Invisible World

by Suzanne Weyn

  “I need to leave to see how my friend is.”

  “You’re heading to the slave quarters?!” she cried in horror.

  “That’s where I’ve been living for the last month.”

  “Well, there will be no more of that!” Mrs. Parris stated firmly, heading toward the door. “You will stay right here until we figure out what to do with you. Don’t worry. You will never step foot in those dreadful slave quarters again.”

  “You don’t understand! I want to go back.”

  “You can’t mean that, I’m sure,” Mrs. Parris insisted. “You’ve been through a terrible time. Your mind isn’t as it should be.”

  I lunged for the door, but she spun around to the hall outside and, in a second, pulled it shut. With a click, I heard it lock. Yanking at the knob did no good, so I ran to the window. Pushing aside the curtains, I could see right away that I was in the main plantation house. From where I stood, the slave cabins were barely visible through the oaks.

  The brutal Mr. Parris, who had attacked Aakif, strode up the front steps. How I hated him! A large whip was coiled in his hand.

  Had he used that on Aakif?

  I had to find him. Flying to the bedroom door, I pulled at the crystal knob. “Let me out of here! You can’t keep me locked in! Let me out!”

  But no one replied.

  FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS, THE PARRIS FAMILY KEPT ME locked in the room, though they fed me well and attended to my injuries. They even claimed to have released from their employ the man who had hit me.

  But I detested them. For the life of me, I couldn’t get the image of Mr. Parris beating Aakif from my mind, nor could I abide Mrs. Parris’s sugarcoated smugness.

  Every time either of them entered the room, I made such a fuss that their tone with me soon became sharp and impatient — at times even threatening. They agreed to free me if I would promise not to steal away to the slave cabins. But I couldn’t promise that when my only wish on earth was to see Aakif once more. They wouldn’t tell me anything of his condition. Whether I was awake or asleep, I was frantic with the fear that they had killed him.

  On the third day, they roused me to tell me that Reverend Samuel Parris, a Puritan minister in Salem Village in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and a cousin to Mr. Parris, had agreed to take me in. “He and his wife have three children and the additional care of his orphaned niece. They have need of a servant,” Mrs. Parris informed me.

  “A servant?” I questioned. “I am not a servant and I don’t want to be one.”

  “Is that so? And how do you intend to pay for your meals and board?” Mrs. Parris asked coldly. “How is it that you plan to live in this world?”

  The treasured image that I had in my head — the idea of working as a psychic and living independently — suddenly seemed ridiculous. Who would hire me for such work?

  Without Aakif and Aunty Honey, I was alone in the world. The Parrises would never let me go back to the slave quarters, nor did they intend to extend to me the same loving care I had once known.

  “Could I be a servant here?” I asked. That way at least I could find my way to Aakif.

  “Ha!” Mrs. Parris barked with derision. “I should say not. We don’t need a white servant here. We have all the house slaves and field slaves we require.”

  That very afternoon, the Parrises had two slaves row the three of us to the Charleston Harbor. There was no question of me saying good-bye to Aakif or Aunty Honey. I could not even ask.

  I knew the slaves in the boat slightly from being in the village — Salifu and Bala were their names — and tried to make contact, but neither of them would risk meeting my glance. When that failed, I cast my eyes down and focused on trying to read their minds. Their thoughts were expressed in Gullah, but I was able to hear. They both pitied me but felt it was better that I was “with my own kind.”

  Concentrating, I tried to reach them with my own thoughts. Aakif. What has happened to him?

  It was no use. Though I was able to hear them, they could not perceive my anxious, unspoken question.

  Charleston Harbor was a busy commercial port, and our small craft was rocked in the wake of so many large ships. When Bala finally tied up the boat, getting onto the dock was not easy. Mr. Parris assisted his wife but left me to fend for myself. Salifu got on deck and extended me a helping hand. “Good-bye, Betty-Fatu,” he said in English.

  “Is Aakif alive?” I whispered.

  “Alive, yes,” he answered quietly.

  “How is he?”

