He hesitated. ‘I think it would be better if—’
‘There is no danger,’ said Sooleawa. ‘Why would I wish to harm her?’
‘By the Lord, I cannot think.’ He jiggled his head. ‘Maybe because last time you dragged her into the woods.’
‘She was not hurt.’
‘Nicholas, go upstairs,’ repeated Mercia. ‘If I need you I will call.’
He threw Sooleawa a look. ‘Make sure you do.’
When the stairs had finished their creaking, Sooleawa seemed to relax. ‘Men,’ she said. ‘They think we women need their protection at all times. As if the world would end otherwise.’
‘They have their uses.’
‘At times.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Now I would speak with you. The sachem is impatient for news. He knows you visited Hartford this week. Has powwow Winthrop been able to help?’
Mercia indicated the vacated chair. ‘Have you been following me?’
Sooleawa remained standing. ‘No.’
‘Has anyone else?’
She shrugged. ‘The sachem must be sure you are acting as you promised.’
‘I see.’ She did not much like the idea. ‘Why do you call Winthrop powwow?’
Sooleawa twisted the thick cord of shells adorning her slender neck. ‘Because he is a medicine man like our own. His medicines may be different, and he chooses to remain silent and let others apply them rather than invoke the spirits in dance, but a powwow he is, nonetheless.’
Again, she indicated the chair. ‘Would you sit?’
This time Sooleawa accepted. ‘Thank you. I would welcome the warmth. ’Tis a cold night outside.’
Mercia pulled up a less comfortable stool; its one leg was longer than the rest, but a slight crack in the floor was a useful solution. ‘Do you not feel the cold more because of your bare skin?’
Sooleawa leant back into the chair. ‘You English are always trying to get us to wear more clothing, but we are plenty warm. We wear grease in place of your wool. Yet for some reason our appearance seems to offend those who are new to us. The markings we paint on our bodies.’
‘We are not used to it, that is all.’
‘As we are not used to your heavy clothes.’
Mercia smiled. ‘They can be cumbersome.’ She held up the pleats of her dress, exposing the thin petticoat beneath the slit at the front. A faint aroma of repeated use wafted upwards; she reminded herself to wash what she could tomorrow. ‘Try riding a horse in this.’
‘I never understood your need to wear wool. It is not healthy, with the lice.’
‘That depends.’ Mercia let her dress drop, drawing up to the warmth of the fire. ‘What do you wish to say about Clemency?’
Sooleawa looked into the flames, very much as Mercia often did herself. ‘She was my friend.’
The thoughtful eyes seemed genuine. ‘So you have said before.’
‘And Hopewell.’ She looked directly at her. ‘These killings sadden me. They anger me.’
‘They anger me also.’
Now it was Sooleawa’s turn to study her companion; Mercia felt a tingling as she endured the searching look. When Sooleawa finally spoke, she was succinct.
‘I believe they do.’
The flames played out their orange dance across her darkened cheek. For a moment there was silence, as the two women held each other’s gaze. And then simultaneously they nodded, as if in approval of the other.
‘Was Clemency happy before her end?’ Sooleawa asked.
It was an unexpected question. ‘She seemed to be.’
‘She always was a happy person, with me.’ She tugged at the deerskin covering her chest. ‘She did not take her own life. But I fear she remains with us. Can you not see her?’
‘Yes.’ Startled, Mercia leant in. ‘I can.’
Sooleawa nodded. ‘It is as I thought. You are the last person Clemency was close with. She calls upon you to release her spirit, so she can travel to the south-west.’
‘The south-west?’
‘The place where we came from, where we return to, is in the south-west. We know nothing of it, other than we will go there once this life is done. And in the meantime we live here, not concerned with what comes next.’
‘You do not believe in heaven?’
‘The heaven of your God?’ Sooleawa edged closer to the fire, her several wampum bracelets jangling against each other. ‘There are those of us in this land who believe in that. But not here, despite the efforts of your tribe.’
‘I have found there are times when there is much comfort in God.’
