by Lara Parker
He turned, and walking back to her, touched her lightly on the arm. “Who are you, my dear?” he said. “What is your name?”
She paused and lifted her eyes to his. Her gaze sent a shiver down his spine. “Why, good sir, you know me. I am called Miranda,” she said. “Miranda du Val.”
SEVENTEEN
Salem—1692
FOR DAYS MIRANDA LAY SICK in Andrew’s bed. A fever bought sweat and she squirmed in the clutch of nightmares. Finally, on the third morning, she woke to a memory instead of a dream. She remembered the day when she had thought in her mind to go to the woods and find this Black Man, the one she would be accused of serving, the one whose book she was certain to have signed. The only books she ever signed were Judah Zachery’s lessons, where she was obliged to make sums to the tune of switches. If she was meant to be the handmaiden to this vile perpetrator, then his home must be in thickets and briars, deep in impenetrable wilderness, and the Wampanoags would know his tracks.
It was past midnight before the house was deadly still, and Goody Collins snoring away. Only then could she climb out her casement and duck behind the barn. Time being precious, and dawn but a few hours hence, she flew. Clouds hung low and there was no moon, and if she had been seen, she would have been taken for a night hawk, or her winged shape an owl’s slow beating shadow.
The Wampanoag camp was easy to find from above; she spotted the fires, and the wigwams scattered among the trees. They had removed since her last visit, as was their way, and now had built a great campground by the river for dances coming into season. So astonished were the warriors by a girl appearing out of the dark, they gathered in arms to face her, and when she asked to see Metacomet they only said, “He is dead.”
“Tell him it is his daughter, Silver Bird.”
“The great sachem’s severed head hangs in the meetinghouse at Plymouth for many years now.”
“Then take me to his body.”
“His body was cut into four quarters and placed in the trees for the ravens.”
“Then take me to his wigwam, and be done with it.”
In awe of her obstinacy, they ran to do her bidding and woke Metacomet, who was glad to see her, and invited her into his hut. He lay on his favorite bearskin and smoked his long pipe, watching her every movement and nodding his approval every now and then, while she built the fire and ground the maize. She had brought honey, tobacco, and three wild duck eggs hidden in her skirts. She warmed a bowl of gruel which she offered to him, and he drank it greedily, his dark skin aglow in the firelight, a sleepy feather hanging from his braid. With his knife he had cut a thin line under each eye and down each cheek; the scars were the abiding tracks of his tears.
Although she feared the dawn, Miranda knew she must be patient. It would never do to broach any subject before preliminaries had been sufficiently discharged. Metacomet, like all Indians—and more than ever now that he was thought to be dead—had few worldly desires, and as a result, an abundance of time. This was opposed to the Puritans who must always be busy at some task, convinced that indolence invites sinful thoughts.
Finally, after Metacomet filled his pipe a second time and leaned back against a deerskin pillow, she spoke.
“These people of Salem, who, as you know, call themselves Christians, have a great fear of a Black Man who dwells in the forest with the wild animals.”
Metacomet nodded as though he understood perfectly. “I have been wondering,” he said. “How does he live? Who feeds him?”
“He is a savage spirit.”
“Ahhh-h-h, I see. Wily and transparent.”
“Yes. An apt description of someone else I know. Why do you hide yourself away when your people need their great sachem more than ever?”
Metacomet rose and went for his pouch decorated with porcupine quills, the one he had kept since she was a child. His legs were bowed and his body stiff with great age and many tattoos. “My father, Massasoit, gave the settlers their first feast. In deference to their English ways, as you know, he named his sons English names. My brother, William and I, King Phillip.” He returned to the bearskin and sat with his legs crossed. “It broke him to see such giftgiving and tokens of respect turn to bitterness and betrayal. At first the Puritans asked and bought. Now they only take.” He opened the pouch and took out the tobacco. With great care, he filled his pipe. “I do not remember the story but the mothers tell it like this. When I was surrounded in the swamp, muskets on all sides, I chose life over honor. I placed my necklace of bear teeth and dewclaws around the neck of another fallen warrior and ran away.”
