“Is this what you want?” he asked.
“Do you?” I replied.
“More than anything, my Maude. I want you to be my wife – my partner in life. I would give anything for that.”
“And, I want you as husband, my Micah. For I already feel we are one in soul even if our union is not sanctified by my church or yours. We are one in God’s eyes of that I am certain.”
After I finished speaking, I reached behind me and continued unbuttoning my dress, then slipped it down off my shoulders.
He ran his hands over my arms, then lifted me to him and, together, we lay on the cot, exploring each other’s bodies as our passion grew.
Finally, as he poised over me, he leaned down and kissed me gently.
“Are you sure, Maude?” he asked.
“Yes, Micah, make me your wife in more than words.”
“I love you, Maude,” he whispered as he moved to join with me.
There was a brief stab of pain, but then I felt a flush of ecstasy wash over me and I gripped him tightly, moving with him in a dance as ancient as the sea itself.
Everything was perfect until I felt him.
Not Micah, but the old man. It was as if his eyes were burned into my soul and he could see and feel everything I felt.
I gasped and shook my head trying to eject him from my mind. Then, I heard him laugh – that horrid, evil cackle – mocking me.
I was about to cry out, but suddenly he was gone and I breathed a sigh of relief.
What was that old man? And, why was he here?
I was troubled, but I pushed these thoughts aside. I was with my Micah and no one was going to prevent him from transporting me to what seemed to be a heaven here on earth.
When we were sated, I wrapped myself in my winter cloak and made us tea, being careful to pour Imelda’s powder into mine.
When I turned back to the cot, Micah had already donned his clothing.
I handed him his cup, unable to look him in the eye. Did he want to be free of me so soon? A tear threatened.
“Come here,” he said softly. “Wife.”
He pulled me to his lap and kissed away the drop that had escaped from my eye.
“Don’t think I want to leave, my love,” he said. “If it were my choice, I would stay with you forever. But my father has been asking questions about why I am away every Thursday – about what I am doing and who I am doing it with. I can’t be home late again. Can you forgive me?”
Relieved, I smiled. “There is nothing to forgive, Husband. You go. I need to pick up my wages from Imelda anyway. Hurry.”
“I count the hours till I see you again,” he said as he put on his winter coat to ward off the cold. “Will you be all right?”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
We kissed and I lingered in his arms a few moments more, then he, with some reluctance, disappeared out the door.
I swallowed the last of my tea, grimacing at the sour taste the blue powder gave it. However, I made sure I drank every last drop. As much as I loved Micah, I was not ready to face the consequences a babe growing inside me would bring.
When I finished, I quickly dressed, making sure to tuck every strand of hair into my little white cap. When I was sure I was presentable, I left our room, locking the door behind me, and walked around to the front of the building. I’d forgotten to get my wages from Imelda and did not want to disappoint my mother by coming home empty-handed.
I saw no need to knock, so I walked inside. It was very quiet and I assumed that Imelda was in one of the back rooms, her workday over. I longed to get home – to do my chores alone and think about what had happened between Micah and me that afternoon.
Not wanting to disturb or frighten the missus, I walked quietly into the room. I started toward the back when I heard someone yelling.
“I’ll have what is mine!”
It was the old man and there was anger in his voice. I froze.
“You cannot have him” Imelda screamed. “I have told you this. Without the boy, there is no girl, and I have invested much too much time to let that go easily. No, old man. You must find another or wait for the next cycle.”
Confused and a little frightened, I took a step forward and now could see them. The old man was halfway out of his chair, the cane he always carried, but never used, pointed at Imelda. His face was full of malice and I cowered in fear just from beholding it.
But that was not the end of it. Imelda stood but five feet away – her arms outstretched, fingers bent in impossible directions, as if her bones had melted and reformed in some strange, inhuman way. Her face, like that of the old man, was set – anger flashed in her eyes.
“I will have him,” the old man reiterated, his cane now undulating as if it were a serpent come to life.
Terrified, I took a step backward and, in error, knocked something from one of the shelves to the floor. It landed with a thud so loud I thought my eardrums would burst.
Both Imelda and the old man turned to stare at me. My heart pounded.
Imelda waved her misshapen hands and, suddenly, it seemed as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. My head grew heavy as everything around me lost shape, blurring as if in a heavy rainfall or fog. Bile rose in my throat as my knees grew weak and I found myself kneeling on the floor, my head in my hands.
“Child, what is wrong,” said Imelda, now by my side, her voice soft and solicitous.
“I don’t know,” I responded and, truly, at that moment, I had no idea what had happened just minutes before.
“Perhaps you are ill,” she said, putting her arm around me. “Come. Let me get you some water.”
I walked with her to her kitchen, where she soaked a clean cloth in spring water and bathed my brow with it.
“There,” she said. “Is that better?”
“Yes, missus,” I replied, opening my eyes and looking around. “What has happened to Mr. Morrison? He was here …”
“Gone,” she interrupted. “And, hopefully, never to return. If I hadn’t owed him a favor, he never would have been here. He finished what he’d started and left not shortly after you.”
