Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
I
1. The Dream of Comets
2. Pot of Honey
3. Fog
4. The Earth Demands Blood
5. The Cards
6. The Seeds
II
7. The Bower of Eden
8. Anne Arundel Town
9. The Dark Green Place
III
10. A Fish on Land
11. The Whole Cloth Unraveled
12. The Bed of Skins
13. The Crack in the Cradle
14. Rabbit Skin
IV
15. Near Drowning
16. The pact
17. Shadow Catcher
18. A Woman's Fate
19. Above Rubies
20. His Wild Things
21. Cold Clay
22. Quiet as Bones
23. Made to Shine
24. Snake-Tongued
25. Join the Dance
26. Foxglove for the Heart
27. Poison
28. Heart Pierced by Three Arrows
29. If I Could be Faithful
30. Down in the Hollow
31. Even in Death
32. An Empty Chamber
33. Ash
34. The Lost Sister
V
35. At the Sign of the Mortar and Unicorn
36. The Vanishing Point
Afterword
Sample Chapter from ILLUMINATIONS
Buy the Book
About the Author
Copyright © 2006 by Mary Sharratt
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhbooks.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Sharratt, Mary, date.
The vanishing point / Mary Sharratt.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-618-46233-9
ISBN-10: 0-618-46233-3
1. Maryland—History—Colonial period, ca. 1600-1775— Fiction. 2. Women immigrants—Fiction. 3. Sisters—Death—Fiction. 4. Plantation owners—Fiction. 5. Plantation life—Fiction. I. Title. PS3569.H3449V36 2006
813'.6—dc22 2005019777
eISBN 978-0-547-63035-9
v3.0912
For Joske
Once upon a time the Americans were the British, lost. On the narrow lip of a distant continent, clutching their faith, songs, customs and memories, they were seventeenth-century space travelers, cut off from Planet Europe with its corruptions and tyrannies.
—Andrew Marr
Recorded history is wrong. It's wrong because the voiceless have no voice in it.
—Mary Lee Settle
Prologue
Gloucestershire, England
HANNAH POWERS'S FATHER taught her about the masters of painting and engraving, how Albrecht Dürer and Leonardo da Vinci had transformed vision into a new geometry. He lectured Hannah on scale and proportion. The place where a ship was lost over the horizon was known as the vanishing point.
Their servant, Joan, was a woman of fifty-three years with ropy blue veins bulging out of her red hands. She taught Hannah and her sister, May, about another kind of vanishing, about the lost people who had once populated the West Country, indeed the entire island of Britain. Their stone arrows, green mounds, and dolmens still marked the land that had swallowed them. The first people.
Once, according to Joan, the faery folk had possessed physical bodies as plain and ordinary as anyone else's. But over the centuries, they had become fey. Their bodies grew vaporous and insubstantial, visible only at twilight and in dreams. Fleeing church bells and the glint of iron, they shrank into their hollow hills.
"A mere optical illusion, Hannah," her father told her, referring to the vanishing point on the horizon. "In truth, the ship does not disappear. The vessel is still there, even if we on the shore cannot see it."
So it transpired that both people and ships could become ghosts without ever dying or sinking beneath the waves.
I
1. The Dream of Comets
May
1689
THE MORNING THE LETTER ARRIVED, May Powers awoke with a premonition. Before she even opened her eyes, her heart was pounding and her throat was so tight she thought she might choke. The taste of iron filled her mouth. Throwing the bedclothes aside, she told herself not to be silly. She laced her bodice over her shift and stepped into her skirt. After pinning her hair into a coil, she descended the narrow staircase to the kitchen to help Joan prepare breakfast. Father and Hannah were in the front room murmuring over his pile of books. May listened to them recite the Latin names of apothecary herbs.
The morning passed as uneventfully as any other, with wool to spin and seams to stitch. Just past midmorning, Hannah left for the market with Joan. In the garden, Father picked betony and woodruff. It was the end of May, the lovely month after which her departed mother had named her. The weather being fine, she took her spinning wheel to the front of the house so that she might look out on the village green, the sheep that grazed there, and the hills beyond. That morning her eyes were too restless to settle on the village; they kept wandering off toward the horizon.
When the rider trotted up to the garden gate on his mudspattered cob, she struggled to her feet as though waking from a dream. "Is this the house of Daniel Powers?" he asked.
May nodded, and the milky-faced youth leaned from his saddle and thrust a letter at her—a piece of folded paper, sealed with wax and marked by the many hands it had passed through until it had reached hers.
"The letter did come all the way from America," said the rider, too imperious to even flirt.
A peculiar tingling gripped her. She remembered the dream she'd had just before waking—a dream of her father showing her comets through his telescope. As she peered through that lens, the sky filled with shooting flames.
The letter was addressed to her father, Daniel Powers, Physician. She read the name of the one who had sent it—Nathan Washbrook, her father's distant cousin who had crossed the waters to Maryland.
"Father!" she cried, racing to the back of the house where he was gathering strawberry leaves. "Father, look!" A fever gripped her, the blood running in her veins like hot wine as she broke the seal herself, not waiting for her father's permission.
