“Hallo, sweet Ruthie. Me mum made you a mutton pie, fresh out of the oven.”
Ruthie grunted as Joannie hugged her hard but followed her over to the hearth.
Joannie’s joyous bellow jolted Maggie out of her stupor, and her heart eased a bit with the appearance of this buxom young mother of six. The midwife rose and stamped the numbness out of her foot.
“Joannie,” she greeted. “You look healthy and robust.”
Joannie rushed over, skirts bustling over ample hips, her broad face shiny and kind. “Aw, Miss Maggie, let’s see the babe.”
A fortnight ago, she had delivered her of healthy twins, and Providence had blessed her with an overabundance of milk. This had been one of the last deliveries Sarah and Maggie had attended together.
The baby’s open eyes lay dark and small like raisins in her tiny face.
“She’s a wee thing, smaller than my Bertram,” Joannie whispered. She took her, settled into the chair like a hen, and plopped a mammoth breast out of her dress. Ruthie leaned over the back of the chair, eyes wide as moons, mouth open.
“Don’t fret,” Joannie murmured. “I’ll get the wee sweeting to suckle.”
First she squeezed a bit of milk onto the baby’s lips, which caused the little mite to smack them delicately. And then she positioned her nipple against the child’s mouth. The babe instinctively turned toward it, tried mightily to latch on, but could not take hold. She screwed her tiny face up and creaked softly like a rusty hinge.
“Never fear,” said Joannie. “The babe needs only to practice.”
At that moment, Samuel trudged down the stairs from the bedchamber. He had the powerful chest of a blacksmith, muscular and broad. Oftentimes prone to her fanciful notions, Sarah used to say he looked as if he sprang from the earth like a tree trunk, all earthy browns and chestnut-colored eyes. Maggie had always laughed at her foolishness but could not help thinking that Sarah was more like the leaves, delicate and full of light.
But this evening he drooped as if his roots had died. She did not bother asking him if he had rested; the bloodshot eyes and grey shadows underneath bespoke volumes.
Ruthie said, “Father, are you well?”
He stopped, took a deep, ragged breath, and looked up. “Yes, my dear.” He moved toward the baby and then recoiled at Joannie’s bare bosom. “Erk,” he muttered.
With no awareness of his discomfort, Joannie turned toward him. “Aw, Mr. Ackerson, ’tis a beautiful wee daughter you have here.”
He backed away, a blush blooming under his two-day beard. “Er, thank you,” he croaked.
Maggie mercifully draped a spare apron over her shoulder, hiding a smile. Men are puzzling animals, more than willing to peek at a woman’s breast if given the opportunity. But confront them with a woman using her teat as nature intended, and they became as squeamish as a young maiden. To make matters worse, Samuel had just been reminded his child was being nursed by a woman not her mother.
She served the pie and poured Samuel and herself some ale, bringing a mug to Joannie. Samuel chewed absently, stone-faced, and eyes glazed.
To Maggie’s great relief, a wet slurping sound issued from the little one. She was strong enough to nurse.
“Aw, that’s the way of it, sweeting.”
Samuel hung his head in his hands. After Joannie had left, they sat at the table, eating without tasting, lost in remembrances of Sarah.
Suddenly, a pounding on the door shattered the silence. They bolted from the table and rushed to the door. Maggie opened it cautiously. Who would disturb them on the eve of Sarah’s death?
Jonas, the town’s gravedigger, stepped over the threshold, wringing his hands, opening and closing his mouth convulsively. Rain dripped off his red, wizened face. “Miss Maggie,” he gasped, “I was about my rounds...in the graveyard...the dogs...”
“Jonas,” her voice rang out sharp above the din. “Jonas, speak sense.”
“The dogs found her...that she had...”
“Found who?” She shut the door hurriedly lest the neighbors hear his caterwauling.
“Mistress Sarah,” he screamed. “She has risen from the dead!”
Chapter Two
Samuel grabbed Jonas by the neck. “My Sarah is gone, God rest her soul. How dare you say such things in this house of mourning?”
“Samuel,” Maggie said. “Release him.”
Jonas howled, holding his throat. Samuel backed away, panting, hands fisted at his sides.
