loosening the laces and peeling the grime-encrusted layers away one after another. She takes off her latchet shoes and unrolls her stockings. When she is finally naked, Alawa gathers the clothes into a bundle and throws them outside. Weetamoo shoves a clod of sphagnum moss into Mary’s hand, points to a pot of water, and signals that she must wash. Mary crouches near the fire, and obediently begins to scrub.
When Mary is clean, Alawa hands her a deerskin dress and a pair of moccasins and signals her to put them on. The deerskin is old and worn, thin as linen in some places. Mary holds the dress against her breasts and looks up at Alawa in alarm. “What of my shift?” She cannot abide the thought of wearing the deerskin against her naked body. Like all Englishmen and -women, she has worn a layer of linen under her garments since she was born. Alawa shakes her head. “No shift,” she says slowly in English. Weetamoo frowns impatiently and makes a hurrying gesture with her fingers. Mary pulls the garment over her head and rises. The deerskin’s folds fallover her like a caress. She is surprised at how easily she wears it, at how comfortable it feels against her skin.
Quinnapin steps into the wetu. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at her. He inhales a big sniff and smiles. “You clean now,” he says. He draws a small English looking glass from his pouch and holds it up in front of Mary.
She sees a woman she barely recognizes. Her face is drawn; her eyes lie like gray river stones deep in their sockets. Her wet hair shines in the firelight. And she is wearing Indian dress. A sinking sensation overwhelms her. Will Joseph recognize her when he comes to rescue her? Will he assume that she has given herself to a warrior?
She starts to pull at the deerskin. “I cannot wear this,” she says, shaking her head. “I must have English clothes.”
Suddenly Weetamoo is in front of her, brandishing a stick. “Maninnapish!” she shouts and jabs her free hand at the doorway. “Monchish!”
“Go,” Quinnapin says. “Weetamoo want you work.”
What work? Mary wonders, but does not ask, for Weetamoo has raised the stick again. As Mary stumbles toward the door, Alawa throws a heavy blanket over her shoulders.
Mary’s clothes lie in the snow in front of the wetu. She stares down at them, considering whether it will be safe to take them. She examines her skirt and jacket. The filth-encrusted skirt has been badly torn along the seam and the jacket shorn of buttons. Her hard English shoes are unharmed, but she has no desire to put them on again; the moccasins are soft and make her feet feel as if they are cupped in a huge, warm hand. She bends and roots through the pile until she finds her pocket. She ties it around her waist and starts along the path. After a few steps she goes back and retrieves her apron, stockings and shift, tying them into a corner of the blanket, unable to leave behind all the bloodstained tatters of her former self.
She wanders through the village, surprised to find she is notuncomfortable without her jacket and skirt. The dress is surprisingly warm and the blanket is an efficient barrier against the bitter cold. She ventures down the path to the river and stands on the bank for a long time, staring out at the shadows of the trees on the surface of the snow-covered ice. There are several star-shaped cracks in the ice and a black circle of open water pushed up against the shore—a place where she has fetched water for Weetamoo. She feels as if time has slowed down since she was taken captive; she has more occasion to observe the world around her.
She makes her way down the bank and squats beside the water. Even before she lowers her hands into the river, she knows the icy cold will make her fingers ache. She unties the corner of her blanket and lets the stockings, shift and apron roll into the water. She takes a deep breath, plunges both hands in after them and begins washing the
When Mary is clean, Alawa hands her a deerskin dress and a pair of moccasins and signals her to put them on. The deerskin is old and worn, thin as linen in some places. Mary holds the dress against her breasts and looks up at Alawa in alarm. “What of my shift?” She cannot abide the thought of wearing the deerskin against her naked body. Like all Englishmen and -women, she has worn a layer of linen under her garments since she was born. Alawa shakes her head. “No shift,” she says slowly in English. Weetamoo frowns impatiently and makes a hurrying gesture with her fingers. Mary pulls the garment over her head and rises. The deerskin’s folds fallover her like a caress. She is surprised at how easily she wears it, at how comfortable it feels against her skin.
Quinnapin steps into the wetu. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at her. He inhales a big sniff and smiles. “You clean now,” he says. He draws a small English looking glass from his pouch and holds it up in front of Mary.
She sees a woman she barely recognizes. Her face is drawn; her eyes lie like gray river stones deep in their sockets. Her wet hair shines in the firelight. And she is wearing Indian dress. A sinking sensation overwhelms her. Will Joseph recognize her when he comes to rescue her? Will he assume that she has given herself to a warrior?
She starts to pull at the deerskin. “I cannot wear this,” she says, shaking her head. “I must have English clothes.”
Suddenly Weetamoo is in front of her, brandishing a stick. “Maninnapish!” she shouts and jabs her free hand at the doorway. “Monchish!”
“Go,” Quinnapin says. “Weetamoo want you work.”
What work? Mary wonders, but does not ask, for Weetamoo has raised the stick again. As Mary stumbles toward the door, Alawa throws a heavy blanket over her shoulders.
Mary’s clothes lie in the snow in front of the wetu. She stares down at them, considering whether it will be safe to take them. She examines her skirt and jacket. The filth-encrusted skirt has been badly torn along the seam and the jacket shorn of buttons. Her hard English shoes are unharmed, but she has no desire to put them on again; the moccasins are soft and make her feet feel as if they are cupped in a huge, warm hand. She bends and roots through the pile until she finds her pocket. She ties it around her waist and starts along the path. After a few steps she goes back and retrieves her apron, stockings and shift, tying them into a corner of the blanket, unable to leave behind all the bloodstained tatters of her former self.
She wanders through the village, surprised to find she is notuncomfortable without her jacket and skirt. The dress is surprisingly warm and the blanket is an efficient barrier against the bitter cold. She ventures down the path to the river and stands on the bank for a long time, staring out at the shadows of the trees on the surface of the snow-covered ice. There are several star-shaped cracks in the ice and a black circle of open water pushed up against the shore—a place where she has fetched water for Weetamoo. She feels as if time has slowed down since she was taken captive; she has more occasion to observe the world around her.
She makes her way down the bank and squats beside the water. Even before she lowers her hands into the river, she knows the icy cold will make her fingers ache. She unties the corner of her blanket and lets the stockings, shift and apron roll into the water. She takes a deep breath, plunges both hands in after them and begins washing the
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