Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  Later that week Stephen received a letter from Peter. It was the first he had written. The chaplain had suggested it, and Peter, much to the prison authorities , delight, now did everything he was told without question.

  Callie and Stephen sat on the sofa, reading the letter together. Callie kept so respectable a distance between them, she was strained to see the writing. The script was cramped and irregular, that of an old or infirm man. Stephen read two or three lines, then flipped the single page over to see the signature at the bottom. It was signed with Peter's name.

  "Who wrote this? It isn't Peter s handwriting," Callie said, forgetting her vow to avoid Stephen and moving closer.

  "Peter," Stephen said absently. Tm sure he wrote it, but . . ."

  "What's wrong with him? Does he say? Is he ill?"

  Stephen scanned the letter, his eyes stopping at a paragraph midway down the first page. Peter wrote asking Stephen s forgiveness for having hit him. Stephen pointed it out to Callie. "That happened when I was six. Peter and I were walking around the edge of the well, and he hit me. I was afraid I'd fall in, so I told Pa on him. Peter got a good thrashing for that. But why bring it up now? And why in heaven's name ask my forgiveness? He sure didn't care for it then. He beat the stuffings out of me next day in the woods for telling on him." Stephen sat puzzling over the letter. "Maybe he is trying to tell us something . . . maybe it means he is sorry he can t get to Hobart"

  "No . . . there is something all wrong with this, Stephen. Look at his handwriting, and what he says; it barely makes sense. Even if he meant to tell us something secretly, he'd never choose this method. I

  think he means just what he says. He wants your forgiveness."

  "That's nonsense. There's never been anything to forgive between Peter and me. He knows that.''

  "Well, we'll just have to keep writing until he sends a letter we understand. At least he is writing. That is something, isn't it?"

  Stephen nodded, folding the letter and tucking it into his pocket He went outdoors to finish plowing the field he had interrupted to come in and check the mail.

  Late that afternoon Callie was waiting for him as he walked in from the fields. He was surprised to see her there. She used to wait for him, but since he had kissed her she had stopped. He smiled and ran to her. "What brings you out here?"

  A hundred thoughts crowded her, then merged in a rush of warmth. "I just wanted to see you coming home. I like to, you know." She began to laugh. "You've never learned not to blush."

  He reddened all the deeper and took her hand, walking her over to the stone bench where he had put in a flower garden for her.

  Stephen stretched out on the ground, looking up into tie sky. "Did you play at making figures in the clouds when you were a child?"

  Callie sat back, contented, her legs tucked under her. "I think everyone does."

  "Well, I see Zeus right now."

  "Do you? Is he handsome and awesome?"

  "No, he's bumpy and disintegrating."

  Suddenly she felt like crying. She wished nothing would ever change. Zeus should always stay in the sky. "Oh, Stephen, I'll miss you so."

  "Miss me?"

  "When you marry Agnes. Jack came over while you were out. He told me about it"

  "Don't rush me into anything," he said, laughing as he wondered what Jack was up to now. He knew perfectly well Stephen wasn't going to marry Agnes. Then, understanding Jack had given him the opportunity to discover Callie's feelings, he asked, "Do you think I should marry her?"

  "Only you would know that, but I will miss you."

  "I'd still live here."

  Callie smiled and shrugged in embarrassment "Well, I know that, but . . . but things would be different. You know what I mean, I couldn't be with you—not the way we are now."

  "You value that?"

  "Of course I do. You know—oh, Stephen, what would I do without you? I mean, everything I know is you. The farm, Jamie, my whole life is part you. Of course, I value that, and I will miss it dearly. That's natural, isn't it?"

  He was very sober, looking down into the heart of one of her border marigolds. He didn't answer her.

  "Don't look so serious. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all that All I really want is for you to be happy. That will make me happy too . . . when you marry. I was just talking . . . silly talk . . . little girl talk. I guess I don't want you and me to grow up no matter how old we are. I am trying to keep us as we were. See—I am a silly goose, trying to keep everything from changing. And I am happy you'll marry Agnes. She is a wonderful girl."

  He looked up at her then. "Are you really?"

  "Yes, I am. Honestly. I am happy for you." She leaned forward, taking his hands in hers and kissing him on the forehead. "I think I was feeling a little left out, that's all. When Peter comes home the four of us

  will have fun together. There will be so many things we can do, and times when the four of us will be happy. Oh, we'll be such a large family ."

  He removed his hands from hers and stood up. He walked to the edge of the garden and looked out toward the newly plowed field where he had worked all day. His back still ached between his shoulder blades. He rubbed at the back of his neck, sighing deeply. He had never really believed that he would never be with Callie. There had always been his feeling that it was only compassion that drove her to Peter, but leave it to Jack to set him up so there was no way that he could do anything but face things as they were. He wondered how many times and in how many ways she would have to tell him she didn't want him before he finally accepted it. She had all but said she wanted to be Peter's wife. She wasn't likely to dream of marriage out of compassion. And she wanted him married to Agnes. That wasn't the wish of a woman who loved a man.

