Flight of the Sparrow

by Amy Belding Brown

“I cannot,” Mary murmurs, so low that he does not hear it at first.

  He frowns. “What do you mean you cannot?”

  “I cannot promise to keep to the yard,” she says more clearly, no longer murmuring. “I must be allowed to walk, Joseph. I must feel myself a free woman.” Something catches in her throat and she reaches out and grasps his hand. She knows that she has sinned in resisting her husband’s wish, yet she cannot hold her tongue. “You must understand—so much has been taken from me. You must allow me that.”

  She is stunned when he squeezes her hand and gives her a half smile. She perceives it as a sort of reassurance. She is certain he does not understand how her hour by the river has comforted and provided her with the solace her prayers have not. Still, he seems willing to overlook her rebellion. At least this time. Perhaps she has misjudged him.

  She does not confront Joseph on the subject again. Yet from that day on, she goes out walking regularly—to the river and along the unfrequented paths at the edge of Wethersfield—where she finds the refreshment and peace that enable her to bear the barbed tongues of the congregation. She feels profoundly grateful for this small freedom.

  • • •

  Mary goes daily to market with Marie, carrying a basket on her arm. People smile at them and women often stop to talk. They explain that Wethersfield was once a frontier town like Lancaster, but has been long-settled and the surrounding Indians subdued. One summer morning, Goody Wickers tells Mary about the Pequot Indians, whom she says were once a warlike people until the English victory over them in 1637. Mary does not learn the details of the battle until several weeks later, and when she does, she is so repulsed that she can no longer bear to hear it spoken of. For it had not been a battle at all, but a massacre of women and children. English soldiers had surrounded a Pequot fortress and set it on fire. Seven hundred Pequots burned to death. Mary cannot rid her imagination of the death screams and the anguish of the poor mothers as they watched their children being consumed by the flames. It sickens her and brings to mind once again the memory of Elizabeth’s body wrapped in fire.

  Mary tries to explain this to Joseph, to put into words how her captivity has changed her perception of Indians. She tells him that the Indians treasure their children more than anything, and that death by fire is surely the most brutal of all possible deaths. She says that the history of the Pequot slaughter has surely spread among all the tribes. Perhaps it is why Philip’s Indians fired the English towns, believing that using their own tactics against the English was a just recompense.

  Joseph listens closely, and waits until Mary finishes before he speaks. They are sitting on the bench in front of the house, for it is a warm evening and the kitchen is hot and stuffy. When Mary runs out of words, Joseph sighs and takes her hand from where it lies in her lap. “Have you forgotten the sovereignty of God? Remember, the Lord has chosen us to do His work here in this place. That means we must sometimes be the rod of His chastening.”

  Her hand stiffens in his. “But surely we are not called to”—she can hardly speak the words—“burn the children?”

  He makes no reply but brings her hand to his lips and kisses her fingers. “You must not let yourself be afflicted by a battle that took place when you were but a child in England.”

  “Nay, ’tis not this only that afflicts me.” She withdraws her hand and presses it back into her lap. “It is but one instance of what I fear is a greater sin.”

  “And what would that be?” He has shifted on the bench to face her. In the growing dusk, she feels the sharpness of his gaze, like a knife scraping against her face.

  Mary takes a moment to find words for her thoughts. “I wonder if we can be so certain of God’s purposes. Is it not possible that God also counts the Indians as His children?”

  Joseph looks at her as if she has spoken nonsense. His silence is so heavy that she briefly looks away. She expects him to correct her, reassure her of God’s mighty presence. Remind her that the Bible is the only necessary source of understanding. At least he will accuse her of apostasy. But he says nothing.

  The evening darkens and folds around them. Mary feels she can hardly breathe, yet the thoughts that have been ravishing her mind and heart for months seem to have a life of their own, and she fills the silence with them. “Is it not true that we can never be certain of God’s will? That even His wonders and signs may be wrongly understood? How can we claim righteousness when so many have suffered at our hands?” She utters these last words as a cry, for she is shaking. “Lately I have begun to think I can count on nothing but my own love for my children. And even that is sorely tested. Especially by Joss.”

