The Edge of Mercy
Page 20
I reached for Pete’s hand and it warmed my insides. “It’s not weird. We were young. You probably wouldn’t have expected . . .”
He lifted his other hand to my face, brushed a strand away from my ear and allowed his thumb to trail down my cheek. When he leaned in to kiss me, I met his lips.
I’d never kissed another man besides Matt. I couldn’t help but be surprised by the newness of it, the electric jolts it sent to my many nerve endings.
And still, it was wrong. On so many levels.
I pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s too soon. Just tell me to back off.”
I hiked a deep breath to fill my suffocating lungs. “I don’t want you to back off, and that scares me. I also don’t want to let my marriage go, and that scares me. I still love Matt, Pete. Pretty stupid, huh?”
“If you stopped loving him, it wouldn’t be real love, would it?”
I thought of Caleb, persisting for Elizabeth’s hand despite her unfaithfulness. Yet that was different. I wasn’t in the seventeenth century. Neither me nor Matt would be banished from society over our choices. No one’s life was at stake.
Physically, anyway.
I rubbed my temples. “Dumb love is more like it.”
“Love doesn’t judge well.”
He was right. Love didn’t know practical thinking. It was a free-spirit sort of thing. Uncalculated, unreserved. That’s what made it dangerous. Love couldn’t be controlled. I thought of Elizabeth’s forbidden love for Abram, of Caleb’s unrequited love for her. No, I couldn’t control my love for Matt, or his for me.
And yet, if one felt love for someone outside of marriage, weren’t they expected to control it? Harness it? Leash it or lock it, whatever felt safest? If those first heady feelings of love were allowed to go where they chose, not a marriage would survive.
Marriage required love, but it also sought faithfulness. Perseverance. Belief in the vow taken seventeen years earlier.
Somewhere along the way, Matt and I lost belief in our love. Now, we flirted with trust in someone else’s love. No doubt, someday, that love would also disappoint.
Unless we kept believing.
Matt had stopped believing, but did that mean I must also? If I signed those papers, it would be an acknowledgment of disbelief.
As long as I didn’t sign them, Matt was still my husband. I was still believing in us.
“Let’s go in,” I told Pete. “For now, let’s just enjoy each other’s company. I can’t handle figuring things out anymore. Me and Matt, Cassie and Matt, me and you . . . it’s just too much. I want rest.”
Pete told me he understood. He ushered me into the restaurant, the water shimmering before Aquidneck Island. On the opposite side of that island lay Newport, and my husband. And Cassie.
My own belief had never gotten me far—my trust in God, my trust in myself, and now my trust in my marriage. My faith in all these things floundered like a fish on the shore, its gills stretching for air.
Because belief needed something else—it needed someone else. Belief didn’t walk well alone.
“You don’t have to go, honey.” I stood at the threshold of Kyle’s room, a baseball cap in my hands.
“I know, and just between you and me, I don’t want to go. But things have been tense between Dad and I. He said it, too. He wants me to come for one more weekend, clear the air before school starts and cross country takes up all my time.”
“Sounds wise. And you know, you can always call me if you want to come home. I have no plans besides the museum and hanging out here.”
“Thanks.” He smirked. “I almost have enough for that Chevy down the street. Think if I ask Dad to pitch in, he will?”
I wanted to tell Kyle it was the least he could do, but I clamped my mouth shut, congratulating myself for doing so. “It’s worth a shot.”
He scooped up his duffel bag and followed me down the stairs. From outside the screen door, Matt’s engine rumbled. I hadn’t heard him pull up.
Kyle pecked me on the cheek. “Have a good weekend, Mom.” He opened the screen door. Matt appeared on the step.
“Hey, buddy. I’ll meet you in the car, okay?”
“Sure.” Kyle walked down the path.
Matt stepped inside. “The lilies look nice.”
I’d chosen a more delicate perennial. I’d read somewhere that marigolds were hardy annuals, that they lasted longer than others. I didn’t want something strong and temporary there right now. I wanted something that symbolized how I felt—fragile and delicate, but willing to persevere through many tough winters.
“Thanks.” I hid my left hand behind my back. I still hadn’t taken off Lorna’s ring.
Matt raked his own left hand through his hair where his ringless finger pierced my heart. “Hey . . . I figured while I’m here I’d check to see if you have those papers for me.”
I rubbed the spot between my eyes. “No, I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet. There’s a lot there, Matt.”
He didn’t say anything.
“What’s the rush, anyway? You’re not ready to marry her, are you?”
“Sarah . . .”
“Right, no arguing. But give me some time, will you? I haven’t been the one away for the last two months planning this—”
He cut me off with a curse. “I didn’t plan this.”
“Whatever. The point is I’m going to need to get used to the idea before I sign anything.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
He left without saying good-bye and relief descended upon me when his truck disappeared from sight.
Why did I cling to a lifeless marriage with a man I didn’t even like anymore?
