Light of Her Own

by Callaghan, Carrie

  “We won’t be disturbed?” Maria glanced out the open door to the small garden wilting in the heat.

  “Paulus and Catharina never come on Sundays, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or rarely enough that I’m not worried. And I’m allowed to entertain guests anyway, so don’t trouble yourself. We’re fine.” He smiled, a soft expression that didn’t show his teeth. Maria looked more closely at his face and realized his fine cheekbones and arched eyebrows must have been handsome when he was young.

  “I’m not sure where to start,” Maria said.

  “Wherever you like. I’m here to listen and see how I can help. Abraham said you had an idea.”

  “It’s me who should be doing the helping. That’s what I want, really, to help. To find a way to help you.”

  “I’m fine. This cursed sickness is one of the many ways my soul might find its way to rid me of this old body. But it’s the little ones.” His gray eyes clouded over, and he looked at the floor. “I don’t like to let myself hope for something better for them. But when Abraham said—”

  “Are there many children here?”

  He shook his head. “We’re not a crowded house. There are five children, including my two grandchildren. A few more of us older people. The rest look my age, but they’re some ten or twenty years younger. Anna, I think she’s got some other sort of sickness. But she’s welcome here nonetheless.”

  “Anyone’s welcome,” Maria suggested.

  “The Administrator has the final word, as he pays for the food, on top of what the city provides. But that seems to be the rule. It’s just that not many, even the most desperate, want to take their chances with us.”

  She nodded. “I’d like to see what I can do to ease your burden. Though I don’t know if I can remove the disease. I don’t want to promise.”

  Gerrit reached his hand toward her but let it fall short, still wrapped in his sleeves. “I’d be grateful. Even if you help them breathe a little better, that would be a relief.”

  “I should see them, I guess. To see what I can do.” Her stomach clenched at the thought. It was easier to consider the agony of the sufferers in this house if she had only her imagination to conjure their lesions. But if she was to be a healer, she had to face the sick.

  “Magdalena, Jacob, come in here,” Gerrit called.

  The children materialized almost immediately, like they had been lurking outside the kitchen. The girl, taller than her brother, gave a guilty smile as she looked up under her long eyelashes. The boy ran toward his grandfather and then skidded to a stop when he saw Maria. Both children were thin, with dull hair the color of winter grass, but their blue eyes sparkled with life. The only sign of the disease on their faces was a pale smudge ringed by a pink rash on Magdalena’s left cheek and a mottled white stain on Jacob’s upturned nose. Maria exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  “Come here,” she said and held out a hand. Both children stepped closer, but they remained out of reach. What a selfish person she was, she thought, to fear these creatures. Her guilt uncoiled from her chest like a snake reaching down from a tree branch. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she stood and approached the children. She crouched down and took the girl’s arm in her hand. It was fine to feel fear. The girl was scared too.

  “May I see your arms?” she asked.

  Magdalena nodded and rolled up her sleeves. Beneath the coarse linen were white sores like fine scales burned into her pink skin. Maria took a deep breath and pressed one with her fingertip.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Magdalena shook her head. “I barely feel it,” she whispered.

  “I see.” Maria pulled the girl’s sleeve back down but continued to hold her hand. Magdalena’s eyes grew wide and then filled with tears. How long had it been since an adult had held the child’s hand? Even Gerrit, with his fingers as they were, might not want to grasp his granddaughter’s hand. Magdalena squeezed, first gently and then with a fierce intensity that reminded Maria of Judith. She pulled the girl into a hug and then reached out an arm for her brother. She held the two children quietly as they sobbed into her bodice.

  “I can make you something to ease the discomfort,” she said, her cheek alongside Magdalena’s bound hair. She looked up to Gerrit. “I’ll need to go to the apothecary to get some quicklime. I’ll slake it with water.” She hesitated.

  “I’ve grown some black hellebore,” he said, his face still but his eyes bright. “And chamomile, calendula, and sweet flag.”