  "I'm not getting married, Callie," he said harshly, with his back to her. "Not to Agnes or to anyone else. I've already told her."

  "But Stephen-"

  "Forget it, Callie. Tm not marrying. Leave it at that."

  "Why? You said you cared for her and • • "

  He turned on her angry-eyed, lips pressed thin. "Forget about it. Don't you ever know when to leave a thing alone? I don't want to talk about it."

  His sudden angers always startled her and left her mildly frightened, but today she felt a lightness.

  He walked swiftly to the well. It seemed strange to Callie that he should have done that at this particular moment, for as she watched him stride to the well and strip off the sweat-sodden work shirt, she was re-

  minded of another place, another day, and another man she had seen do the same thing.

  It was no golden-haired young lion of a man she watched washing himself with the cool sparkling water today in the fading brilliance of a setting sun, but a tall, dark-haired, work-hardened man who carried his responsibilities with all his heart, and who had, for all her familiarity with him, remained unknown to her.

  She knew well what made Stephen laugh, but had no idea of what brought joy to him. She had seen him sad but never known the cause. She had seen him troubled and had brought her own troubles to him, but she had never shared in his.

  She watched him until he finished and tinned, water still glistening on his chest, to return to where she sat on the garden bench, her arms locked around her knees.

  The anger had left his face. He knew she would have no idea why he had been angry, and it didn't matter now. He'd have to remember to tell Jack his tactic had been successful. Things couldn't be changed by wishing. A "sister" was all she'd ever be. He smiled as he came near to her.

  Callie kept watching him, wanting for the first time to have him talk of himself. He never had, and she had never tried to make him. She wanted to now.

  "Let's take a walk before we go in," he said, and put his hand out for her.

  She got up, returning his smile, relieved he was no longer angry. 'What is it that makes you happy, Stephen?"

  He glanced at her quizzically. "Ummm ... I don't know. When I mix the right brew and the beer is good, I'm p
leased."

  "I don't mean pleased. Happy."

  "A nice day."

  She looked up at him. His eyes were friendly and warm as always, but she sensed Stephen s withdrawal. He would tell her nothing of himself now. The moment had passed. She took his hand, walking at his side, leaving things unchanged between them.

  Chapter 38

  As the months passed Peter collected the letters Stephen and Callie wrote. He had them all—unopened and tucked as securely as anything a convict owned could be secured in his bed.

  He was no longer afraid to touch them as he had once been, but neither was he interested in reading them. They spoke of a world he would never see again, and of normal emotions that had been taken away from him. The thing he feared most was wanting anything as much as he had wanted someone on Grummet Rock. He would gladly have walked unbidden to the triangles or placed the brand on his own chest rather than ever again be left so totally alone.

  In recovering from the shock of solitary, Peter acquired a protective cunning. He could not gain approval for himself, but instant obedience to his masters gave him some of the rewards of approval, just as meanness gave him approval from the convicts. While he would never be spoken to in friendship, there were those who spoke to him, thinking they instructed. He learned to base the actions of his life on deceit That it

  left a coldness inside of him mattered little. It was far better than the agony of hope.

  He couldn't have said why he kept the letters, except that he liked owning something. He liked the other convicts to think someone cared about him even though he knew no one did. Few convicts could boast of letters as he could, and none of them had so many as he.

  To the authorities he gave the appearance of being a model prisoner. He could recite passages from the Bible so long and so varied that the chaplain was sent into fits of blessed delight over his conversion.

  Only the convicts knew differently. None dared tease or annoy him anymore. He wasn't afraid of them, and where he once would have grown angry at their pranks, fighting back openly, Peter was now as cold as the winds that swept across the settlement. They let him alone. And with it they had taught him a new and different sense of pride. There were ways of reducing the "decent" world to the level of the debased, if one considered oneself so worthless as to make it necessary.

  Because of Peter s miraculous conversion, the touching of his criminal spirit with the need to be good, he would now become a settler s convict He was to be transferred to Hobart Town with the next ship. He wasn't pleased about the transfer. It would mean he had to leave the barracks. As he had found security in the harness, so did he find it in the familiarity of the barracks.

  The night before he was due to leave for Hobart Town, he was more tense than usual. He never slept well, waking up two and three times each night, but this night he couldn't sleep at all. When the barracks grew quiet, when the last-minute whisperings faded away and the nighttime coughs subsided, he got up.

  Stealing as quietly as he could, he went from bed to bed. At one he stood, looking down into the sleeping face of its occupant. He moved down the room, stopping at another bed. He took the mans hand, holding it in his own. The convict murmured in his sleep. Peter drew back, his breathing quick with fright. He stood rigidly in the shadows until the man settled back into a motionless slumber. Peter hunkered down on the floor, his forearm resting on the bed, touching the man's back. Later he moved and knelt beside another bed, his arm just touching the occupant. At dawn he went back to his own bunk.

  The next morning as he prepared to leave, gathering up the letters and few belongings he had collected, demanded, or stolen, he turned to see one of the older convicts sitting dejectedly alone, watching him.

