Charis in the World of Wonders

by Marly Youmans

But Bel Dane kept drifting back to me.

  “Surely she knew I was no witch,” I murmured. Had Lizzie and Goody Holt worked on her with accusations, piecing together a great lie?

  The houses on the way were unlit. I stayed on edge, in readiness to blow out my candle if I saw the watchman. I counted the landmarks by name or feature where I recognized them: the Lovejoy house beyond Blanchard’s pond; the burying ground on the left, across from Powell’s Folly and Little Hope Meadow, where I was startled by three cows in a huddle, backs turned to the breeze.

  “Poor beasts, out in such weather,” I said aloud, for I too was a poor creature who should be warm and under a roof. The cold made me stiffen and clamp my arms close to my sides for warmth.

  It was luck that I knew the lane-ways and the houses well, for often Mr. Herrick and I had delivered repaired pewter or silver, collecting payment at the same time. Yet in the darkness, I entirely missed seeing the Phelps house, and was soon surprised to find myself passing Bixby and Chandler houses and the iron mill, where I crossed the Shawsheen by bridge and found myself among Osgood and Peeters and Wright houses hard by the New Meadow.

  And there I hoped to discover Hortus. I knew that he had returned from Salem but lately. Whether he had flown to some nearby town, I did not know but trusted that the inclement weather would be my friend.

  Near the stable, I held still, searching the house hard by for any sign of a candle. Seeing no light, I slipped inside and set the lantern on a low bench.

  The building was no more than a plain, meager barn with hay loft and swallow holes under the gable ends. The first crude stall was empty. The other held an unfamiliar chestnut with a white star gleaming in the gloom, the mount of some unknown traveler. Beyond, in the open area, a cow and sheep nested on straw, and near them my Hortus stood in the shadows, his head and neck drooping. He was asleep. Only once before had I been so powerfully glad to see him.

  “Hush, hush,” I said, sidling past as the chestnut shuffled her feet. Someone had tethered her to a post.

  At the sound of my voice, Hortus woke, came forward, and greeted me with whiffling breath as he searched to see if I had a winter apple for him.

  “Nothing,” I told him. “Nothing. Just me.”

  When he nuzzled my shoulder, I locked my arms around his neck. I murmured to him that he must be quiet, quiet, quiet. He cocked an ear at me as if he knew my meaning.

  “You have saved me and saved me. And now it must be one more time,” I said, and combed my fingers through his mane. “It will be heavy work and long, but in the end you will have a welcome of feed and rest.”

  He blew his breath at my ear, sending my loosened coif and wide-brimmed hat askew with his muzzle.

  “The stars have come out for us, Hortus, and the moon is a shining nut-meat in a bur of mist. We must go.”

  He nickered softly, and not for the first time I wondered if he could understand my words. And why not? I knew his horse speech well enough.

  “You are the best horse in the world. I love you above land and gold and a great many people.”

  The chickens stirred on their nests, querulously letting out a few chirps. I held silent and still for several minutes, my hands resting on Hortus, afraid that an outburst of panicked peeps and trills might wake the sleepers in the house.

  He followed me as I took up the lantern and searched for the heavy saddle and bridle that had eaten much of his earnings as a journey-horse. For he could not be rented out without those; nor would anyone accept the Indian bridle from me. He had an old English wood-and-leather saddle covered in wine-colored velvet, with a modicum of silver braid and brass nails. In truth, I had earned little more from Hortus than gear, stable, and feed. A horse is a costly love, but I could not let him go, not after the trials we had endured together. He was all that remained alive of our company near Falmouth, and though he was but a horse, I cared for him and thought him dear and, as it is said of men and women, “of more value than many sparrows.”

  “Peace, peace, Hortus,” I said to him, putting my hand on his crest and gripping threads of his mane as I had often done when we traveled together and I was afraid. And though he tossed his head once and whickered at my ear, he remembered and was otherwise as quiet as a horse can be.