She slammed the door against the icy wind. “Jonas, have you lost your senses? Be still,” she yelled above the cacophony of Jonas’ wailing and Ruthie’s sobbing.
The sexton pointed to the door. “She is coming. The apothecary, he brings her. I swear to you, she lives!”
Samuel surged forward. “Get out.”
“I swear to you.” Jonas squeaked, backing away from Samuel. “It is true.”
The door swung open, and Mr. Pierce, the singer from the kirkyard, thrust himself into the room. He carried a body in his arms, covered in a cloak. Blue-tinged, slender feet dangled from the tattered, mud-soaked hem.
Samuel stared in slack-jawed shock and backed away. “Why have you brought this body here?”
To Maggie’s astonishment, the body began convulsing in great spasms, and the singer struggled to hold it. The cloak fell off, revealing a shroud-wrapped body, only the face exposed. The eyes, ice blue, stared wide and unblinking and blank with terror.
Sarah’s eyes. Her lips blue, dirt-encrusted eyelashes, cleft chin. “It cannot be,” Maggie whispered, and shrank back. Coldness enveloped her, as if she had slipped into a frozen lake, cold water surrounding her, and could hear only muffled voices, echoing urgent and sharp. She saw only shapes above the icy water.
“Miss Maggie.”
A voice, masculine and hoarse, broke through the ice, and she stared into the singer’s eyes. They steadied and warmed, pulled her out of her daze.
“We must move her by the fire and rid her of this shroud,” Ian urged.
She took a deep, shaky breath. Yes. It was Sarah, yet the eyes stared unseeing in a blue-mottled face covered in dirt.
Samuel’s voice escalated in panic. “She was buried, she was dead. I saw her. How can this be?” He turned his head away.
Maggie grabbed him by the shoulders. “Samuel, you must look at her. Somehow it is our Sarah.”
He stared. “Sweet Jesus.” He reached a trembling hand out to touch her face. “Sarah?”
Eyes flat, no recognition.
“She does not know me.” He thrust his arms out. “Give her to me.”
Ian Pierce handed the writhing body over to Samuel and hurried to stoke the fire; Maggie made a pallet in front of the hearth. Jonas cowered at the door.
“Go away, Jonas. And tell no one,” Maggie cautioned. “Samuel,” she ordered. “Put Sarah on the pallet and fetch the scissors. We must rid her of the shroud—quickly. Good, now hold her steady.”
Samuel held Sarah by the shoulders, his knuckles white. Ian grasped her legs as she thrashed from side to side. The winding sheet was caked with dirt, bits of gravel, dead leaves. Maggie’s hands shook as she grasped the scissors, lifted the sheet away from her body at the neck and began to cut, quickly and carefully. A dank, earthy smell rose up from her body. Maggie fought to hold her bile down.
She grabbed both sides of the shroud and tore it to her waist down to her feet. As one, the men lifted her up, and she pulled the shroud out from under her, rolled it into a bundle and flung it into the fire.
Sarah wore a linen shift, sodden and bloodied where her legs met. Maggie covered her with a sheet, leaving only her face exposed to the air. Ian placed warm bricks wrapped in flannel around her body, tucking them by her feet and at her side.
She resisted the urge to pluck the soil and pebbles out of Sarah’s blonde hair and instead wrapped it up in a cloth to be dealt with later. First they must bathe the stench of death from her. As she filled a basin with hot water from the blackened k
ettle by the fire, she spied Ruthie whimpering in the corner, poor lamb.
“Ruthie, bring me the French-milled soap. We must wash your mother.”
Perhaps the child would cope with this crisis better if she could help. Samuel stared blankly into the fire, his grip on Sarah loosening. She realized with a sinking feeling he was too overwhelmed to be of any use.
Ian released his grip on Sarah and placed a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “My good man, I assure you that your wife will recover.”
He cannot know that for sure, Maggie thought, but something in the tone of his voice brought Samuel back to awareness, and he noticed Ian for the first time.
“Who are you? How did you come upon Sarah, there in the graveyard?”
“I am Ian Pierce, Daniel’s brother and your new apothecary. I had returned to the graveyard tonight to mourn him and came upon Jonas. He had somehow discovered your wife was alive. And I brought her here.”
Samuel nodded.
