Flight of the Sparrow

by Amy Belding Brown

  He does not respond. She doesn’t know if he’s proud, stupid, or simply doesn’t understand English. She does not care. Walking beside the horse with her hand on Sarah’s leg, Mary is flooded with gratitude. For the Lord, who has preserved Sarah’s life and given Mary reason to hope. For the Indian boy who carries her daughter. And for the tall Indian who cut her free.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They walk west through frozen wilderness, stopping only to sleep when it grows dark. Mary trudges along, trying to keep up with the Kettles’ mare, to stay as close as she can to Sarah. On the third day, the boy riding the mare offers her his place. His kindness surprises her and she briefly wonders if it is a trick, if riding the horse will cost her more than she is willing to pay. Yet she quickly accepts, unable to resist the opportunity to hold and comfort her daughter, though the awkward heft and twist of her torso as she climbs on reopens the wound in her side.

  Every motion causes Sarah pain. She groans and grinds her teeth and rolls her head back and forth on Mary’s chest. She cries out, “I shall die!” over and over, while Mary alternately tries to hush her and murmur encouragement.

  From the mare’s back, Mary sees the line stretching out in front of her. She watches warriors hurry the captives along, prodding them with their war clubs when they stumble. She looks in vain for Joss and Marie, but spots Ann Joslin, sees her reel and nearly drop Beatrice. Elizabeth Kettle has her head bowed and weeps as she walks, continually rubbing her face with her sleeves.

  It begins to snow. The flakes fall fast and the wind catches them. Snow stings Mary’s cheeks and clots on her eyelashes. It is difficult to see more than a few rods ahead. As they start down a long hill, the mare stumbles. Sarah and Mary fly over her head and crash to the frozen ground. For a moment, Mary cannot see and gropes wildly for Sarah. She hears a scream and wonders if it comes from her own throat. Then Sarah groans and Mary’s eyesight clears. She runs her hands over her daughter, seeking broken bones, new wounds. The mare has disappeared. The snow has stopped and three warriors stand nearby, pointing and laughing, plainly mocking Mary’s plight. Shaking with pain and humiliation, she picks up Sarah and moves back into the column of walkers. She feels as if her brain is banging against the wall of her skull. She has had nothing to eat or drink except melted snow since the attack. She wonders how long it will be before her strength gives out. And what will happen then?

  The warrior who captured Mary, whom she has not seen for two days, appears and signals that she must walk behind him. They come to a place where the trail widens and climb a low ridge. In front of her several warriors have stopped at a wide gap in the trees and are pointing at something in the distance. When she reaches the spot, she sees a great Indian village spread out below her, hundreds of clustered domed shelters of varying sizes stretching along a river like knots on a rope. The word wetu comes into Mary’s head. She has heard of these Indian hovels but she never imagined there would be so many in one place. Threads of smoke rise from the dwellings into the frigid air. Huge trees line the river, which is silver with ice under the gray sky.

  The column’s pace picks up; some of the warriors run down the hill; others hurry the captives along. Mary hears women’s voices chanting high, hawklike notes. As they enter the village, Mary is able to take only a few steps before the women are upon her, crowding around and peering, jabbering in their strange tongues, plucking at her clothes. They prod Sarah’s cheek to see if she will respond, but she lolls senseless in Mary’s arms.

  Some of the women carry infants on their backs, strapped so tightly to boards they cannot move their heads. They gaze out at the world like tiny statues. Older children, dressed in shirts and furs, chase one another, laughing and weaving among the groups of women. Mary is shocked that no one scolds them, or even seems to notice them at all.

  Her captor pushes his way through the crowd of women, gesturing angrily. Mary plods after him, carrying Sarah in her weary arms even as she searches the crowd for a glimpse of Joss or Marie. They come to an open place where hundreds of Indians are milling around. A few rods away Mary sees a warrior who seems to be selling Ann Joslin’s son to an Indian woman. The woman waves her arms, shakes her head, and repeatedly pokes the boy’s chest with her fingers. Fear is written plainly on the boy’s face. Mary wants to comfort him, assure him that all will be well, though, in truth, she has no such assurance. The Indians are as fickle as the weather, changing their demeanor on a whim, fierce one minute, charitable the next.