Under the hawthorn tree, beneath that canopy of foamy white flowers, she read the letter aloud. When she handed the letter to him, he nodded, as if he already knew its message. Father and daughter were silent, but the words May had read remained in the air, buzzing around them like flies.
"What think you of the letter, May?"
She plucked a handful of hawthorn flowers, crushing them in her left hand while holding the letter in her right.
Father wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "My dear, can you forgive me? A year ago, I took the liberty of writing to our cousin Nathan and telling him you were still unwed. In faith, it was I who planted the idea in his head."
Had Joan and Hannah been present, there would have been hysterics. The garden would have rung with shouting, curses, and tears. But between May and her father there was neither discussion nor debate. Her fingers went limp, hawthorn flowers and letter falling to the grass. Father took her hand.
"Could you consent?"
"You might have told me this was coming," she said. Then, looking into his eyes, she read his will. He had been praying for this offer, this miracle, to take the burden of her fut
ure off his hands.
Females are scarce in the Colonies, Cousin Nathan had written. My Son needs a Wife. He is a healthy young Man of eighteen Years. I would rejoice to have your eldest Daughter May for his Bride. In Truth, I care not that your Daughter is without Dowry. I have Wealth enough and have already paid eight Hogs Head Barrels of Tobacco to the Ship Captain to assure her speedy Passage. Please be good as your Word and see that she sails out on the Cornucopia in August.
He expected her to leave already in August, only two months away? And offering her a boy of eighteen as a bridegroom! She was twenty-two. May nearly laughed aloud. Aware of her father's somber gaze, she sobered and considered. On the one hand, what choice did she have if she wanted to save herself and her sister from penury? Though her father was a doctor of physick, making money had never been one of his talents. In recent years, his health had gone into decline. There was no son to carry on his business. When he died, she and her sister would have to sell his globe and telescope, his skeleton and surgical instruments, his books and diagrams of human organs. Even this house would be taken from them, for they merely rented it. She and Hannah would be dowerless spinsters, wards of the parish. After what she had done to disgrace herself, ruining her chances of honorable marriage, how dare she refuse? She was twenty-two, her sister only fifteen. The burden of securing their future fell upon her.
On the other hand, what an adventure! She half believed the letter had come to answer her own prayers of deliverance. When she was a young girl, long before she had discovered the lusts that plagued her body and spoiled her reputation, she had dreamt of setting sail for unknown worlds. Once she had declared to her sister, "If I were a boy, I would run away to sea." Only a roving young man could be as free as she longed to be. When she closed her eyes, she saw not a young bridegroom but herself at the bow of a ship.
Leaving Father alone in the garden, his query unanswered, she ran to his study, took the globe from its place on the shelf, and spun it until her eyes blurred. He found her there, twirling his prized globe. She laughed uncontrollably, her whole body shaking. Laughter was her weakness. May laughed the way other girls cried. Once she got started, there was no stopping her. Turning to her father, she laughed in his face. Without a shred of submission or obedience, she told him, "Yes, Father. Yes, I consent."
***
"Fancy his name being Washbrook," May said, trying to make light of it in the face of Joan's glowering. "Is he descended from a line of launderers?"
"I have half a mind to throttle that father of yours," said Joan. "You know nothing of that boy."
May, Joan, and Hannah circled around a walnut chest carved with roses and thorns, which had belonged to the girls' mother, her maiden name having been Hannah Thorn. Once May had believed that the flowering white thorn bushes were named after her. May had lost her mother at the age of seven, so her memories of her were fleeting. Mostly she recalled her mother's cheer and wit, how she could draw Father out of his dreariness and make him smile. Father lived in a world of sickness, death, and bleeding that terrified May. She despised the skeleton in his study, the preserved calf heart in the glass jar. What good was her father's medicine if he had not been able to keep her mother alive?
As the eldest, May would inherit her mother's trunk and its contents. Joan dug out the clothes and linens, the tiny infant clothes and christening gown, and laid them out on the freshly swept floor. Every article would be washed and ironed before it crossed the ocean with May. At the bottom of the chest was a woman's shift and nightcap, but the shift was an odd one, being slit in front up to the waist. When Joan held it up to the light and shook out the dust, the sight was so lewd that May had to laugh, her fist covering her mouth.
"Our mother wore such a shift?"
Joan's reply was brusque. "It was her lying-in gown. The gown she bore you in."
The linen was so yellowed with age, it looked as if it had been handed down from their great-grandmother. Hannah went white in the face; her birth had caused their mother's death. As long as May lived, she would never forget the sight of Mother's drained face, mouth frozen open but silenced forever while the infant shrieked and shrieked. Hannah had been so frail, everyone feared she would follow her mother to the grave. When May looked back, she suspected the only thing that prevented Father from going insane from grief was his struggle to keep the baby alive. Ever after, he had harbored a special tenderness for Hannah that he had never shown for May.