She handed him the warm rag. “Wash her.”
With great tenderness Samuel washed his wife and upon feeling the warm, scented water, her agitation eased a bit. Still, her bloodshot eyes gazed wide and unseeing, and she did not know him. Bits of dirt swam in the pale blue orbs; her lashes were encrusted with dirt. Soil was caked in every orifice: her nostrils, her delicate ears, in the cleft of her chin. Maggie leaned over her chest to watch it rise and fall. Her breath issued in ragged gasps, hissing against her cheek and so foul it took every effort not to recoil. It smelled sour, with the metallic scent of old blood and an unidentifiable bitter odor.
Dirt smeared Sarah’s teeth. The space between Maggie’s eyes grew cold.
Dirt from the grave is in her mouth. How could this have happened?
“We must get the dirt out,” she said.
“Yes,” Ian said. “Turn her onto her side.” He bent over her, quickly reaching his index finger into her mouth and removing the dirt. His finger emerged bloody. He lifted up her lip with great care. “She is missing a tooth.”
“What? Sarah had all of her teeth.” And a lovely smile she used often.
“It has been recently pulled, and badly executed.”
“We must find out who has done this to her, but not now,” Maggie said.
Ian resumed cleaning her mouth, dirt gathering on the pillow. After he finished, she seemed to breathe a bit easier. Had she swallowed the burial dirt? Once the dirt had been cleaned from her face, the webbing of veins stood stark against the pale blue pallor.
“She needs nourishment. Samuel, help me sit her up. Brace her from behind. Ruthie, fetch a cup of broth.”
Ruthie skirted around her mother like a frightened horse, handing the broth to her, and retreating into a dark corner.
Maggie lifted a spoonful of broth to Sarah’s mouth. It dribbled out of the side as her sightless eyes bore into hers.
She searched Ian’s eyes. “How can my sister survive if she cannot take sustenance?”
“She must be more alert to eat, I think. I will bring some herbs over in the morning that will help to strengthen and calm her.”
They lay her back down. Ian emptied and filled the basin with fresh water, while Maggie pulled the blanket down to her collarbones and resumed her examination and cleaning. Veins like snakes bulged and pounded in her white neck. Maggie cautioned Ian to look away as she cut the shift down the middle. She and Samuel removed it.
“Samuel, I know this is most improper. But I need Mr. Pierce’s help.” She looked to her brother-in-law for his permission, and he nodded. She covered her up again and threw the bloody shift into the fire.
The cold that rose from Sarah’s body as Maggie cleaned sank into the midwife’s bones despite the roaring fire. Skin mottled with blue stretched tightly over her collarbone, and a deep shuddering coursed through her body. She had stopped writhing, at least. She pulled one limp arm out of the blanket and washed her from shoulder to hand, wanting to immerse her in a full bathtub, but that would have to wait until she regained her senses. Would she?
She cleaned each finger one by one and saw the bits of shroud imbedded in her dusky fingernails. She must have tried to claw her way out of the grave. Maggie’s throat pounded.
“It is no wonder she is senseless,” Ian murmured, voice hoarse.
She glanced up. His eyes, jade now with flecks of gold, stilled her panic with a bright calm. She reached for Sarah’s other tightly fisted hand, pried her fingers open and removed a small clay figurine. Maggie shoved it into her apron pocket. Sarah stirred. Her lower half needed attention, and it was no longer decent for the apothecary to be of assistance.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I will leave now and allow you to finish your ministrations.” The fire reflected upon his face, accentuating the hollow cheeks and dark circles beneath his eyes. “But first I will stoke up the fire and replace the warming bricks.”
Maggie nodded. “Thank you.”
Samuel lifted his head. “I can never repay you for saving my wife. You are most welcome here, always.”
Ian grasped Samuel’s hand. “There is nothing to repay. I only did what any decent man would do.” He glanced at Maggie. “I will return tomorrow with the herbs I mentioned.” He left as quietly as he came.
Maggie commissioned Samuel to empty and refill the water basin. She pulled the covers down to Sarah’s waist. Would her breasts fill with milk? Of course she had never encountered this situation before and must consult the midwifery book; certainly Sarah could not feed the baby while senseless. Her sister needed sustenance, and soon.
