Maya's Aura: The Redemptioner

by Smith, Skye

  Britta looked over at Sam Adams, who was settling down at the table near the fireplace again, but he understood her look and said, "I am warm now. I will move to another table. Ladies, please come and sit close to the fire."

  "Ya don't mind, do ya love," said the elder woman, "it's just that the baker is closed today and he usually cooks our pies for us. Jon told us that you have an oven in 'ere." She walked to the iron insert in the fire place and twisted a knob and pulled out a wide, short door with a shelf attached to it. Britta looked in wonder. She hadn't realized that the metal plate was actually a warming oven door.

  The women opened their baskets and lined their pies up along the shelf and then pushed the door back into place. "Shouldn't take long. Perhaps a half hour."

  As soon as Jon saw the freezing children at the door he had made a big pot of mint tea. Mint grew everywhere and so the tea cost barely more than heating the water for it. He took a tray of cups to the women's table and started pouring. For the children he cooled the tea with some milk.

  As the clothing of the women warmed, a steaming funk filling the shop. Sam moved again, even further away from the fire, and the funk. One of the women went to explore the ladies' retirement room, and then came back and took the children with her.

  Jon idly wondered how much they would earn from their pies. Surely not enough to keep five people. He built the fire up a little and opened the choke. The smell of damp, filthy wool was sucked up the chimney with the wood smoke. Jon took each of their ragged cloaks and hung them up. The women wore mismatched clothes that likely had not been washed since the last warm day.

  One of the women came over to Sam and said, "'ere, Mr. Adams, some blokes was looking for you at the hall."

  "Did you know them? What did they look like?" muttered Sam, looking embarrassed.

  "I knows one of them. He works for the sheriff. You ain't in any trouble are you?"

  "They say I owe them money," replied Sam. "I don't."

  "Oh, it's like that is it. Mum's the word then." She looked towards the fire and called out, "You lot. Mr. Adams ain't 'ere. We ain't seen 'im." The rest of them nodded.

  "What type of pies do you have today?" asked Sam.

  "Fenway Flounder, o'course. Time of year ain't it?"

  "They looked a good size," said Sam, "when they are ready I will buy three from you."

  "Ducks," the woman nudged Britta, who was using a shop towel to dry off a little girl's hair. "Do you mind if we sell to the gentleman in 'ere?"

  "I don't mind. Not today," replied Britta. "It is a snow day. All rules can be bent." She looked over at Sam. She now regretted serving him all the special Indian hemp tea. The first cup made you feel good all over. The second led to giggles and hunger. The third made your mood stronger, whatever your mood was. If you were horny, then you got hornier. If you were happy, you got happier. If you were depressed, well, that was very bad.

  If you were worried, you worried more. Sam looked very worried. "Sam, if you are hiding, you are welcome to hide here." He motioned her to come closer so she sat down next to him and slipped her arm through his.

  "Well it's just that I can't be taken by a sheriff's man when I am carrying these papers. I know enough law to argue a delay in the taxes they think I owe, but if they read what I have written they will hold me without telling my family, at least until the governor has a chance to read them."

  "Like I say, you can hide here. They won't find you. You can rewrite your notes, nice and neat like, at this table."

  She stroked his arm. Her soft warm breath tickled the whiskers on his neck. He was starting to feel better again. He even giggled nervously at the thought of this young beauty paying any attention to him at all. "But if they find me here, they may cause trouble."

  "Then you hurry and make a good copy. It is short enough, you could make two copies. As soon as it is finished, burn your drafts. You can leave the good copies here while you sort out the tax."

  "But they may hold me. I need to give this to someone," he whispered.

  "Leave the name and the address of the fellow with us. If you don't pick it up tomorrow, then I will have Jon deliver it."

  He was feeling her closeness. His worries were giving way to another feeling. No, he must not think of her closeness. He had a daughter her age. "You would do that for me?"

  "I wouldn't but Jon would. He is bored. He wants adventure."

