Flight of the Sparrow by Amy Belding Brown

sees her own sorrow mirrored in his eyes.
    Gently, he leads her back to Weetamoo.



CHAPTER NINE
    For days, Mary’s thoughts are a jumble of sorrow and confusion. She cannot wipe Sarah’s wilderness grave from her mind. Nor can she stop thinking about her encounter with the English-speaking Indian, the troubling memory of clinging to him as she wept. The comfort she felt as he held her. The way she completely surrendered to the consolation of his presence. Not of his presence only, but of his body. Even at the thought, her face burns with shame. She is as miserable a sinner as Bess Parker.
    She feels crazed and savage. She cannot concentrate on the tasks Weetamoo assigns. She is too restless to sit still. Her feet twitch and she cannot control her hands. She rises up and paces around the wetu until Weetamoo threatens her with a stick.
    She walks through the village, wringing her hands, without destination, without reason. She stops people on the path to ask, with gestures and signs, where she might find Joss and Marie but receives only averted glances and frowns. It occurs to her that the English Indian might know, but she does not see him. Her pocket knocks against her thigh like a child’s hand tapping for attention. She considers what itholds—a spool of thread and a needle, her short knitting needles, a scrap of sweet cake that crumbles to dust in her fingers. Her mother’s silver embroidery scissors, their points sharper than a pup’s teeth. She imagines taking them out and drawing the short blades across her wrists. She wonders how long it will take for all the blood to run from her body. How simple to walk a short way into the forest and sit down with her back to a tree and take her life. No one would notice her absence. No one would care when they found her dead.
    There is no greater sin. It is as if God Himself speaks in her ear. She stops and stands still. She remembers Joseph’s sermon the Sabbath after Martha Bard drowned herself. His voice had been filled with fury as he reminded the congregation of their duty to God and to the community. “Who amongst us is so foolish to conceive that we belong to ourselves, that we have the right to choose the day of our death? Who would so tempt the Lord to forsake us? Remember, we live on the frontier by His mercy alone!” Joseph had set everyone in the meetinghouse trembling. Even Mary was shaken.
    She is so absorbed in her thoughts that she hears her son’s voice before she sees him.
    “Mother?”
    She looks up and claps her hand over her mouth. Joss looks taller than she remembers, though it is less than a fortnight since the attack. He is too thin. His breeches and coat are ripped to rags, and his face is filthy with soot and grime, but he is smiling. She nearly falls to her knees.
    Shaking, she takes his shoulders and presses her fingers deep into the fabric of his coat, to assure herself it is truly her son’s flesh beneath the wool, and not some specter of her fevered mind.
    “Sarah?” he asks, escaping her grasp. “Is she well?”
    Mary chokes on a wave of despair. All she can do is shake her head. Her hands, still trembling, fall to her sides. She manages a whisper. “She has perished.”
    “Dead?” His eyes grow wide.
    “Aye,” Mary whispers. “She was sorely wounded, but she went like a lamb. My sweet babe.” Words are like charms, she realizes. If said often enough, they will make it so. “They buried her, but I fear I cannot show you her grave. I know not how to find it on my own.”
    He puts his hand on her arm. “The grave is no matter, Mother.” How like his father he is! She feels a wave of pride. “I have seen Marie,” he tells her. “We prayed together and I promised to watch over her fate as I am able.”
    “Oh, my son!” She embraces him shamelessly. “Tell me—where is she? Can you take me to her?”
    He shakes his head. “It was mere accident that we met. She is closely watched by her mistress.”
    “How did she