She finished cleaning her top half and put her softest night rail over her head, gathering it at her waist until she was clean below. At least half of her smelled of rose-scented soap and not of the grave. She pulled the covers down to Sarah’s feet. Samuel blanched at the dried blood on her inner thighs. She cleansed her privities as thoroughly as possible, checking carefully for any tearing or trauma that would indicate a difficult time during her labor.
It looked as if she’d had a normal birth, and she could not tell how much her sister had bled. Had she delivered the afterbirth? Maggie prayed she had, because if she had not, she would most assuredly die of childbed fever. She sent Samuel for more warm water and pressed Sarah’s lower abdomen to feel for the afterbirth.
Without warning, Sarah stiffened and began to jerk spasmodically, torso rising as if pulled by an invisible force. Samuel dropped the basin of water. She tried to calm her, without success. She opened her eyes and hissed. The hair rose on the back of Maggie’s neck.
Samuel gathered his wife in his arms, bent his head to her ear, and urged, “You are home, my heart. You are safe.” He rocked her back and forth, crooning to the rhythm. “You are home, my heart. You are safe.”
She grew quiet.
Maggie stared, open-mouthed. Why had she not thought of it before? Sarah had endured being buried alive, one of man’s most primitive fears. She needed to feel safe, to be reminded she resided in the living world. Samuel’s chanting seemed to calm her and perhaps made her feel safe.
Samuel continued to croon in his low, rumbling voice. “Do you know, my dear? Do you know? You have a daughter, a beautiful, tiny daughter.”
She did not seem to recognize him, but it was enough that she closed her eyes and leaned against him, cheek against his broad chest.
The respite did not last. Sarah soon stiffened and returned to her open-eyed trance. Maggie urged Samuel to lay her back on the pallet so she might finish cleaning. Her legs, always slender, looked emaciated. She swallowed her alarm and soon finished her ministrations, piling every available quilt on her to stop the bone deep shuddering. It was encouraging her fingernails did not look as dusky, and her lips merely colorless instead of blue. Samuel stretched out beside her. He soon fell asleep, turned toward her, one arm under her neck, while she lay stiff, eyes wide and bloodshot.
Maggie shivered, poured herself a portion of whisky and gazed at the fire, thinking about what had transpir
ed. The enormity of their situation assaulted her. Questions drifted in her head like flotsam from a shipwreck. What had happened at the birth? She felt the weight of the clay figure in her apron pocket and reached in to examine it.
How very odd! Although crudely wrought, it looked to be the figure of an old woman with a hawk nose and fierce expression, her back bent with age. A snake coiled on top of her head.
She could swear it hissed and grew warm in her hands. She flung it into the fire and gulped her whisky to quell the chills that skittered up her backbone. Where had this strange object come from?
The whisky soon soothed her, and rational thought returned. Surely it was due to lack of sleep and the traumatic day that it seemed to heat in her hands. Her imagination had gotten the better of her. There were more important questions that needed to be answered: Who had attended Sarah and declared her dead? Why had she been buried so precipitously? Who could have done this to her, and why?
The fire popped and hissed, and the sound of Samuel’s steady breathing lulled Maggie into a fitful sleep. She awoke with a start and became aware her clothing stuck uncomfortably to her skin and belatedly realized that earlier, Samuel had soaked her when he dropped the basin in response to Sarah’s eerie hissing.
She rose and removed overskirt and then wool stockings, the feel of the fire on her bare, damp legs pleasant and foreign. She glanced at Samuel to ascertain he was still asleep, removed her waistcoat, and stripped to her shift, hanging the clothes on a hook by the fire to dry. The warmth of the fire through the shift on her damp skin raised bumps on her thighs, tingling with a fine thrill of shivers.
She took the pins from her hair and let it cascade down her back. Her legs thrummed with fatigue, and her bad foot throbbed heavily with every heartbeat. She desperately needed more sleep, for she had lost all ability to think coherently, with no comprehension of what to do next.
The impossible had happened. Sarah was alive but seemed to be halfway between death and a dream. It was up to her to return her to the world of the living, but how? She felt alone in her cares. She stretched her arms toward the ceiling and inhaled deeply, trying to breathe in clarity.
Mercy of the Moon Page 2