“But …”
“But what, child?”
I hesitated. Something inside told me she was lying about the old man – that he’d been here not more than seconds before. But my mind was befuddled and I convinced myself that I’d only imagined seeing him.
“Nothing, missus. I thought … maybe … no, nothing. I hope he has a safe journey home.”
Her lips curled in what looked like a snarl, but she quickly recovered. “Now, why are you back? I thought you’d be home by now.”
“My wages, missus. My mother is expecting them.”
Imelda smiled. “Ah, yes, here, and keep the extra penny for yourself.”
She reached into the pocket of her skirt and placed several coins in my palm. It was more money than she’d ever given me before.
“But, missus,” I protested. “This is too much! I did not work the whole day.”
She patted me gently on the shoulder. “I have been paying you too little. Your work is excellent. Take this home to your mother, but keep that penny! You deserve it. And, use that penny to buy something for yourself – a ribbon for your hair, perhaps.”
Astounded, I nodded and tucked the money into my apron.
“A ribbon would be a frivolous adornment, missus. Perhaps even a sin.”
“Oh, sin be hanged. Get yourself one and wear it for your Micah. The clergy need not know and I don’t think God will be bothered either.”
“Yes, missus.”
“Good. Now off with you, and take the lantern. It is dark out. I’ll see you on the morrow.”
Thinking now about a shiny ribbon, I did as she instructed, grabbed the lantern, and hurried out the door.
By the time I got home, it was full dark and my mother looked at me sternly.
“If you find yourself unable to be home at a reasonable hour, Maude, I may have to speak t
o your father about terminating this work arrangement.”
“Sorry, Mum,” I said. “It won’t happen again. Here, my wages.”
I handed her the coins, careful to keep the extra penny for myself.
“My goodness,” she exclaimed as she counted the coins. “This is more than before.”
“Yes, Mum,” I interjected. “The missus said she had been underpaying me and that my work was excellent.”
My mother smiled. “Then, you’re forgiven for being late. Work has been slow for your father lately and this will do nicely on market day. You’re a good girl, Maude. Get yourself a cup of tea. I’ll have the boys finish your chores in the barn.”
“No, Mum,” I responded with a shake of my head. “They’re my responsibility and I gladly do them.”
She shook her head as if amazed, then nodded.
Feeling happy and free, I rushed out to the barn to collect the eggs and milk the cow. Once there, I let my thoughts drift back to Micah and what had transpired between us that afternoon.
“Husband,” I whispered, feeling almost giddy with emotion. But then my thoughts turned somber. Would we ever really be husband and wife, blessed by our families and our churches? I tried to erase these questions, but they continued to plague my mind. Perhaps Micah was right. We should run away – start a new life together free from our families and beliefs. A life of freedom and eternal love.
I pictured in my mind’s eye, a cabin nestled in the trees – Micah splitting wood as I hung laundry on the line, a toddler at my feet, tugging on my apron.
It was an idyllic scene, but I knew it was merely a dream. If we ran, life for us would be hard and, perhaps, we wouldn’t survive. No, for the time being, we needed to stay where we were – hidden from the world – hidden in Imelda’s little room.
Spring
THE ICY CHILL of winter soon faded and the first breath of spring was in the air. When we weren’t making love, Micah and I began to forsake the warmth of the fire, and, instead, sit with the door open, letting the rays of the sun heat the room. We talked often of the life we would have together when we were old enough to defy our parents and our religions. I was almost eighteen by then and Micah had just turned twenty-one. In a year or so, we thought we would be ready. We talked about moving west, into the territories owned by the French, or south, to Philadelphia and beyond. We both saved in anticipation of that day – I, a penny here and there from the increased wages Imelda bestowed upon me, and Micah, money he received for doing odd jobs in the hours he didn’t work at the bakery. Soon, we thought, we would have a tidy sum – perhaps enough for a wagon, oxen, cow, and other necessities.
One day in early May, after making love, Micah turned to me.
“Let’s venture out,” he said. “I will buy you a sweet and we can walk by the shore. I’m tired of being cooped up in this room. It’s time to stretch our legs.”
So, we began, once again, to take long walks or enjoy picnics at the beach. And, all the while, we planned and plotted our future life together.
My work with Imelda continued and intensified. I was now trusted to use some of the powders and potions she always kept locked away, although she continued to guard the key and supervised me closely. I was making, along with the usual herbal remedies, more exotic concoctions like love potions or powders used to ward off the evil eye or the devil. When she first instructed me in these elixirs, I was shocked and refused to make them.
“Don’t worry, little Maude,” she said, laughing. “The power in these potions lies not in the ingredients, but, more precisely, in the mind of person using them. By mixing these potions, you will be doing nothing against your god or the Crown.”
“I don’t understand.”
She sat down beside me. “Say, for example, that a woman covets the love of a man, but he is indifferent to her. She comes to me requesting a potion that will gain the man’s good nature. I prepare a mixture of, say, cinnamon, anise, red wine, and lily – simple ingredients, none of which can cause harm. I, then, instruct her to dab the potion on her neck and behind her knees, repeating the name of the man as she does so. The sweet perfume of the mixture emboldens her and, when next she sees her beau, she is more outgoing and, perhaps, he takes notice of her.”