  A shadow passed over them, and the pie woman set down one of the shop's trays and on it were three steaming hot pies. Sam counted the coins into the woman’s hand, and then an extra one. "Because they were so fresh," he explained. The woman gave a shallow curtsy and then bellowed at the rest to grab their cloaks and their baskets and get ready to walk back to the market.

  Jon helped them with their cloaks so that they wouldn't be forced to swing the smelly things about in the shop. Sam pulled out some fresh paper and started to make a copy. Britta stayed with him and watched him write the words in his best script.

  "I will hurry," Sam said, almost as if to remind himself. "If the sheriff's men find out that this shop is open, they may come here for a coffee, and find me by accident." Then he looked at the steaming pies. He was suddenly very hungry. "This copying can wait. Jon, come here, I have bought us each a pie."

  The three of them munched down on fresh pastry and the steaming white flesh of the local flat fish. None of them came up for air until they were finished. "How about more of that special tea?" asked Sam.

  "I think you had better drink mint tea for a while," said Britta. Food took away some of the effect of the Indian tea, which was a good thing for this man. "And perhaps you should make the copy in the back, out of sight from the rest of the shop."

  It was lucky that she had thought of that, because not ten minutes later two big men with heavy walking staffs came into the shop. "Crikey, look at the prices," the smaller of the two said.

  "So what? The sheriff's paying us well to be out in this weather. It is the only warm place that is open. Two coffees, miss. We'll just sit near to the fire if you don't mind."

  Britta hurried herself. The faster she served them the faster they would be gone. She was wrong. They were shirkers. They had been sent to find Sam. They had looked, and not found him. They could stay here and keep warm, and no one was to know that they weren't prowling the streets.

  "So you are the sheriff's men," she said once their coffees were finished and them not making the slightest move to leave. "Oh good. Many legal men come here as regulars. Lots of lawyers and such. You will have to point the sheriff out to me. They usually start arriving by noon." It was about eleven thirty.

  The two men looked at each other. "Uh, sorry love, we can't stay. Duty calls and all that." With that, they wrapped their cloaks tight and made for the door. "Thanks, love."

  She followed them to the door and pushed it closed slowly so she could see which way they turned at the corner. She blushed when she heard what they were saying to each other about her tits and bum and what they would like to do to them. She sighed and closed the door and pushed the mat back into place to stop the draught. Men were such pigs.

  She walked to the back to find Sam, but he was gone. She called out, and then heard the bolt on the door to the landlord's storage room slide back and Sam emerged asking if they were gone.

  "Yes, and good riddance. Pigs."

  "Is that what young people call constables these days? Never mind. Did they say they would be back?"

  "I don't think they will be back. I led them to believe that the sheriff was a regular. For some reason they didn't want to risk meeting him."

  He smiled at the irony. "I have made one copy. I'll just finish the other and then I must try to make it home. They cannot arrest me in my own home. By the way, I decided to use your sentence, you know, about slaves."

  He moved towards the fire. The store room had a small fireplace, but no fire. "Is your offer still open to leave the copies here and have Jon deliver one?" He saw her nod. "Oh good. I w
on't be back tomorrow, so Jon will have to do the delivery. The second copy I will pick up in a few days." He looked around for Jon. "Jon, I will not write the name and address down. That may put you in danger. You will have to memorize it."

  Sam finished the second copy, and then gave both to Britta. He took all his other scraps of paper and threw them into the fire. When he was finished he put on his coat and bowed to Britta, and shook Jon's hand and told them to take one copy to James Otis at an uphill address. Then he was gone off into the swirling snow.

  Britta called after him to tell him the direction the sheriff's men had taken. He raised his hand in a wave, and turned the opposite way. She did not linger to watch him walk away because she heard Lydia calling out for her from inside the shop.

  * * * * *

  Overnight the falling snow had warmed to rain, and the rain had made quick work of melting the snow on the ground and turning the streets into a mess of muck and slush and ice. The rubbish carts were active again, so Britta was awoken at her normal time. The morning rush for warming drinks was only half as busy as normal, but Britta was run off her feet because Jon was late back from the bakery.

