The Movement of Stars: A Novel

by Amy Brill

  Her desire was as terrifying as a huge wave, propelling her toward and away from something she only understood in shadowy, unexamined glimpses. A vision of something bestial, a naked coupling, violent and dark, descended on Hannah like a swarm of locusts, and though her body commanded her to go back to him, she could not make herself do it. The combination of lust and sorrow and fear made her feel sick.

  She shook her head and grasped the railing, blood pounding like an ocean in her ears.

  “I cannot,” she said. The words gave her power. She backed away another step. Now there was space between them. Enough room for a wagon wheel, or a cradle. Control of her limbs returned and Hannah took another step, her throat constricted with shame.

  Isaac stared at her, confusion woven across his face. He, too, gripped the railing and slowly straightened his body, then wrapped his arms around himself. When he spoke, his voice was low and hard, cracking at the edges.

  “I am a savage? This is how you are seeing me?”

  Sav-ahj, she heard. Even an ugly word sounded like a song in his throat. Hannah shook her head. Isaac’s eyes darted around the walk as though he were seeking an escape, then they returned to her face. Her cheeks burned, and her throat felt dry as bone. She wasn’t sure if she was more ashamed of her desire or her fear of it.

  Overwhelmed, she did the only thing she knew how to do: clamp her jaw shut and reset her features, cutting off all traces of emotion. It was like drawing the shutters in a house that was on fire. But it worked. He recoiled as if slapped.

  Isaac reached into the pocket of his shirt and drew out a small square parcel wrapped in crumpled brown paper and tied with a bit of string.

  He held it out to her like an accusation.

  “What is this?” she whispered. She wanted to look at him, fly to him, but could not move. Her palms were damp, as if she’d just woken from an awful dream.

  “It’s your money,” he said. A hissing ugliness in his voice. As if she’d betrayed him. It wasn’t what she wanted. Could he not see her wounds?

  “That’s not necessary,” she said. Why had she not said his name?

  He dropped the package on the ground like a hot coal. The thwat of paper on wood made her jump. Help him understand, she told herself. Stop hiding. But by the time Hannah opened her mouth to try to make the words, he was already gone.

  . 22 . Conflagration

  Hannah woke up in the garret, in her chair, in her dress. Something had jolted her from her dream, in which she was walking barefoot along an unfamiliar trail, in a green and tropical place; she had been lost in the dream, and wandering. It came again: a bell, clanging. Then voices.

  “Fire! Fire! All hands!” She bolted upright and almost cracked her head on the doorjamb rushing down the stair. In the hallway she collided with Mary, who was tying on a dressing gown.

  “Where’s Edward?”

  “He ran out at the first bell. We should go.”

  “Yes! Get dressed. Wait! No.” Hannah shook her head, clearing the

  last of sleep from her brain. “You should stay here and wet down the outside walls. Put whatever things you can in the wheelbarrow— in case.” Mary nodded.

  “All right. Be careful!”

  “You, too.” Hannah rushed down the steps, grabbing the fire bucket from the peg by the door.

  “Take these!”

  Mary thrust a handful of wadded linen into Hannah’s hand and nodded toward the kitchen. Her voice shook.

  “Wet them so you can cover your face if the smoke is bad.”

  Hannah obeyed, grateful, and then stuffed the damp cloths into her apron and went out into the street.

  In the moonlight, it was easy to see that everyone had heard the call. Doors were open up and down her street, neighbors rushing in the direction of Main. The tang of smoke permeated the air, and there was an orange glow flickering under the silvery cloud cover, but Hannah couldn’t tell where it was coming from. As she joined the flow of people rushing toward Town, she caught a man’s arm.

  “Where?”

  Whoever it was didn’t turn or stop.

  “By the wharves, I think.”

  Hannah let go of the stranger’s arm and turned onto Main. It was thronged like a parade, loud and thick with bodies. The bells of the Methodist church were ringing, and the clatter of carts and shrieks of the alarms collided with the calls of the fire wardens in distant streets so that nothing was clear. The air was smoky, and amid the press of bodies and the clank of buckets and boots, Hannah couldn’t make out anything but the bright sparks hissing into the air from rooftops not far ahead.

