The Turning

by Linda Watkins

  The Courting

  AS THE SUMMER months passed, Micah and I became even closer. We continued to see each other once a week, however, we no longer met at the busy wharf. The need to shield our relationship from of the members of my church was paramount and we took great pains to avoid their prying eyes.

  On one occasion, Zachariah Palmer, who seemed to be always lurking about, caught sight of us walking together. Micah quickly turned to face me, bowed slightly, and strode away. When Palmer demanded to know what I was doing with a Jew, I simply told him that the boy had asked for directions and, being a polite, well-mannered woman, I had helped him. Palmer blustered a bit about this, but in the end, could find no fault with my explanation.

  Luckily, these types of encounters were few and most afternoons we were blissfully alone together. Micah finally convinced me to go wading with him and, hiding behind a rock, I rolled down my stockings and tucked them into my shoes. Then, I took his hand and let him lead me into the cool waters.

  How we played that day, the water splashing on my legs, the sand and rocks between my toes. After, he spread a cloth on the sand and we lay side by side, letting the sun warm our faces and bodies.

  He did not touch me that day, only kissed me respectfully as he had before. But, little by little, our passion grew and these kisses became deeper and more meaningful. As I lay in his arms, I wished he would touch me, but my upbringing prohibited me from taking any initiative.

  Soon, Autumn approached and the days grew cooler. We both knew it wouldn’t be long before our leisurely walks would come to an end.

  Imelda, as usual, seemed to sense what was on my mind.

  “What’s the matter, child?” she asked on a chilly October afternoon. “Has the weather got you down?”

  I looked up at her, my eyes full of sadness. “Yes, missus,” I answered. “Soon it will be too cold for walks with Micah. Soon, I fear, we will have to say ‘goodbye.’”

  I could see a smile begin to blossom on her face, but sensing my distress, she quickly suppressed it.

  “Don’t look so glum, little dove, I may have a solution.”

  A glimmer of hope sprouted in my heart.

  “What, missus?” I asked.

  “Come,” she said, indicating for me to follow her.

  We walked through her rooms until we came to a door.

  “Look,” she said. “Beyond this door is a room that was designed as a second bedroom. I don’t use it, but it has a small fireplace for warmth. The flue, to be sure, needs a good cleaning, but I think a clever boy could get it working safely. Inside there is a cot and quite a few empty boxes and other debris. It has an entrance to the street as well as this one to my quarters. It could be cleaned and fixed up to make a nice getaway, when the weather becomes inclement.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “You would let us…?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I would. But you and he would have to fix it up. I’m not doing anything. Here....” she said as she reached into her pocket, pulled out a key, and placed it in my palm. “What you decide to do from here on out is your concern. The room is yours, if you want it.”

  I started to thank her, but she turned and walked away before I got the chance. Knowing her mercurial ways, I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and quickly unlocked the door to the room.

  It was as she had described. Boxes piled to the ceiling, debris, and mouse droppings littering the floor. The fireplace, full of cobwebs and ancient charred wood, sat in the corner next to a sagging cot in need of a new mattress and coverings. But, bad as it was, it was heaven to me, and my mind quickly calculated what Micah and I would need to do to make this place a home.

  The next week, I showed the room to Micah, and when I explained to him that Imelda said it could be ours, he wrapped his arms around my waist, lifted me in the air, and twirled me around.

  “Fabulous!” he cried, setting me back down on my feet. “You stay here. I’m going to get a wagon so we can cart off all this junk.”

  He kissed me soundly on the lips, then flew out the door. I watched him go, then began the process of determining what, if anything, could be salvaged.

  We worked all afternoon until the wagon he’d borrowed was full to the brim. Both of us were tired and dirty.

  “I have to go now. I’ll only have time to dump this stuff before my family sits down to dinner.”

  I nodded, sorry to see him leave. “I’ll try to get this place cleaned up during the week … give it a good scrubbing.”

  “Good,” he said. “I think I know where I can get a straw mattress for the cot and wood for the fireplace. And, I have a friend who’s a sweep. Maybe I can bribe him with some pastries from the bakery to clean out that flue. I’ll check and let you know. Meet you here next week?”

  “Yes,” I said, grinning at him.

  He put his arm around me, leaned over, and kissed me softly. “We will have our own home, my Maude. A place of our own.”

  “Yes, my Micah,” I whispered.

  The Old Man

  THE NEXT WEEK, I worked hard. During the snippets of time Imelda allowed me away from the bench, I labored in the room, sweeping, dusting, and scrubbing – trying to make it as clean as humanly possible.

  I polished the hardwood floor until it shined and set traps to ensure that no errant mouse would to make my home, its home. Imelda watched all this with a look of amusement, but I didn’t care. She could make fun or mock me as much as she wanted. This was a place where Micah and I could be alone and I wanted it to be perfect.

  Micah came by once during the week with a wagon laden with wood – enough for our fireplace and extra for Imelda. He also brought a newly sewn straw mattress for our cot. His chimney sweep friend came with him and made short work of cleaning out the flue. Micah helped him as needed and then unloaded the wood.

  “My father will pitch a fit when he finds I’m gone,” he said, giving me a quick kiss. “I’ll see you on Thursday, my love.”