  She leaned back a bit from the children, though she didn’t release them. “Where did you get such plants? And how did you know?”

  “I was a horticulturalist, once.” He shrugged. “When we moved here, I brought some of my plants with me. Particularly the ones I thought might be of use. Do you think they could help?”

  Maria squeezed the children once more and then stood. “The black hellebore, certainly, and perhaps the sweet flag. I was thinking first a plaster of the slakened quicklime and then a poultice of the herbs. But I’ll need oil—linseed oil is best, though I know it’s hard to find. Beeswax to bind it.”

  “There’s loads of oil here,” Jacob said, speaking for the first time. His voice had the bright ring of fine glass.

  Magdalena and Gerrit glanced at him, and Gerrit pursed his lips. “We’re not supposed to talk about it,” he said. “But. Damn the man. You say you need linseed oil?”

  “It’s the best, as far as I know.”

  “Then you’ll want to see this.”

  Confused, Maria followed him deeper into the house and then up the cramped wooden stairs. The children trailed behind them, first whispering, then giggling. Another younger girl joined them.

  When they reached the third story, Gerrit pulled out a stool, reached up, and swung open a hatch to the attic. A cloud of hot air poured out, and he pulled a sliding ladder down.

  “Careful on your way up.”

  Maria hesitated, unsure about how to climb in her skirts and whether this deeper violation of Paulus van Beresteyn’s regency was worth the risk. But she had come this far. She put her hands to the roughly hewn wood and slowly pulled herself up the ladder. The children stayed below.

  In the attic, the steeply pitched roof hung close to her head, and she had to crouch to avoid the supporting rafters. There was hardly any room to stand, for the floor was filled with small wooden casks. Nearly every inch of planking was packed, two or three high, with casks bound by iron bands and displaying seared brands of the Van Beresteyn insignia. Many had additional markings, which Maria could not recognize. By her feet lay a pile of dark rags, and she picked one up. Gerrit, who stooped next to her, watched as she inhaled. The heavy scent of linseed filled her nose, and she dropped the rag.

  “There was a leak when they loaded the last ones up here,” he said.

  “They?”

  He shrugged. “No one I know.”

  The sweat ran down Maria’s temples, and the space grew stifling as though she and Gerrit were sucking out whatever air the heat had not destroyed. Her thoughts seemed similarly congealed. She knew the painters were suffering a shortage of linseed oil to bind their pigments, and yet here was enough to supply the whole town. She grew nauseous as the meaning dawned upon her.

  “You knew this was here?” She narrowed her eyes as she stared at Gerrit.

  He seemed taken aback. “Yes, of course, I saw them load it up here.”

  “And you didn’t tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell Abraham?”

  Without exposing his hands, he wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead. “I don’t understand. Why would I tell him? The Administrator made it clear that this was a private matter of his, not to do with the leper house. Abraham has no need to clean up here or manage any of these casks.”

  “I apologize.” She pressed a hand against her forehead. “Of course you don’t understand. His sister and the other painters. They need this oil.”

  “
His sister? I know nothing of painting, or why she or anyone else would need these barrels. Until you mentioned oil, I hadn’t thought of this at all.”

  Maria plucked at the neck of her shift in hopes of generating a breath of breeze against her chest.

  “Can you help me with this one?” She bent down to lift one cask lying on its side atop a second.

  Gerrit approached, hesitated, and then wrapped his covered arms around the heavy barrel. It was small, so his arms encircled the barrel below hers. They seemed to breathe the same air until Maria, though ashamed, held her breath, and they heaved the cask from its side to upright.

  “We’ll have to get Abraham up here to open it,” she said. “I don’t trust myself to hammer off that top band and not send the whole thing flying. He’ll know how to put it back and make it look like no one’s touched it.”

  “That’s fine,” Gerrit said. “Though if this is related to painters, are you sure that’s wise? I mean, his sister, and . . . I am not fond of Paulus van Beresteyn, but I live here. It’s the best leper house in the United Provinces, in my opinion. I don’t want to take the children anywhere else.”

