The Dumb Shall Sing

by Stephen Lewis

  The rain now began to pelt down with a fury, and the wind blew toward shore. The waves, driven by the wind, rose and threatened every moment to drive them toward the English. The little craft dipped into each trough and then seemed to soar toward the crest of the next wave. Massaquoit paddled like one possessed. Margaret plied her paddle to the limit of her strength and then continued past exhaustion. The canoe made torturous progress away from the shore, and then as both tired, their efforts did no more than keep it from being driven in. Massaquoit laid his paddle down, and reached forward to touch Margaret’s shoulder. She shrugged him off and kept paddling until he squeezed harder. She turned to him.

  “Stop, for now, and rest. The English must have gone home now. They will think we are drowned.”

  She pulled her paddle into the canoe and slumped forward. He did not think the English would give up so easily, but he saw no reason to alarm her any more than she already was. They both needed to regain their strength. And he had felt the wind shift slightly, so that now it blew at an angle to the shore. It would drive them in, yes, but at such an angle that if they did nothing, they would land a mile or two away from the English. He sat still and watched the waves as they floated before the wind.

  The rain was now only a drizzle and the black clouds had started to break apart. They were a quarter of mile off shore, but hidden from the place from which they had launched the canoe by a small headland around which the wind and current had taken them. Margaret picked up her paddle.

  “You told your friend that we were going to Paumonok. That is not the name of the island you told me.”

  “You need not concern yourself,” he said. “We are going where I said. But Wequashcook has lived long among the English, so that maybe he has forgotten the color of his skin.”

  “You think he will tell them where we are headed?”

  “He might.”

  “He will take them to Paumonok.”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled, and began to paddle.

  * * * *

  The island, at first no more than a black protuberance on the horizon now loomed larger, showing the green of its vegetation. Directly ahead of them, the golden yellow of a beach emerged from between the blue of the water and the green of the trees. Gulls swooped overhead and called to each other. Margaret began to paddle with more enthusiasm.

  “I will never be so happy to have my feet touch the good earth,” she said.

  Massaquoit dug his paddle into the water and held it on the right side of the canoe as Margaret continued to propel the craft. His paddle acted as a rudder and the canoe’s head turned to the right. When the canoe was headed parallel to the shore, he resumed paddling. She turned to him, dismay darkening her features.

  “We were headed toward a beach,” she said. “I’m tired and hungry, and I want to lift my poor body out of this boat.”

  “As we could see that beach so easily, so could the English.”

  “But you said they would not follow us,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe not, maybe later. Why take the chance?”

  They continued in silence on a course that kept them a hundred or so yards off shore. Massaquoit steered them in a little closer, and they could see a great blue heron standing motionless in the shallow water. From time to time, it jabbed its beak into the water, but apparently was not having any luck catching the fish it was after. Massaquoit pointed at the heron.

  “We will steer toward him,” he said.

  “I have eaten the turkey that the English have become so fond of. Do you eat that bird as well?” she asked.

  “Would you believe me if I said the bird, because its blue color is the color of Father Sky is sacred to my people?”

  “Sure, I would. I know you savages worship all sorts of creatures, because you are not better instructed in the true faith. If you were, you would know there is only one Father, the Father of our Lord, who died for our sins.”

  “Is your god in those beads?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “And mine is not in that bird. The truth is I would eat that great blue bird if I was hungry. But it is not the bird I am interested in, but what is behind him.

  They were now closing in on the heron, which seemed not to notice their presence. But then, when they were still fifty or so yards from it, it stretched its huge wings, and beat the air, still heavy from the storm. The bird rose, slowly, and gained altitude with difficulty. When it was fifteen or so feet off the ground it turned toward the island and disappeared behind a hillock covered in straggly pine. They continued in the direction that would take them to where the heron had been standing. They paddled past the spot, directly toward the shore. The water was no more than a foot deep here, and the canoe began to scrape the bottom. Margaret lifted her paddle out of the water and turned to Massaquoit.

  “Are we going to stop now?” she asked, and turned back to the shore. “There is no beach here.”

  Massaquoit stroked the water gently with his paddle, his eyes studying the foliage along the shore.

  “Those great blue birds hunt for their dinner near hidden little inlets. I know there is one near here. That bird that served as a marker for me.”

  He guided the canoe a few feet to the right and toward a narrow arch formed by overhanging branches of two cypress trees. The arch was only three or four feet above the surface of the water, and just wide enough to accommodate a heron, or a canoe. Margaret ducked as they slid beneath the branches. Massaquoit leaned forward until his body was parallel with the water, and he continued to paddle. The depth of the water had decreased to only a few inches, so he wound up poling them through the opening. The canoe bounced along the rocky bottom, but on the other side of the arch, the water deepened into a shallow pond bordered by cedar.

  “We need to push,” he said.

  He clambered over the side of the canoe and reached his hand up for Margaret. She grasped his wrist and started over the side. The canoe tipped and she slid into the water. She stood up with marsh grass hanging from her cap. She spit out a mouthful of water.

