A Gift Upon the Shore

by Wren, M. K.

  Luke came to his feet, took a step toward her, indecision and hope struggling in his eyes. “Mary . . . are you . . .”

  But her attention was fixed apprehensively on the Doctor. She saw a flash of hope break through the angry skepticism like a shaft of sunlight through an iron gray overcast, but it was gone in a moment, leaving nothing but hostile doubt.

  “Your child? Are you saying you’re pregnant?” He reached out, gripped her arm with bruising force. “Are you sure?”

  Mary winced, and she couldn’t stop her trembling. “I’m sure I’ve missed three periods.”

  “But it could be a false pregnancy.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “You don’t think I can test your claim now, do you?”

  “I don’t know or care—”

  “Well, you’re wrong!” And he grabbed the lamp from the mantel and strode toward the examination-room door, dragging her with him. “Come on, Sister. We’ll find out if you’re pregnant!”

  Mary balked, but the last of her anger succumbed to fear when he exerted himself—and it seemed such a small exertion—to pull her into the examination room and slam the door. There, he released her, turned his back on her while he lighted a smaller oil lamp with a round, mirrored reflector. Then he filled a basin with water from a covered pail and began soaping his hands. “Take off your clothes, Sister.”

  She gazed numbly around the room: enameled cabinets, shelves of bottles and boxes, some marked with brand names from Before, and in the center of the room, the narrow, sheet-draped table with the metal stirrups at one end. The smell of alcohol was sharp in the chill air; the steel speculum glittered on a tray by the basin.

  “Sister, I said take off your clothes. For the Lord’s sake, I’m a doctor. Or is there some reason you don’t want me to examine you?”

  She could think of many reasons, but she crossed to the chair in one corner and began undressing. In the days Before, a nurse would have provided one of those silly paper smocks to maintain the illusions of modesty, but the Doctor was too impatient to offer a substitute.

  “Get on the table.”

  And too impatient to offer a helping hand or notice that she was shivering with the cold.

  “Lie back.”

  She had never felt so vulnerable in nakedness. She clenched her teeth when she felt his fingers pressing into her lower abdomen. A physician’s touch had always seemed quite impersonal to her, but this seemed an invasion. And now he was feeling her breasts. She closed her eyes, trying not to flinch. Then she heard him move to the end of the table.

  “Slide down this way.” Two metallic clicks. “Farther. Yes. Feet in the stirrups.” He guided her heels into the stirrups and pushed her knees apart, and she caught her breath, hands locked on the edges of the table. He put the lamp with the reflector in a mount that had undoubtedly been designed for an electric light. She could feel the warmth on the insides of her thighs. She waited, bracing herself for what had to be done, staring up at the grotesque shadow he made on the plank ceiling. The sudden insertion of the icy speculum shocked her into a cry.

  “Be still, woman,” he snapped. “Keep your legs apart.”

  She disciplined her body to stillness while the speculum penetrated slowly, expanding with small ratcheting sounds, and discomfort edged toward pain. Why was he so damnably slow about it? She raised her head, saw him bending between the silhouetted angle of her thighs, saw his face behind the lamp’s glare. “Some women like this,” he said contemptuously.

  Those words were so dense with implications, she was stunned. But she couldn’t deal with that now; she was too frightened, too preoccupied with what had ceased to be mere discomfort.

  “Well, I don’t like it!” she spat out. “Get on with it!”

  He let her know through the speculum that she was not in a position for rebellion. Eyes squeezed shut, she thought of Luke waiting in the next room, thought of screaming loud enough to bring him in here. He wouldn’t believe the Doctor was purposely humiliating her, hurting her, but his presence might stop the humiliation and hurt.

  She fought against her own reflexes, felt small shifts of pressure in the speculum, heard the Doctor occasionally change position.

  No. She wouldn’t call Luke. That would simply delay this game. She could only lie here and endure until the Doctor determined the truth.

  But would he admit it if she were pregnant?

