strong calves. She laughed and jested with them, begged them to sing ballads and airs in their language. Then she asked them to tell her what the words meant. When Gabriel could bear no more of it, he stole into the woods and carved his name on the trees to prove that he still existed.
Father ruled that plantation as if it were his kingdom. For as long as he lived there had been order, if not joy. There had been continuity. But when he died, the whole cloth unraveled. There was no patriarch, no master, no authority. Gabriel had never possessed an ounce of mastery, and then it had been too late to claim it. If he tried to give the servants orders, they laughed, knowing he wasn't man enough to reach for the whip. May had never listened to him anyway. Heavy with child, she blamed him for the humiliation of her body, the agony and tearing it would bring, though Gabriel wondered who the real father was. She ran off into the woods, crying for her sister back in England. Adele ran after her, pleading for her to watch out for snakes.
After his father had died, Gabriel threw his old bullwhip in the forest. He hated the sight of it. May went into labor, screaming that she hated him, that he had murdered her. Then she clutched the sickly child in her arms, weeping over it. That was where his memory stopped. Patches remained. How the cow had died from eating some poisonous weed. How, to spite him, the Irishmen had stolen his father's signet ring, his dead mother's last silver cup, and the secret cache of sovereigns.
They were all gone nowâhad died or run away. He was abandoned. In a way, it was a relief, a comfort, for in spirit and soul he had always been alone. Now at least it was a true life he lived, and not a lie. There was no more pretending to love the wife who betrayed him, and the father who had made his life a pit of obedience and toil. Yet he stayed in his father's house. Where else had he to go? A man alone with no hired men, no living kin, no wifeâhe could not be a planter. So Gabriel became a hunter. It was the simplest thing, the natural conclusion to what had happened. Wasn't hunting what he had always loved best? Roaming through the forest with his musket and dogs, no one to order him back to work. His skin grew dark, burned by the sun. He let his hair grow, forgot to shave. He hung a string of brilliant wild-turkey feathers over the mantelpiece. When storms knocked trees over the river, blocking the route to civilization, he exulted that no one would come here to disturb his hard-won peace. Solitude had finally made him master of this place. Only in this loneliness and grief had he come into his true powers.
He planted no tobacco but spent days in the forest where the tree trunks bore his name. The Gabriel woods. Then it seemed that he had always lived this way. His father, May, Adele, and the Irishmen shrank to tiny motes. They receded to the land of distant dreams. He never went to the graves he had dug for his father, his wife, and her baby. The property was vast enough that he had no need to go there.
And then she came. His dead wife's sister.
12. The Bed of Skins
Hannah
H ANNAH COULD HARDLY look at the young man who carried the other end of her trunk, bearing most of its weight as they trundled up the path. She found it hard to think of him as Gabriel, simply by his Christian name, as if he were familiar to her.
Mr. Washbrook.
That was what she would call him. Her sister's widower was stranger to her than any soul she had ever met. Even Mr. Banham and his daughters had seemed less alien. She had half a mind to corner him, take him by the shoulders and shake him.
How did my sister die? Did she suffer long? How did the infant die?
The deaths in and of themselves were nothing out of the ordinaryânew mothers and babies died in droves. But that May had died! It seemed impossible. May had been the strong one, the fearless one, the one who had always laughed. If she questioned him again, she would
Father ruled that plantation as if it were his kingdom. For as long as he lived there had been order, if not joy. There had been continuity. But when he died, the whole cloth unraveled. There was no patriarch, no master, no authority. Gabriel had never possessed an ounce of mastery, and then it had been too late to claim it. If he tried to give the servants orders, they laughed, knowing he wasn't man enough to reach for the whip. May had never listened to him anyway. Heavy with child, she blamed him for the humiliation of her body, the agony and tearing it would bring, though Gabriel wondered who the real father was. She ran off into the woods, crying for her sister back in England. Adele ran after her, pleading for her to watch out for snakes.
After his father had died, Gabriel threw his old bullwhip in the forest. He hated the sight of it. May went into labor, screaming that she hated him, that he had murdered her. Then she clutched the sickly child in her arms, weeping over it. That was where his memory stopped. Patches remained. How the cow had died from eating some poisonous weed. How, to spite him, the Irishmen had stolen his father's signet ring, his dead mother's last silver cup, and the secret cache of sovereigns.
They were all gone nowâhad died or run away. He was abandoned. In a way, it was a relief, a comfort, for in spirit and soul he had always been alone. Now at least it was a true life he lived, and not a lie. There was no more pretending to love the wife who betrayed him, and the father who had made his life a pit of obedience and toil. Yet he stayed in his father's house. Where else had he to go? A man alone with no hired men, no living kin, no wifeâhe could not be a planter. So Gabriel became a hunter. It was the simplest thing, the natural conclusion to what had happened. Wasn't hunting what he had always loved best? Roaming through the forest with his musket and dogs, no one to order him back to work. His skin grew dark, burned by the sun. He let his hair grow, forgot to shave. He hung a string of brilliant wild-turkey feathers over the mantelpiece. When storms knocked trees over the river, blocking the route to civilization, he exulted that no one would come here to disturb his hard-won peace. Solitude had finally made him master of this place. Only in this loneliness and grief had he come into his true powers.
He planted no tobacco but spent days in the forest where the tree trunks bore his name. The Gabriel woods. Then it seemed that he had always lived this way. His father, May, Adele, and the Irishmen shrank to tiny motes. They receded to the land of distant dreams. He never went to the graves he had dug for his father, his wife, and her baby. The property was vast enough that he had no need to go there.
And then she came. His dead wife's sister.
12. The Bed of Skins
Hannah
H ANNAH COULD HARDLY look at the young man who carried the other end of her trunk, bearing most of its weight as they trundled up the path. She found it hard to think of him as Gabriel, simply by his Christian name, as if he were familiar to her.
Mr. Washbrook.
That was what she would call him. Her sister's widower was stranger to her than any soul she had ever met. Even Mr. Banham and his daughters had seemed less alien. She had half a mind to corner him, take him by the shoulders and shake him.
How did my sister die? Did she suffer long? How did the infant die?
The deaths in and of themselves were nothing out of the ordinaryânew mothers and babies died in droves. But that May had died! It seemed impossible. May had been the strong one, the fearless one, the one who had always laughed. If she questioned him again, she would
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