  “Not good. Very bad.” As he spoke, he took something from inside the bib front of his faded overalls and rapidly passed it to me. I dropped it into the quilted cloth bag Mrs. Parris had given me to take a few items. The quick glance I gave it told me immediately that I was holding a jar of Aunty Honey’s own honey.

  “Thank her,” I said softly to Salifu just as Mr. Parris coughed irritably for me to join him and his wife, who had already headed up the dock.

  They escorted me to a ship named the Loyal Servant. As we approached it, memories of the Golden Explorer going down brought a flutter of panic, but I was able to fight it.

  “Your fare is paid and off you go,” Mr. Parris said as he directed me up the gangplank. “Heed my cousin well. He is a pious man and will not take kindly to being disobeyed.”

  I pray he’s not a slave driver like you, I thought bitterly as I walked away from them.

  The salt air stung my bruises as I found myself once again on the deck of a many-sailed ship.

  As I stood wondering how to get off the ship, I absently watched the people boarding. There were all sorts of types and classes of people.

  For the first time, I saw one of the native Americans, a man with long black hair tied at the base of his neck. A young woman with him seemed to be his daughter. I was fascinated by them and tried to read into their minds, but could not decode the language that they spoke.

  A priest in a black cassock with a white collar was next to walk up the gangplank. Behind him, two of the ship’s crew members carried a pallet on which what appeared to be a very still body was blanketed, mummy-like, and strapped on. Two nuns walked behind the body. They kept their hands on their high wimples so they wouldn’t blow away. The rosary beads at their waists also lashed back and forth in the wind as did their long dresses, one brown, the other blue.

  Was the figure on the pallet dead and being brought home to bury? The idea of a dead body being on the ship gave me gooseflesh. I turned away from it.

  “Last call for all passengers!” a crewman called from the top of the ship. I was on my way to Salem to be a servant, no matter if I wished to or no.

  On the first day out, I was watching the white-capped ocean roll by when the nun dressed in blue approached me. She clutched a book to her side and I noticed its title was in Spanish: El Castillo Interior. Father had insisted that, from a young age, Kate and I study several languages, and Spanish was among them. I could translate the title: The Interior Castle.

  The nun greeted me, her veil flapping like a sail.

  “Good morning to you, Sister. My name is …” Here I hesitated. How did I want to introduce myself? “My name is Betty-Fatu,” I continued without further hesitation. In my heart, I knew that forevermore it would always be my name.

  “I am Sister Mary Carmen. Pleased to meet you,” she replied, her English accented with Spanish.

  “How do you like your book, Sister?” I asked.

  Sister Mary Carmen’s smile became radiant. “Very wonderful! It is by Saint Teresa of Avila.”

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “Saint Teresa was very holy, and loved God very much,” Sister Mary Carmen began. “One day she had a vision from God. She saw a large crystal egg, and in it were seven mansions.”

  “She actually saw this?” I asked. I wondered if it might have been a dream.

  Sister Mary Carmen nodded seriously. “Saint Teresa was a great mystic. She went into trances of ecstasy in which she experienced d
irect contact with God’s love. They say she seemed to be somewhere else altogether. I often wonder if her soul traveled. Personally, I believe it must have risen out of her physical being.”

  Of course I thought of Bronwyn and the times I’d seen her so limp and deeply asleep as though her soul was — as she’d claimed — truly elsewhere.

  “I’m sure she was,” I said.

  Sister Mary Carmen opened her book and perused it. “And there was something else mysterious about Saint Teresa,” she said, and then hesitated, as though considering whether or not to speak the next words on the tip of her tongue.

  “Tell me,” I prodded.

  “Sometimes she levitated,” Sister Mary Carmen whispered.

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. Could it be? “Do you mean she floated in air?”

  Sister Mary Carmen nodded, her eyes wide with the importance of what she’d just imparted. “That’s what people reported. They claimed to have seen her rise from the ground when she was in a deep trance.”

  My next words were so bold, I couldn’t believe I was actually speaking them.

  “Did anyone accuse her of being a witch?”

