Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  She shivered, drawing her scarlet cloak around her and huddling within its warmth as she headed toward town. At least she didn’t have much farther to walk, for the meeting house was just ahead. Auntie would have a fit, of course, if she learned that she was here—after all, what if someone saw her? But Maria had grown tired of being a recluse, tired of limiting her excursions to the woods, the marshes, and the wild, lonely moors as she gathered everything from pine bark to seaweed to make her Indian medicines. Not that she had anyone to practice them on, of course. She hadn’t even seen Thankful lately, thanks to Auntie’s “excuses” that she was ill, or absent, or whatever else she dreamed up to keep would-be visitors away. And how lonely it was when the only time she got to see anyone was at Sunday service, where everyone’s attention was on Reverend Treat and not her gently swelling belly.

  “Maria! Maria, wait!”

  The high, excited voice put an abrupt end to Maria’s musings, and self-consciously she hugged her cloak tightly about her thickening middle. But it was only Thankful, running past the stocks that sat ominously upon the faded, not-so-verdant grass of the village green. “Maria, I’ve been worried about you! Your aunt said you were sick. A cold, but she didn’t want me to catch it and bade me to stay away!”

  Breathless, she studied Maria’s face, thank God—and not her belly. “You are all right, aren’t you?”

  “Much better, thank you,” Maria assured her. She shifted her basket in her hand, holding it over her abdomen just in case.

  “Oh, thank God. We were all so worried. Haven’t seen much of you lately, you know.”

  “I’ve been uh, making blankets,” Maria said, glancing down at the bundle in her basket. “This one’s for Reverend Treat.”

  “Oh, can I see?”

  With reluctance she handed it to Thankful, who eagerly shook it out, held it up, and gasped with delight. “Oh, Maria! ’Tis beautiful.” She looked up, her eyes almost reverent. “He’s going to love it. I’ve always said it’s not fair that God gave you such skill at the loom, and denied it to the rest of us. Why, look at this!” She pointed to the gentle lambs, the calves with their soulful eyes, so lifelike that it looked as though they might actually walk right off the blanket and join them on the dirt road. “They look so real. And the baby Jesus! Oh, you’ve captured every feature, every detail—a-a-a-a-h!”

  Shouts, screams, the thunder of pounding hooves. Whirling, they saw a horse, its nostrils flaring, its eyes wild and ringed with white. Stirrup irons banged against its empty saddle, a crowd of villagers were in hot pursuit—and it was heading straight for them.

  “Thankful!” Reacting first, Maria shoved her friend out of the road but was too late to save herself. The horse veered, trying to avoid her, but could not have anticipated that Maria would do the same. A glimpse of wild eyes, the stinging lash of mane and then its shoulder hit her hard, snapping her head back and knocking the breath from her lungs. The world tilted crazily, space shot beneath her and then dirt and stones drove into her cheek.

  “Maria! Maria, are you all right?”

  Dizzily, Maria looked up. Thankful’s pale face swirled before her eyes, focused, and finally stopped spinning. The hand she thrust toward Maria was white. “Oh, what a terribly brave thing you did! Why, you could’ve been killed!”

  Thankful glanced up at the gathering crowd, who’d abandoned their pursuit of the horse and now pressed close in concern. “Did you see what she did? She saved my life!”

  Their shadows fell across Maria, and doors slammed as people raced from their homes to see what the commotion was all about. She heard voices, saw familiar faces, caught a whiff of pipe smoke as Justice Joseph Doane shoved his way through the crowd. “Are you injured, Maria? Here, let me help you up.” Shoving the pipe between his lips, he stretched out his hand.

  “I am fine, thank you.” She felt rather foolish with all of this attention. But Thankful had her other hand, and her squeal rang through Maria’s dizzy head as she grasped her palm and turned it upward.

  “Oh, look, you’ve scraped yourself!”

  Maria gained her feet, thanking the good Lord above that she hadn’t broken any bones. “’Tis naught but a scratch,” she said. “Nothing to worry about, really.” She reached down to brush the dust from her clothing and hastily pull her cloak, which had fallen open, about her.

  But she was too late.