“So it is his head that hangs in Plymouth?”
“I wish I had chosen one better looking, as it is his head they spit at, and point to, and say King Phillip was a doleful great naked dirty beast.” And he laughed merrily, she thought, until she glimpsed the bitter tears in his eyes. “I can no longer lead, Little Bird. Like the squaw sachem of the Naumkeag who sold her land, that is your town of Salem, to the English. I sold the air I breathe. I am not a sachem, but a dead man, and this is my penance, to remain invisible.” He lay back again and found a comfortable spot in the thick fur. “Now tell me of this Black Man.”
“They say he entices naive women to sign his great book, and in return he promises them those things they desire.”
“Yes, this is true of women. The squaws never tire of skins, or rare shells to make beads, or difficult-to-find herbs for cooking and healing. And always a new wigwam.” He chuckled, his bronze skin crinkling like dead leaves. “This Black Man grants wishes, bestows gifts, strong children?”
Miranda was confused. “No. For those things they pray to God.”
“Ah yes, the God they would have us worship in our dancing.”
“You know of Him?”
“Those who speak in their meetinghouse have come to us and I admire them for their courage, for we could knock them on the head. But they are determined to persuade us that their God lives somewhere, not in the sun and the stars and the rain, but in another part of the sky, the empty part.”
“Yes, the God of all creation.”
“They tell a story of a man and a woman and a snake, about a tree of knowledge. You know this story?”
“Of course.”
“It is a very interesting story. We like it very much. There is a man eating an apple the woman gave him, and that is the beginning of mischief in the world. This makes sense. Then the first warrior, named Christ, is obliged to repair this wickedness with miracles and suffering. One of our warriors agreed it was foolish to eat apples which were bored through with worms. It is much better to crush them into cider.”
“So you were persuaded by the story?”
“Yes, and we thanked them for coming so far to tell us stories they have heard from their mothers. In return, we told them a story, the story of two brothers who are starving, a favorite of mine. You know this story?”
“Tell it me.”
Metacomet took a puff from his pipe and leaned back, preparing to expound. “Two braves were hungry and they feared death would come soon. Then at last the brothers tracked and killed a deer; they did this. They built a fire to broil a piece of the hindquarter. Just as they were ready to eat, a beautiful woman came down from the clouds and sat on a hill behind them. They said to one another, ‘It is a spirit that has smelled our broiling venison. We should offer some to her.’ They cooked the tongue and gave it to her; this they did. She liked the taste very much and said to them, ‘I will reward you for your kindness. Return to this spot in fourteen moons and you will see what I have brought you.’ In fourteen moons they returned to that spot and were surprised to find maize growing where her right hand had touched the ground, and kidney beans where her left hand had touched the ground, and where her backside had sat on the hillside, they found tobacco. These are the crops that from our ancient times our people have cultivated to great advantage.”
“How did the Puritans like your story?”
Metacomet laughed s
o hard his body shook all over. “They did not like it.”
“Why?”
“They say to us.” Metacomet drew himself up in imitation of the Reverend and spoke in a self-righteous tone. “ ‘We have told you sacred truths, and you have given us fables and falsehoods.’ ” Metacomet laughed again. “I reminded them they were forgetting the rules of common civility. ‘We believed your story,’ I said. ‘Why do you refuse to believe ours?’ ”
Miranda smiled. “They are afraid of the Devil,” she said.
“I think the Puritans worship a jealous and demanding God. Do not make the same mistake, Sisika. Do not choose as your god someone who serves your narrow vision of the world. I would be happy if a great warrior in the sky, someone very like myself, cared for my people and gave answers to all the mysteries. Someone I could smoke a pipe with by the fire and discuss the ruling of the world. That would make me happy. But there is no big strong warrior like this. We Wampanoags would not be so vain to imagine one. The Great Spirit is neither man nor woman, neither beast nor human, nor smoke, nor water, nor air. But when you stand in the forest among the great trees, if you watch a stag lift his head from the stream, or see the partridge disappear into the brush, when you hear the eagle’s call, then you tremble. The Great Spirit is there, in the breeze that makes a small tongue of every leaf and blade of grass, whispering of earth’s bounty and asking nothing in return.”