  "What are you looking at?" he demanded harshly,

  "You got a lot of letters."

  "So what?"

  "Nothin'. I just never got one."

  "What would you do with a letter?"

  "I'd keep it— like you do."

  Peter pulled one off the stack, tossing it to the floor. The old man picked it up, holding it against his chest.

  "May I open it?"

  "Eat it for all I care."

  With tedious care taken not to damage the envelope, the old convict broke the seal and opened the letter from Stephen. He touched it, moving his hands over its surface. He looked at Peter. "Thank you."

  "It meant nothing to me," he said, lying down on his bunk with his bundle, ready to go whenever he was called.

  "Berean?"

  "What?"

  "Would you read it to me?"

  "Read it yourself."

  "Can t you read?"

  "I can read," Peter said, irritated.

  "I can't read. Never learned."

  Peter ignored him.

  "Berean?"

  "Oh, Christ—bring it here."

  The man came over to Peter, his expression that of a small child about to be told a marvelous fairy tale. He sat on the edge of the bunk as Peter took the letter and began to read:

  Callie has long had a deep desire to be given a special May House. As always fond wishes are those that should be granted. We gathered the green boughs, and the flowers, and built the May house exactly as she wanted it

  He read, then his voice trailed off. He squinted at the clear bold writing and read the first few lines silently to himself again.

  "Go on—there's more. Tell me about the May house. What did our Callie do? Was she happy?" the convict asked.

  The building of the May house such as this one meant more to her than I can tell you in one short letter. I shall confess, I too found it a moving experience, as one always must when an entire family can be brought together through the performance of such a pleasant task.

  The rest of the letter was normal, telling of the hop yard and news of the neighbors, and a man named Tom Baker.

  The convict reached for the letter as Peter finished reading. Peter jerked it beyond his reach.

  "My letter!"

  "Get out of here!" Peter shoved him to the floor. He tore open his packet of letters. He ripped them open one after the other, looking at dates that went back over the year. Each one of Stephen's letters had some mention of May or the May house. Each one of Cal-lie's mentioned Hobart Town. Other bits of information were put in each of the letters. Together they told Peter he had not been forgotten—at least not by Callie and Stephen.

  He knew Tom Baker's name, and had a reasonable certainty he was an American whaler due to Stephen's explicit and rather encyclopedic discussion of the black whale in one of his letters. Callie had also given a very accurate account of the wreck of the George III, the ship on which Peter had sailed to Van Diemen's Land. Unless she or Stephen had spoken to someone who had come to Van Diemen's Land, they could not have known the details in the letter.

  Worried that he had already waited too long to answer the letters, Peter requested permission to write a letter that morning.

  He wrote in frantic haste, fearful he wouldn't have it completed before he had to board ship for Hobart Town. He knew the commandant here and had his trust, but he knew nothing of the commandant at Hobart Town. He might not give a new man permission to write. Dutifully and time consumingly Peter quoted profusely from the Bible, giving each text an interpretation of his own that would indicate he was spending his days in prayerful concentration of heavenly good. The last he quoted was the Prodigal Son.

  Duty fulfilled, he wrote on:

  I was gratified to know you built the May house for Callie. I once promised her to build one myself; however, due to a life wasted by sin for which I am repenting, I was unable to do so. I am grateful to know that my depravity did not prevent her from having what she desired. Please tell her that in my heart, I too have begun to build her May house.

  If you would be so kind, you might also thank her for writing to me of Hobart Town. I will be leaving for that settlement this afternoon. I am thankful that she thought to write to me of its beauty and pleasant aspects. I
am sure to feel at home there immediately, due to her efforts.

  Sincerely,

  Your Christian brother, Peter Berean

  He laughed nervously as he signed his name. He gave the letter to the guard, handing him a small amount of money he had stolen from a settler to whom he had been sent to deliver lumber. It would help insure the letter would be given to the commandant immediately.

  No longer needing them, Peter picked the least informative letter of the bunch and tossed it to the old convict. Then he picked up another, scanned it, and tossed that to him as well. "Here—have two."

  He lay down on the bunk again, his eyes narrowed as he allowed himself for the first time in months to think about his farm. It was no longer the soil or the brewery that filled his thoughts. It was the idea of owning it that held him in thrall. He remembered his study and the heavily tufted chair in which he sat while he worked at his accounts. He thought of put-

  ting his feet up on the shining mahogany desk. He thought of spending money, giving orders, doing anything he pleased at any time. They were hard thoughts, unrealistically void of people.

  Rebecca Ward stood on the jetty, waiting to choose the convict the commandant had promised she could have.

  Rebecca was a large woman, domineering and far too iron-willed to have done well in London's marriage market, not that she wanted to. She had never met a man she considered equal to herself, and she would die a spinster rather than submit to a weaker one. She was, however, suited to the colony at Hobart Town. She would withstand the rigors better than most, and make a good teacher as well. She was both sure enough and bold enough to keep error-prone little boys in line.

  The idea of a convict slave had appealed to Rebecca from the start. She had never met an animal yet she couldn't train, two-legged or four.