Being Mary Ro

by Ida Linehan Young

  To protect her clothes from the wood, Mary had pulled on her father’s old blue plaid shirt that still hung on the nail in the porch. She was on her way to the woodshed when she caught sight of Brian farther down the lane and quickly waved, suspecting he had been coming to check on her. He paused when he saw her, waved back, and then strode toward the church. She was normally up at dawn and guessed that he was worried since it was late for her to be about. She scurried around the house to the woodshed. Funny, she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t barred the shed door, but she could see that it wasn’t fully closed. Without waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior, she grabbed a couple of the smaller sticks piled just inside the door, closed it, and hastened back toward the house. Once the fire had a good base, she would fill the woodbox to the brim—about twenty armloads for her but only a dozen for her da.

  She added the kindling to the struggling flames, already feeling the heat begin to penetrate the crispness in the room. It would be best to bring in the wood while she waited for the water to boil and then return to the church to help out. She would also get further news as to what was happening.

  Mary marched around the side of the house, her movements instinctive from repetition. She opened the door and stepped in. Something unfamiliar, like an indrawn breath, caused the hairs on the back of her neck to spike as her heart raced. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Peering toward the sound, she noticed a dark lump on the floor near her feet. Mary almost screamed when a hand quickly grabbed and released her ankle. She bent forward to see who or what was in the shed and tentatively patted the figure on the floor.

  A slight breeze swung the door shut behind her. She kicked it back with her foot. As the light spread to the interior, she could see a tall man curled and wedged between the stack of wood and the corner of the shed. His dark brown hair was short and looked to be neatly trimmed, though somewhat dirty. He was sporting a two- or three-day-old beard. He was probably around her age or a little younger. As the door was closing again, she noticed he was lying in a pool of blood. She gasped aloud, and instinct took over.

  Danol Cooper looked up as the light pierced the darkness in the shed. He was cold, hungry, weak, and bleeding when he saw the spray of light surrounding the face of an angel. He’d thought he was dreaming, but now she was here, she had come for him. He must be dead! He latched on to her. Realizing she was not a vision, he quickly let go—that meant he wasn’t dead, but where the hell was he?

  His mind was foggy. He tried desperately to recall what happened before he had gone to sleep. The floor was cold and drafty beneath him, but he must have been lying here for quite some time. He could feel the stickiness of the blood beneath him. His arm gave way when he tried to push up on his elbow—his entire body was betraying him. A hand descended as the angel gently placed her palm on his face.

  “You’re so cold. Do you need a doctor?”

  “No! No!” he managed to whisper. “Please don’t let anyone know I’m here. Please!”

  He felt her tug on his shoulder, gentle yet strong. He tried to get his feet and legs underneath him, but they wouldn’t co-operate. Every movement seemed very slow. He grabbed one of the studs, and she leveraged her body to fortify his efforts. Soon he was standing with his good arm draped over her shoulder and her arm firmly wrapped around his waist.

  She pushed the door back, and they practically fell out through. He clung to her as she half led, half dragged him to a wooden door a few feet away. With every step, he could hear her whispered words of encouragement to keep moving. Blood flowed freely down his forearm and over his fingers onto the ground.

  She strained to open the door and almost lugged him over the threshold and through some sort of storage area. The house was cool like the shed, but he felt a little warmer when they made it to the kitchen. She manoeuvred him toward the brown leather daybed beneath the window, where, with her help, he lowered himself. Taking the weight off his legs, the rest of him seemed to slither down on the raised end of the daybed, his arm searing in pain. With no more strength to move, he collapsed.

  He heard her leave again and was sure she must be gone to get her husband or to raise an alarm. He struggled to sit up, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. Then she was back. She had gone for wood and piled the dry sticks into the stove.

  “I’ve got to warm you up. And clean you up. You’ve lost a lot of blood, by the look of you.”

  She came and went a few times—first to the woodbox—and then he heard water splash in the porch. He heard metal scrape and clatter on the iron stovetop and a muttered phrase he was sure had escaped by accident; he sensed she was trying to be quiet.

  He figured he had lost consciousness and was startled when her warm hands touched his cold flesh. She began cleaning his arm near his shoulder. He didn’t know how bad the gash was, but he believed it must be deep. He moaned in protest as the hot water washed over his arm, but she kept him still with a firm hand as she continued to clean the wound.

  He tried to open his eyes but caught only glimpses of her red hair lit by the bright light streaming through the white cotton curtains above his head. His eyes were unusually heavy, and the sunshine hurt. Instead of fighting it, he closed his eyes. He no longer cared, and he teetered helplessly on the edge of consciousness and fell into blackness—his life now in somebody else’s hands.

  From a hazy place, he heard her hum a familiar tune but couldn’t quite place it as she busied herself in the kitchen.

  She left again, and he fell into an uneasy sleep. He abruptly awoke when he heard her return but relaxed when he sensed she was alone. He was relieved she hadn’t come back with her husband because, in his current condition, he wouldn’t have been able to escape. Although he felt no threat from her, he knew his being here put her in more danger than he could admit. The pieces were coming together for him.