  When he finally arrived back to the shop, half the baked goods were broken and he was limping badly. "Bloody ice under a puddle. I went straight down. Luckily there was not horse droppings where I landed, but I have bruised my hip and we won't be able to sell half of what I fetched from the bakery."

  Britta was too busy to see to him, so she sent him upstairs to change and to send Lydia down to help. Finally the morning rush petered to nothing and she was able to check Jon's hip. When she exclaimed at the ugly bruise, Lydia came in the room to see. Jon was a teen boy naked from the waist down. Having two good looking women inspect his hip had an obvious effect. Very obvious.

  Lydia looked at it and suddenly realized how hungry she was for a man. Britta ignored it. She was too busy thinking that Jon could no longer deliver Sam's paper to James Otis.

  "I have to go out," said Britta. She gave a warning look at Jon, and he nodded his understanding. "I won't be long." Luckily, Lydia was not interested. She was gently spreading a salve onto Jon's bruised hip and pretending not to notice the effect of her touch.

  Britta quickly changed into Puritan drab, put on her boots, and threw one of Lydia's fine wool cloaks around her shoulders. She got as far as the corner before she remembered her Puritan bonnet, and had to turn back for it. A woman out in public without a bonnet was a no-no in Boston.

  It was a longer walk uptown to the address than she expected. Boston was much bigger than Providence. Parts of it were also much rougher. She hurried out of the dock area, because she felt unsafe, a woman walking alone amongst rough men. It was a relief to leave the area of warehouses and offices and enter an area of houses. Unfortunately, the next block was filled with rooming houses that catered to the dock workers, and there were many calls for her to stop and talk from men whose eyes betrayed that they did not really want to talk at all.

  She crossed the street and walked close behind a family group and therefore felt safer all the way to an area where the houses were spaced further apart and were larger, and then larger still. When she thought she must be close, she began asking directions from any women she saw. Eventually she was pointed to a house on a hill crest that was so large that it must be considered a mansion.

  She stood in front of the gate and looked up and down the street in hopes of seeing someone to ask. There was no one, so she took a deep breath and walked through the front gate, up the steps and knocked on the front door.

  It was answered by a girl, younger than her, and also dressed in Puritan drab. "I am looking for James Otis," said Britta. The girl turned around and bellowed, "Jim, it's for you." A voice called out from inside the house. "Where are your manners on such a cold day? Invite them into the parlor and shut that door. Who is it?"

  The girl opened the door wide, and yelled back, "A girl for Jim."

  Britta wiped and scraped her boots on the door mat and then followed the girl into the house, and into a room next to the front door. The voice called out again, "Not the vestibule. Bring her into the parlor where it is warm."

  She followed the girl again, this time into a much larger room with plush furniture where a well-dressed, though drab older woman was sitting. She must have been the voice doing the shouting. Britta stood still while the girl went off to find James Otis.

  "Rachel, take her cloak," the older woman ordered a black woman. The black woman lifted the cloak from her shoulders and draped it over her arm. Then she held out the other hand. Britta made to shake it, but the older woman said, "She is waiting for your bonnet, girl. You may sit."

  Britta removed her drab bonnet and shook her braids out. They fell down her back but framed her face. She made to sit in the nearest chair but the older woman waved her closer to her. After a few false sittings, she finally settled in a chair at right angles to the woman, with their knees almost touching.

  "You look cold and damp, girl. Would you like a warming drink?"

  "Yes please, Chinese black tea with milk and sugar, please." Britta was suddenly worried. Her request had made the woman sit back sharply, and she heard Rachel clear her throat. "Oh, I'm sorry, it is so expensive these days. I will have mint tea then." Rachel cleared her throat again.

  Britta looked away from the frigid stare of the older woman, and looked at Rachel instead. She was middle-aged and quite large, but not muscular like Lucy or Beth. She had an idea, and made a circle of her thumb and index finger. The sign for signs. The black woman was astonished but returned it. She made the sign for midwife to introduce herself. Rachel returned the same. She made the sign for 'is there danger' and received a 'no' back, and then one for 'behave'. She made the sign that she was a bond servant, and got back the sign for 'free'. Britta smiled warmly at Rachel. She had never met a free Black before.