  “We shall go walking under the splendiferous swarm of the star-bees, my Hortus, and we shall have another adventure,” I whispered.

  After a struggle with the saddle, I led him out of the stable, not forgetting the lantern and closing the door softly behind me. The hooves occasionally striking a stone through the snow, a faint jingling from the stirrups: these were the only sounds. And though I meant to ride him, hoisting up my petticoats and galloping toward the house, my second thought was safer. Walking hurriedly, I steered him right down the street, past Abbot and Ashbee houses, and in sight of Francis Dane’s house crossways from the burying ground and the great meetinghouse itself. I intended to lead Hortus past the Barnard and Carleton and Faulkner houses.

  But soon I paused and blew out my candle, for I heard voices and glimpsed the gleam from another lantern.

  “Hist! Hush,” I said, stroking Hortus’ nose and straining to hear.

  But I could not make out the words.

  I tied the reins to a tree, though in truth I did not wish to leave my horse, and ducked into some still-standing corn across the road from the houses. It was hard going among the mounds and ruts of the field, and I was glad to cling to dry stalks when I needed to catch myself from falling.

  When I reached a point just opposite the minister’s house, I could see clearly that someone had come to fetch Mr. Barnard.

  He was standing before the door, dressed in a long shirt and cloak and not fit for company. “What is that sound?” The minister looked straight toward my hiding place.

  “Nothing, nothing. I have seen nothing to alarm on my way here,” the other man said. “The deer are coming in to glean the remains of the corn. They snuffle and snort through the stalks.”

  “Perhaps that is all,” Mr. Barnard said. “I do not like it.” He wrapped the cloak more tightly about him.

  “This thing may be an indifferent matter, and if you will come quickly, you may be back in bed shortly,” the man said. “Goody Holt says she has a piece of news for you that cannot wait until morning, and she will only tell it to your ear. Evidently it is tidings to do with her daughter Goody Mehitabel Dane and the witch—”

  Here I could no longer make out the words, or at least not until the minister, accustomed to speaking to his flock loudly, boomed out a reply.

  “Nothing has been proven,” he said. “The woman has only been accused, and there is no solidity about that, though certainly Satan has been at his slippery work in our midst. He is busy with his bird-lime, ever and always. Yet I suppose that we must attend her. Goodwife Holt is not to be trifled with, I fear. She can be turbulent. But no need for unpleasant haste. Come inside, and I will put a stick of wood on the fire for you, and ready myself for—”

  As he turned away, again the words were lost.

  Once the door was shut, I snaked through the stalks back to Hortus, who was nosing dried oak leaves, and starting away when the wind ruttled them.

  “Hush again, hush.” I stroked his forehead and muzzle and kissed him and afterward guided him away.

  The best route to take was not so clear as before, but I determined to walk up the street that led toward the Cochichewick bridge and the road to Haverhill, and then to follow a smaller path that would take me close to our own cartway between the Shawshin Meadows and New Meadow, where Poor’s Bridge crosses the Shawshin River. And so we moved down the road, Hortus’ hooves clattering a bit at a muddy slough where brush and boards had been thrown across but, I hoped, not bothering a soul sleeping in houses. When we came to the path, I found a stump and vaulted into the saddle, my petticoats flying above my knees, and we moved quickly until I dismounted at the Austins’ garden plot and led Hortus the rest of the way.

  But I did n
ot leave him near our house, instead tying him to a tree by neither road nor path, after petting his nose and telling him what a splendid good boy he had been and that we were not done yet. I left my cloak over him for warmth, fastening it to the pommel. The cold bit at me, and I shuddered convulsively as I crossed the uneven, stubbled ground, the remains of our small summer farm.

  The house was dark. I could see a skein of smoke rising from the chimbley and obscuring the stars just above. Although it was but my fancy, I thought of the star-bees made drowsy by the warmth and by the fine, rising particles from the wood, for the stars looked cloudy and dim in the smoke.

