Reincarnation

by Suzanne Weyn

  Captain’s log, 1518:

  We arrived on the coast of West Africa today where we dropped anchor offshore for fear of being attacked or contracting any of the native diseases that so many before us have succumbed to. My jaw is aching. No doubt I have begun to grind my teeth at night once again due to the pressures of this arduous journey and the long, steamy nights. I pray it is not lockjaw, as I did cut myself on a rusted nail earlier in the week.

  Finally, after three days at anchor, representatives of one of the coastal tribes trading in slaves rowed out to us in a long boat loaded with men, women, and children. The head man informed me that these bound captives were from a neighboring, inland tribe that were captured during a raid.

  There was much wailing and crying out, especially from mother to child and vice versa, as we loaded them below the decks of our ship, lying them down side by side in order to fit as much cargo as possible. We paid for them with rum, trinkets, and some swords.

  As a gesture of good faith, the head trader of the coastal tribe made me a gift of a finely carved spear, since, on our last visit, I made known to him that I am a collector of javelins, lances, and spears. I assured him I was most appreciative of it and would return in six months’ time for additional cargo.

  My first mate, an experienced sailor who was undertaking his very first voyage on a slave ship, had heretofore proven to be a skilled and able-bodied seaman. Upon seeing the slaves shackled in iron at hand and foot, he claimed to be sickened by our endeavor, saying that he had not realized it would affect him as profoundly as it did. He proved this almost immediately by vomiting copiously over the side of the ship. Then he claimed that violent headaches he’d suffered as a boy had returned, reactivated by his monstrous guilt. They were of such force that he felt overwhelmed and unable to perform his duties. He asked to be allowed to go ashore and quit my service.

  I replied that once we have anchored at the Caribbean island of Hispaniola, where we will dispatch the captives to the slave trader who has contracted this expedition, he was free to leave my employ. Until such time he was duty bound to honor the terms of his employment, however repugnant he found them. Otherwise I would not think twice about tossing him overboard into the shark-infested waters.

  I will long remember the hatred in his eyes as he lowered his head and bowed in compliance. It was with some relief that I watched him back away since, for the briefest moment, I envisioned him pulling his arm back and releasing a staggering blow to my jaw. The image was incredibly vivid and I am glad to say it did not occur.

  I will lock my cabin this night, so intense was the loathing I sensed he bore me. I regretted having to speak to him so harshly, but it is incumbent upon me as captain of this ship to maintain order. If I do not keep control, uprising and mutiny will follow.

  Expedition to the New World under Francisco Pizarro, 6 June 1532:

  Today I must make a sad entry in my journal, this record of the wondrous things my eyes have beheld in this moist, lush, gold-drenched new world.

  For many years before joining this expedition, I sailed wherever I could find work as seaman. As a young man I even made it as far as the coasts of western Africa, though those memories I would rather forget. The Spanish fleets on which I have sailed of late are the finest in the world, and I have seen much of it in my wide-flung travels. I must say with all sincerity that the wonders of this strange new world with its exotic foliage, its temples and carvings, its abundance of gold and jewels, defy my very imagination. The leader of the native people, the Incas, wears a crown beset with hundreds of emeralds. This astounding jewel is mined in abundance in this land, although the leaders of the people refuse to reveal the pathways into the mines to Pizarro.

  I write today with sorrow, as I mentioned before. One of the most remarkable women I have ever met has passed away. I must record the passing of the Priestess Acana since her people, the mighty Incas, though possessing a high culture, have not the gift of writing and cannot record her life story.

  Acana was the keeper of the sacred emerald of her people, which they called Mother of Emeralds and worshipped devotedly. Her position was one of great respect. She spent her days fashioning exquisite vessels to be used in sacred ceremonies and singing as she configured astrological charts. This holy woman was in possession of a voice that could hypnotize. Often she could be seen walking through the jungle, her pet jaguar strolling tamely by her side.

  Acana has today succumbed to a disease I fear has come from our party of explorers. At the end of her days she labored mightily to save her people who have been dying of the pox in great numbers. What cruelty that she who had learned the ancient medicines of her people, who developed new treatments from barks and roots, could do nothing to cure her own ills.

  I have been to the courts of Spain and spoken to the wisest men in Europe but never have I met a person of such learning as Acana.

  From the diary of Abigail O’Brian, 1687:

  I guess today is my lucky day. I could sure use one. Seems there has been no luck coming to me since I foolishly followed my fellow aboard a ship docked in the port of Dublin and bound for the colonies in North America. He said he adored my bright eyes and red curls and would be true to me for all my days. I suppose a man will say anything when he’s drunk. More the fool was I to believe him.

  The captain told the seventy or so of us onboard that the passage was free. All we need do is work for a master in America for six or seven years as something he called an indentured servant and it would be taken care of. We wouldn’t be paid nothing for our work but we’d be housed and fed, so who needs money anyway?