  She has little time to ponder, for in the next instant her captor sells her. Like an ox at a market fair, she thinks. Her buyer is a straight-backed warrior whose long hair is drawn back and caught at the nape of his neck with a band of beads and feathers. He has broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. His features are regular except for his large nose, which looks as if it has been broken several times. His eyes, nearly as black as his hair, make Mary think of demons.

  He hardly looks at her, but grabs her sleeve and pulls her along twisting paths to a large wetu covered in bark, where he throws open a flap of grease-stained skins and signals her to enter. When she does not move, he gives her a shove and she stumbles through the opening. The skins fall back across the doorway behind them with a dull thump. Sarah moans. The smell of dirt and smoke and grease nearly overwhelms Mary. All she can see at first is a fire, sunk in a stone-lined pit. Smoke rises straight up and disappears through a square opening in the roof.

  Her owner says something in a rush of words that sounds like the grunting of pigs. Mary stands, weak with fear, as a woman comes forward from the shadows. She has a long face and a straight nose, wide-spaced eyes and a strong chin. She stares with a gaze so hard that Mary looks away.

  The woman takes Mary’s chin in her hand and turns her face from side to side, studying her closely, as a man might study a cow or an ox in the marketplace. She pokes Mary’s cheek, pries open Mary’s mouth and runs her fingers over her teeth, curls her hand about Mary’s upper arm and presses the muscles there. She lifts Mary’s skirts and rubs her legs, touches her breasts, examines her wound. At last, she seems satisfied.

  “Mattapsh,” she says, gesturing. “Yo cowish.” Mary does not move. When the woman speaks again, the warrior puts his hand on Mary’s shoulder and presses her down hard onto a mat of skins. She kneels there, uncomprehending, as he lectures her in his tongue.

  The woman steps forward. “Quinnapin,” she says, dropping her shoulders toward Mary, as if a closer proximity will help her understand. “Quinnapin.” She touches the man’s chest and nods vigorously. “Quinnapin.”

  “Quinnapin,” Mary repeats, slowly understanding that she is speaking the man’s name.

  “Nux,” the woman says, nodding. “Sachem.”

  Mary recognizes the second word as a title of authority. She dips her head, indicating that she will cooperate. She will not resist or try to run away. Not while Sarah lies dying.

  The woman places her hand on her own chest. “Weetamoo,” she says, firmly. “Sachem.” She taps her chest again. “Weetamoo.” She turns back to Quinnapin and rattles off a long string of Indian words. Dizzy and weak, Mary resettles Sarah on her lap, doubting that either she or her daughter will live.

  Quinnapin abruptly leaves the wetu. Weetamoo sits down next to the fire and takes up a wide strip of deer hide onto which she begins sewing small black and white beads. Mary has seen wampum before, strung onto necklaces and belts; she knows it is made of shells and the Indians place a high value on it, treat it like money. It has always seemed to her an amusing form of currency, but she finds herself fascinated as she watches Weetamoo. So much time and care are required to string the tiny beads, let alone to craft the elaborate black and white patterns, that she wonders if the Indians value wampum not for its intrinsic worth, but for the patience required to prepare it.

  Mary kisses and strokes Sarah’s feverish face and examines her wounds. The torn red flesh of the girl’s abdome
n is no longer seeping blood, yet the smell that rises from it tells Mary it is going putrid. She tears a new strip of cloth from her underskirt and ties it over the ragged flesh. She says a prayer, begging God for mercy. She can think of nothing else to do. She peers at the great mats of woven reeds hanging on the sides of the wetu. Rude wooden platforms draped with animal skins stand along the walls. The stink of dirt and furs fills her nostrils. She lies back on her mat and falls away from the pain, sliding into a blessed darkness.

  • • •

  Mary wakes to the realization that she is warm. For the first time since the attack. Some time has passed, though she cannot tell if it is minutes or hours. The door flap opens and a young woman enters, carrying an infant strapped to a cradleboard. She sits beside Weetamoo, who puts down her beadwork, gently unwraps the child from the board, folds him into her arms and begins to suckle. Weetamoo and the girl talk in low voices. The sound, combined with the soft suckling of the baby, makes Mary think of music.