  Speechless silence. A dozen faces, all staring in shock and horror at the once-trim waist that had been the envy of every woman in Eastham. For a moment Maria could only stare back, and then she felt the heat creeping up her neck, suffusing into her face, spreading from hairline to earlobes like a rush of fever. Just as abruptly the color drained and she went white. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably as she reached out to take the blanket from her friend’s suddenly nerveless fingers.

  “Thank you,” she said hastily, with all of the poise she could muster given their shocked, horrified stares. She picked up her fallen basket. Already, the whispers were starting, their eyes growing hard, malicious and cold. She had to get out of here. Oh, God, she thought. “I—I think that I’ll just be on my way… I made this blanket for Reverend Treat and…and I, uh, must bring it to him.”

  They turned on her like a pack of wolves.

  “A blanket for the reverend, huh? Maria had best save it for herself!”

  “Aye, she’s in a family way, all right!”

  “Shameless hussy!”

  “Whore!”

  Their awful words mingled, became a roar, until at last Justice Doane’s gruff voice cut through the din. “I don’t approve of you going to see the good reverend in your condition.” He clawed the pipe from his mouth once more. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, insulting a man of God like that. Someone as clean and holy as he shouldn’t be exposed to someone as dirty and sinful as you.”

  Dirty? Sinful? Surely this wasn’t happening to her! Confused, Maria felt hot, scalding tears brewing in her throat, behind her eyes. “But…but I have a gift for him—”

  “Then I suggest you burn it. He’ll have no use for the fruits of your soiled hands.”

  Doane’s eyes narrowed, pinning her in their accusing stare. Behind him the others clustered, gawking at her as though she were a freak of nature or worse yet, the plague. “And by the way, Maria…who soiled you?”

  “I—I….” She bit down hard on her lip, trying desperately not to cry.

  “Out with it, girl! Whose babe are you breeding?”

  “I can’t say!”

  “You can’t say.” He towered over her, his smoky breath filling her face. “And why not? Doesn’t your aunt know about your wickedness?” He shoved the pipe between his teeth and glared at her. Terrified, Maria tried to turn away, to run, but his fingers dug into her shoulders and spun her around to face him. She cried out in pain. “In the name of God, you’ll tell me who the father is! I’ll not have anyone in this parish soiling a young woman and then leaving her to bear the consequences alone!”

  But she couldn’t tell him. The babe that grew in her womb was something sacred and special, something that she and Sam had made together, and to expose it to their vileness, condemnation, and hatred before it was even born was something she could not bring herself to do. She would not tell them, would not let them make a crime of the love she had for its father, would not stand here and listen to them tear Sam apart and call him all sorts of evil, terrible things.

  Doane’s fingers bit into her shoulder, his voice thundering in her ear. “I’ll not ask you again, Maria Hallett! Who fathered that babe?”

  “I told you, I can’t say!” Blindly, her mind groped for an excuse, an answer, anything. “I can’t tell you because…because….”

  “You want to know why she can’t name that babe’s sire?” A woman’s shrill, high voice pierced the silence. “I’ll tell you why! She can’t name him because she doesn’t know! And the reason she doesn’t know is because he’s the Devil!”

  The crowd went as sti
ll as death. One by one, they turned their faces toward the woman who had spoken.

  “Oh, blind fools, can’t you see?” she wailed, pointing a long finger at Maria. “She doesn’t know! Just as Mary, the most beautiful virgin, conceived Jesus, our Maria here”—she paused, allowing the crowd to note the similarity between the two names—“the most beautiful girl in Eastham, has conceived a child—by Satan! Oh, to think we envied her beauty! Didn’t we always know it would be her undoing? Wasn’t it obvious? She’s too pretty for any mere man of earth to possess! Only the devil could have her!” Her wild eyes swept the crowd. “And do you know what that makes our Maria?”

  Hushed silence.

  “It makes her a witch!”

  “No—no, ’tisn’t true!” Maria cried, but she was too late. The woman was already backing away, her words ringing in everyone’s ears. “’Tisn’t true! You’ve known me all my life! How could you believe such nonsense?” But already the others were retreating, their eyes wide. A woman broke from the circle and fled. And then another, dragging her crying child with her.