Miranda grew serious. “Is there a story of a Black Man?”
Metacomet shook his head. “We have only the stories and songs remembered by our mothers.”
“Have you seen a Black Man in the forest?”
Metacomet thought for a moment. Then he took a long drag from his pipe, and, as he blew the smoke into the air between them, he looked deep into Miranda’s eyes. “This Black Man is not in the forest,” he said. “He lives among you. In Salem Town.”
BECAUSE SHE FEARED DISCOVERY, Miranda began to find ways to hide her whereabouts. She searched the deep forest for the secrets of concealment, and when she heard the snake’s whisper in the leaves before she saw it, she gathered birch leaves—heart-shaped, ratchet-edged—into her skirt, and placed the tip of one leaf over the stem of the next, and secured it with a thorn from the Devil’s Walking Stick. In this way she wove a long green snake a hundred feet in length, and she laid it gently in the stream. Fastening it to a dipping willow branch to give it motion, she cast a spell of invisibility. The green snake meandered down through little rills and curled around rocks, and Miranda hoped it would keep them safe, she and her Andrew.
Next, she saw the yellow eyes of a raccoon before she could find his shape, and so she gathered golden dandelions now in season and made tight nosegays which she stuck in every hollow in the rocks, every cavity in the ground, whether it be the opening to an animal’s den or simply the way the rain flowed. The bright bouquets stole the light from the sun and shone like tiny lamps all through the night.
Finally, because the trees writhed in the wind, she made silent trees of rock. Andrew came to watch, now curious, and she needed his strength to move the largest boulders. With levers and prying poles, they rolled the stones into position and she built totems, adding rock over rock in decreasing size until she reached the top, and there she placed a tiny pebble. Together, she and Andrew built these guardians, alongside every path or game trail, and they were powerful and invisible.
IN THIS WAY, they lived in peace. During the daylight hours, Andrew hunted and brought home rabbit and quail, at times a beaver or a duck. She scouted furtively for wild grains, acorns, or berries; her days with the Wampanoags still in her memory, she knew how to live in the forest. She swept the floor of Andrew’s hut until it hardened to a shine, wove cattail rushes for rugs, mended the roof beam with thick grass mats, sewed pine needle pillows, and saw life as it could be.
Still, her restlessness grew. It was stifling to remain hidden, to live in fear. If someone from the village wandered down their path, she drew inside the hut, heart pounding, and breathed a silent prayer to the stone trees, the tiny suns, the green snake, to deflect curiosity, to quell suspicion. Andrew nailed slats over the windows so that she could keep watch but not be seen.
The days were full of toil, but the nights were dreary. She had thought Andrew loved her, but he feared her as well, not understanding her, he who was fearless. Once, he told her, and the story was well known in the village, he had crawled inside the body of a bear, to retrieve the liver and the heart. He could stalk a moose or trap a black fox, but there was timidity in him. Once she caught him looking at her as they sat by the fire.
“What is it, Andrew?”
“Have you bewitched me, as well?” he said.
And she went to him and held his face to her breast.
Andrew was obliged to go to town for bullets, tin, and a little honey, among other necessities. While there, he kept his head down and spoke to no one; but he listened to the gossip and returned with the news.
“Goody Olcott is in the stocks.”
“Not her head?”
“Aye, and her hands, her big hindquarters wagging in the air.”
“What is her crime?”
“She flaunted a red scarf on the Sabbath.”
“What other news is there?”
“Charges brought forth in the meetinghouse.”
“More hangings?”
He nodded gravely. “As I walked home by way of Gallows Hill, I saw three poor souls dangling, their necks broken, their shoes thrust out of their skirts.”