It hadn't helped that May so resembled her mother. The likeness had only grown stronger when she became a woman. Joan said that even her laughter sounded like Mother's, her lightness and humor, her refusal to dwell on gloomy things. While Mother was yet alive, Father used to sit May on his lap. He taught her to read, do figures, and showed her shooting stars through his telescope. But after Mother's death, he had withdrawn from her, leaving her upbringing to Joan. Her resemblance to Mother had only caused him pain. If May allowed self-pity to creep into her head, she could easily convince herself that she was twice as orphaned as Hannah, but she brushed such thoughts aside. In August she would be leaving home forever; she refused to allow jealousy or resentment to cloud her final days with her family. Before anyone could notice her silence and ask what was on her mind, she folded the birthing gown and laid it on the floor with the other things.
Joan gripped her shoulder. "And on your wedding night, what will happen when he discovers you are no maid?"
At this, Hannah crept out of the room. May looked into Joan's eyes without flinching. "You know as well as I," she said, "that even the most hardened rake cannot tell a maiden from a whore if she holds herself tight enough." She swallowed and tried to smile. "If he goes looking for blood, I shall prick my finger with a needle." Then she shook her head. "Oh, Joan, I don't think Father kept my history secret from them. I think they know already what kind of girl I am." Before Joan could berate her any more, May embraced the older woman, who wept noisily in her arms.
"Your own father is shunting you off for a pile of tobacco!"
"Hush," May whispered. "I go freely. I have chosen this."
2. Pot of Honey
May
AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN, May had started with the boys. In the beginning, she had tried to be a decent girl, contenting herself with kisses, sweet words, and secret glances. But her hunger mounted, not leaving her in peace until she took her first love, the baker's youngest son, by the hand and led him to the copse of willows behind the churchyard wall. Opening her legs, she had drawn him deep inside her, let him pierce her through.
May and her first love took to meeting in the meadow near the gristmill. Those were the hours she felt most alive, sprawled in the grass, limbs flung open so that her body took the shape of a star. She felt as though she could rise and float up over the clouds, even as he covered her with his body, anchoring her to the earth. He brought her cider, which she drank until the stars began to spin and her throat burst with laughter. He called her his angel. She could sport all night, rolling in the grass with her sweet boy, threading her fingers through his hair, kissing the cider from his lips. She caressed him and rubbed her body against his until the stars fell from the sky and silvered their naked skin.
She took care not to get herself with child. Joan had grudgingly shown her the method she herself had used to prevent conception in her younger days. May took a tuft of clean sheep's wool, dipped it in honey, and thrust it into the mouth of her womb. There was no shortage of wool in her village. Every week May received a great heap of it to card, comb, and spin. Her fingers were so nimble that in a good week she earned nearly as much from her spinning as her father earned from his languishing practice of physick. As for the honey, Joan kept two hives at the bottom of their garden.
Her first love had called her his honey pot. That thrilled her. If only he knew how true it was. She was a walking pot of honey, the golden sweetness seeping between her legs. When he lapped it from her sticky thighs, he fancied it was her own unique sweetness he tasted. Hone
y was delicious and pleasing. It also killed a man's seed before it could reach her womb.
A few hours before daybreak, when May crawled back to bed with the honey still glazed on her thighs, she was too breathless to sleep. It was Hannah who eased her into slumber, Hannah with her sweet breath, her arm flung around May's waist, her red hair spread over the pillow like a silk shawl. Those in their village who dismissed Hannah as plain had no clue how winsome she looked in sleep, how innocent. May's trysts left her moist-eyed with love, not just for her lover, but for everything she saw. Those nights she thought she could embrace the whole world. She imagined that in her intimate encounters, she experienced the same ecstasies of universal love that holy men experienced in prayer. Her trysts gave her such an infusion of the life elixir that their household no longer seemed such a lonely and somber place.
In the morning, between spoonfuls of porridge swimming in thick cream, she smiled across the table at her father, who commented on the healthy glow in her face and inquired if she had slept well. Father, God bless him, slept so soundly she could creep from her chamber night after night without troubling him. Indeed, his thoughts were so immersed in his books and jars of physick herbs, it was as though he lived in a lofty tower far above ordinary affairs. The clucking of the village gossips never penetrated his ears. Hannah was too loyal to betray her. Joan only rolled her eyes.
Neither she nor her lover ever spoke of marriage. For a youngest son with few prospects, marrying her was a dream beyond his means. She knew that Father would never let her wed a baker's son. As for her own desires, trysting in the meadow was more beguiling than the prospect of setting up a household. She lived for that sweet excitement of brand-new love when she couldn't sleep for the pounding in her heart. When she saw the village wives with their pregnant bellies and gaggles of snivel-nosed brats, she pitied them. Yet before she could further contemplate her future with the boy, he left to visit his kin in Cornwall. Both he and May thought he would be gone only a few weeks. However, he never returned. Later May discovered that his parents, not approving of his infatuation for her, had arranged for him to be apprenticed to a cooper in Truro. Never having learned to read or write, the boy could send her no message of how he fared. In ballads, girls who lost their lovers drowned in a river of their tears. May did her share of weeping, but she reasoned that if her mother were alive, she would not want her to pine for him forever.
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