  He’d have to. The truth would be evident to everyone at the Ark in a few months. Unless he exiled her. And if she weren’t pregnant?

  She’d never have another chance at it.

  She felt, through the instrument impaling her, a stiffening, heard the Doctor muttering to himself as the heat of the lamp shifted. Then abruptly he withdrew the speculum, threw it clattering into the basin. She lay gasping for air, only now aware that she’d been holding her breath.

  “The Lord be praised!”

  Mary found herself an incredulous witness to a metamorphosis, a transformation from anger and skepticism to joy verging on exaltation, a restoration of the Doctor as the revered patriarch, radiating benign strength. He offered his hands and pulled her up into a sitting position.

  “Sister, forgive me for doubting you. Yes, you are pregnant. The Lord be praised, you are with child!”

  Mary pressed her hands to her mouth to stop a cry of relief, of triumph for the life within her. She was pregnant, and that revelation put everything in perspective.

  That the Doctor was capable of sadism didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the transcendent truth of this child’s existence. This child would outlive the Doctor, this child would prevail over his memory, prevail over the destruction of a civilization and the potential demise of humankind—this child and its children and its children’s children.

  She began weeping and found in the tears a resolution. The Doctor was courteously solicitous. She should get dressed. She mustn’t get chilled. He’d go tell Luke about the baby. Was that all right? Or would she rather tell him herself?

  No, she didn’t care who told him. The Doctor left the room, and Mary pulled her clothes on, still shivering, still crying. When she got dressed, she stumbled to the door, and Luke was there to hold her, to laugh and cry with her. Then the three of them knelt, and the Doctor prayed for the child, whom the Almighty in His wisdom had sent to join the righteous and to await the Lord’s coming and the sure ascent into His golden realm.

  The Doctor didn’t object, nor even seem to notice, that Mary took Rachel’s sketchbook with her when she and Luke departed.

  When at length Mary lay in their bed warm in Luke’s arms, the euphoria faded. She stared into the darkness, listening for the sound of the sea, hearing nothing but a ringing silence. The rain had stopped.

  “Luke . . .”

  He stirred, kissed her forehead. “Yes, Mary?”

  “Will the Doctor forgive what I said tonight? I mean, before . . . before he found out I’m pregnant.”

  Luke laughed sleepily. “Of course, he will. He told me when women are pregnant . . . well, it’s the hormones, he said. Sometimes pregnant women act a little strange.”

  She found herself bristling at that, yet relieved. And she remembered the Doctor’s abrupt transformation, his patent joy. Hormones. Yes, that could explain her reaction to his examination. She’d probably imagined his antagonism, the purposeful infliction of pain and humiliation.

  Some women like this.

  Had she imagined that?

  It didn’t matter.

  But one thing she couldn’t dismiss so easily.

  “Luke, what about Rachel?”

  He propped himself up on one elbow. “I don’t know why he said such hard things about Rachel. He just didn’t understand. But he will. Let me talk to him.”

  She sighe
d, vaguely aware of Luke’s hand moving under the covers, sliding up her thigh, pushing her nightgown with it.

  “Luke, did you tell him about Rachel’s books—about the vault?”

  “No. I . . . well, I just never got around to that.”

  It simply wasn’t important to him. Mary shook her head, wondering if she should leave it at that. No. She had to be sure.

  “I want you to promise me something.”

  He leaned down to kiss her ear. “Anything you ask, little mother.”

  “I want you to swear to me by everything you hold sacred that you will never tell anyone about the books and the vault—not even the Doctor.” Above all, not the Doctor.

  “But . . . why not, Mary?”

  “Please, just do this for me. Please, Luke.”

  “If you ask it, I’ll do it. I swear by the holy blood of Jesus, who died for my sins, I will never tell anybody about Rachel’s books or about the vault. I swear it, Mary, on the life of our child.”

  She didn’t doubt that he would keep his word. However friable the clay of her keystone, he wouldn’t knowingly break a promise to her.

