mother fetched wood or water, but alone for a great, empty, silent stretch of time.
And in that time Bess dreamed. It was a dream as real as any living memory. She found herself back in Thomas’s empty grave, rain washing down the steep sides so that a pool of liquid mud rose up to her knees. She clawed at the slippery soil, struggling to pull herself out but never able to gain a sure foothold. She slithered down, falling onto her back in the mire, submerged for an instant. She sat up choking, spitting out mud, rubbing the gritty water from her eyes. When she did so, she saw Thomas, as he had been during the worst ravages of the plague, sitting up opposite her. He stared at her with his grotesquely bulging eyes and blackened face. She screamed and started climbing again, but this time she was knocked down by Margaret’s body as it was thrown into the pit. The child turned an angry face to Bess, shouting at her, ‘You did this to me, Bess! You killed me!’ Bess shook her head, scrambling backward, screaming until she had no voice left. Beaten, she cowered in the corner, her arms over her head, and awaited death.
The first indication Bess had that she was in fact alive was the sound of singing. It was such a curious and unlikely noise that it took some time for her to believe she was awake and listening to a real sound, not a product of her fevered mind. She opened her eyes. It was day. The fire in the hearth burned quietly. Winter sun fell through the unshuttered window. She glimpsed the shadows of movement and found she was able to turn her head a little. She saw then that the song came from her mother. Anne had her back to Bess and wore her shawl up over her head as she stood at the kitchen table. She was entirely focused on a solitary candle burning in front of her. There were unfamiliar objects positioned around the candle. Her arms were raised as if in supplication, and her body rocked slightly from side to side as she continued to sing the low monotonous notes over and over again. Bess could not discern the words. They seemed strange, as if of some foreign tongue. It was certainly not a song she had ever heard her mother sing before. The melody, if such it could be called, was eerie and discordant yet strangely hypnotic. Suddenly, as if sensing she was being observed, her mother dropped her arms to her sides and was silent. She stood still for a moment longer, then blew out the candle and turned around.
Bess gasped as she saw now that her mother’s hair had turned completely white. Not a strand of gold remained. The effect was to make Anne appear a decade older than she had only days before. Bess struggled to raise herself onto an elbow, but her mother hurried forward.
‘Bess! There, be still, my little one. All is well,’ she said, kneeling by the low bed. She touched Bess’s cheek and smiled, the first smile Bess had seen on her mother’s face since the day of the apple harvest.
‘Mother, what has happened to you? Your hair…’
‘It is of no importance. What matters is that you are well, Bess. You are well.’ She squeezed her daughter’s hand.
‘But how?’ Bess sat up, examining her arms and hands, feeling her face for lumps or swellings, for signs of the disfigurement the rest of her family had borne. There were none.
‘Be assured,’ her mother said, ‘you are just as you were. The plague has left no mark upon you.’
‘Oh, Mother!’ Bess flung herself into Anne’s arms and wept tears of relief and of grief. For a short time she had felt close to Margaret and been convinced she would see her again soon. Now the news that she was to live was tainted by the pain of being torn away from her sister anew.
Anne dried her daughter’s tears. ‘Come now, this is not a moment for weeping. I will make you some pottage. You will be strong once more very soon. You will see.’
As Bess watched her mother moving about the room, preparing the food, she struggled to make sense of what had happened.
And in that time Bess dreamed. It was a dream as real as any living memory. She found herself back in Thomas’s empty grave, rain washing down the steep sides so that a pool of liquid mud rose up to her knees. She clawed at the slippery soil, struggling to pull herself out but never able to gain a sure foothold. She slithered down, falling onto her back in the mire, submerged for an instant. She sat up choking, spitting out mud, rubbing the gritty water from her eyes. When she did so, she saw Thomas, as he had been during the worst ravages of the plague, sitting up opposite her. He stared at her with his grotesquely bulging eyes and blackened face. She screamed and started climbing again, but this time she was knocked down by Margaret’s body as it was thrown into the pit. The child turned an angry face to Bess, shouting at her, ‘You did this to me, Bess! You killed me!’ Bess shook her head, scrambling backward, screaming until she had no voice left. Beaten, she cowered in the corner, her arms over her head, and awaited death.
The first indication Bess had that she was in fact alive was the sound of singing. It was such a curious and unlikely noise that it took some time for her to believe she was awake and listening to a real sound, not a product of her fevered mind. She opened her eyes. It was day. The fire in the hearth burned quietly. Winter sun fell through the unshuttered window. She glimpsed the shadows of movement and found she was able to turn her head a little. She saw then that the song came from her mother. Anne had her back to Bess and wore her shawl up over her head as she stood at the kitchen table. She was entirely focused on a solitary candle burning in front of her. There were unfamiliar objects positioned around the candle. Her arms were raised as if in supplication, and her body rocked slightly from side to side as she continued to sing the low monotonous notes over and over again. Bess could not discern the words. They seemed strange, as if of some foreign tongue. It was certainly not a song she had ever heard her mother sing before. The melody, if such it could be called, was eerie and discordant yet strangely hypnotic. Suddenly, as if sensing she was being observed, her mother dropped her arms to her sides and was silent. She stood still for a moment longer, then blew out the candle and turned around.
Bess gasped as she saw now that her mother’s hair had turned completely white. Not a strand of gold remained. The effect was to make Anne appear a decade older than she had only days before. Bess struggled to raise herself onto an elbow, but her mother hurried forward.
‘Bess! There, be still, my little one. All is well,’ she said, kneeling by the low bed. She touched Bess’s cheek and smiled, the first smile Bess had seen on her mother’s face since the day of the apple harvest.
‘Mother, what has happened to you? Your hair…’
‘It is of no importance. What matters is that you are well, Bess. You are well.’ She squeezed her daughter’s hand.
‘But how?’ Bess sat up, examining her arms and hands, feeling her face for lumps or swellings, for signs of the disfigurement the rest of her family had borne. There were none.
‘Be assured,’ her mother said, ‘you are just as you were. The plague has left no mark upon you.’
‘Oh, Mother!’ Bess flung herself into Anne’s arms and wept tears of relief and of grief. For a short time she had felt close to Margaret and been convinced she would see her again soon. Now the news that she was to live was tainted by the pain of being torn away from her sister anew.
Anne dried her daughter’s tears. ‘Come now, this is not a moment for weeping. I will make you some pottage. You will be strong once more very soon. You will see.’
As Bess watched her mother moving about the room, preparing the food, she struggled to make sense of what had happened.
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