  “You could have held it steady,” she said.

  He pointed to an opening in the cedar.

  “Over there.”

  He stood at the rear of the canoe and waited while Margaret shook the water out of her eyes and then grabbed the bow. They slid the canoe onto a little incline of mud and sand. He pointed to an opening in the trees through which the thin strand of beach could be seen.

  “We may have to leave in a hurry,” he said, “without being seen.”

  She sat down on the side of the canoe and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

  “I am very hungry,” she said.

  ‘Do you know how to cook with corn meal?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have learned since I have been in this wild country.”

  “Good,” he replied. “Then we will be able to eat if we do not find Minneseewa.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Phyllis paced in front of the table at which Catherine sat.

  “Do you think you could stand or sit still?” Catherine asked.

  “I think better when I walk about.”

  “Well, then, walk as far as you need to, and when you have thought of something we can give to that poor woman, come back and tell me.”

  Phyllis paced for a few moments more and stopped.

  “Beer,” she said. “To loose her tongue.’

  Catherine began to chortle in dismissal of such an outrageous idea, but then she stopped herself. She stood up and walked to the shelf where she kept her remedies in jars, boxes, and cloth bags.

  “Well, thank you very much,” she said to Phyllis. “You have been an inspiration. The wonder is why I couldn’t think of it myself.”

  Phyllis began to smile, and then her expression turned to confusion as she watched Catherine touch each container in turn, as though to confirm that it might be what she sought.

  “Excuse me
,” Phyllis said, “but I thought you said that giving Martha Jameson beer to loose her tongue was an excellent idea.”

  Catherine looked up but did not immediately respond.

  “There is no beer among those things you are looking at,’ Phyllis said.

  “Why, of course not,” Catherine replied. She picked up a cloth package and laid it on the table. “But there is this.” She opened the cloth to display a desiccated and brown mushroom. She shook her head. “This will not do. We will need to gather some fresh. Cook them into a stew. That might be just the thing. It had better be, for if it fails, I know not what else to try.”

  “But the beer,” Phyllis said, “an excellent idea.”

  Catherine clapped her on the shoulder.

  “And indeed it is, for it made me think of this remedy, which otherwise I would never have recollected.

  Phyllis next to the table, her shoulders drooped in defeat. Just then, a soft knock came at the door. When Phyllis did not rise to answer it, Catherine opened the door, and there stood Ann Jameson, her face puffy and bruised. Catherine pressed her fingers gently against the girl’s cheek. She winced and stepped back.

  “Why child, what has happened to you?”

  “My father sends me to ask when you are to return with a remedy for my mother. He says he fears you are the cause of her illness, and he wants you to fix it.”

  Catherine cupped the girl’s chin

  “Did he beat you, then?” she asked.

  “No, he did not.”

  “Somebody did.”

  The girl looked over her shoulder as though she feared that she had been followed.

  “You are safe here,” Catherine said.

  “After you left, Ned sat under that tree and watched me as I stacked the wood. He was supposed to help me, as he is a big strapping lad, and I am only a girl, but he did not. And so I just worked, stacking the logs, and he watched, and then when I put the last log on the very top of the stack, he walked toward me. The pile was quite high by then, and I found it difficult to lift that last log as high as my head, and I thought he was coming at last to help me. But he just placed his hand on the log and pushed down until I was on my knees. I said I would tell my father, and then he hit me, hard, with the back of his hand across his face.”

  “And then?”

  “Why, he said he was sorry. He said all he wanted to do was to go back to sea. Then my father came out. He told me to hurry on my way here. He was very wroth when he saw me talking to Ned. He don’t like anyone talking to cousin Ned these days.”

  Ann stopped, and her shoulders sagged. Catherine could see that she was staggering under the weight of a truth she did not understand. It would be pointless to question her further. The child was confused and terrified. Catherine could not expect this little girl to separate out the kernels of truth from this matrix of fear and suspicion. She put her arms around the child. Ann struggled to free herself for a moment, and then permitted Catherine to embrace her. The girl sobbed, and when she looked she swiped a tear from her eye.

  “You will help my mother, won’t you?” she asked.

  Ah, yes, Catherine thought, and at the bottom of it all was that, the daughter desperate for the love and support of a mother no longer capable of giving anything like that to her child.

  “Yes. And you can run off to your home, and tell your father, I will be there this afternoon with something I think will be of use.”

  “I will not hide this time. I will sit there right next to her, so I can see how you are helping her.”

  “Yes, child, you do that.”

  Ann began to smile, but stopped herself. It was as though, Catherine thought, the child was afraid to express any joy. The girl turned on her heel and trotted down the road. She stopped abruptly.

  “You are coming, aren’t you?” she called back over her shoulder.

  Phyllis, who had been standing a deferential distance away so as not to appear to be overhearing the conversation, could now no longer contain herself and she bustled by Catherine.

  “But of course she will, “ she called out. “Mistress Williams’ word is not to be taken lightly, you know.”

  Ann blushed, nodded, and ran on.