  It didn’t occur to me that there was anything wrong with this deal until we were too far out to sea to do anything about it. We got little to eat, one lump of hard fresh bread every two weeks of the twelve-week journey. After five weeks one married couple begged to be thrown overboard then and there rather than endure another day of hunger. They were told to go back below where they did die of weakness and starvation before the journey’s end. The dysentery was a nightmare down there; the stench was unbearable. By the sixth week my fellow had found himself a new girl, her husband having died of the pox and been thrown overboard two weeks earlier. I’d grown so fed up with him I can’t say I was sorry to see him go.

  I thought I was glad when the trip ended, but little did I know that my troubles were just beginning. We landed in Virginia where a man took all of us to work on his tobacco farm. You’ve never done backbreaking work until you’ve picked tobacco, though I hear those that pick cotton have it even worse. We had to work alongside slaves from Africa. Most of them could not even speak English but talked only to one another in the most foreign language I’ve ever heard.

  I’ve been too bone tired to write in this diary but finally I got a break. The man in Virginia lost a third of his indentured servants in a poker game to a man named Wheldon living in a place called New England. As long as there are no tobacco fields, it’s got to be better than where I am.

  Mr. Charles Wheldon, Esq. Salem, Massachusetts March 3, 1691

  Dear Mr. Wheldon,

  This letter is to inform you that in a week’s time I will be putting my daughter, Elizabeth May, on a boat heading for the town of Salem in the colonies. She is aware that, when last you were in England, you consulted me regarding your honorable intentions to wed her. She has assured me that, though the two of you are not well acquainted, she is favorably disposed toward what she does know of your appearance and disposition which you made known to her on your several visits to our home with your esteemed father.

  Elizabeth May has been well educated, having read the classics in my well-stocked library, the very one your esteemed father remarked upon so favorably when last we saw you. She has also been taught by a governess well-versed in Latin, history, and French. The life of the mind is of utmost interest to my daughter but I trust you will find her a lively enough companion as she has always been a girl of spirit. It will bode well for your happiness toge
ther if you could see your way to providing her with a supply of books as well as stimulating pursuits that will satisfy her active mind.

  As you are aware, Elizabeth May has just this month attained her seventeenth birthday. My wife, Mrs. Harrington, and I are certain she is mature enough to make you a fine wife but I pray you will keep in mind her tender age while at the same time patiently guiding her with the benefit of your experience. I am confident you will treat her well since she will know no other in this new land into which she is to come. Were I not certain of your fine character, I would not send her so far from home.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Henry Harrington

  London, England

  Charles Wheldon clapped the snow from his gloves as he entered the front door. As usual, his young wife, Elizabeth May, was on the couch in the library reading. At his arrival, she looked up from her book.

  “What brings you home so soon?” she asked.

  “My court case was postponed.”

  “Why?” She put down her book and approached him.

  He made an aggravated, dismissive grunt. “The Lewis sisters were in court. They claim to have seen witches flying through the air on poles and believe they recognized one of them to be their neighbor.”

  “Are they believed?” Elizabeth May bent down to pet her black cat, who had padded in from the library after her.

  “Yes, by many,” he told her. “Of late this town has gone mad with sightings of witches.”

  Elizabeth May’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. Expressions like this reminded him of how young she was, despite her wifely position. “I hope the Lewis sisters are not pointing a finger at old Miss Pritchard.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Why should she be suspect?”

  “She grew up on the island of Barbados and knows a great deal of the ancient folk cures of the place. Besides that, she’s always talking of omens and what they might foretell.”

  “I would advise her to keep such notions to herself. The penalty for witchcraft is death.”

  “I will tell her,” Elizabeth May agreed, heading for the winter bonnet and cape she kept hung on a peg by the front door.

  Charles held up his hand. “On second thought, do not. We want no guilt by association.”

  “I’ll tell her what is afoot and then leave,” Elizabeth May replied.

  “It’s none of our business.”

  “But they hanged Jane Stewart as a witch just last month!” she protested.

  “That woman should have been in an asylum,” he reminded her. “She spit at every citizen who crossed her path, hurling vile curses at them.”

  “That did not make her a witch. She was more to be pitied than despised,” Elizabeth May insisted.

  “Her hanging was also a small loss. These witch hunts cull criminals, deviants, the indigent, and the insane from our society.”

  “That’s harsh. Besides, Miss Pritchard is none of those, but she is a single lady who does not attend church and is therefore a target,” Elizabeth May pressed.

  “If she does not attend church, then she must take her chances.”

  “Charles! The woman is old and blind.”

  “I forbid it!” Charles insisted firmly. His tone was raised just enough to mean that this was his final word on the subject. “And perhaps that cat of yours should be gotten rid of. You know what they’re saying about cats, I’m sure.”

  Elizabeth May scooped up her cat, cradling it in her arms. Lowering her eyes in that way she had, she bowed slightly before retreating back into the library. Those falsely humble lowered eyes infuriated him. He had seen indentured servants and slaves make the same compliant nod too many times not to understand the contempt it masked. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll stab you in your sleep first chance I get, sir.

  It was not a look he desired to see in his wife. But then, he had come to see many things in his new wife that he wished were not there.

  He hung his coat and hat in the front closet and went to his study. This delay in the court hearing had been a reprieve of sorts. The man he was defending, Mr. Woolcot, had sold another man, Mr. Matherson, a horse that turned out to be lame.