  Mary thinks she hears a rueful laugh escape Joseph’s lips, but she cannot be sure it is not her own sobs. He places his hand on her back. “Shhh. Mary,” he whispers. “You are overwrought. We will talk about this matter another time.” He rises and takes her hand and leads her to bed, where he joins with her for the first time since her redemption.

  Afterward, she weeps in wonder and relief.

  • • •

  The next day, when Joseph returns from making parish visits, he tells Mary he has brought her a gift.

  “A gift?” she says, looking up from her spinning. “What possessed you?”

  “Hush.” He puts a finger to his lips. His eyes are dancing as they sometimes did when he courted her. He beckons her outside where, hanging from a hook on the gatepost, she finds a birdcage. It is bell-shaped, formed of thin strips of iron. Inside is a sparrow.

  She stares at the bird, which flutters up and down, chirping.

  “Do you not like it?” Joseph’s voice is filled with disappointment and confusion. “I had the cage made for you by Wethersfield’s own blacksmith.”

  Mary turns to him and makes herself smile. “’Tis beautiful, finely wrought. I thank you for your kindness.”

  Joseph seems satisfied with this, but Mary is stunned with melancholy. All she can think of is Sarah’s love for Row, her refusal to leave the bird the morning of the Indian terror, and the wretched ordeal that preceded her death.

  She hangs the cage by the west-facing window in the kitchen. When Marie comes in from gathering eggs, she sees it and bursts into tears. One of the eggs rolls out of her apron and smashes on the floor. Mary comforts her and tells her not to mind the broken egg, but Marie is still sobbing when she turns away from the cage and places the remaining eggs on the table.

  “It reminds me so of Sarah,” Marie whispers. “I do not think I can bear it.”

  Mary nods, but can offer no more consolation, for she feels exactly the same.

  The new sparrow does not sing, but spends its days sitting in its cage. Occasionally it utters a series of harsh chirps. Mary feeds it and gives it water each morning, but every time she opens the cage door to scatter crumbs, the sparrow pushes against her hand, trying to escape.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  With Joseph’s resumption of his conjugal obligation, Mary hopes she will conceive another child. Since Sarah’s death her womb has ached with emptiness. But after four months in Wethersfield it is apparent that she is now barren, that the woman’s time of life has come upon her. She feels that God has once again forsaken her. When she expresses these thoughts to Joseph, he is surprised and suggests that she has misread the signs. When she assures him that she has not, that she no longer has her flows, he tries to soothe her with the thought that she should perceive her barrenness as a gift. The Lord is sparing her the dangers and sufferings of childbirth, and she should praise His holy name.

  Yet Mary cannot bring herself to praise God for unfruitfulness. She continues to secretly yearn for a child. For many children. She longs to be surrounded and distracted by them. She wants them hanging on to her skirts as she goes about her duties. She wants to hold infants in her arms and press them against her breasts. She wants to kiss their necks and bellies, to delight as their laught
er fills the rooms of her house. She wants their warm, lively bodies around her all the time.

  Marie senses her sadness, and gently questions her about its cause. Mary tells her the truth—that she wishes for another child, but is past conceiving. Marie looks her full in the face and speaks words that could have come straight from her father’s lips: “God wills only what is best for us, does He not?”

  Mary murmurs that she is right, that her desire is probably sinful, and she will strive to turn her thoughts to other matters. Yet whenever Mary chances to meet a woman whose belly is swollen with child, she feels a sharp pang in her own womb.