“So, are you saying that the love potion merely gives the woman the confidence to make herself known to the man?”
“Yes, my dear. The strength of the potion is determined by the mind of user. The same holds true for those elixirs used to ward off evil. All simple, natural ingredients, but it is the mind that gives them their potency.”
I nodded. It made sense and, though there was a hint of larceny in what she was doing, I decided there no harm in preparing these philters for her.
Discovery
IT WAS A fine day in late May. Micah and I had spent the afternoon flying kites at the beach. After taking my leave of him, I went straight home, my head and heart full of love and sated desire. But when I arrived, I was surprised to find both my mother and father waiting for me.
“Maude, go to your room,” said my mother, sternly. “Don’t come out until I tell you.”
“Why?” I asked, but she shook her head, cutting me off.
“Do as I say. Your father and I need to talk.”
Confused, I did as she told me and went to my room, sat on my bed, and waited, wondering what chore I had neglected to complete.
It seemed like an eternity, but it was only about thirty minutes later that my mother beckoned me to the living room.
“Sit,” she said, as she nodded to my father, then walked to the far side of the room.
My father stepped forward, towering over me, his face contorted in anger.
“You were seen with a heretic, Daughter. A Jew! What say you?”
Now, I knew I was deeply in trouble. Despite all the precautions we had taken, someone had seen Micah and me together and informed on us to my parents.
“He’s just a friend,” I lied, my mind working furiously. “Someone I met in the course of my work. We have spent some time together discussing the Bible….”
My father’s hand lashed out, striking me across the face with such force that I almost fell out of my chair.
“Blasphemer! Whore!” he yelled. “You were seen by Zachariah Palmer in this heretic’s embrace, kissing him. Are you saying young Palmer’s a liar? Tell the truth, daughter. What is this Hebrew to you?”
Tears now streamed across my cheeks, not only from pain, but also from fear.
Seeing me cringe before him, my father took a deep breath, trying to get his anger under control.
“Talk to me, Daughter,” he said, a little more softly. “Lest you be judged by the elders and sent to the stocks.”
The stocks! My worst fear – to have head and hands locked in that dreaded contraption – to be spat upon, pinched, and derided in ways so foul I couldn’t even imagine.
“Please, Father,” I begged. “Don’t send me there. Please.”
My mother stepped forward, out of the shadows.
“Tell your father about this boy, Maude,” she said, softly. “And, don’t lie.”
I nodded and confessed. I told them about meeting Micah at the bakery and on several other occasions. I also admitted to kissing him, but no more. Any more would mean the stocks or possible banishment.
After I finished, my father seemed satisfied that I had finally revealed the truth. “Stand, Daughter,” he said.
I stood.
“Go over to the wall and kneel.”
Again, I complied.
He took our family Bible and placed it on the floor in front of me.
“Put your forehead on the Bible and pray for forgiveness.”
“Yes, Father,” I said, leaning forward until my head touched the Bible.
My mother then unbuttoned my dress to the waist and opened it to lay bare my back. My father then stood over me, a willow branch in his hand.
“This will hurt me more than it will hurt you, Daughter. To
be dishonored by my own flesh.”
As he spoke, he brought the switch down on my back – not once, but repeatedly.
I bit my bottom lip until it bled, trying not to cry out. When the final lash came down, I crumpled to the floor as dark spots swam before my eyes.
“Enough, Ephraim,” my mother said. “Can’t you see the child has fainted?”
Barely conscious, I could hear my father throw the willow aside and stride angrily out of the room. When he was gone, my mother picked up the Bible, wet with my tears, and placed it on a side table. Then, she helped me to my feet.
“Cover yourself,” she said, harshly. “Then go to the well, get a bucket of cold water, and take it to your room. That dress must be soaked to remove those blood stains. While you are doing that, I will heat some water to dress and clean your wounds. Do not leave your room. I will bring it to you. And, there will be no supper for you tonight. You will fast and pray for forgiveness for your sins.”
I nodded and staggered out of the room to do as she bade me, hoping that my punishment was over.
Later, after my mother had cleaned the cuts and abrasions left by the willow branch, I sat alone on my bed cowering in anticipation of what might come next. Would I be paraded in front of the congregation, exposed as a sinner and whore? Would they send me to the stocks to be humiliated and abused? And, what of Micah? Would the men of the church go after him? Would he be stripped, beaten, and thrown in the stocks, too?
These thoughts plagued my mind and sleep that night was hard to come by.
The following morning, I rose as usual, cleaned myself, and dressed. I had been ordered not to leave the room, so I sat dutifully on my bed waiting upon my parents’ pleasure.
Finally, the door opened.
“Daughter, come to the kitchen.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied meekly, following him out of the room.
In the kitchen, my mother motioned me to one of the chairs, indicating for me to sit. Then, she placed a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.
The Turning Page 5