  "I will get the girl the black tea. It will do her good," said Rachel, and was gone before the older women could stop her.

  "I am Ruth Cunningham Otis. This is my house." the old woman said and held out her hand limply.

  Not knowing what to do with a limp hand, Britta shook it lightly and said, "I am Britta. It is a very nice house." Ruth made her feel self-conscious. She was staring down her nose at her.

  "Why do you look for James?"

  "Ugh, I have a message for him."

  "You may give it to me if you wish. I will pass it to him."

  "Perhaps, if the girl cannot find him. Meanwhile I will sip tea and warm myself for the walk home. It was a longer walk than I though it would be, and I will be missed already." Rachel put down a tray that had legs and became a small table, and then poured tea. She had brought two cups. Britta marveled at the cup. It was finer than any that Lydia owned. You could almost see through it. There were Chinese paintings on the saucer.

  The girl returned with another girl. Both in their teens, both in Puritan drab. They sat facing Britta and said, "Jim will be down soon." Then they giggled like little girls. "He is combing his hair."

  Ruth waved her hand at the girls. "These are my daughters, Elizabeth and Mary; girls, this is Britta. So Britta, is that a Dutch name? Are you Dutch Puritan?"

  "I am Frisian," she replied. When she saw blank stares from the teens, she added, "The Dutch are descendants of Frisians."

  Mary was the girl who had answered the door. She was not quite fourteen. Elizabeth was sixteen. Elizabeth now said, "We are descended from people who came here on the ship the Mayflower in 1620."

  Britta's first thought was sixteen going on ten. Just wonderful. More bitchy Puritan girls. "I am descended from the people who owned the ships that ferried the Angles to England in 620."

  Mary laughed aloud and made a face at Elizabeth and was scolded for it by her mother. To get back at her mother Mary said, "I'll tell Father that you are drinking tea again," and stuck out her tongue. Before Ruth could reply, a tall and very handsome young man came into the parlor.

 
"Here is James," said Ruth, "so you may give him your message."

  Jim looked at the beautiful girl sitting next to his mother and was thankful that he did not have to speak. He would not have been able to put words together. Instead he pushed Mary along the settee and sat across from the beauty and just stared.

  "There must be some mistake," said Britta, "I was expecting a much older man. Samuel Adams did not say he was so young. I suppose I should not have assumed a man of Mr. Adam's age."

  "Sam," said Mary, "that is Dad's friend. You have the wrong James. You want James junior."

  Britta was now very confused. She knew the Puritans of Boston made believe that they were important just because of how long they had lived here, and so they used the same names over and over, pretending that they were of noble birth. Shouldn't junior mean the younger, not the older man?

  Jim noticed her confusion. He was used to it. "My grandfather was James senior, my father is James junior but everyone calls him 'Jemmy'. I am James the third, but I go by 'Jim'." When she smiled back at him to thank him, he felt like there was sunshine warming his face and turning it red.

  "So, your message is for my husband. Well why didn't you say so? I will take it and give it to him when he comes home."

  "No, if you please madam. There has been too much confusion already. I will put it into the hands of James Otis, ugh, junior, as I was told to do by Mr. Adams. Where is your husband now?"

  "That is none of your business, girl. Give me the message," Ruth demanded.

  "I am sorry, madam, but I cannot do that. Thank you for the tea, but I must find your husband. Will you tell me where he is?"

  "I will not."

  "Then I must return to Mr. Adams, and ask his advice," Britta said, realizing as she spoke that she was mishandling this whole thing. She did not know where Sam lived, and he might not be home in any case.

  Britta made the signs to Rachel that she was leaving. Rachel hurried off to fetch her cloak and bonnet. Britta met her at the door and as Rachel helped her on with the cloak, she whispered that Mr. Otis was at the house of his sister, Mercy Warren, and gave her instructions on how to find it. Britta straightened her bonnet and then kissed her on the cheek, said her thanks, and then strutted off towards the street.