Sooleawa shook her head. ‘Your God is a warrior, skilled in death and destruction. I do not wish to follow such a God.’
‘And yet He is love, and charity. In Him you can find peace.’
‘Not for us.’ Sooleawa’s voice crackled like the logs in the fire. ‘When the Englishman first came to live with us, so our elders say, he brought the wrath of his God on us through a terrible disease. A plague, you call it. Thousands of us were killed. And then those who were not slaughtered by this demon were soon killed in war, or else through the greed of your people. We have been forced out of our own lands.’ She looked up. ‘I tell you, Mercia, there are young men in the tribes who are ready to follow a leader when he comes and says it is time to take it all back.’ She was becoming impassioned. ‘You are a kind woman. I do not suggest you stay in America. There will be much blood soon.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Some men are already marked.’
The speech had made Mercia uncomfortable. ‘Some men here?’
‘Those who kill our brothers without reason, who rape our sisters and our mothers, who abandon us when they say they are friend.’ Her eyes sparkled in the firelight, as menacing an expression as any Mercia had seen. ‘Have you found out yet who killed our powwow, our boy, our friends?’
The expectation weighed heavy. ‘I am afraid not yet.’
‘Then I have nothing to tell the sachem.’
She hesitated. ‘There may be another murder.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The hide you gave me. When put with the others, it suggests there is more to come. We hope to catch him before he does this, and then you will know.’
A shadow passed Sooleawa’s face. ‘And in the meantime my tribe grows restless. The sachem is counting on you to help him keep peace.’
‘Sooleawa, I am doing what I can.’
‘I know.’ Her proud cheeks taut, Sooleawa’s eyes softened as she reached to grasp Mercia’s hand, rattling the wampum bracelets. ‘But the men will not listen. Not mine, not yours.’
She looked down at her captured wrist, Sooleawa’s physical touch birthing an unexpected complicity. ‘You speak with such pride, Sooleawa, such conviction. When you talked of brothers just then, of abandonment … it sounded like there was something … personal.’
Sooleawa looked into her eyes, the same ethereal understanding passing between them. ‘Because you have something – personal – too?’
Mercia closed her eyes, breaking the contact, for Sooleawa was right, that her unusually brusque interest stemmed from her own past, from something she never discussed. But here, before the shared fire, with this strange woman – no, just with this woman – she felt able to broach the painful memory, somehow.
‘My brother,’ she said at last. ‘He was killed.’
Sooleawa’s face stayed impassive. ‘I am sorry for it.’
‘My mother could not cope. Now she lives inside her head, in the past. My father – he too was murdered, in the end.’
‘Then it is true.’ Sooleawa looked through the window, staring into some unknown past. ‘We have both known loss.’
Mercia waited for her to say more, but she remained silent, unready to talk further, or unwilling. Yet the complicity did not dim, even as the light outside was fading away.
‘You speak as if you already knew these things about me.’
‘No. But I can see them in the fervour of your eyes, in
your need to find this killer. You think there will be some form of vengeance in it, some form of sense to be made of what has happened in your life.’ She tilted her head. ‘I understand.’
Mercia looked at her, trying to divine her thoughts. ‘I do not know. But I will see this through until the end. The man who killed Clemency, your powwow – you can tell your sachem I will find him.’
Sooleawa released her hand. ‘I know you will. And now I must go.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Thank you for the use of your fire.’
Mercia followed her to the door. ‘You have not told me what you wanted to say about Clemency.’
‘But I have.’ Sooleawa rested her hand on the wood. ‘I have told you that Clemency walks with you, giving you strength from the happiness with which she lived this life. You are not alone, woman from across the waters, even though sometimes you must feel it. Clemency is with you. I am sure of it.’
Mercia stood in the cottage garden the next morning, a mug of hot milk in her hand. For all the reassurances, Sooleawa’s visit had disturbed her, and she was reflecting with uncertainty on their forthright conversation. Sooleawa’s convictions ran deep, her words about heaven unsettling, and she realised, inhaling the steam, how much she needed convictions from her own faith. Perhaps that could sustain her, as much as Goffe’s hope. Perhaps, she thought, they were one and the same thing.