  To my surprise and relief, Sister Mary Carmen did not seem offended by my question. “They did, in a way,” she replied. “Some of her friends suggested that her visions might be coming from the Devil and not from God at all.”

  “Did they try to hurt her?”

  “Saint Teresa did it to herself. She punished herself in various ways to drive out the Devil if he was indeed in her. She stopped only when a priest told her he was sure her visions and trances were from God. I admire her so much.”

  “Saint Teresa sounds like an interesting woman,” I said. A person who would punish herself was a little unnerving to me, but I had to admire her dedication.

  “Very interesting,” Sister Mary Carmen agreed. “She was a scholarly and independent woman all the way back in the fifteen hundreds.”

  Sister Mary Carmen was not what I expected a nun to be like. I found her easy to talk to. “Why did you become a nun?” I asked.

  Sister Mary Carmen’s forehead wrinkled as she considered this question. “Since I have not yet taken my final vows, there is still time to change my mind,” she said. “So I am thinking about this quite a lot. The right reason to become a nun is because your love for God is so great that you want to dedicate your life to Him. And I am not sure I have this calling.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  Sister Mary Carmen came closer to me and inclined her head so she could speak confidentially. “To be a nun has its benefits. It’s not quite an independent life, but as a nun, I can continue to study and I can be of service to the world. I want to learn medicine and to heal. I feel that my calling is as a healer, and as a nun I can do that. I can have a bigger life than I would otherwise have.”

  I clutched her arm. “I know how you feel!” I said. “It’s the same reason I want to be a witch.”

  The nun’s jaw dropped at this. “No! Not a witch! Do not say so. The Devil is a witch’s master.”

  “I mean no harm, but I want to have the power,” I explained. “I want nothing to do with any Devil.”

  “Then do not call yourself a witch. You know what the fate of a witch can be. You do not want that.”

  “Then what should I call myself?”

  “I don’t know,” Sister Mary Carmen admitted. “But I have the power in my hands. That much I know for certain. As a girl, I dreamt I lay asleep on a beach on my back with my hands up. Lightning came from the sky and split, traveling into each of my open palms. Ever since then, I’ve had the power. When I lay my hands on a creature that is ill, that creature — human or animal — improves.”

  “Can you make them ill in the same way?” I wondered.

  “I would never do that. I have never even tried.”

  “Have you tried to help the person on the pallet?”

  “Father Bernard would never allow it. We are taking her to see some doctors associated with Harvard College. There are expert doctors and men of science at Harvard who know all about this kind of sleeping sickness. This is the first ship that would take us, so we are docking in Salem rather than in Boston Harbor.”

  “What’s wrong with your patient?” I asked.

  “It’s a most unusual case. She was found floating on a ship’s wreckage, unconscious and assumed dead. But she stirred, only a bit, and even now clings to life by the merest thread.”

  Every nerve in my body suddenly buzzed with excitement. “Please, you must let me see her!”

  Sister Mary Carmen glanced quickly around the deck. “It might be possible if we can avoid Father Bernard.”

  “What’s the patient’s name?” I asked, hungry to know.

  “We have no idea,” Sister Mary Carmen answered. “None at all.”

  WITH A POUNDING HEART, I FOLLOWED SISTER MARY CARMEN down to the lower deck where her patient lay, still on her pallet, unconscious. The older nun, Sister Costancia, sat slouched against a wall, snoring loudly.

  My breath caught in my throat. “Bronwyn!” I gasped.

  Sister Mary Carmen whirled toward me in shocked surprise. “You know this woman?”

  Rushing to Bronwyn, I knelt at her side. There was life in her! “She has been my governess since I was born. We were lost at sea when the Golden Explorer sank. We have to get her above deck.”

  “But it’s windy and cold there,” Sister Mary Carmen said. “Wouldn’t she be better here?”

  “No! No! She is searching for herself!” Without waiting for Sister Mary Carmen, I grabbed Bronwyn under her arms and began to lift.

  “No, pick up the entire pallet,” Sister Mary Carmen advised. “It will be easier.” Each of us took an end and lifted.