  Through half-closed eyelids he watched her rip some material into strips and place them in an iron pail on the stove. It was steaming, so he assumed there was water in it. He watched her thread a needle and dip both in the same pot. She rinsed a small white porcelain basin with the boiling water and laid it on the oven door. Then, using two big wooden forks, she transferred the cloth and needle to the basin. She grabbed a chair and placed it alongside the daybed near his wounded shoulder.

  The woman took a glass from the cupboard and removed a bottle from the cabinet underneath; he wasn’t sure but guessed it contained rum. She poured two fingers of the brown liquid into the glass, spooned some sugar in, and topped the glass with boiling water from the kettle. He could distinctly hear the tinkling of the spoon against the glass as she stirred the mixture until the sugar dissolved. She used her apron to hold the glass. With her free hand she took the basin, approached, and sat down.

  She pushed her arm beneath his upper torso and helped him drink the liquid. It was hot and sweet and burned as it went down. He felt a comforting heat in his belly.

  “The toddy will help,” she murmured, tipping his head to help him drink some more. Accompanied by the heat from the stove, warmth coursed through his veins, calming him. When he finished the toddy, she laid the glass on the floor beside her chair.

  “This is going to hurt,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he mumbled.

  Firmly gripping his arm and positioning it across her lap, she picked up some wood chips near his head that he hadn’t realized were there. She pierced bubbles on the first wood rind, using a sharp-tipped knife she had wiped in the rags. Turpentine dripped into the bloody opening on his upper arm. She repeated this procedure until all the sticky substance was gone. Gently lifting his arm, she placed four cloth strips on his upper body with about an inch between each and tucked them out flat beneath his arm.

  She grasped both ends of the piece closest to his armpit and wrapped it around his arm, tying it snugly, closing the top part of the gash. She continued the ritual until all four
strips were tied and the wound appeared to be sealed. She readied the needle and thread and began to sew the two sides of the severed skin together, starting closest to his elbow.

  “I’ve put you in danger,” he whispered.

  “What?” She couldn’t quite make out what he said.

  “I’ve put you in danger,” he said, a little louder. He realized his speech was slurred and he was hoarse.

  She paused with her task. “Are you planning on hurting me?”

  His eyes widened and his brows raised. “No—no. Of course not,” he stammered.

  He felt the pinch as the needle punctured the skin on both edges, in and out, in and out, as she worked the gash. He grimaced but didn’t make a sound. She had to loosen and re-tie the four strips, one at a time, continuing the needlework as if she were making a treasured quilt. She began to hum, and he heard her whisper “sorry” several times when the needle refused to go easy.

  After closing the gash, she wiped the skin along the seam once more with the boiled rag. This time she exchanged the bloody ties for new strips as she cleaned.

  “Not a bad job, if I have to say so myself,” she remarked.

  Danol tried to smile, but even that effort was difficult. He had the strength of a fly and didn’t like it. Whatever she had given him in the glass had made him light-headed.

  “Rest now. I have to go to the church before somebody comes looking for me.”

  He tried to move when he heard her say she was leaving, but she pushed him back with ease.

  “I’ll not say a word.”

  He relaxed a bit but still wasn’t sure he could trust her, although he had little choice. He was at her mercy, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  She threw off her apron and inspected her dress. He guessed she was looking for bloodstains. Seeing none, she touched his forehead, gathered her coat, and then rushed out the door.

  He drifted into fitful slumber, in and out of consciousness, visions of knives, devils, and angels tormenting his sleep.

  5

  “Okay Mary, what in the name of God are you going to do?” she asked herself as she walked quickly down the path toward the church. “You have a man in your house—a big man. Da would be mad if he were alive.” Who was she kidding? Da would have had none of it.

  Mary berated herself for not going for help when she had found the dark-haired stranger. Maybe it was because she remembered how the diphtheria had spread when people were brought to the house with a fever. She knew that not to be true now, but just in case, it made a good reason. She was also physically tired, and that may have altered her thinking; or maybe she was sick of the plain old routine of life in John’s Pond.

  Maybe Meg was right when she said Mary might not be right in the head. What was compelling her to keep quiet about the stranger? This was not the behaviour anyone would expect from Mary Ro. And maybe that was why she was tempted—to be different from what people expected. Maybe her shooting star was granting her wish.

  Mary, you have to tell. He could be a bad person. You don’t know him and you’re alone, a little voice inside her prodded. However, there was something about him that led her to believe she could trust him—not that she had much good experience with blind trust.

  She couldn’t figure out how he had gotten in her shed. He must have arrived on one of the boats, but how did he not wind up in the church? Why didn’t he want to stay with the other passengers?

  Thoughts kept circling in her mind. She believed she needed a daisy to pull the petals—will she tell, no she won’t, will she tell, no she won’t—and leave it to fate. Let the wildflower decide.