  I waved goodbye to him as he hurried away, my heart full to bursting.

  On Thursday, he arrived promptly at two o’clock and knocked on the door to our room. I was waiting for him and melted into his arms as he stepped inside. I had a fire going in the fireplace and the room warm and cozy. The space had no windows to let in light, but I had pilfered two lanterns from our barn and had them glowing softly as Micah entered.

  “Sit,” I said. “Have some tea.”

  I poured him a cup as he took off his coat and hung it on the peg on the wall.

  “The place looks grand, my Maude,” he said, grinning broadly. “You have done a splendid job of it.”

  “It would be nothing without the wood for the fire and the mattress for the cot,” I replied, sitting down beside him.

  We sipped our tea silently, both of us feeling a sense of unease. We had never been totally alone before – there had always been the chance that someone would stroll by. But now, here in this room, the world was shut out. It was only us two.

  “Shall we read, Maude?” Micah asked, pulling a volume from his coat pocket. “I brought my Bible with me.”

  “Oh, yes,” I cried. “Please read the scriptures to me.”

  He smiled and opened his Hebrew Bible to the book of Solomon and began to read.

  Now, it may seem strange that we did this, read to each other from our sacred books, but we were young and in love and longed to find a way to reconcile our two vastly different worlds.

  Of course, after reading for a while, we would grow tired and lie in each other’s’ arms, kissing and fondling.

  It was about this time that Imelda began to play host for a stranger. I was told his name was Ian Morrison, a Scotsman who had traveled all the way from the Colony of Virginia.

  “Mr. Morrison will be working by your side,” Imelda instructed. “Although he is far more adept than you will ever be. It may not be pleasant – he reeks of gas and onions – but it will be to your benefit to put up with it. He has much to offer in the
way of knowledge. However, don’t let him draw you into conversation, especially about yourself. He is a master manipulator and I fear you would be no match for him.”

  “Yes, missus,” I replied obediently, wondering what, indeed, I would learn from this man and what she meant by his being a “manipulator.”

  The next day, when I arrived, he was there. He was the oldest man I had ever seen. He sat, hunched over, in a chair sitting on wheels, which I was later to learn was called an ‘invalid chair.’ His fingers, gnarled and twisted, gripped the hand-rests furiously.

  “Maude,” said Imelda. “This is Mr. Morrison. He will be working with us for a fortnight. You are to assist him in whatever way possible.”

  “Yes, missus,” I responded, curtsying in front of the old man. “Pleased to me you, Mr. Morrison.”

  The man laughed. At least I think it was laughter, although it sounded much more like a cackle – a broken rumbling that came from deep inside. It was not a pleasant sound.

  “Maude, is it?” he asked. “Well, Maude, wheel me over to the bench.”

  I glanced at Imelda, who nodded slightly and, given her permission, walked to the back of the strange chair. When I got close to the old man, I stopped short, my hand flying to my mouth. He did, indeed, smell, but not of onions. No, it was more like fruit left to rot on the vine or meat gone rancid in the summer sun. I fought to keep from gagging.

  “Well, what’s keeping you, missy?” the old man yelled as if I were hard of hearing.

  I looked at him and could see a sly smile blossoming on his face – he knew quite well what had arrested my movement and I could see he took pleasure from it.

  I shot a desperate glance at Imelda, who again nodded at me, this time more emphatically, and, not knowing what else to do, I took a deep breath then moved to the back of his chair and began to guide him to the bench.

  Once there, his hands, which looked so twisted and painful, reached nimbly for some of the dried herbs piled in front of him, bringing them to his nose, inhaling deeply.

  “Good,” he said, placing them back down in front of him. “You live up to your reputation, Imelda. Now, get me a mortar and pestle. Time’s wasting.”

  Imelda was quick to do his bidding and, without a word, he began to grind up some of the herbs – many of which were foreign to me.

  Not knowing what else to do, I proceeded with my own work, ever so often stealing a glance at the old man out of the corner of my eye. After a while, his odor became less nauseating and I would have forgotten he was there if it weren’t for the occasional spittle that flew from his mouth as he tried to clear his throat.

  At noontime, Imelda bade me run to the market for some fresh bread and cheese and, when I returned, sliced it up for her ancient guest. She proffered him a plate along with a tankard of ale or wine and I watched silently as the old man ate his meal, half of which fell from his mouth and stained his shirtfront.

  He spoke no more to me that day, for which I was grateful. I was, indeed, anxious to get home – just sitting next to him made me feel soiled and I longed to wash his aura from my body.

  The next day, he was already at the bench when I arrived. As I walked over to the peg to hang my coat, I felt his eyes on me. Turning, I stared at him.

  His eyes were hooded like those of some vile viper from my Bible stories and my heart began to pound as he regarded me.

  “Good-day, Mr. Morrison,” I stammered, trying to be polite. “I hope you had a pleasant evening.”

  The old man cackled, then once-again trained his eyes on me, opening them wide.

  I gasped. His were not the watery eyes of an old man, but, rather, they were sharp and clear like those of a young man, full of vigor and promise. They were a cold, steely blue and, as he regarded me, I froze, unable to move.