It was idyllic where she walked – the river, its drop from the waterfall done, racing through a narrow channel in a tree-bordered glade, turning the wheel of the sawmill that nestled on its bank. The gurgling of the water, the groaning of the wheel, the fresh scent of the nearby pines – all this infused her as she stood outside the mill, breathing in the autumnal air. She knocked once and pushed open the creaking door. Inside, the mill was flooded with sunlight, the sundered rays bursting through the several windows in its wooden walls.
‘Hello,’ she called, her voice strange in the open space. ‘Kit?’
At the far end, the sawyer was leaning over a workbench, whittling away with some sort of tool.
‘Hello?’ she called louder.
‘Come in,’ he shouted, not looking up.
She ambled to the bench, passing the mechanism of the wheel to her left, carved levers and poles twisting their harmonious dance. A large saw jutted into the mill, the shavings of countless labours piled up on the earth beneath. The teeth were sharp, a fearsome counterpart to the tranquillity of the setting outside.
‘Good morning, Kit.’ Now upon him, she could see he was working at a table leg with a simple plane. Near at hand, a vast pile of shaved-down lumber sat waiting to be collected; to construct a new house, or new barn, perhaps.
‘Good morning, Mrs Blakewood.’ His black hair was loose, falling over his shoulders, but the concentration in his eyes was absolute.
‘I am sorry to disturb you. I will wait for you to finish.’
She watched as he smoothed down the leg with the plane; to her it seemed perfect already, but he worked a few strokes more before setting down his tool and casting an eye over his handiwork.
‘There.’ He broke into a smile. ‘Done.’
‘I have not much seen you smile since I arrived,’ said Mercia. ‘You must enjoy your work.’
He shook out his hands, wiping away the sawdust, although it fair covered his bare forearms and rolled-up sleeves.
‘Very much.’ He leant against the bench. ‘I was never a sawyer until I came here. A carpenter. But I needed something to do, something with my hands, and the town needed this.’ He gestured at the mill. ‘So I taught myself, and found the Lord had made me good at it. It eases the labour of the townsmen who would otherwise need to fashion wood for themselves.’
The eager look on his face warmed her. ‘Amery said you start early. I hope you do not mind.’
‘Not at all.’ He took a drink from a beaker at his side. ‘I am glad of the interruption.’ He held up his cup. ‘Would you like some?’
‘I am not thirsty, thank you. I was hoping we could talk a little?’
‘By all means. About … our gathering the other night?’
Her smile faded. ‘Partly that. Partly to talk. Although I have been wondering – you are recently arrived from England. Perhaps you have a clearer eye on your fellow townsfolk than those who have been here all their lives?’
He looked at her, his gaze intense. ‘I am from here now, Mrs Blakewood. I was from England, but that was before.’
She inclined her head. ‘Do you not miss it?’
‘No. And I do not wish to go back.’
‘You do not miss any family?’
He played with the cord around his neck. ‘As I say, I do not wish to return. Can we talk of something else?’
‘Forgive me.’ She studied his neck, wondering what it was that he kept hidden against his chest. But she gave that up for now. ‘What do you think, then, of what is happening to Meltwater?’ She hesitated. ‘You talked at the meeting of trusting to God.’
He shrugged. ‘I think either God has some plan, or else His will is being abused in some way. Is it for us to question that?’
She nodded. ‘You have a strong faith, Kit.’
He took up the plane, dunking it into a pail of water. ‘When I crossed the ocean, I was lost. Used, like this tool.’ He swivelled the plane in the water and pulled it out, clean. ‘But God saved me and brought me here. If that is faith, then yes, I have it.’ He looked at her. ‘You do not?’
‘I believe in God, as I believe there are things we cannot hope to understand. But I think, perhaps, that He would want us to try to understand what we can. At least that is what my father always taught.’
He rubbed some of the sawdust from his arms. ‘And I say we are mortal men here, men and women. It is not our role to understand, not everything, but to have trust in how life will unfold.’