  “You needn’t have scared the child so,” Catherine said. “She is already in fear of breathing too deep without offending her father, or her cousin.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Phyllis said.

  “You wouldn’t, would you? But I thought sure you heard every word we said.”

  “No,” Phyllis replied, “not every word.”

  “Never mind that, now. We need that certain mushroom. You know the one.”

  Phyllis started.

  “Why Mistress Williams. Did you not warn me against that very plant, saying its powers were strong enough to think you was in the hand of the devil himself if you so much as took a bite of it?”

  “Yes, I did. But maybe it is time for the devil to help us out.”

  “Mistress Williams, that ever you would call on him.”

  “Hush, you know better. It is just a manner of speaking. The mushroom is not of the devil or of God, it is of the earth. We need you to fetch a number of good sized ones.”

  Phyllis shriveled her nose as if against an offensive odor.

  “As you say. But cannot Edward fetch them.”

  “It is better he not know what we do. He would not understand.”

  “I warrant not. But you know well where they grow.”

  “I do indeed. And I will come along with you.”

  Phyllis nodded, but she made no effort to move.

  “Now,” Catherine said. “The poor woman can brook no further delay. Fetch your basket and come along.”

  She started to walk on the path that led to the rear of the house. Phyllis snatched her woven basket from the hook by the door and trotted after her. She caught up and passed her, leading the way into the garden. Edward was hoeing between rows of squash that had just begun to flower. He put his hoe on his shoulder and walked toward them. As was his wont, he did not speak to Catherine. Instead, he stood like a soldier waiting orders. He would stand that way, a long time, Catherine knew, and she had sometimes thought she would try him to see just how long he would stand mute, but today was not an occasion for such games.

  “We do not need you now,” Catherine said.

  He looked at her without comprehension.

  “Back to your hoeing,” she said.

  Without a word, he returned to the exact place he had been when their arrival had interrupted him. He raised the hoe slowly and brought it down. Catherine watched until he had developed a rhythm she knew would absorb his attention, and then she took Phyllis by the arm and led her past Edward, through the garden, and to the pasture out back where two milk cows knelt in the shade of a maple tree, their jaws working their cud. The rich, organic smell of manure filled the air. Phyllis knelt beside a dried up lump and shook her head.

  “Hot and steaming,” Catherine said, “else all you will find is cow dung and the dust it is becoming.”

  Phyllis rose to her feet, mumbling.

  “What’s that?” Catherine asked. “Are you still wondering why I didn’t send Edward?”

  “He is the one for mucking around dung heaps, you know,” Phyllis replied.

  “That he might be. But he is not the one to gather what we seek.” She pointed to a small, fresh ball of dung. “There,” she said. “Have your basket ready.”

  Catherine led the way and started to crouch down, but her knees betrayed her. She stood with her hands on her thighs, bent over from the waist, looking at the mushroom growing from the lump of cow manure. The plant was four inches high, with a white cap sitting atop its frail stem, looking as though it was about to topple from the weight. Phyllis got on her knees carefully so as to leave space between her and the dung. She put one hand to her nose, and with the other she pincered the plant between her thumb and forefinger and lifted it up.

  “Check to be sure,�
�� Catherine said.

  Phyllis stood up and stepped away from the manure. She held the mushroom up to eye level and turned it so she could see the underside of the cap. It was ruffled and brown.

  “That is one,” Catherine said. “We will need four or five more.”

  Phyllis dropped the mushroom into her basket and stalked off, her eyes resolutely on the ground. Ten yards away she knelt down next to another turd, and lifted up the mushroom growing from its center. She inspected the underside of its cap, and turned to Catherine.

  “Good,” Catherine said. “And I have one here.” She managed to stoop far enough down to grab a mushroom. She walked over to Phyllis and dropped it in her basket.

  “One more,” she said. “And let us see if we can find a bigger one. These are all a little small, and they will lose some of their potency when I cook them.”

  Phyllis scanned the pasture and shrugged.

  “Maybe we had better have a talk with those cows then, and tell them to get busy, for I do not see any more.”

  “I will start preparing the stew,” Catherine replied, “ while you look, just to be sure that we have not missed one.”

  “Do you not think three is enough?”

  “Just look as I bid you,” Catherine said and walked back to her house.

  * * * *

  By the time, Phyllis came into the kitchen with her basket displaying one six inch mushroom sitting atop the smaller ones that they had already gathered, Catherine had the other ingredients for a stew ready. Phyllis dumped the mushrooms from her basket on the table next to the chopped carrots, onions, beans, and cubes of salted beef. She held out her hand for Catherine to hand her the knife she had been using.

  “I will finish,” she said.

  Catherine shook her head.

  “No. I must do this myself, and just right. Now don’t pout about it.”

  Phyllis sat down at the table, resting her head in her hands. Catherine dipped the mushrooms into a basin of water, chopped them, and put them into a small, iron pot along with the other ingredients.

  “We need something to sweeten this with,” she said, “so she will eat some.”

  Phyllis did not seem to hear, but a moment later she lifted her head from her hands.