  “You’re one of those damned Protestants, aren’t you?” he wheezed.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, finally finding my voice. “My family is of the Congregationalist faith. And you, sir – are you Catholic?”

  This question sent him into peals of laughter that led to a violent coughing and for a moment I feared for his life.

  “Sir, are you alright?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes,” he replied, clearing his throat then spitting noisily on the floor by my feet. “And, in answer to your question, I am not a papist though I do have beliefs. Perhaps, someday, you and I can discuss them.”

  “Maude,” Imelda interrupted. “Come here, I have something for you to do.”

  “Yes, missus,” I replied, tearing my eyes away from the old man.

  She put her arm around my shoulder and led me out of the room, back to her private parlor. Once inside, she closed the door firmly.

  “Do you not heed my warnings, Maude?”

  “Warnings, missus? I don’t understand.”

  “Did I not instruct you to avoid conversation with that man? And, don’t believe anything he says either. He is more dangerous than you could possibly imagine. I would not have him in my house had I a choice. While he is here, it is best you have as little to do with him as possible.”

  I looked past her, staring at the door. It was as if I could still feel his eyes upon me.

  “Maude,” she said, putting her hands on my shoulders and shaking me. “Do you hear me?”

  At her touch, the spell woven by the old codger seemed to have broken and I looked up at her, my eyes wide with fear.

  “Yes, missus, I hear you. I will keep to myself whilst that man is here.”

  “Good. Hopefully, he will be gone soon. And, when your Micah comes, keep him away from the shop. Under no circumstances, let Morrison see him.”

  I looked at her, puzzled. “Of course, missus, but why? Morrison is not from around here and can do us no harm.”

  Imelda laughed unpleasantly. “Trust me, child. If Morrison sees your beau, he will covet him and what that man covets, he gets. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, missus.”

  “All right. Back to the bench with you. And, remember, even if he tries to engage you, do not fall into his trap.”

  “Yes, missus,” I replied, dutifully, wondering truly what was so dangerous about this man. He was old and obviously didn’t care much about hygiene or manners, but what was it about him that frightened Imelda so? I didn’t know and, though I was naturally curious, I was determined to do as she bade me. Anyway, the man wouldn’t be here long, would he?

  The days passed by quickly and soon it was Thursday. I took my leave of Imelda and Mr. Morrison early and pretended that I was going home. Instead, when I was out of eyeshot, I circled around and entered Imelda’s room from the back.

  Micah was already there, sitting on the cot. He rose when I came in, putting his arms around me, kissing me softly.

  “I thought you would never get here,” he said. “Sweet Maude.”

  “It was harder to get away,” I replied, shutting the door and removing my coat. “The missus has a guest – an old codger named Morrison. He hails all the way from the Colony of Virginia.”

  “That’s a long way. What is he doing here? Is he an herbalist like your mistress?”

  “I think so, but maybe more. He uses plants I’ve never seen before and lots of strange fungi.”

  “Is he pleasant?”

  I frowned. “Not really. He smells badly – like something diseased. It is not a pleasure to sit next to him.”

  Micah laughed. “Then sit beside me instead.”

  I smiled and took a seat next to him on the cot. He took my hand in his.

  “The weather is fair today, would you like to walk? Perhaps we can stop for a hot chocolate at the market.”

  I was about to say “yes,” when I remembered Imelda’s warning. Morrison was a crafty old man and nothing seemed to get past him. If the missus’ concern was accurate, then it was best I kept Micah hidden that afternoon.

  “No,” I finally responded. “Let’s stay in. The wind has a bite to it.”

  “As you wish, my love. Sh
all we read?”

  I shook my head, tears welling in my eyes. “I’ve missed you so.”

  He recognized my sadness and with a finger, brushed a tear away. “And, I you. I think of you all the time. Could we not ….”

  He hesitated as if unable to finish his thought.

  “Could we not what?” I asked, my heart pounding.

  “I’ve been thinking about it, Maude. We could go away … west to the uncharted lands. Away from all this religious mumbo-jumbo, away from fear of the stocks or being called ‘heretic.’”

  His words took me by surprise and, not knowing how to respond, I stood and bought time by making tea.

  “Here,” I said, pouring him a cup. “I would want nothing more than to be with you always. But we are still young and our families depend upon us. My mother needs me to help with the boys and your father … he needs your help in the bakery. How could we just leave and shirk our responsibilities? When we are older, it would be expected of us to make our own way. But now … I don’t see how.”

  Micah looked crestfallen, but nodded. “You are right. In a few years, my brother will be able to take my place in the business and, for you, your brothers will be old enough to care for themselves. But what about us … what about now?”

  I took his hand in mine and brought it to my lips, kissing his palm softly. “Now, we have each other, my love … here. This is our world. Let’s not waste a minute of it.”

  He looked deep into my eyes, then took me in his arms. Up until this moment, we had never gone too far. We had kissed and we had fondled, but never had his hands or mine strayed beneath our clothing. But something about this moment was different and, as I pressed my body to his, I felt his hands move to the buttons on the back of my dress. He began to undo the top one then stopped, pulling away from me.