Mercia pondered his words. ‘Your friend Amery might disagree, perhaps even the governor. They think as alchemists, that God has merely hidden His secrets, waiting until the time when men are worthy enough to discover them.’
Kit smiled, his chest rising as he folded his arms across his stained shirt. ‘But surely, Mrs Blakewood, only those among us who have most faith will ever be worthy enough, and yet those are the same people who do not need these truths.’ His face took on an animated sharpness. ‘Standfast, Renatus, many of the godly – myself – we believe the Second Coming is near. When Christ returns, He will know who has been most faithful.’ He nodded back at the bench. ‘I am but a sawyer, a shaper of wood, not a governor or an alchemist. But I serve, as do we all, or as we should.’
‘I too pray to God. I ask Him for answers, but on this, none come.’ She looked down. ‘I think God guides me, but cannot provide all we seek.’
He took up his mug. ‘You ask me what I think of these killings. Who has done them.’ He sniffed. ‘Well, then. If God is truly guiding you, then the answer must be here, in view of all the town. And yet still we do not know.’
‘Then what should we do? You have no suspicions? No thoughts yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘I wish to assist you, Mrs Blakewood, but on this I am no help.’ He opened out his palms. ‘’Tis my body that is of use, not my mind. As for the man, well. Not even Percy, who has lived here his whole life, seems to know. Clearly there are men here who have the temperament for violence. But murder?’
She thought of the Indian farmhand and felt a sadness. ‘Your constable proved his aptitude well enough last week.’
Kit nodded. ‘But his hatred of the Indians makes him a simple man, a man of quick passions. He is not a thinker, or a writer of mischievous codes.’
She sighed. ‘You are sure you saw nothing before Hopewell’s death?’ She held up a hand. ‘I know I have asked before, but asking seems the only thing I can do.’
He looked on her with indulgence. ‘Truly, all I can say is I was here, in the sawmill. When I saw all the torches I came running, and that is all.’
‘At least you are talkin
g with me. Most people are keen to avoid any conversation. Not even Percy can encourage them to help.’
‘But they do think, Mrs Blakewood. And they have faith, or most of them do, when they are not taken by a moment of weakness.’ He rinsed his hands in the pail of water, shaking the drops onto the floor. ‘It is said even the weakest can be strong when the moment demands it, but I think the strength of our faith will sustain us best. Surely not even a killer can know for certain why he acts.’ He smiled. ‘But I know we will find out in the end, because we have faith. It is there at the meeting house every Sunday, guiding us, nurturing us, making the land ready for our Lord. And when we do find out, then shall we understand.’ He looked at her. ‘Is that not really why you came here today? For guidance from one you know believes, and for whom his belief is enough?’
‘Perhaps.’ She looked at his ardent face, unsurprised he had seen through her, and knowing what he said was right, just as Sooleawa had been right, in her way. ‘I envy you your certainty, Kit. But I shall pray, as I know you shall, and let us ask that this ends soon.’
She prayed in her bedroom that night before bed; she spoke to her father too, or else to his spirit. But answers were still elusive. As she eased herself under the itchy blanket, she thought back on her talks with Sooleawa and Kit. One spoke of a presence that needed release; the other of God and faith, trusting to a greater power. But in the end, neither satisfied Mercia, for all she believed in God herself, for all she saw Clemency walking in the streets. Surely she had the aptitude to work this out. Surely she, a mortal woman, could have that gift.
Her mind drifted from such abstract thought, focusing on events. She found it hard to believe that Sooleawa had come into Meltwater purely to offer encouragement. But life here was strange, and she chose to accept it. It was stranger, she thought, that the sachem seemed ready to believe her while John Lavington, her own countryman of a sort, was not. Or was the magistrate, too, playing games?
Laying down her head, she closed her eyes, wondering if Sooleawa was right, that Clemency was trapped, waiting to leave for the south-west. She had seen her face at the cottage window last night, she was sure of it. But now, when she opened her eyes in the tiny room, all she could she was the dark.
Puritan Page 25