “The Psalms?” Reverend Johansen asked. He swept the cloak over one shoulder and bent toward me, smiling and patting my head, and said, “Why would you like a sermon on the Psalms?”

  My eyes darted back and forth, testing his right eye then his left, trying to discern the answer he wanted most to hear, and without thinking at all, with no reason, I said, “For I want to know when I shall go away, how soon, and for what I am here.” Mistress glared at me. Birgitta, too, and she stepped forward as if to snatch me away for my boldness, but stopped, unsure of whether her duty lay in waiting upon the guest’s departure to lash out.

  The parson said, “When shall you go? You are too young to think of death. I doubt that answer is in the Psalms. The reason you are here is that you are to be a maid-of-all-work. See that you glorify the Lord with every good deed.” He turned to the room and said, “God give you good e’en, then. Bless this house and all who reside therein. Amen.” He made for the door and pushed it open, letting a rush of icy air into the room.

  I dashed after him, clinging to the wide cloak. “Take me with you, please, your lordship. Help me get home to my mother. I am captured, sir, by pirates. This is not my place.” A sudden sweat poured from my skin and the frigid gust of air made me shiver. “How shall I get home to my mother? She will surely be terrified at this long absence.”

  “Mary! Still your tongue!” Mistress hissed at me. “Girls, up to bed, then.”

  Birgitta’s coarse hands wrenched my grip from the parson’s cape. “Beg pardon, Parson Johansen. This’n is new and han’t learnt manners yet.” She closed the door before he could respond, and shook me by the shoulders. “What a foolishness!”

  He was gone. “How long must I stay?” I cried.

  Mistress came before me, her arms crossed. “Mary? Let this happen again and I’ll remember it for sure.”

  Birgitta said, “If you have done your duty, you’ll be granted free in eight years. We have paid your indenture and you are ours. You go to your mother after that. Or you hire out under wages. Until then, you do as you are told.”

  I sank to the floor. The pain in my toe took my breath away. Eight years. It was more days than stars in the sky. Thousands and thousands of days wi
thout Ma and Patey. Without August. Pa dead. In eight years, August would have come back to Casco Bay to find me and I would not be there. I was the daughter of Allan Talbot, not a slave. My eyes filled with visions of dark women wielding arm-length blades against the sugarcane under a heavy sky, dank with approaching hurricane. Their chants filled my ears. I shook from the inside as if my bones had gone cold, already dead. The smell of goat dung overpowered me. My bones turned to water. I woke later on a pallet before the fire. My throat was raw and pained me to swallow. Every bone ached. My head felt pierced by a great pinion chained to the floor. “So thirsty,” I said. “Please. A drink.”

  Birgitta’s voice hovered in the air over my head and lifted a cup of warmed cider to my lips. It was difficult to swallow. “Sudden fever. I’ve seen it before. Possible you’ve been bewitched. Or taken water-sick. Mistress would have sent you up to bed but ’tis better you keep by the fire.”

  “Water?” I asked. She fed me the strong cider. Was there not a drop of water in this hellish prison? I slept a deep sleep so that I felt pulled by fairies and duppies through forests and ocean waves, cold as ice and warm with sweat, barely breathing, barely alive. Ma came to me and held me against her breast. She told me I was dying and not to be afraid. When I asked her how she knew, she said she had died, too, and not to trouble about it. “No!” I screamed with all my might. I found myself sitting up in a wretched cave, dressed in rags and watched over by a witch, the kind of raspy bogle’s maidy that guarded the captives in any story of fairy folk and duppies, selkies or brownies.