  And the Doctor wouldn’t live forever. Luke would take his place one day. And this child . . .

  “Oh, Mary . . .” His arms encompassed her, making her feel small and safe. He kissed her, mouth open to hers, finally whispered, “This child is blessed, Mary. This child was conceived in love, as it should be. The Lord can only smile on such a child.”

  She laughed, overwhelmed by sudden exuberance, imagining—feeling—the child within her. She stretched herself against Luke’s body, and he whispered, “Mary, can we . . . I mean, with the baby . . .”

  “Yes, we can.” She reached down the taut length of his belly, feeling the coppery hair soft under her hand, heard his groaning sigh. We can. Tonight we must.

  He was gentle and thoughtful, even playful, and she reveled in it, found delay sweet, teased herself and him through long slow minutes to delicious impatience, to the shivering edge of the euphoria she sought, until at last she lay panting and ready under him. Yet at the invasion of steel-rigid flesh, she recoiled in panic.

  He didn’t understand, and she didn’t want to think about the explanation. She wanted him, wanted the euphoria again. She heard his husky whisper in her ear. “Mary . . . what’s wrong? Did I—”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” She buried her face in the curve of his neck against the warm mat of his beard. “Don’t stop, Luke . . . don’t. . . .”

  Nothing’s wrong. Nothing.

  I am persuaded that diverse of you, who lead the people, have labored to build yourselves in these things; wherein you have censured others and established yourselves “upon the Word of God.” Is it therefore infallibly agreeable to the Word of God, all that you say? I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken.

  —OLIVER CROMWELL, TO THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF

  THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND, August 3, 1650

  The Seth Thomas clangs eight times. The curtains are drawn on all the windows, and the children have been put to bed. Seven candles in an assortment of holders are aligned in the center of the dining-room table to light our deliberations. My joints ache unremittingly tonight. I sit trapped in my fragile, pain-ridden body, gazing at the stack of books at the far end of the table: Miriam’s exhibits in the case for the prosecution.

  At these family meetings Jerry always sits at the west end—the head—of the table, but otherwise there’s no customary seating order. Tonight I chose to sit at the foot of the table. At my right is Bernadette, gray eyes revealing only dispassionate curiosity. Next is Enid, clasping and unclasping her hands anxiously. Then Esther, as motionless as the Benin sculpture she always calls to mind. Miriam has placed herself at Jerry’s right hand. I’m sure she considers that fitting. And Grace sits at Miriam’s right hand. Grace hasn’t once looked directly at me.

  Jerry slumps in his chair, tugging at his beard, his brooding frown exposing his uncertainty. Finally he pulls in a deep breath. “We have a problem to settle tonight.”

  Miriam rises, and in the golden candlelight she is as beautiful as a tigress and as single-minded and incapable of mercy: she recognizes no alternative to her actions.

  She says, “The problem we have to settle tonight, Jeremiah, is our children’s souls. We’ve trusted this woman to teach our children, and she is teaching them blasphemy.”

  Jerry grimaces. “Miriam, I don’t think Mary means to—”

  “Who knows what she means to do? Look at this.” Exhibit A, a historical geology textbook. She paws through it, stops at a time chart. “See what it says here: life begins—three and a half million years ago!”

  “That’s billion, Miriam,” I say, “not million.”

  She glares at me, pushes the book to the center of the table, picks up another, the physiology text I’d given Jonathan to explain human reproduction. “Look at these pictures—men and women naked, showing bodily parts that God decreed in the Garden of Eden should be covered.” That book thumps on top of the other, and I wince.

  The next exhibit is another geology text. “Look at these pictures. Satan’s monsters! And this—” The geology book is tossed on top of the others, slides against a candlestick, and jars a spatter of wax onto the offending illustration of a stegosaurus. The book whose pages she is creasing in her haste is on twentieth-century art. “Look at these devil’s scrawls! Who but a worshiper of Satan could draw people like that?” Les Demoiselles d’Avignon is exposed for the family’s scrutiny as Miriam throws that book down, and if her carelessness is calculated to blind me with outrage, it is approaching success.