  Carrying Bronwyn was alarmingly easy — she had lost a great deal of weight in the time since the wreck. “Has she been eating?”

  “We get broths and other liquids into her,” Sister Mary Carmen replied, “but that’s all.”

  We bumped and banged our way out of the tiny room, fortunately not waking Sister Costancia, although she sputtered and repositioned herself several times.

  “Betty-Fatu, Father Bernard will not be pleased about this,” Sister Mary Carmen said as she hoisted Bronwyn and her pallet up the hatch while I pushed from below. “What will I tell him? Why are we doing this? I don’t really understand.”

  I climbed above while Sister Mary Carmen pulled Bronwyn away to the side. As soon as I caught my breath, I explained. “Bronwyn’s body has been separated from her spirit for a long time. Her spirit is searching and needs to return to her body.”

  With serious eyes, Sister Mary Carmen searched my face, deciding what to think of such fantastic words. “My mother claimed to travel on the astral plane,” she said at last. “I never knew whether to believe her or not.”

  “It’s real,” I said. And instantly I doubted my own verification; I wasn’t sure my experience was authentic, and not a dream or delirium. “I think it’s real, anyway,” I amended. “I hope it is.”

  “I hope so too,” Sister Mary Carmen said.

  We carried Bronwyn to a side of the ship that was relatively quiet and unvisited by crew or passengers and set her down next to a cabin wall. Although I knew I would not see it with my eyes, I gazed to the sky searching for some sign of Bronwyn’s spirit presence.

  Turning my sight back to Bronwyn, I was appalled at how wan and brittle she appeared. Her closed eyes were sunken; her skin had a translucence that gave the impression that one was seeing the skeleton below. It terrified me to see my earthy, vibrant governess looking so fragile and gray.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said as I ran for my bag, which I’d stashed beside some barrels. I returned instantly and dug out my jar of honey. Sister Mary Carmen cast a quizzical glance my way.

  I dashed a finger of honey into my mouth and offered the jar to Sister Mary Carmen, who did the same. The honey’s sweet goodness suffused me and I was s
ure Bronwyn would benefit from it. “How should I feed this to her?” I asked.

  Pulling a clean white handkerchief from her sleeve, Sister Mary Carmen swiped it through the honey and then put it to Bronwyn’s lips.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Father Bernard towered above us, his cassock tossed behind him by the wind.

  Sister Mary Carmen inclined her head respectfully toward him. “Please forgive us, Father, but this is Betty-Fatu, and our patient is her governess.”

  The balding priest assessed me with his piercing eyes. “What sort of name is Betty-Fatu?” he inquired of me.

  “In England, my name was Elsabeth James,” I replied, getting to my feet. “Betty-Fatu is a nickname bestowed on me by a loving friend.”

  Father Bernard nodded, his expression still stern, and inquired why we had moved the patient.

  “I thought the fresh air might do her good,” Sister Mary Carmen fibbed on my behalf.

  “See that she’s never alone,” the priest commanded before he left us.

  Sister Mary Carmen breathed out a gust of relief. “That went better than I would have expected.”

  Whenever the weather was fair, Sister Mary Carmen and I carried Bronwyn’s senseless body out on deck, bundled in blankets for warmth. Her limp form worried me tremendously. Only the honey we fed her seemed to rouse any color to her cheeks.

  Sitting on the deck by Bronwyn’s pallet, I spoke to her in a low, confiding voice, hoping to reach something inside that might prevent her from slipping away altogether. I also wanted to occupy my mind so I wouldn’t long for Aakif, whom I missed so deeply, and Kate and Father, lest I be filled with an inconsolable sadness.

  Sometimes I would try to use my power of mind reading to search into Bronwyn’s inner thoughts. All that came to me was a whooshing sound, like wind, and a thumping like distant thunder. Was all that remained of Bronwyn breath and heartbeat? It seemed so.

  One morning, as I was keeping my vigil, Sister Mary Carmen came to sit beside me as she usually did, but this morning she was especially animated.

  “I have been thinking,” she told me. “If we sang very loudly, would it help attract Bronwyn’s attention? Might it guide her to her body?”