  The crowd surged toward the water, the smoke intensifying as they passed Gardner, Winter, Pine. Now Hannah could feel the heat, and as she bumped up against a group of women, the crowd seemed to break apart. She stepped to one side and peered down a side street. Men and women of every hue and persuasion, from every part of the Island, were calling to each other, rushing about with wheelbarrows and carts, buckets and carpets. Over the heads of the crowd, she caught a glimpse of orange flames shooting from the roof of Geary’s hat shop and Washington Hall next to it.

  “It’s going to jump,” someone cried. “Everyone back! Back!”

  As a wave, the crowd retreated. Then people were moving and dividing, parting like the Red Sea to allow a volunteer company through. In their heavy coats the men were grim-faced and determined, shoving their pumper and coils of hoses as fast as the wheels would allow over the uneven sidewalk.

  Clutching her bucket, Hannah looked around in the chaos for something to do, and spotted Miss Norton, her hands wrapped around her own bucket, rushing toward the corner of Centre Street.

  “Miss Norton!”

  “Oh, Hannah!” The older woman looked terrified; Hannah could see the orange of the flames licking at the buildings on either side of the Hall reflected in the woman’s wide eyes. “Good, you’re here. Come on.”

  She turned to follow but both women froze as a great cry went up. The crowd turned like a flock of birds as a spark found a home atop a building across Main. In less than a moment, flames shot from its landing place, devouring the dry wood.

  “Miss Norton!” Hannah thought she was whispering, but really she was yelling. It was so loud, she couldn’t hear the difference. “Can it— could it reach the Atheneum?”

  “It will reach everything if it’s not stopped!”

  Miss Norton seized her arm and yanked her along, and Hannah allowed herself to be pulled into Petticoat Lane. A crowd was gathering in front of Mrs. Johnson’s dry goods shop, and seeing how many of the women were wrapping damp cloths around their noses and mouths, Hannah fumbled for hers, and did the same. Every woman on the Row had been drawn to this spot, it seemed, to try and protect their shops. She could make out Ruth Edwards and Mrs. Rotch and Margaret Granger; in the crowd she spotted Constance Early, the tavern owner, and Eunice and Sarah, the milliners; Peg Ramsey; and even Phoebe Fuller.

  “Every carpet you can find, then, and we’ll work in teams!” Mrs. Johnson yelled from the porch over the heads of the women. “This half—”

  She split the crowd by pointing one thick arm at it.

  “Collect carpets. Take every cart you can find. Five or six gather and load, while the others bring ’em back.”

  With the ease of an officer, she commanded the women.

  “You all stay here and form a bucket line from the nearest pump. We’ll need to wet down every wall between here and the fire. Tie up your hair well and mind your skirts!” She squinted, then coughed.

  “Go, go!”

  The women rushed off in two directions, and Hannah fell in line with those forming a squadron between the nearest pump and the surrounding buildings, shoving her hair down into her collar. The women moved from house to house, passing and hurling the water as it came, dropping back as the company moved out of the way of the flames. They came quicker than Hannah could have imagined.

  They passed buckets, from hand to hand, as the smoke thickened
. From the corner of Federal they fell back to Cambridge, to India, to Oak. Hannah could see nothing but the hands in front of her, the hands behind her. Her shoulders burned and her knuckles ached, but she held her place. She could hear, as if through a haze, the calls of the fire brigades, the thunder of footfalls around them as people ran to and fro, the clatter of carts as the women dumped piles of carpets in front of Mrs. Johnson’s store, and then, as that building erupted, in front of Mrs. Chase’s, and then the cobbler’s; and then, instead of a street of familiar buildings, there was only a bonfire of enormous proportions, mountains of roaring fire that hissed and shrieked like attractions at a nightmare carnival. Hannah was mesmerized as the flames shifted shape, roofs and walls collapsing, the structures of the buildings themselves disappearing. Sparks flew in every direction as a flaming wall fell toward their fire line, and the women retreated, backing toward Broad as the fire company swooped in with the pumper.