  • • •

  Over time Mary settles back into her old routines. If she was formerly contaminated by Indian ways, as her husband believed, she is now infected again with English customs. She keeps a clean and orderly house, and prepares savory meat pasties and sweet breads for Joseph and the children. She attends public worship and visits the sick. She reads the Bible with Joss and Marie and oversees their prayers. The fact that she is no longer able to pray herself is a dark secret she reveals to no one. She bows her head and sits in respectful silence at the proper times, so no one but the Lord Himself knows her transgression. It is clear to Mary that she is not saved. But no one—not even Joseph—dares to accuse her of any lapses. In Wethersfield, she is known as the woman who suffered at the hands of the Indians. Since her encounter with Esther Allen, she has not been pressed to divulge the particulars of her story. Gossip and imagination have already supplied those details.

  Marie seems to adjust well to her new life. Like Mary, she has experienced some relief in moving to a new place. She, too, had been reluctant to describe her experiences during the time she was a captive. But one morning, six months after their resettlement, Marie reveals something of them to Mary.

  They are in the stillroom off the kitchen, making mustard plasters, when Mary asks her what she knows of Joss, for he has spent little time at home in the previous month. “I fear that some wildness has tainted him,” Mary says. “He cannot be still. I do not know where he goes.”

  “To the riverfront or the woods,” Marie answers quickly, and then seems to regret the telling, for she glances furtively around the room, as if her brother might be hiding in the shadows. “Please, do not tell him I told you.”

  Mary drops more black mustard seeds into the bowl and quickly grinds them to powder with the pestle. She hands it to Marie so that she can add the proper amounts of flour and water to make the plaster. “But what does he do there? I can think of nothing—”

  “Mother, he wants to be a sailor. He cannot bear staying in one place day after day. He wants always to be moving.” Marie bends over her work as she speaks. Her words flow out like a swarm of bees, as if she cannot release them fast enough.

  Mary wonders aloud if his restiveness is born of his time among the Indians and, though Marie does not answer directly, she mixes the plaster so violently that it slops onto the table. The girl quickly wipes it away with the corner of her apron. “I oft dream of Indians. Sometimes the dreams are sweet.”

  “Aye, I understand,” Mary says softly. “’Twas a powerful time. It cannot help but change us.”

  Marie goes back to stirring, but Mary sees that her arm is shaking. “Marie.” Mary places her hand on her daughter’s wrist, so that she has to drop the spoon. “You may tell me anything. It will not shock or dismay me.” Mary wonders suddenly why she has not sought her daughter’s confession before. Has she been so absorbed in herself that she cannot perceive Marie’s sufferings?

  “It was a hard life,” Marie says. “The first days there was so much work I sometimes thought I would rather die. But then”—she takes a shuddering breath—“once I grew accustomed to the toil, they treated me like one of their own. They were kind and tender. Sometimes it was even fun.” She pauses again and Mary releases her arm. “I do not think the Indians are devils, Mother. The woman who saved me risked her own life when she brought me back to the English. If any had caught her, she would have been slain.”

  “That was an act of extraordinary kindness,” Mary says.

  “Christian kindness.” Her daughter’s tone surprises Mary with its force. “Is it not Christian to risk your life for another?” Before Mary can respond, Marie continues. “Yet she had no faith in Christ. She was not Christian, but heathen.” Her voice fades, and again she starts to wipe tears from her face with her apron. Mary yanks the apron corner from her hands, fearing that she will blind herself with the plaster. Marie seems not to notice. “I do not understand this. And I cannot ask Father.”

  “No,” Mary whispers. “You cannot.”

  “And it is worse because I do not know what became of her,” Marie says. “There is so much hatred—so much fear. I worry that she has been sold for a slave.”

  Mary nods. Tears burn her eyes. “I, too, mourn. So many I knew died or were subjected to English cruelties.” Her voice thickens; she cannot continue. All she can do is take Marie in her arms as if she were a small child again.

  • • •

  Her daughter’s anguish sharpens Mary’s. She broods about her captivity, wondering what has become of the people she lived and worked with for three months. She knows that Philip and Quinnapin and Weetamoo are dead. But what of the others? What of Alawa? Did she die with Weetamoo? What of the boy who carried Sarah with him on the horse, whose name she never thought to ask? And what of James? Did he return to his apprenticeship, or is he still in Natick?