  The last book is folio size, bound in gold-stamped linen, filled with color reproductions on thick, satiny paper. She opens it, roughly thumbs through it. “Heathen idols! Every page full of heathen idols!”

  And I say coldly, “Mythology, Miriam, the study of ancient religions and legends, and you will put that book down—carefully—now.”

  Her eyes, narrowed as if to contain the flaring resentment in them, fix on me. She grabs a handful of pages, and the ripping sound is accompanied by the scrape of my chair as I lunge to my feet, by shocked cries from the other women, by Jerry’s, “Stop it, Miriam!”

  She responds to his command, if reluctantly, and I gaze at the beautiful book, its bent, torn pages like the wings of an injured bird. “Was it Jesus who taught you maliciousness, Miriam?”

  “It was Jesus who taught me to hate evil, and these books are full of evil!”

  “You say there’s evil in them, but evil is in the minds of men—and women. There’s no evil in those books!”

  Jerry cuts in. “Be quiet, both of you. You’ll wake up the children.”

  I sink back into my chair, pulse ringing in my ears. Yes, the children, and for them I should be able to keep my temper.

  Miriam is still on her feet, and she’s also thinking of the children. “The Lord gave me my children so I could bring them up to be God-fearing. I won’t have them taught to deny there is a God!”

  I respond, as levelly as I can, “Don’t be ridiculous. Where in those books does it say anything to dispute the existence of god?”

  “Where?” She is triumphant now. “Wherever it says that fiendish creatures walked the Earth, that men came from monkeys!”

  “You’ll never find that in any of these books. Homo sapiens did not evolve from monkeys.”

  That makes her pause, but only briefly. “These books deny the Bible!”

  “Only two of them have anything to do with the evolution of life on Earth, if that’s what you mean, and they’re—”

  “Whatever denies the Bible denies God! The Bible is God’s truth, God’s word, and the only truth there is!”

  I take a long breath, keep my voice steady when I want to rage. “You can
teach the children what you call truth, but I will teach them to recognize reality as best they can.”

  “Truth and reality are the same thing!”

  “No! Reality will not change to conform to your idea of the truth. Reality will not bend, Miriam—not for you or me or anyone else.” I rise, cross to the old spool cabinet on the north wall, and when I return, I place what seems to be a piece of stone in front of Miriam, then go back to stand at the foot of the table. “What is that, Miriam?”

  At first, she seems loath to take her eyes off me, but finally she picks up the stone that is obviously more than it seems. It is a tusklike tooth five inches long, curving to a blunt point, composed of opaque, blue-black agate with the texture of the enamel perfectly delineated.

  The silence is as heavy as the tooth in Miriam’s hand. It is Jerry who breaks it. “Let me see that.” Miriam hands it to him, and he examines it. “Looks like a horn. Or a sea lion’s tooth, except bigger. What is it, Mary?”

  I don’t answer him. “Miriam, what do you say it is?”

  She replies impatiently, “A tooth, I suppose. What difference—”

  “Yes, a tooth. But is that the material of teeth? No. It is stone. That’s a fossil, Miriam, the canine tooth of a saber-toothed cat. And it’s approximately thirty million years old.”

  She laughs harshly. “There! She denies God herself—”

  “Have you ever heard me deny god? You are denying reality, Miriam, and that’s my point. How do you explain this stone tooth?”

  “Somebody carved it out of stone, and it was probably you.”

  “Why? Simply to confound you? And with these hands?” I smile bitterly as I hold up my swollen, misshapen hands. “But what about all the millions of fossils found all over the world—found and cataloged and photographed. Did I carve all of them?”

  “I’ve heard of rocks like that,” she says truculently. “Seashells made of rock. God put them in the high places to test our faith in Him.”

  “Does your god lie?”

  “What? No, of course not, but that—”