  And now even Justice Doane was stepping away from her. “Daughter of Satan,” he whispered. “In the name of God, begone!” He held up a shaking hand as she took a desperate step toward him. “I said stay away from me, witch!”

  “Please, Justice Doane, please listen to me! I can explain!” Cold, ugly terror writhed like a snake in the pit of her stomach. This wasn’t happening to her! It couldn’t be! But it was. And now, they were growing defensive.

  “Then why did my cow suddenly go dry?”

  “You think that’s bad, huh? Now I know why my hens stopped laying. And no wonder my poor Sarah can’t find a husband! The witch put a hex on her, she did!”

  “A heathen, I tell you!”

  “And no wonder she can turn out such beautiful patterns on her loom when the rest of us can’t!”

  “The devil’s work!”

  “The devil’s own!”

  “Do you think that dog of hers is her familiar?”

  It was all laid at her door; the rancid butter in Mrs. Knowles’s churn, Tommy Cotter’s foot pains, the rabbits that had wiped out Abigail Nickerson’s vegetable garden three months past. Through the awful, ugly haze of horror Maria heard their prayers as they called upon the Lord to save them, saw them shielding their faces to avoid looking at her. And now their voices were no longer accusing, but rising with fear.

  “Get away from us, witch!”

  “Blasphemous whore!”

  “Bride of Lucifer! Consort of the devil! You’re unfit to walk amongst us!”

  The tears welled up and spilled over, trickling down her cheeks and making twin spots of moisture upon her scarlet cloak. In desperation, Maria started toward the one person she knew would stand by her—Thankful. But the girl knelt, groped in the dirt, and came up with a stone clenched in her fist.

  “Stay away, Maria!”

  The tears froze in her eyes. “Thankful, I’m your friend!”

  “Not anymore you’re not. I don’t keep company with witches!”

  But I’m not a witch!

  Others picked up rocks, hefting them in their hands. And now it was Maria who backed away, turning to flee as they advanced upon her.

  The first stone glanced off her arm, bounced away into the dirt. Another buried itself within the folds of her cloak with a dull thud. Then another, catching her between her shoulder-blades. She cried out, stumbled and fell. Her cheek slammed against the hard-packed dirt and she tasted blood. Through the blur of tears she saw the beautiful blanket over which she’d labored so hard lying in a heap in the road, saw it stamped into the dirt and crushed by angry heels.

  “Witch! Begone, daughter of Lucifer! And stay out of Eastham if you know what’s good for you!”

  More stones. Struggling to her feet, sobbing in pain and terror, Maria ran blindly, their shrieks and prayers ringing in her ears. She raced out of town and down the King’s Highway, oblivious to all but her destination. Pain knotted her calves. Fire seared her lungs. Blackness came and went, swirling behind her eyes. But she didn’t stop.

  At last she reached the Great Beach. Here, wind swept across miles of ocean, wind that might’ve filled Lilith’s sails and touched his skin, his hair, his clothes wherever he might be, wind that blew on and on until at last it carried that tiny bit of him to where she stood upon the high plateaus of sand overlooking the vast and empty Atlantic.

  He was here. Somehow, some way, he was here.

  Hugging her arms to her breasts, Maria sank to scuffed and bloody knees and cried out her despair, her fear of what would become of her, and her overwhelming, aching loneliness. She sobbed until there were no tears left. She sobbed until the terror and agony congealed into nausea that sat heavily within her stomach. She sobbed until she was no longer crying about the way the villagers had treated her, but because the one man that she loved, the one man she would ever love, was a thousand miles away.

  And then she lifted her head, staring out to sea across an endless expanse of tossing waves and white foam. The tears returned—for the horizon, cold and gray and stretching into forever—was empty.

  * * *

  That winter was a hard one for the people of Eastham, and would long be remembered for its vast amounts of snowfall. It was also the winter that old Reverend Treat, beloved by all, died. They had to dig tunnels through the snow just to get him to the Burying Acre, and no one would ever forget the crowds—both villagers and Wampanoag Indians alike—who stood sadly beside his grave on the cold, wintry day that he was laid to rest.

  It was also the winter that the Sea Witch of Billingsgate had her baby.