  She thinks of her narrative, regretting that she left it with Increase. She tries to imagine how she might better tell the truth of her experience. It is not enough simply to remember what happened. She wants to understand and explain what it signifies. She wants to give her captivity its true meaning and weight.

  She considers confessing her spiritual dryness to Joseph, but she knows already that he will counsel her to prayer and fasting, will read long passages of Scripture to her. She knows none of this will lift the weight of her discomfort and confusion. During their family prayer sessions, as Joseph reads the Bible and prays over them, she sits listening with her eyes downcast, even though her heart is in turmoil. One evening she is surprised to find that she is not alone in this. Joss, perched on a stool with his face turned to the floor, leaps suddenly to his feet and blurts, “Not everything is a sign from God. Some events just happen.”

  Mary lets out a small gasp. Not in shock, but in recognition of the truth.

  “Nay, I’ll not have you blaspheme,” Joseph chides darkly.

  “Is it not a sort of blasphemy to avow that God is always chastising or rewarding His people?” Joss asks. “Might not some things be beyond our knowing?”

  “Aye,” Mary says. “Is it not conceivable that God may act on whimsy?”

  Mary is astonished when these questions silence Joseph. For a moment he glares at her, but then bows his head and closes his eyes. Mary does not know if he is praying or contemplating her heresy, but she is no longer interested in finding out. She rises and announces that the hour is late and they must all go to bed. Then she quickly leaves the room.

  • • •

  Joseph is not silenced for long. On Thursday evening, in public meeting, he delivers a stinging sermon on the terrible consequences of forsaking God—a sermon he preaches with rare venom. A sermon Mary knows he has crafted especially for the ears of his family.

  “Consider the signs of our forsaking God,” he cries. After two hours of exhortation, his voice has grown hoarse, yet the force of his conviction stills everyone in the congregation. “Chief among them is a deep and high ingratitude.” He looks at Mary, and then up at Joss, who sits in the back gallery. “Hear the word of the Lord, from the book of Amos, chapter eight: ‘Behold, the days come, saith the Lord God, that I will send a famine in the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the word of the Lord. And they shall wander from s
ea to sea, and from the North even unto the East shall they run to and fro to seek the word of the Lord, and shall not find it.’”

  Mary looks down at her lap. Beside her, Marie also bows her head, though Mary suspects it is from fear of her father’s anger as much as the Lord’s. When worship is finished and the congregation has filed out, Mary continues to keep her eyes averted from her husband’s, for she does not want to acknowledge the truth of his words, nor the fear they have set in her heart.

  She hurries home and does not speak with Joseph until that night, long after the children have gone to bed. He sits late by the fire writing while Mary reads her Bible, or tries to. Her eyes cannot focus on the page but keep jittering off in all directions. As he puts away his pen, she speaks.

  “I know you meant your sermon for Joss and me,” she says. “And I am grateful for your attempt to guide us.”

  He rises and steps toward her. She closes her Bible and stands to face him. “You must not misunderstand what I have to say, Joseph. But the truth is, I can no longer claim a hope of salvation. I do not believe I am one of God’s Elect.”

  He shakes his head. “Nay, Mary, you cannot be the one to know such things.”

  “No.” She raises her hand, palm out, to keep him from touching her. “I know that God has forsaken me—and I Him. That is enough, surely, to condemn me to eternal damnation.”

  His scowl deepens. “Did you not hear a word I said this night?”

  “Aye, I did.” She extends one of her hands toward the fire, in the hope it might warm her, but her fingertips remain numb. “I heard every word, Joseph. I heard myself in your condemnation of sinful New England. In your description of those who forsake the Lord.”

  He gives a loud sigh. She sees that he is agitated, that she has angered him yet again. She knows that she must say what she has to say quickly, before she loses courage. “The truth is—the truth that you do not want to recognize—is that my time in the wilderness has changed me. Forever. I am not the helpmeet you once had. I am no longer the meek and godly Christian wife you married and fathered children upon. I am lost in the wilderness, far from God’s presence.”