The Edge of Mercy

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  An image of the native in the woods beside the big rock came unbidden to my mind. I could not cast him from my thoughts of late. I went to bed dreaming of him. I spoke to him when I was alone, calling him Nétop, since I knew no other name for him. What would Andia say if I spoke of such things? What would Mr. Tanner say? What would Papa?

  Yes, I was mad.

  “’Twill take some time is all. I am not certain I am ready to leave Papa alone just yet.”

  Andia looked at me then as if I were the sweetest girl in the settlement. I chastised myself for my deceit and vowed to try harder to enjoy Mr. Tanner’s company, to be the girl I was expected to be, the woman Papa needed me to be.

  “Did you hear of the news from across the river?” Andia took a dainty sip of her tea as if to draw out my suspense. “Several of Goodman Barnes’s mules broke loose and destroyed some of the savages’ crops. One of their men came over to Goodman Barnes and confronted him. Goodman Barnes ran him off with his musket, thank the Lord.”

  “And why should the native not be angry for having his livelihood eaten?” I asked.

  Andia looked taken aback for only a moment. “I near forgot how attached you are to the poor things. ‘Twas an honest mistake on Goodman Barnes’s part, I’m certain.”

  “I’m certain,” I all but grumbled.

  It seemed to happen quite often of late. Animals would break from their holdings, ruin the natives’ crops, and the natives would be forced to relocate. Men in the county would then find a way to purchase the vacant land by visiting a local sachem and offering wares they could not refuse, such as muskets and liquor.

  “You should not become so attached to the heathens,” Andia said. “Hezekiah spoke of trading some of his crops and wampum for a native boy, if he is able. He could use some help around the homestead.”

  “A slave?”

  “Not a slave, truly. The boy would be better off with us, civilized and perhaps baptized.”

  Our conversation grew stale after that. Andia left presently.

  I decided to visit Goodwife Howland soon.

  April 9, 1675

  Mr. Tanner called on me again this evening. He asked if I might like to take a walk in the direction of his homestead. I told him I preferred to walk toward the woods as we did last time. He assented and I left Papa alone to finish his rabbit stew and flip, his now familiar cough trailing behind us. I knew it rude not to ask Mr. Tanner if he would like some victuals, but I could think of nothing more unbearable than sitting at our small table with Papa and Mr. Tanner talking above my head, talking without saying what was truly on their minds.

  We walked in silence for a time, and to my surprise I didn’t find it terribly awkward. The night was beautiful, the sun refusing to rest its weary head as long of late. I made up my mind to begin anew. For Papa’s sake, and perhaps even for mine. I apologized to Mr. Tanner for being disagreeable the last time he called.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” he said, and I noticed that this time he smelled only of lye soap and woodchips. “I realize this is a big step for you, Elizabeth. May I call you Elizabeth?”

  I nodded, though it felt odd to hear my name on his lips. Odd, but not entirely unpleasant.

  “And will you call me Caleb?”

  My face heated. I could not imagine calling a grown man by his Christian name, and yet that was what is expected of courting couples. “I will.”

  Again I thought of the native. Nétop. Why could I not push him from my mind?

  “Did you hear of Goodman Barnes’s encounter with the native?”

  Mr. Tanner nodded. “’Tis a perverse affair.”

  “Was Goodman Barnes able to secure the land for himself?”

  “Why would you assume he had an interest in such matters, little Elizabeth?”

  I did not mind Mr. Tanner calling me Elizabeth, but the diminutive word in front of it I minded very much. “I am not little. Is that not why you chose to court me now? I am no longer a child.”

  I didn’t miss his eyes scan my face and—almost involuntarily, it seemed—my entire frame. My heart knocked against my chest.

  “You are of course right in saying you are no longer a child.” He hesitated, then moved closer to me and spoke more softly. “What I see is a beautiful woman who knows her mind, foolish as it may be at times.”

  His nearness caught me off guard, as did his words. I did not expect such forthrightness from Mr. Tanner, and felt him goading me, putting me in my place, even.