  I glanced about me for any neighboring hint of light before I slipped to the door and went in. Stopping to listen for anything untoward, I stood shivering in the midst of the shop. What silver remained after the last delivery was now gone; a few pieces of tin stood in their places. When I passed through the curtain to the back, I saw that all the better tools were also absent, though some cruder iron tools had been scattered around the chamber. It was a shame we could not take them with us, along with the big crucibles out back, but how could we?

  “Jotham,” I called, and when there was no reply, I hastened to our bedchamber.

  Garbed finely for our flight in treen-colored breeches, stamell-red waistcoat, leather doublet, and scarlet cap, there he was—asleep by the fire with one arm resting against the cradle and his hose ungartered. Our little Samuel lay slumbering in the cradle, biggen half over his face. I leaned down and meant to adjust it, but drew back my hand. I did not want to wake him. Instead, I lit Phoebe Wardwell’s precious candle with a straw and adjusted it in the lantern. The clear white glimmered again, and the room shone forth.

  Kneeling on the floor, I shook my husband gently. “Jotham. Jotham Herrick.”

  He came awake with a great start, stared, and clutched me to him. “Thank God! I was dreaming that we were in a great judgment hall with waterfalls and trees and justices in astonishing rainbow violets and greens, and that your hair grew and grew until it waved like a red sea and choked the room—”

  “Some would kill me for my hair alone, I fear,” I said.

  “Or less. This Mehitabel Dane. She would have you hanged for a mere toy?”

  “I have thought and thought and concluded that friend Bel may have fancied the doll to be like an evil type, a shadow of the diabolical, a prophetical foretelling of her daughter to come. A dangerous poppet. As the cloth was blighted by a drop of blood, so her child’s skin was stained. But since types are not parallels we invent merely from our own fancies but must be rooted in the Bible, I cannot see why Mr. Barnard did not declare her to be mistaken.”

  “No, a plaything is not an object dropped by wonder-working Providence, surely. It was but a chance resemblance, no more.” He loosed his hold on me. “I would that Goody Dane had never seen it.”

  “That ill idea is what she dreams,” I said, and rose to my feet. “She cannot see that the babe is lovely. She sees only the blot. And might have blamed me in some other way if she had not glimpsed the doll.”

  “She has played at being wicked. She should look to herself and not others,” Jotham Herrick said. He yawned mightily and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and for a moment seemed only a boy.

  I will, will see our Samuel become a man. That I will. The words whisked through my head like flame through dry fodder. I touched Jotham’s golden hair, and he grasped my hand and kissed the palm.

  “I rue that friendship if she has gone over to Goody Holt’s manner of seeing the world, and her mother’s rumgumptious manner in asserting what she sees. I am only grateful that she did not spoil my chance to escape. Belike she assumed I was to be hied away to Salem or Salem Village until she heard other news. She may have scuttled to her mother and told the secret. Like a great white mouser trembling at a hole, Goody Holt must have been lying in wait for the watchman. By then, I must have been standing free under the stars.”

  “You must tell me more. And how—how did you manage?”

  “Not with the wildness of magic and witchcraft, I assure you. I will tell you on the way. Mr. Barnard has set off to see Goody Holt, and he will soon comprehend my ability to master the art of vanishment. Next he will hurry to the Wardwell house to make certain that I am safely locked away. After, he may ring the alarm bells, though I do not suppose he would ring them until first light. But all that will take him a deal of time in the dark. And we shall be fled.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Never mind now—trust that they are the truth.”

  And be glad, I thought, that the minister is a slow husbandman who has not cut down his corn.

  “Where will we fly?” Jotham stood up, staggering a little from sleepiness. He combed his hair back from his brow with one hand.

  “We must journey to Haverhill—where else is there? I do not think that Major Saltonstall will thrust me back to judgment, though he will not be pleased that such an accusation has been made, and perhaps not at all satisfied that I have darted away rather that standing for trial. Sheltering us will be a considerable risk for him, and that much I regret for his sake. For I shall be a case of ‘flying upon a felony,’ with a hue and cry from the constable, Goodman Foster.”