Chapter 27
June 29, 1675
The natives celebrate every night. With much chanting and roaring and singing and dancing and yelling, their perspiring bodies move around the fire with furious movements. Surrounding them are the remains of horses, cattle, sheep, swine, and fowl which they have plundered from our town. They eat of it, and trade English clothes and dinnerware, which they have stolen from the settlement.
I had thought to find adventure among them, but seeing the viciousness, I am filled with disgust. Yet this bloodlust must not be all, for poor Abram was nothing but kind and gentle. And yet I can no longer think of Abram with tender love, for these heathens have even ruined him for me—both his lifeblood and his memory. When I see one among them who resembles my Abram, I hope for kindness but he only sneers at me as he walks past. A bit of the memory I hold of Abram dissolves. So I cling to the image of him at the rock, telling me I am part of his spirit.
I have trained my thoughts to search for the Lord instead of searching for memories of Abram. All is gone. Papa, Abram, Caleb, even the settlement. I know not if Andia or Goodwife Howland still live or if the natives have attacked, plundered, and killed all. I cannot get the sight of John Salisbury’s headless body out of my mind, of Abram’s mutilated form. I am broken. I have only Abram’s God, or I have nothing.
I think often of Caleb, of the fierce and tender love he held for me. My hands are stained with his blood. I imagine what would have become of us had I never fled to the woods, had I never met Abram. My heart is indeed fickle, for it is Caleb I mourn with tenacity. Strange how I so often accused him of being a bore, of being content that nothing surprising happens to him.
How foolish I was. All along, he worked with Abram, and likely others, to secure protection for our village. I realize now he kept the secret for our own safety. I think of the arrow he took to spare my life. I think of how he came to find me, to protect me—alone—and how he must have known how such a mission would end.
How I wish to turn back the hands of time to save Caleb’s life. Yet why is it I mourn him so deeply? Why does my heart not dwell more on my Abram? I fear it is because of the part I played in Caleb’s death. I fear it is because I spurned his ever-giving heart. If it were not for me, he would live.
The natives I am with—Metacomet’s tribe—relocate often. They have joined with Abram’s old tribe—Weetamoo’s. They set up their wigwams and mats in haste but seem to realize that they will not stay in any one place for long.
I wait for my salvation, or death.
June 30, 1675
The natives trade me. This be my third family. They bid me make shirts for their papooses. One of the wives of my master, who often feeds me strawberries and ground-nuts and other victuals, handed me Abram’s Bible today, along with an ink-like mixture I am able to put to use.
I did not realize I lost it in the fray, but somehow she came upon it and gave it to me. ’Tis a kindness I will not soon forget. I am glad to be with this family, who shows more compassion than the others and who even speak a small amount of English.
I suppose it is unfair to group all of the natives as savages, though it is tempting to do so. I oft wonder if Andia’s slave boy thinks any differently of the English.
I cannot ignore the stain of blood on Abram’s Bible. I know not if it be native or English. Our skin colors differ, but I have seen enough of both sides to know our lifeblood runs the same shade.
Most of the beginning of Abram’s Holy Book is stained with the wretched color. It runs red, but dries a deep brown. I am reminded of the animal sacrifices offered up in the Old Testament, whereas the Gospels tell of one sacrifice, and it is the one Abram held most dear.
I wonder what it means for me, a lone girl amid war and ugliness. After my fingers turned raw and numb from sewing the shirts, I was given rest and read from the unstained pages of the Bible. I have read them before, but this time I clung to them. I am drawn to the suffering of Christ. For the first time I feel a kinship with this God of the weak.
I think of Caleb’s sacrifice for me, of his love. I am filled with shame.
Over and over I read, and yet one verse I have found my heart clings to. “And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my power is made perfect through weakness.”
I read this and shed warm tears, for I cannot deny that the words are like sweet balm to my wretched heart. ’Tis nothing but this. ’Tis nothing but His grace and promise and finished work to see me through. ’Tis all I have left to cling to.
July 1, 1675
The English attempted to make contact with the natives today. A gentleman approached the heavily armed natives. “Church,” Weetamoo said. The female sachem was dressed in her English makeup and jewelry, which she usually saved for their rituals. Today, she entertained conversation with Captain Church in her wigwam.
Captain Church wasn’t at all how I had pictured him. No older than Caleb, he looked tired and battle-worn, not the regal bearing I had made out in my mind, but for all appearances’ sake, very much a common man. I made it a point to come out of the wigwam so he could see I was held captive. I hoped he would manage negotiations for my release, but to my disappointment he left, leaving me with scarce a nod of acknowledgment.
The English attempted an attack soon after. ’Twas a poor battle plan, however, for the natives outnumbered them greatly and the English did not seem willing to persevere. My master made me hide in his wigwam. I prayed.
At least Captain Church knows I am here. But are there any left to care? Will Goodwife Howland or Andia persist for negotiations for my release? Will Andia insist Hezekiah help me? Do they even know what has happened to me, or do they assume me dead along with dear Caleb? Worse yet, do they assume my betrayal, knowing my friendship with Abram? Perhaps they have it in their minds to leave me with what I deserve.
I wonder if I shall ever be found.
July 4, 1675
A young native approached my master today, his pockets full of wampum and his hands with English goods. He made plain his intent to take me as a wife.
