seem?” Mary thinks of her daughter’s slight frame and quiet demeanor. She has always been a sweet, compliant child. Too compliant sometimes. She hates the thought that she is now a captive. “Is she well? Have they harmed her?” The words rush out of her. What she wants to know, but cannot ask her son, is if Marie has been violated.
“She weeps a lot,” Joss says. “But she says ’tis out of homesickness, not harm. I know she would like to see you.”
Mary’s eyes blur with tears, which she tries to quell. Joss takes her hand and strokes it, and his gesture undoes her. The tears run down her face and drip off her chin. He pats her shoulder, murmurs words she does not try to untangle. When she is finally able to control herself, she thanks him and begs him to tell her where he dwells.
He says he is living with a family in another village a few miles north. They have come to Menameset so his master may join the other warriors in a raid on Medfield. Mary is disturbed by the glint of excitement in his eye. “Pray to the Lord they are defeated,” she says. “Are you treated well?”
He nods. “Aye. Like a son.”
A great upwelling of dismay begins in her stomach and rises through her chest. “A son?” She struggles to collect her thoughts, to divert her mind from this new peril. “You must not forget whose son you are,” she says. “Do you pray, Joss? Do you wait daily on the Lord?”
She catches a twitch of deceit on his face, but it is instantly gone—if it was even there in the first place—and he nods earnestly. “Every day, Mother,” he says. “All my hope is in the Lord.”
It is the answer she wants—the answer she needs— and despite her doubt, Mary feels a flooding reassurance that her prayers will soon be answered. If her children—all but Sarah—are delivered from torture and death, then there is hope for her. Surely God will spare her husband, and with His help, Joseph will soon rescue them.
“You must be strong.” She squeezes Joss’s shoulder. “Do not submit to the Devil’s temptations. The heathen life can be seductive for a boy. Remain firm in the Lord.”
“I will, Mother.” He is again solemn, earnest.
“I pray for you always.” As Mary embraces him again, she feels his resistance in the slight rigidity of his shoulders and the brevity of his response. When she releases him, she turns and quickly walks away, for she can no longer bear the awareness that she cannot care for him. Knowing that another family has embraced him. Knowing that the only balm to her sorrow is prayer.
• • •
W hen Mary returns to the wetu, Quinnapin is standing outside. When he sees Mary, he passes his hand in front of his nose and flips his fingers at her. “When you wash?” he asks.
Startled by his use of English, Mary gapes up at him, but when he wrinkles his nose in disgust, she looks down at her skirts. They are streaked with mud and blood and the hem is in shreds. Her stockings are caked in filth.
“’Tis some months now,” she says slowly. “’Tis unwise to washin this season. It opens the body to toxic humors and weakens the constitution.”
He snorts derisively. “You wash,” he says firmly. “Now. And every day.” He grabs her shoulder, his fingers pressing painfully through her heavy wool cape, and shoves her into the wetu. Mary sees at once that whatever is about to happen has been arranged, for Weetamoo and Alawa are waiting for her. They advance—one on either side—and begin pulling off her clothes. Mary resists, thrashing and grappling with the women, but Alawa yanks at her skirt, and Weetamoo rips the sleeve from her jacket. When Mary cries out in protest, Weetamoo slaps her face hard, a blow so powerful that Mary staggers backward and falls to her knees. Weetamoo stands over her, spraying a torrent of Indian words that Mary cannot understand, but their meaning is plain enough—Mary must remove the rest of her clothes. Shaking, Mary obeys,
“She weeps a lot,” Joss says. “But she says ’tis out of homesickness, not harm. I know she would like to see you.”
Mary’s eyes blur with tears, which she tries to quell. Joss takes her hand and strokes it, and his gesture undoes her. The tears run down her face and drip off her chin. He pats her shoulder, murmurs words she does not try to untangle. When she is finally able to control herself, she thanks him and begs him to tell her where he dwells.
He says he is living with a family in another village a few miles north. They have come to Menameset so his master may join the other warriors in a raid on Medfield. Mary is disturbed by the glint of excitement in his eye. “Pray to the Lord they are defeated,” she says. “Are you treated well?”
He nods. “Aye. Like a son.”
A great upwelling of dismay begins in her stomach and rises through her chest. “A son?” She struggles to collect her thoughts, to divert her mind from this new peril. “You must not forget whose son you are,” she says. “Do you pray, Joss? Do you wait daily on the Lord?”
She catches a twitch of deceit on his face, but it is instantly gone—if it was even there in the first place—and he nods earnestly. “Every day, Mother,” he says. “All my hope is in the Lord.”
It is the answer she wants—the answer she needs— and despite her doubt, Mary feels a flooding reassurance that her prayers will soon be answered. If her children—all but Sarah—are delivered from torture and death, then there is hope for her. Surely God will spare her husband, and with His help, Joseph will soon rescue them.
“You must be strong.” She squeezes Joss’s shoulder. “Do not submit to the Devil’s temptations. The heathen life can be seductive for a boy. Remain firm in the Lord.”
“I will, Mother.” He is again solemn, earnest.
“I pray for you always.” As Mary embraces him again, she feels his resistance in the slight rigidity of his shoulders and the brevity of his response. When she releases him, she turns and quickly walks away, for she can no longer bear the awareness that she cannot care for him. Knowing that another family has embraced him. Knowing that the only balm to her sorrow is prayer.
• • •
W hen Mary returns to the wetu, Quinnapin is standing outside. When he sees Mary, he passes his hand in front of his nose and flips his fingers at her. “When you wash?” he asks.
Startled by his use of English, Mary gapes up at him, but when he wrinkles his nose in disgust, she looks down at her skirts. They are streaked with mud and blood and the hem is in shreds. Her stockings are caked in filth.
“’Tis some months now,” she says slowly. “’Tis unwise to washin this season. It opens the body to toxic humors and weakens the constitution.”
He snorts derisively. “You wash,” he says firmly. “Now. And every day.” He grabs her shoulder, his fingers pressing painfully through her heavy wool cape, and shoves her into the wetu. Mary sees at once that whatever is about to happen has been arranged, for Weetamoo and Alawa are waiting for her. They advance—one on either side—and begin pulling off her clothes. Mary resists, thrashing and grappling with the women, but Alawa yanks at her skirt, and Weetamoo rips the sleeve from her jacket. When Mary cries out in protest, Weetamoo slaps her face hard, a blow so powerful that Mary staggers backward and falls to her knees. Weetamoo stands over her, spraying a torrent of Indian words that Mary cannot understand, but their meaning is plain enough—Mary must remove the rest of her clothes. Shaking, Mary obeys,
Similar Books