  Mr. Woolcot claimed he had no knowledge of this infirmity and had made the deal in good faith. Was he required to take back the horse and return the money? Charles’s client said no, but Mr. Matherson had disagreed and sued.

  Taking down one of his law books from the shelf, Charles opened it in the hope of finding a legal precedent for such a situation. He had found several cases that were similar but searched for one that was exactly the same and would thus make this an easy and swift hearing.

  With his mind drifting off the case at hand, he absently rubbed his jaw.

  He noticed it was painful. Had he been grinding his teeth at night again? If so, it usually meant something was weighing on his mind. It was not the legal case at hand, though it was, in a way, related to it: Should Mr. Henry Harrington be expected to take back his daughter and reimburse Charles for her expenses? Just as with Mr. Matherson, what Charles had gotten was not what he had expected.

  Though lovely to look at, Elizabeth May was stubborn, willful, nearly addicted to reading, and insatiably curious about everything besides her husband. When it came to him, Elizabeth May all but implied he was some sort of petty tyrant, duly bound to the status quo, and someone whose wishes and rules were simply to be gotten around by secrecy and deception. In short, she behaved as a child — granted, a smart and pretty child, but her mind was immature, nonetheless.

  It was perhaps partly his fault for choosing such a young bride, barely seventeen, when he was nearly twenty-four. But he had been so taken with her when he first saw her in London. She conversed so intelligently on a number of subjects, including medicine and history. She even had knowledge of geology. When he had mentioned that he might invest in an emerald mine in Rhodesia, she had supplied the fact that polished emeralds came from beryl, a mineral found in aluminum beryllium silicate.

  He’d been impressed. Who wouldn’t be?

  At the time she had struck him as the most desirable possible wife, a mate young enough to adapt herself to the harshness of life in the colonies and learned enough not to bore him to tears during the long, hard winters.

  What, though, had impressed her about him?

  Many women had desired to marry him. And why not? He was handsome, from a well-to-do family, and a lawyer. Athletic in his build, he had been a star athlete in college, excelling at track and field events. He was confident in his demeanor, a natural leader among men.

  Perhaps the more pertinent question was: What had disillusioned her about him in the six months since they had been married? What had brought on the polite distance between them?

  Shrugging off this concern, he returned to his law book. Certainly it was not his fault if she behaved childishly; looking at him disapprovingly when he was sharp with the servants, narrowing her eyes at him for shooing a beggar from the back door. Order had to be maintained in a household, and it was up to him to do it.

  An hour later, he had found the legal precedent he’d been searching for, and left his study. In the hall, he met Abby, the indentured servant who was one of their maids. His father had won her indenture papers in a poker game along with many others. He had given two of them to Charles and Elizabeth May as a wedding gift.

  Abby plumped the red curls bundled at the back of her head in a seductive manner before dipping into a quick curtsy. “Good evening, sir,” she said, her voice warm and caressing.

  “Tell Missus Wheldon I am ready for lunch,” he requested.

  “I’m afraid Missus Wheldon has gone out, sir.”

  “Out? Do you know where?”

  “No, sir.”

  He rubbed his jaw. He was fairly certain he knew where she’d gone.

  Elizabeth May lifted her long dress above the swirling snow drift as she rapped on the back door of Miss Pritchard’s house. It was answered by Lily, the family slave Miss Pritchard had br
ought with her from Barbados. “Come in, child,” Lily said in her thick island accent. “It is near to a blizzard out there.” With vigorous slaps she brushed the snow from Elizabeth May’s cloak. “Oh, I can never get used to this wretched climate. It’s what will kill me in the end,” she said. “Have you come for another herbal poultice wrap to soothe that ankle of yours? Is it bothering you again?”

  “No. Thanks, Lily. Thanks to your good medicine my ankle has not bothered me of late. I’ve come to speak to Miss Pritchard about some news I believe is of importance to her,” Elizabeth May revealed as she hung up her cloak and bonnet on the pegs near the wood-burning stove.

  “The Missus will be up from her midday napping soon. Let me make you a cup of tea in the parlor, and you can wait for her there.”

  “I’d just as soon take it here with you,” Elizabeth May said.

  “If that pleases you,” Lily agreed. “It’s not the proper thing, but Miss Pritchard is not fussy about such as that.”

  Lily made the tea while Elizabeth May told her what she’d learned of the witchcraft accusations. Lily’s cheerful expression melted into a scowl of concern. “No one has come to involve us with such a thing — not yet, anyway,” she said as she put the tea kettle over the iron hot plate atop the burning stove.

  Elizabeth May noticed several cats strolling through the kitchen. A gray tabby cat leaped up onto the table and Lily quickly shooed it off again. “How many cats have you got?” Elizabeth May asked.

  “Oh, I’ve lost count,” she replied. “Miss Pritchard is so good-hearted. She can never turn away a stray. More and more cats seem to be homeless these days. It’s as if people don’t want to be associated with them anymore.”

  Miss Pritchard appeared in the doorway. Her long white hair was loosely splayed over the shoulders of her black robe. Elizabeth May found the white-blue blankness of the woman’s blind eyes unsettling, and made an effort not to stare at them.