  Dazed, Hannah was rooted in place by the fantastic sight of the next building collapsing in on itself like a toy house made of matchsticks and paper; when someone took her by the elbow and drew her out of line, she went, stumbling without seeing who led her, for the woman was covered in soot, her head wrapped in wet cloth.

  “The Atheneum.”

  She didn’t think, but clasped the woman’s outstretched hand. They ran, heads down, holding on until they reached the steps of the great white building, which glowed with reflected firelight like a garish sunrise, illuminating everything bright as day. Hannah clutched the cloth to her face and fumbled for the key, then realized that she no longer had one. She shook her head, mute with despair.

  “Watch out.” The other woman pushed Hannah aside, raised a boot, and kicked out the glass window beside the door. It shattered easily, the sound tinkling like raindrops amid the thunderous roar of the fire.

  Kicking out the remaining glass, Hannah led her companion into the dim space, her wet boots slipping on the slick floor, rushing for the side door, only to find it already propped open: a few souls were hauling books and collectibles out the door with no clear order, only trying desperately to keep them from the flames.

  “Wait! Wait!” Hannah yelled, waving frantically. “Start with these. Here! Here!” She grabbed a volunteer by the shoulders, wheeled him around, and pointed to the shelves behind Miss Norton’s beautiful desk, the rare books and special volumes. He nodded and redirected himself.

  Hannah dragged her chair closer to the bookcases, throwing precious volumes down from the shelves as fast as she could gather them, barely seeing whether anyone was there to save them. Minutes went by, or seconds: she wasn’t sure. She squinted at the reading room, which was strangely bright. Was it dawn, then? Then she felt the heat. She climbed down from her perch, fumbling over the books at her feet, and skidded across the floor to the door.

  She could see the fire line working like a beast with a hundred hands, the silhouettes of men on neighboring rooftops, women watering down the walls. The blaze was not a hundred yards away.

  “Hannah!”

  She squinted into the smoke.

  “Edward!” They reached for each other’s arms as if they were drowning.

  “You shouldn’t be here! The whole block may go at any moment.” Edward’s eyes were wide, frightened O’s in his soot-covered face.

  Hannah shook her head, yelling over the din.

  “We must try to save the building! Or at least what’s in it. Can you get help?”

  “Half the company’s down at the docks, trying to move the oil!” he yelled back. “The other half ’s split between the bank vaults and the line.”

  He bent over, coughing, and she held his shoulders. When he rose, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “I’ll bring who I can,” he said. “But you cannot remain.”

  Whirling around, Hannah ran back into the building and nearly collided with the other woman who had an armful of books.

  Both woman flinched as a series of explosions rocked nearby buildings.

  “You should go!” Hannah yelled into her ear. “It’s not safe.”

  The woman pushed past her and dumped the books in her arms into a wheelbarrow, then pulled the wrap from her head and ran her hands over her pale forehead and golden hair, leaving twin trails of black soot across them.

  “Be safe, Hannah,” Mary said, covering her hands with her apron before picking up the handles of the wheelbarrow and shoving it toward Broad Street, away from the fire.

  “You as well,” Hannah whispered. Then, in the chaos of men and books and objects she had acquired and catalogued, cleaned, and stored, wrapped and unwrapped, as if the future of civilization depended upon it, Hannah forgot everything but salvaging what she could, until she stepped outside and a spark landed on her apron, and another on her arm. The air was so hot, it seared her nose and throat, and the flames, now on both sides of the building, threatened to engulf her if she lingered another moment.

  Another explosion, then another, almost knocked her off her feet. It felt as if the Island itself was under bombardment by the fleets of all Europe. Hannah hesitated, unsure which way was safe.

  Edward shoved her in the right direction.

  “It’s the warehouses. The oil, the candle-houses. Go! Now!”

  Then she was running through a narrow channel amid the burning buildings, swerving around fire wardens and citizens. Every building on Broad Street was either on fire or blown away entirely. She ran, unsure of which direction to go. South Water, North Beach, Broad, Chestnut, Oak—fire in every direction, people running, some with buckets, some with children.