  When Weetamoo is done suckling, she places the baby in her lap and plays with him for a long time. Mary cannot stop watching. She has never seen a woman treat a child so tenderly. She was taught when she was still a child herself that showing such affection spoils children and endangers their souls, so she has always been careful not to treat her children too gently in public. Yet she recalls the many times she cosseted them in secret, when no one was watching. She knew she was sinning, yet the sweetness of her infants so overwhelmed her that she could not help herself. As she watches Weetamoo, Mary longs to rock a new babe against her breasts once more.

  Weetamoo stops playing with the infant and straps him back onto the board. She says something to the girl, who rises, dips a bowl into a small kettle over the fire and hands it to Mary.

  It seems to be a stew of some kind—chunks of meat swimming in a thick broth that smells slightly rancid. Mary would not have touched her lips to it only a few days ago, but her hunger is so urgent that she doesn’t even sniff it before she begins scooping it into her mouth with her fingers.

  She tries to feed some to Sarah, but the child refuses to swallow. The gruel runs down her chin and stains her shirt and neck a silty brown. “Where is Row?” Sarah whines. “I want to hear Row sing.”

  Mary hushes her. “Row is well and safe. I am certain of it.” She thinks suddenly of Joseph. Why has he not rescued them? She feels anger thread into her chest, then rebukes herself. Warriors are waiting to kill him. She must pray, not for her deliverance but for his safety. Nearly swooning from pain and fatigue, Mary bends her heart toward God and dutifully begs Him to keep Joseph from all harm, to spare him such a trial as hers.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For a week, Sarah lies insensible in Mary’s lap, burning with fever. Mary watches, terrified, as the wound festers. She knows how quickly such fevers can take a child, and she has no poultices or balms to soothe her. In desperation, she scrapes dirt from the floor, mixes it with her own spittle, and smears it over Sarah’s wound, hoping that it will at least cool her skin. But Sarah only moans and tosses more fretfully. With hand gestures, Mary begs Weetamoo for salves, but the woman ignores her. Mary sits hunched over her daughter, certain that Sarah is dying, and wild with guilt that she can do nothing to save her.

  Preoccupied by Sarah’s condition, Mary scarcely notices that the Indians are feeding her. Several times each day, the girl—whom she learns is Weetamoo’s maid, Alawa—sets slabs of flat bread, cups of water, and bowls of gruel into Mary’s hands. When she is too distracted to eat, Alawa tears pieces from the bread, dips them into the stew and presses them to Mary’s lips. She chews, unthinking, like a child. Alawa encourages her with gestures to feed Sarah in the same manner, and Mary does. It seems as if she spends hours working Sarah’s mouth open with one hand and sliding tiny bits of broth-soaked bread onto her tongue. She spits out at least half of it, but she does manage to swallow some. So Sarah feebly clings to life, while Mary clutches the hope that the Lord will save them both.

  She is vaguely aware of the comings and goings of Weetamoo and Quinnapin. She knows they sleep naked at night, curled together under heavy animal skins, Weetamoo’s babe tucked up between them. She sometimes hears him suckling. One night she hears Weetamoo and Quinnapin join together as husband and wife. The sound of their lovemaking sends such a bolt of longing through Mary that it is all she can do not to cry out for Joseph. She burrows deeper under the skins they gave her, hoping to shut out the sounds. She weeps for all she has lost. She wonders if Joseph has fallen into Indian hands and been slain.

  • • •

  As Sarah grows more feeble, Mary can do little but hold her. She sits for hours, rocking her, watching Weetamoo decorate belts and skirts with wampum beads. The woman carries herself like a queen. Mary feels oddly diminished in her presence and prays that the Lord will grant Weetamoo a merciful heart.

  Instead, Weetamoo rises up like a demon in the middle of the night, pulls Mary from sleep and casts her out of the wetu. Mary pleads with her, begs for mercy, and tells her over and over that Sarah is dying. But Weetamoo’s only gesture of compassion is to throw a blanket over Mary’s shoulders, fold Sarah’s legs and arms inside it, and secure her to Mary’s bosom like a swaddled babe.