  Maria wiped another rivulet of sweat from her forehead and briefly touched his shoulder.

  “Abraham can keep a secret,” she said. “Until we can figure out what the story is with Paulus and the oil, it’s no harm if it sits here a little longer. Particularly when we can borrow a little.”

  He nodded and, after a pause, gestured toward the exit. Without further discussion, they descended. Maria breathed the relatively fresh air of the second story with a heave of relief. It was strange that the heat of Hell should accumulate in the rafters rather than down below, but then perhaps that made Hell itself all the more terrifying.

  Magdalena and Jacob stood on the landing waiting for them, and Maria smiled to clear her thoughts. The girl gave a shy smile in return before they both ran down the stairs and out into the yard.

  “I’ll be back soon with Abraham,” she said to Gerrit.

  “Today?”

  “Perhaps. I’d like to get started. These children need all the help I can offer, and there’s no sense in waiting a minute longer than we need.”

  He nodded, and Maria thought she saw a tension in his shoulders fall away. Then he turned to store the ladder and close the hatch to the attic.

  Chapter 36

  IN A CORNER OF PIETER Molijn’s empty, sun-filled work-shop, Judith found a barrel of linseed oil. A large one, a generous supply for one workshop, but nothing that could explain the citywide shortage. She took its measure, nearly full, and then she left the barrel as it was. The little dog followed her around the quiet house, its nails tapping along the wooden floorboards and bright tile floors as she moved from room to room.

  She was in the kitchen at the rear of the house, checking again in the pantry for any sign of a false wall or other concealment, when she heard the front door open. The dog ran, gleefully yapping, out of the kitchen and toward the front. She could hear a voice, muffled by the intervening rooms, greeting the beast with a bemused tone.

  Judith rushed to the back door. Her heart pounded, and as she ran, her hand clipped the edge of a pewter plate. It flipped up and clattered to the floor.

  Silence engulfed the house. Then, footsteps.

  She leapt to open the back door. She ran out, and it did not latch behind her, but she kept running down the small flight of stairs and into the patio garden. Behind her she heard a deep voice calling out.

  “Who is that? Stop, you!”

  She skidded around the corner, hopefully before the man, presumably Pieter, could exit the kitchen. She ran down the narrow pathway between the houses, out the gate, and into the street.

  Upon entering the street, she froze. Men and women were walking home from church, and they stared at her, taken aback. She thought for a moment, then she ran.

  When Judith arrived home, she was damp with sweat and shaking. Upon closing her own door behind her, she sagged against it, her boots muddy. She sank to the floor, giggling.

  “Judith, I—” Abraham walked up and then paused, regarding her. “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t believe I made it, it’s just . . .” She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. “I was running and then walking, but no one saw me. I mean, no one saw me leave Pieter’s house. I broke in, Abraham! Can you believe it? But listen, what I saw proves it, you see?” She grabbed his sleeve. “He had a barrel of oil. A full barrel! No one else I’ve spoken to has that much. That proves there’s something going on, some sort of conspiracy, like Frans said. And I’ll find the proof of it. I’ll find it and expose them.”

  “Judith, you what? You broke into someone’s house?” He lowered his arm out of her grasp.

  “Not really. I walked inside; it wasn’t locked. But are you listening? The other painters, the Guild leaders. They are conspiring. To squeeze the rest of us out of business.” She glanced around to make sure neither of the boys were listening, and she saw no one. She hoped they were visiting their friends, the other young apprentices, as they usually did on Sundays. The rowdy boys she had never fit in with.

  “You broke in. You entered someone’s house.” He rubbed the scarred back of his hand and took a step away from her.

  “Abraham, I . . .” Her voice grew quiet. She looked down at her feet and then up to meet his gaze. “I never criticized you for what you did.”

  “You didn’t need to, Judith. You were ashamed of me.” His face grew pale.