  “I see I have successfully rendered you speechless, Elizabeth. Not a small task, hmm?”

  He teased me! Such jest was the last thing I expected from him. It piqued my curiosity.

  “You did not answer my question, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Caleb.”

  I berated myself when I stammered out his name. “C-Caleb. Did Goodman Barnes secure the land?”

  He ran his fingers through his beard, the color of honey. “Goodman Barnes visited Metacomet and settled a deal for the land.”

  “King Philip?”

  “You know far too much for a young woman.”

  “Should women live in confinement with only their husbands learning news of the outside world?”

  “Would it be a terrible thing to have naught to worry about but the baking and the mending and the hearth and all other such matters of import that keep a homestead running smoothly and a husband happy?”

  Heat rose from the center of my belly and spread upward when he looked at me with intense eyes as he said the word husband.

  “You may not wish your women so innocent if men the likes of Goodman Barnes continue to anger the natives.”

  Mr. Tanner was silent as we made our way back to Papa’s house. When the barn came into view he said he enjoyed the walk, and he hoped I had also.

  I did. Perhaps Mr. Tanner was not quite the bore I had thought him to be.

  “And now, may I ask you a question, Elizabeth?”

  I had not expected a proposal so soon. I may have conceded Mr. Tanner more amusing than I previously thought, but that did not mean I was ready to wed him.

  I did not answer, yet he continued.

  “I request—with only your good in mind—that you not wander in the woods by yourself any longer. You are an intelligent woman and you are right to realize that men such as Goodman Barnes have made the natives less than happy. We are in the frontier here, Elizabeth, far from Plimoth and Boston.”

  “Yet I do not see—”

  “I cannot pretend to know all, but I know of the colonists’ distrust of the natives. I am certain the natives feel the same of us. I do not think it safe for a young woman to be out alone. ’Twill not hurt you to reserve your walks for me?”

  My heart bucked at the thought. Mr. Tanner’s words were pleasant enough, but how could he already assume control over me? We were not yet betrothed!

  All the pleasure I had found in Mr. Tanner that evening dissipated. “I do appreciate your concern, Mr. Tanner, but I will do as Papa and I see fit for now.”

  I bid him a good night and left him near the step of our front door.

  April 12, 1675

  I attempt to find comfort in these pages, though my ink is running low and I had not thought to collect extra walnuts to crush last autumn.

  I was pouring the refuse grease from the noon meal into a tub to save for the making of soft soap when Papa asked to speak with me. I placed the used pan in the sink and we sat by the Betty lamp near the fireplace, Papa’s tobacco bucket at his feet.

  “Caleb Tanner told me he asked you not to go for your walks.”

  I tried to fix my thoughts in my head. I could not fathom that Mr. Tanner had spoken to my father about our discourse, yet it seemed he had.

  “Yes. I informed him that was a matter for us to decide.”

  “The man cares for you, Elizabeth.”

  “Perhaps it is not yet his place to care so much.”

  “Perhaps it should be his place,” Papa said. “I am getting on i
n years, daughter. You need your marriage settled before the Lord takes me home.” He coughed then, a cough I had not yet heard come from him. It echoed in my own being, for I had heard it often from Goodwife Howland’s husband many times in the months before his passing.

  “Please, Papa. I am not yet ready.”

  “My sweet girl.” Papa reached for my hand and I grasped his calloused one with both of mine. “I do not believe I am long for this world.”

  “How can you know such a thing that only the Lord has knowledge of?”

  Papa smiled. “I suppose I do not. But I feel something different in my bones. Please, tell me you will accept Mr. Tanner’s proposal when it comes. I wish to see my daughter settled and married before I leave this earth.”

  Warm tears spilled onto my cheeks. They trailed through the stain of dirt and dust left from cleaning the barn earlier. “I will, Papa. I will.”

  How could the Lord allow Papa to leave me? I pray Papa is wrong. The winter was a mite too long for him. Soon though, fair weather will descend upon us.