I read in the Scriptures of the Lord knowing our every struggle. I try to find comfort in this truth, and yet I think to be a captive wife to one of these men would be more than I could abide.
I hid behind my master’s heavyset form, hoping the cloud of pipe tobacco he smoked within his wigwam would secrete me away. My body took up such a fierce perspiring I thought the scent of my sweat would be enough to bid the young native take his leave.
Yet he did not.
My master looked kindly upon me and refused the offer. When the young native left, I fell at my master’s feet and clasped his ankles, thanking him. He seemed uncomfortable with this and bid me go back to making shirts.
I did so with uplifted spirits. I was saved from a worse fate. Surely the Lord does watch over me.
July 11, 1675
We have removed once again a short distance from our previous spot. I know not where we are, but I know the fighting has spread. I hear the war cries from both natives and English. Whatever happened on that Sunday of long ago—could it truly be only weeks?—has spread throughout Massachusetts Bay.
The natives keep up their dancing rituals. My mistress tells me they own many gods, and they call on the name of each one in their pleas for victory. My mistress is partial to Kautantowit, whom she calls the great south-west god. She claims he provides the corn and beans and that all souls go to him at life’s end.
When she asked of my beliefs, I speak to her of the God in my book who shares some of the same qualities as Kautantowit. ’Twas nearly pleasant to share a piece of my heart with this woman. Yet she seemed distraught when I tell her that my God died for me. She shushed me and I went back to sewing shirts.
July 19, 1675
There is a certain type of peace that comes in accepting one’s circumstances. I cannot say I am happy to be among the natives, but I have come to accept my position among them and be glad that I have kind owners.
I have also come to a place where I no longer regret my friendship with Abram. My only guilt is that of Caleb’s demise. I fall asleep each night seeing Abram’s lifeless body and Caleb’s dancing eyes and gentle smile. They each haunt me in different ways.
July 24, 1675
The young native has returned asking my master for me. He looks at my golden hair as if he cannot wait to have it for his own. This time, he brought skins and mats and double the wampum. I feared my master would not be able to resist such a trade.
When he finally said no, the young native, whose name I gather to be Naveen, left the wigwam in a whirlwind of fury. I did not dare to look at my master. He is kind, but he does not love me, nor do I wish for his love. Soon my worth will be better to him in wampum and English trinkets and I will be owned by the young native Naveen.
’Tis not how I envisioned marriage.
God, my Rock, help your daughter.
July 28, 1675
My mistress has taken Abram’s Holy Bible from me and burnt it in their fire. Their dark bodies danced around it and I think for certain the devil must be present.
My mistress took the Bible when I told her my beliefs that there is but one God. She seemed frightened of me and shooed me from the wigwam.
I saw my master enter Naveen’s wigwam soon after. When they came out, Naveen was smiling at me as if I were a piece of tasty lamb he could not wait to devour.
July 29, 1675
Morning
A most wondrous thing has happened this day!
Caleb.
Caleb is alive! I could scarce believe my eyes when he entered Philip’s camp, an escort at his side. I fell to my knees at the sight of him, tall and strong and well. At first I thought I must have mistaken him for another, but he smiled at me and beckoned his escort allow him to come near where I sat outside my master’s wigwam.
I groped for his hand and touched his bearded face. He pulled me to him, kissing the top of my head. I inhaled the scent of woods and musket powder and sweat and cried all the harder.
My tears stuck to his shirt. He asked how I fared, told me how glad he was to see me. I could not speak, thou
gh I longed to tell him how my fickle heart ached for him all these days, how I was sorry to have run away that last time.
He whispered into my ear. “All I wish to do is hold you in my arms forever and take you home, but we must not let them see how badly I want you. ’Twill make negotiations more difficult.”
I nodded bravely and released Caleb. My master bid him inside his wigwam. I could make out their low voices. Caleb spoke the Wampanoag language well, and I thought once again what a fool I had been to think I knew him when in fact I knew so little.
They came out together a short time after. Caleb confirmed what I thought to know. I had been sold to Naveen. He wished to take me as one of his wives. My master said Naveen didn’t want me until my upcoming isolation time was over.
The natives bid the women running their monthly courses into a common isolation tent during this time. I had forgotten my time would come soon, but apparently my master hadn’t. ’Tis why I had not yet been given to Naveen.
Caleb told me he would go and speak with the young native. I watched Caleb enter Naveen’s wigwam and though I made haste lifting great petitions to the Lord that all would go in his favor, my hopes plummeted.
When Caleb came from Naveen’s wigwam, I saw the defeat in his stooped shoulders and grim mouth. They allowed him to approach me, guard in tow.
He ran a hand along my cheek. “I offered him all I have,” he said.
“’Tis all right.” I kept my tears in. “I am only glad to see you are well. I thought they’d killed you. . . . Please forgive me.”
“You are forgiven, little Elizabeth.”
I basked in the glow of his name for me. At the same time, I realized that once again, Caleb was my only hope. “I am to be his wife. Caleb, how will I get along?”