  “It was different, what I did now. No, I mean, what you did doesn’t matter, it’s all fine.” The lie she could offer hung at the back of her throat, but she could not force it out. She could not deny her shame.

  “I dishonored our family name, whatever was left of that. And then you go out and do nearly the same thing. Really.”

  Abraham narrowed his eyes as he considered her. Then he pushed her to the side and walked out the front door. When he slammed it behind him, the house shivered and fell into silence.

  Chapter 37

  AFTER SHE LEFT THE LEPER house, Maria walked around town, delaying her return to her father’s home. She had been back at her childhood home a month now, since the day he took her home. When they arrived at his house after walking silently through Haarlem that day, he stood in the entry hall where, with the midday light shining down, his face held the shadows. He looked old. It was the first time Maria had thought of him as old. It was as though she could feel the fragility of his life, like an eggshell newly drained of its egg and resting lightly in her palm. Each night since returning, she brought him his pipe. One night, after delivering the tobacco, she wandered through the dim workshop. A few paintings stood propped on easels or drying against the wall. A shallow bowl of linseed oil lay next to the grinding stone, awaiting pigments. She had imagined taking the stone and crushing her fingers beneath it, pulverizing her skin, bone, and blood to make a paste. But she reached a hand inside her sleeve to caress the tender scars there, and she walked away.

  Maria sidestepped a puddle of horse urine. In the heat, the odor wafted up more strongly than usual, and she grimaced. She wondered how all that linseed oil would smell if someone spilled it all out and let it drip through the floorboards and rafters through the house. Maybe such a shower might prove curative for the poor lepers. She tried to calculate how many guilders an attic full of linseed oil would fetch, but her mind quailed at the effort. A lot, certainly. More than Judith could hope to earn in five years, or maybe her lifetime.

  Maria tucked a sweaty strand of dark hair back behind her ear. Did Judith intend to spend her lifetime painting drinkers and dreaming of unattainable commissions? She didn’t know anymore what Judith wanted.

  She should tell Judith about the oil. In spite of her smoldering bitterness, she owed Judith that much. Maria walked past a woman sitting by her open entryway and mending a sock while a child in a dirty smock tapped a cup with a stick. There were greater p
roblems in the world than Maria’s pain, and she needed to learn to release her pride. Though perhaps Judith should sacrifice hers. Maria had sacrificed so much already. She bit her lip.

  After a few hours of walking, she turned toward Judith’s house and could nearly see it from across the broad main square when she spotted Abraham hurrying across the paving stones. She hitched up her skirt and rushed to catch him.

  “Abraham!”

  He paused and squinted as he looked across the square. She gave a small wave and ran a few steps before calling out his name again.

  He recognized her, she could tell, and he stood to wait, though his features still twitched with some sort of restlessness. With anger, she saw when she reached him.

  He shook his head as if they had already been having a disagreement.

  “There’s nothing left to say to her, Maria.”

  Maria nudged his elbow and walked in step with him, moving away from the curious basket vendor leaning over his wares to listen.

  “Judith?” she asked, though she knew.

  “She takes me into her house to make me feel guilty about what I’ve done, the crime I’ve already paid for. More than she knows, Christ’s blood. I came back to Haarlem on my own. Simply to apologize to the man who owned the tulip bulbs. But Maria, you’ve seen how she looks at me. Like I’m some filthy secret to hide away, as if the blacksmith on Lombartsteeg were going to turn his nose up at her paintings because of me. I didn’t even steal anything, Maria! I broke into a house, same as her.”

  They were walking past the high walls of Grote Kerk, and Maria stopped. “Same as her?”

  “It’s incredible, isn’t it? She has the gall to make me feel like sewage for breaking into a man’s house, and then she sneaks right into an artist’s house. I think she was looking to take a jug of the oil or something. And she tried to laugh it off, as if what she had done was nothing.”

  Abraham looked up at the cathedral’s single tower, and they stood too close for Maria to see the crucifixes upon its pinnacles. When he looked back down, tears shone in his eyes.