  He will feel better soon. I am certain of it.

  Chapter 12

  I hadn’t planned on going back to the museum on Sunday. I thought to visit Barb’s church, clean my bathrooms, Google Mary’s name, maybe take a long bath. But Elizabeth’s story called to me, and I was keenly aware of the fact that if I didn’t go today, I would have to wait an entire six days to get my chance again.

  I found the transcribing easier now that I was familiar with Elizabeth’s script. I felt for her, this long-ago ancestor of my neighbor’s. I didn’t want her Papa to die. I didn’t want her to have to marry a man she didn’t love. I wanted her happiness. And I wanted to find out more about the native I was certain was Abram, whom I had only known in legend until now.

  And what was more, why did Barb feel this story so important to hand on to a daughter she hadn’t seen in nearly thirty years?

  I figured I could Google Mary all the other days of the week just as well as I could take a bath or shop for a dress. When I entered the Pilgrim Hall Museum, I greeted the receptionist, Callie, by name. Like the day before, she asked how my project was coming, and I assured her while it was far from complete, I was finding it worthwhile.

  When I settled back into the chair behind the desk, Elizabeth’s now familiar journal before me, I touched a corner of the page with my finger. Elizabeth had been a real person. She had held this journal. She had touched it. Hundreds of years ago, she’d been alive and breathing and now, like all of us were destined to be, she was but dust. What legacy had she left? How would her story unfold? How had it mattered to Barb?

  I inched closer and began reading.

  April 17, 1675

  I have done Papa wrong. And yet I do not suppose, if given the chance again, I would do anything differently.

  Yesterday Papa took to his bed. I could not sleep for his coughing. ‘Tis not only the noise, but what this sickness may portend for us. I cannot bear to think of life without him. He has been the sole constant in my life. All through the night I pleaded with the Lord in earnest not to take Papa. When fingers of pink climbed the dawn sky, I rose and set about the morning chores.

  Blood soaked Papa’s pillow. I took to the task of cleaning him up, as well as his sheets. I made him a draft of honey and lemon tea. I helped him drink it, weak as he was, and spooned some stew into his mouth.

  The house smelled of sickness. Sickness and death. I did not wish for Papa to see my tears, so I left. I ran. ’Tis not proper, running. ’Tis not proper where I ran to. I should have gone to Goodwife Howland’s house to ask what to do for Papa, but I did not think.

  I ran to the woods. To the very place Papa and Mr. Tanner insisted I not go. I wished to feel vibrant green pine needles between my fingers. I wished to smell their scent, to breathe in the warm spring air. There is no sickness or death or sadness in the woods. Purple and white flowers sprout on the forest floor. Birds sing a chorus. Pink buds adorn the trees. I caught a glimpse of a fawn with its mother. New life bursts forth in abundance.

  And yet there was something else . . . someone else I wished to see. Nétop.

  I did not sing today. My heart was too sad. I wandered in the direction I had walked last time. I saw the large rock off to my right in the distance. ’Tis easy to see without leaves not yet on the trees. I attempted quiet steps as I moved closer. I came upon the west side of the rock but did not see Nétop.

  ’Tis a massive rock, higher than the topsails of the grandest ship that enters our ports. Last time my attention had been on Nétop alone. Now, as I took in the view of the rock, I stood in awe of its breadth and height. A smaller boulder sat on the side of the main rock and another boulder to create a canopy. I crept closer. Below the smaller boulder on the ground was another cave. The dirt floor was swept clean and a pipe and several tin objects lay neatly to the side, along with a fire hearth and a grass-woven sleeping mat.

  I backed away from the cave.

  My shoe bumped something that jiggled and I looked to the ground where two clamshells lay. I beheld the area, but saw no one and so picked up one of the shells. The native had been removing his facial hair with these the first time I looked upon him. I assumed him to still occupy the area, but why? Why was he not with his own people?