Often the charges were vague: Worms found in the cow dung. Milk soured before it turned to butter in the churn. A cow bloated and died. Cherries shriveled before they ripened. Tightly woven baskets loosened and came unraveled. Paper caught fire in the stove where no paper had been. A woman’s hair fell out. Another woman grew a goiter the size of a squash.
Other times they spoke in sober tones of more baleful signs:
Two dogs were tried and hung for witchcraft. Shingles blew off the roofs. The child at her slate forgot her sums. A lamp filled with soot. Mold grew on the bread, green and feathery. Doors flew open, locked doors. The cover of the soup kettle went missing.
Some happenings were beyond comprehension.
A young mother’s milk turned to tar in her breast. A mirror showed someone it was not. A dead bird was found in the pig’s trough. A green worm in a kitten’s nostril. The cow’s hooves grew soft. A lamb born with two heads. Rats ate a newborn baby laid in the cradle. The moon turned blood red and disappeared.
“Cotton Mather has come from Boston to judge the proceedings,” Andrew told her. “His father has written a great book that reveals the methods for discovering witches.” He gave her a sly look as he said these words, and she felt uncomfortable under his gaze.
“You mean he can decipher who has signed the Devil’s book?” She hoped he found her statement as absurd as it was meant. But Andrew retained his sour, expressionless tone.
“He puts great store in spectral evidence.”
Suddenly she knew he was taunting her, in his own way. He could never be quick or devious, but there was some poison in him that made him unkind.
“Spectral evidence . . . what is that?”
“When the girls cry out, they point to a woman in the dock, insist they are pinched by her, or they say they see a little yellow bird in the minister’s hat.”
“What is the little bird?”
“That would be her tormenting spirit. If the accused turns her head to the side, they are obliged to turn their heads also. And if she sucks in her cheeks or wrings her hands, they do the same, as if bewitched.”
“But they do it for sport, surely.”
“Would that it were sport, lass. It is deadly serious. All Betty Parris must say is she saw the figure of Rebecca Nurse or Martha Corey standing over her bed in the night, and they are arrested as witches.”
He looked at her again in that same suspicious manner, but she ignored him and went to heat the water for
the bedpan. As she stirred the coals beneath the pot she felt his eyes on her.
Because they were not married, they did not lie together. Andrew gave Miranda the pine needle mattress and he slept on a blanket by the hearth, his back to her. She would wake at night and see his form in front of the fire, his tall shoulders and his narrow hips, a man in the shape of a plow. She watched him breathe. Why did he not reach for her, and she so close, a few feet across the room? Was he unmoved by desire? Was one moment of rude forcing in the wood to be her only adventure? She thought better of chastising him and said nothing. Nor did she make another spell.
Instead she hoed and reaped his small garden, telling herself what a clever man he was to plant beans where they could climb the tall stalks of corn, and squash plants to cover the ground in between, shading the roots from the sun with their broad leaves. She prepared a new plot for fall seed with a plow Andrew made for her from the shoulder of a deer. She made hominy cakes from the maize they grew, and searched for wild artichokes and mushrooms under rotted logs. Why did he not reach for her?
Finally the day came when she fastened her bodice and it was tighter than the day before. She thought perhaps it was the wild apples she had stewed, but her breasts were tender and her monthly bleeding had stopped.
When Andrew noticed the swelling about her waist, he grew more sullen. Never talkative, now when they crouched by the fire at night, he did not speak a word to her. She tried to reassure herself that his nature was to be stubborn and mute, that in two months, when she came of age, the banns would be published. There would be shame and banishment, but her deepest hope was that they could escape to her farm. Perhaps, if they proved themselves to be God-fearing people, church-going and devout, they would be drawn again into the fold. Still, Andrew’s silence frightened her. He sat by the fire with his eyes aflame and unblinking and his jaw set, and thought his cold, invisible thoughts, while she secreted away the fear in her heart.