  By the time she arrived at the church, her need for privacy had won out, and she decided to keep quiet: a decision so uncharacteristic of Mary Ro that she couldn’t believe it was even a consideration. Knowing she could always confide in her brother later made it easier—at least that was the reasoning she gave herself.

  The church was a hub of activity when Mary entered. The injured had been separated so that the gravest were together with the doctor attending and the townspeople helping the rest. Surprisingly, the room was not as full as yesterday. Only about forty people lay on the floor, with ten being the most critical.

  Brian and Carla sought her out as soon as she arrived.

  “How are you, Mary? Took you quite a while to get here,” her brother said. His eyes fixed on her face, and she was sure he knew her secret.

  “I know. I slept late and then had chores.”

  “I could have come to help with that this morning if you had let me know.”

  “I left it all to do at once. And then with everything that happened yesterday, I didn’t have a chance. Any word on what happened or what is happening? Where are all the people who were here yesterday?” She bombarded her brother with questions to distract him from possibly finding out she was hiding something—as if he would see it in her face.

  “Slow down, Mary,” Brian said. “Some of the people brought in were just wet and cold and came right to life once we got them dry, warmed, and fed. The folks from Colinet and North Harbour showed up and helped out, bringing food and blankets. There are still a few with cuts and burns. Dr. Parker hopes that everyone will make it, although some of the worst are still in pretty hard shape.

  “We received word from the constabulary saying everyone must be accounted for because the fire on the steamer was not an accident. Somebody set fire to the ship on purpose, and the police are trying to track him down based on a description provided by one of the passengers.”

  “Somebody tried to sink the ship?” Mary asked. “Sure, they’d have killed themselves if the ship had to go down.”

  “I know,” said Brian. “It’s unfathomable. The constables are going to Admiral’s Beach first to confirm the list of survivors there. They’ll stop at the other ports on the way along the bay and will be here in a couple of days. I believe the government is also sending a doctor from St. John’s.”

  “Does anyone know who tried to set fire to the boat?”

  “No, but the man who saw him, Mr. Bolt, came in with the injured and is staying at the store now that he’s feeling better.”

  “Will Mrs. Ange be all right with strangers there?”

  “Yes, two of the Davis girls from Colinet are staying with her until all the injured have been released by the doctor. They have some nurse training, from what I hear. Dr. Parker is staying there as well.”

  She knew Dr. Parker had been stationed in Colinet since last summer, attending the sick from St. Catherine’s to North Harbour. She had also heard that he planned to move to St. John’s but had not made the final commitment yet, being comfortable with the practice in the outports.

  “Good. We don’t want Mrs. Ange being in harm’s way,” Mary said.

  “Exactly. And you should come down with me and Carla and the kids. They would love it if their Aunt Mary moved in.”

  “Brian, I’ve told you a thousand times—I can take care of myself. You know that,” Mary said, trying to convince Brian and to ease the uncertainty that was creeping in on her own rationalization for hiding the stranger.

  Again she asked, “Do you know anything about the person who started the fire?”

  Brian said, “He’s supposed to be a big, tall man with dark hair, according to the fellow named Bolt. He got a look at him before he set the fire. All we know is that there were no bodies recovered yet, so he could be alive, although he doesn’t seem to be here. Remarkably, nobody died, from first reports.”

  “We’ll know more when the constables get here with the ship’s records,” Carla said as she moved next to her husband. She smiled up at Brian as she spoke. “Once they started moving people into the church yesterday, Skipper Ed told us to record their names. We’re pretty sure that we got all the names as everyone was brought in here first for the doctor to have a look at their wou
nds. Once some of the survivors came round and the neighbours began to take them to their homes, we kept track of where they went. There were almost 160 new people landed here, and we know their names.”

  Mary casually moved the toe of her shoe back and forth along the crack in the pine board beneath her feet. “Are you sure you got everyone? Could anyone have gotten off the schooners without someone noticing?”

  Brian looked at her quizzically. “I guess in all the commotion they could. Why do you ask? Is there something you’re not telling us? Did you see somebody or something when you were coming back from Colinet?”

  “No! No. Nothing like that. Just trying to ease your mind, that’s all. You know, don’t want you worrying about me,” Mary said, forcing a smile.

  “Still, Mary, there’s lots of strangers about town. You can’t be too careful. You should come stay with us.”

  “Brian, you know I won’t. But I’ll be down if I change my mind. Now let me help out a little before I go home again.”

  Mary left her brother and sister-in-law and headed toward the doctor, reintroducing herself and suggesting he have a rest and some food. He gave Mary a few instructions and thanked her. He headed to the cloakroom at the back of the church for a cup of tea and hot baking-powder buns provided by the ladies in town.

  As Mary busied herself, her thoughts returned to the stranger in her house. He was a big, tall man—loosely fitting the description of the person who had set the fire. Yet somehow that didn’t feel right. But why didn’t he want anyone knowing he was there? Why was he in the shed? So many questions . . . her imagination was going to get the best of her if she soon didn’t find out something about him. Still, she didn’t really feel threatened by him.