  Maria was afforded none of the luxuries of companionship that Reverend Treat, even in death, enjoyed; she birthed the baby alone, for her aunt was unable to get across the stormy, snowy moors to be with her, and her nearest neighbor—who happened to be male, anyway—lived two miles distant. Only Gunner, lying beside the fire that cold, stormy morning as the snow piled up on her thatched roof and the wind rustled beneath the clay-clinked rafters, was with her when she brought little Charles into the world; only he heard her screams of agony and pain, and then her sobs of joy when it was all over and Maria beheld a tiny face and soft, curling hair that was as black as his bold, handsome father’s.

  Sam. She thought of him often. She remembered the heat of his lovemaking as she sat by her crackling fire, the shivers his touch had elicited as February’s cold winds swept off the ocean, and felt her loneliness in the mournful howl of the wind as it whistled and sang around the walls of this little hut upon the wild dunes and sand cliffs she now called home.

  But Maria had grown accustomed to loneliness, and if asked—as she often was by her well-meaning aunt, who, remorseful over her treatment of her niece and perhaps even a bit lonely herself, came often to visit—would have admitted that she’d come to prefer the solitude of living out here all by herself on the windswept dunes. Here, she could walk the miles of shoreline with her gaze turned seaward; here, she could keep up her constant vigil, watching, waiting, for Sam’s return; from the top of the sand cliffs, from the flat moors of the tableland, and even from within her little hut, where she’d positioned her loom beside the window for an unhampered view of the sea. She didn’t need the villagers; she didn’t need anyone except Sam, and here at the edge of the sea over which he’d gone, where even now he sailed, she felt closest to him, and never alone.

  Maria hadn’t set foot in Eastham since that terrible day last fall when the villagers had driven her out of town. She was allowed to go as far as the town limits, where she traded her blankets for much-needed supplies, and frequently some of the bolder—or more hypocritical—villagers would venture out to this little hut she’d built with the help of some friendly Indians to seek her skills as a medicine woman, for everyone knew she could cure everything from sore throats to gout. She was self-sufficient and independent, and those who saw her wandering the sand cliffs that stood sentinel over the
ocean, her hair whipping in the wind and streaming out behind her and her gaze trained on an empty horizon, thought her a bit eccentric. But only her aunt knew why Maria wandered the dunes, the cliffs; only she knew why her niece always had an eye trained upon that distant horizon where sea met sky.

  But for the past two weeks Maria hadn’t been able to go farther than her front door. Little Charles demanded every bit of attention she had to give and then some. And while Maria could cure fever, set a fracture, or even make an herbal concoction guaranteed to ensure fertility, what she could not do was get him to stop crying long enough that she could get some much needed rest. And now, staring out the window of her hut while Charles whimpered in her arms, the idea of seeking Auntie’s advice in forbidden Eastham was beginning to seem more and more appealing.

  Outside, snow still sifted out of leaden skies. Wind drove it into thick drifts, piled it on the boughs of the little scruff pine at Maria’s westward window until the weary branches sagged and groaned beneath the weight. But the peaceful scene was shattered as Charles began to wail, his cries growing louder and louder until Gunner, raising his head and heaving a great sigh, padded to the door and nuzzled the latch.

  Maria let him out and watched as he disappeared into the swirling veil of snowflakes. She rested her cheek against her baby’s, kissing him, rocking him, soothing him. His little face was puckered and red from crying, his tiny fists balled and flailing. Frustration welled within her. Was she a success as a healer only to be a failure as a mother? She’d fed him, changed him, cuddled him, had done everything she could think of to make him comfortable; but still he cried, on and on, until the nagging fears of a mother’s intuition—that he wasn’t just colicky, that something was wrong, terribly wrong—outweighed any perils that the storm, or the hostile villagers, might offer.

  Auntie. She’d know what to do. Maria bit her lip and shot a quick glance toward the raw, gray sea beyond her window. Still, no sails. But then, she hadn’t really expected to see any through this snow…had she? So why not go to town and seek her aunt’s advice? If she hid little Charles in blankets and pulled the hood of her cloak up to cover her face, perhaps no one would recognize her.