  I ran my thumb over the ribs of the white and grey shell and slipped it into the pocket of my dress though I could not explain why I did so other than to possess something that the native held.

  I heard a sound from behind and whirled.

  Before me, he stood. This time, in moccasins and breechcloths. Again, his shirtless torso stood gleaming in the sun. I averted my gaze to the ground. I did not run, though I thought to, for he caught me in the act of thievery. With the help of Papa’s copy of Roger Williams’s A Key into the Language of America, I’d practiced what I would say to him while in the confines of the barn, with only the pigs and horse to hear.

  “What Cheare Nétop?” I wondered if I butchered his language.

  It was a greeting of friends. I was his friend. I wanted him to know I considered him such. I forced myself to look upon his face. Smooth copper skin surrounded deep pools of brown, which studied me intently. I thought the native could hear my heart, so rapid was the beat it took up.

  To my amazement, he smiled at me. His white teeth were straight and showed as pearls against his skin. “Hello, friend,” he said.

  I near toppled over. “You—you speak our language?”

  He stepped closer and I stopped myself from backing away. He smelled of woods and pipe tobacco. “I do.”

  “Why then . . . that first day . . . ?”

  “You surprised me. I called in the language of my tribe.”

  We stared at one another for a long moment, and I felt he was as fascinated by me as I was of him.

  He pointed to my pocket. “You like clams?”

  My face heated. It must have shown a shade darker than his own skin. I reached in my pocket and put the article back on the ground. “Forgive me. I thought to have a token of the woods.” Of him.

  He bent to scoop it up. His black hair fell over his shoulders and muscled, bare back. He held the shell to me. “Take for your token. I will get more.” His accent was thick, but I could understand his words without a struggle.

  I took the clamshell from him, careful to avoid the touch of his fingers. “Thank you, Nétop.”

  He smiled again. “You have found me for a reason?”

  What was I to say? ’Twould not do for him to know of my irrational fascination of him. ’Twould not do for him to know Papa lay home, dying in bed, that I had not only run from the sickness, but had disobeyed Papa in coming.

  “I like your rock,” I said. ’Twas not a lie. ’Twas the most impressive rock I have seen.

  “My home, for now.” He looked at the cave in the lower part, where I had seen his things. I wanted to ask him why he made his home here, but thought my question too forthcoming. “Would you like to see the top?�
��

  I shook my head. “Climbing rocks would hardly be proper.”

  “But walking alone in the woods, speaking to me . . . that is proper?”

  My bottom lip trembled. He was not an ordinary native. He knew our language, even our customs. I thought of Goodwife Howland and her stories.

  “You are like Squanto. You know us.”

  His mouth pulled downward. “I am nothing like Squanto. He brings natives and colonists together. I hide in woods.” He seemed to shake himself from his thoughts. “Come. I will take you to the top.” He began to walk to the north side of the boulder, where the rock rose in a gradual incline.

  I followed him. I felt foolish leaning over to climb, my skirts clumped around my legs. Nétop did not seem to notice. Close to the top, a small chasm dipped and we climbed downward before climbing up once again. Nétop offered his hand to me, but I could not bring myself to touch him. ’Twould make my act of disobedience all too real.

  What would Mr. Tanner say of my insolence? My willful disregard of his request? To not only walk alone in the woods, but to spend time with a shirtless native?

  At the top, I was so near the tree branches I could have danced with them. I moved to the edge and looked down. Overcome with dizziness at such great height, I backed away.

  “We are high,” Nétop said.

  My breaths quivered as I looked at the ground far below. “Yes, but I think I am ready to return down.”

  He smiled at me for a long moment, and I could not tear my gaze from his stare. Something unspoken passed between us in that moment, there atop the rock, yet I could not say what. I broke the connection.

  “Come. We will go this way.”

  He took me to the other side of the rock, which overlooked the top of his cave. We curved around and went down a gradual slope until finally we reached the bottom.

  “Thank you, Nétop,” I said.

  “Abram. My name is Abram.” Again, he held his hand out to me, this time in greeting.