  At Centre Street she was turned back by a member of the fire brigade, his face and hands coated in soot, his eyes narrowed against the smoke.

  “You’ll have to go round. Go round!” he bellowed to the swell of people.

  Hannah ran. Gay Street, Westminster, Huffey, Liberty: here, the houses were untouched but the occupants were carting goods away from their homes or into them like barn animals set loose, trying to predict whether the wind would blow in the direction of fortune or calamity. Hannah pushed her way through the street until she arrived, breathless, at the Bank building, which stood like a brick sentinel at its corner. A lone figure emerging in a rush nearly knocked her over.

  It was Josiah Smyth, the Bank director.

  “Mr. Smyth!”

  Relieved to see someone she knew well, Hannah clutched the man’s shoulder with her soot-blackened hand, and he put a comforting hand over her own, misinterpreting her gesture as worry about the money inside.

  “The vaults have been cleared, Miss Price. All cleared.”

  The man had a wildish look; he scanned the air in front of him as if a swarm of bees were coming for him.

  He patted her on the arm and scuttled down the street. Hannah leaned against the brick building, grateful for something solid to steady her.

  The corner was eerily silent, though she could still hear the distant cries of the firemen and the crowds, the occasional reverberation from an explosion shivering the earth underfoot. As if in a dream, she watched something float by, carried on an invisible wind, then another, then another, a peaceful drift of airborne parchments.

  Hannah rubbed her eyes, struggled to her feet, and saw that the whole street was littered with such pages, drifting on gusts and swirling into piles like autumn leaves, unmoored. She snatched one from the air.

  Dearest Martha, Hannah read, and scanned quickly down the page:

  The men say that salt water and long absence will wash away love—but the water must be saltier than brine and absence longer than life to wash away the love I feel for you . . .

  Dropping it as if it was on fire, she grabbed more yellowed scraps: . . . People wonder at many things in the sea, but I wonder at the sea itself—that vast Leviathan rolled round the earth, smiling in its sleep, waked into fury, fathomless, boundless, a huge world of water drops . . . My darling Horatio. Would that thee were with us and we were al together onse
mor lik the family we once was . . .

  Horrified, Hannah gathered the pages in her arms. These were private words, now exposed like skin. Where had they come from? The mailbags at Riddell’s? There were old pages and new, some crumbling, some on child’s copybook paper, others on backs of invoices.

  Here was a grocery list in a woman’s beautiful hand; here was a bill of sale for a horse with one brown eye and one black; here was a love letter, words that belonged to no one but the two souls between whom they passed.

  She pushed pages into her pockets until they bulged. Turning to snatch another from the air, she noticed that the door of the Bank was wide open. Up, she thought—and then her feet propelled her forward, the desire to see, from above, what devastation the fire had wrought overcoming her fatigue and her fear. She darted into the wide lobby, its vaults gaping open like toothless beasts, and raced across to the stairs, then up and out onto the roof. She paused, blinking. What she saw in the distance could not be possible. She crossed the roof like a sleepwalker until she was at the parapet.

  Nantucket Harbor was on fire. The wharves and the ropewalks, the harbormaster’s shed and the sail lofts, supply boats and every other vessel moored nearby, all of them ablaze like flaming pieces scattered on a chessboard.

  Not only that: the Bay itself was in flames. The waters of the harbor were alight, slick with oil spilled and dumped from the storehouses—oil meant to illuminate the homes and stores and libraries of all the United States, all of it on fire upon the surface of the very water that had carried it home. The whole of the Island was illuminated in a ghastly orange glow.

  Isaac. Hannah turned, fleeing the rooftop and rushing back through the desolate lobby of the Bank, until she was outside again.

  With the last of her strength, Hannah stumbled in the direction of the wharves, looking for Isaac in every face, haunted by the image of the ships on fire in the harbor, the massive explosions at the wharves, imagining the worst. Among the dazed and wandering residents of Nantucket Island she saw no one who resembled him. Finally, when she could walk no more, she turned toward home, only to collide with the harbormaster himself, who blinked back tears as he righted himself.