  It is snowing, a hard stinging snow mixed with sleet that blinds Mary and scrapes her face. Her skirts and cloak swirl around her. Tendrils of smoke curl above the wetus. Everything is gray and white. Mary begins to move along the path. She has no destination, no home. She leaves it to God to guide her. Snow flies into her eyes. When Sarah thrashes against her, Mary shifts her daughter higher to ease her burden, but Sarah is so heavy she staggers. Mary wonders how far she will be able to walk before she collapses and they both freeze to death.

  Dimly, through the streaming snow, she sees a figure. A storm wraith, dark wings flapping and spinning, wild hair etched in white fire.

  The figure speaks and Mary sees it is a woman. What she perceived as wings is a blanket. There is no fire but only snow. The woman pats her chin and leans toward Mary so she can be heard over the roar of the wind. “Quenêke,” she says.

  “Quenêke,” Mary repeats.

  She points to a nearby wetu. When Mary doesn’t move, the woman grips her arm and pulls her inside.

  The wetu is filled with sleeping Indians. They stretch out on their platforms and lie clustered on mats around the fire. The air is tangy and hot. Quenêke points to a space near a platform. Mary’s joints feel frozen into their sockets. It is difficult to move even the few feet to the side of the shelter, and even more difficult to push Sarah under the platform and slide down beside her. Quenêke squats, urging haste with small motions of her hands and low grunting sounds. When Mary has settled, Quenêke pulls a heavy bear hide over her and creeps away.

  Mary wonders why this stranger has taken her in. Does this mean she is now Quenêke’s slave? Is this strange mixture of cruelty and kindness an Indian custom? The hide smells of smoke and rancid grease, but it warms her. She lies with Sarah in her arms, her face raw, her mind empty. She tries to pray, but no words form in her mind and her tongue lies still in her mouth.

  After a while, Sarah stops moaning, and her breathing becomes ragged. Mary sits up and pulls Sarah into her lap. Her body has become oddly dense, almost too heavy to move. Even as Mary holds her, she feels a dark cold filling the child.

  Mary does not release her, even though she knows Sarah is dead. She presses her face into her daughter’s hair and inhales the fragrance of her scalp through the bitter smoke that clings there. She begins to comb the hair with her fingers, pulling the twigs and burrs from the fine yellow strands, smoothing it, braiding it. Only when she finishes does she see that her fingers have trailed streaks of blood into the hair.

  Tears come and images float through Mary’s mind: She remembers the terrible cries of Bess Parker after her son was taken from her. She remembers the death of her own firstborn daughter. Remember
s the fever, the seizures, the slick hot sheen that covered the tiny body, the thrashing, the shrieks, her own desperation. Nothing at all would soothe the child, not even her breast, which had always calmed her. How angry—how furious—she had been at Joseph and his stern counsel to submit her will to God in Christian resignation. She had wanted none of it. She had wanted to scream and rail at God. She had wanted to curse Him, and to curse Joseph for imparting His cruel requirements.

  Now, as she tries to remember little Mari’s face, she cannot, though she can still feel the round head under her palm, the pink skin stretched over the skull, the heat coming up through the fine hair, soft as milkweed. After Mari died in her arms, Mary handed the body to her sister, and could not bring herself to touch the child again.

  But Sarah is different. Holding her body brings Mary comfort and solace. She is her last connection to English life. Her hands and arms are fastened to Sarah’s cooling flesh, as if bound there by sailor’s knots. She prays that none of the Indians will wake and discover she is dead. She prays again for strength. Even as she prays, she feels herself drowsing, falling toward sleep, and this time she does not try to prevent it. For there is no longer any reason to stay awake.

  • • •

  She dreams it is spring. She is standing on the doorstep of her house, looking across the muddy yard to the barn. The sky overhead is clear but there are low gray clouds in the west. She is troubled by the sensation that there is something she must do, but she cannot think what it is. She becomes slowly aware that she is all alone. There is no one else about the farm, or walking on the road. There are no birds in the trees, no sound of animals coming from the barn. She looks down at her hands and sees that they are bleeding. The skin has torn away in long strips and hangs from the ends of her fingers.

  • • •

  Mary wakes, blinking. A thread of light slides through the smoke hole overhead. Her hands hurt and after a moment she sees why: Her fingers are locked around Sarah, who lies on her lap, rigid and cold.