  “That is in my thoughts—my fears—as well,” he said.

  “I am thankful that the newcomers bond paid for me was returned to Major Saltonstall after our wedding. Many times he and Elizabeth Saltonstall have asked me to let them help, and now I shall have to allow them, if they will. And I hope, trust, and believe they will, as they have only love for me and will be certain that I am no witch.”

  Jotham Herrick looked more wakeful now. He perched on the bed and began to garter his stockings. “A good plan, if it works. How do you mean us to get there?” He paused and looked up at me.

  “Hortus is not far—I tethered him to a pine tree.” I glanced around the room. “Where are our clothes and goods?”

  “In the lean-to. I bagged and lashed all I could in bed curtains and coverlets, and scattered a few tools and some worn-out garments here and there in the house, so that the people could not tell if I had left home, if they burst in.”

  “That was clever. And I saw tin on the shelves.”

  He leaned forward, tugging on one boot and then the other.

  “If I had days,” he said, “I would dismantle and pack the glass for the display window—that much I added to the house. It was shipped from England not long after I arrived here.”

  “I am sorry we must leave so many well-made devices. And in such a rush.”

  “I lament nothing except not being able to pack crucibles and anvils and some of the weightier tools.” He gave a little jerk of the head and stood up, bending to pull at his boots once more and stamping as if to work them into place.

  So much he was losing! Not just the means to his trade.

  “Perhaps I should—”

  “No. Whatever you were about to say, do not say.” He went to me, coming close to the cradle where our son slept, and framed my face with his two hands. I reached up to cover them with mine. “There will be new furnaces and tools. But there would never be another Charis. Not in a thousand thousands of years. And I suspect the fears of our people may darken their sight. Hunting for Satan, they may find him moving in the wilderness of their own hearts and so, unwitting, commit evil against you. As happened with Goody Mehitabel Dane. If one who liked you well could swerve and turn against you, think how simple it would be for some who do not know your nature.”

  “Jotham,” I whispered. “If I have learned anything, it is that darkness and light dance and struggle together in the chambers of every heart. Shadows must be tamed.”

  He gazed into my eyes, and I into his.

  “Samuel needs you,” he said. “I need you.”

  Samuel’s face looked closed and far away in sleep. A faint sheen touched his eyelids, above the crescent curve of fine lashes. The round cheeks, the small snub nose, the silks
of hair: some cloudy resemblance made me detect a glimmer of my brother Isaac.

  “And I you. And him.”

  “They made a shambles of our house, hunting for signs of guilt. They will not make a shambles of our family. All will be restored,” he said, breaking away from me to move about the room as if looking for something forgotten in his packing. “New tools, new crucibles. I do regret the loss of the doll with your mother and sister’s hair.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You,” he added, “you are a sort of Madam Job, who has been tested overmuch by evil and loss but whose life to come will be abundant. I feel this. As strongly as prophecy.”

  “You leave so much,” I said hurriedly, still caught by the grief of harming him. “Your good offices with the town and militia. And you are woven into the fabric here, as I had hoped to be someday. I am afraid you will repent of quitting Andover.”

  “Never. We will find another place,” he said. “My townspeople did not know, but they cast me out when they seized you, Charis. They will have a smith in metals no longer, nor my help in other ways. I am not discontent or unwilling to go.”

  Jotham Herrick bent to raise the lid and pulled a cloak from a chest. Last he retrieved his precious lambskin gloves and, to my surprise, handed me a pair of rabbit-skin gloves he had traded for tinware earlier in the day.

  He interrupted my thanks. “Now that I am wakeful again, I yearn to be gone. But you have no cloak, and this weather is bleak and frosty.”

  “With Hortus. The cloak is with him. And I do thank you, I just—”

  I stopped, unsure of what I meant to say. The longer we stayed, the harder I listened for noises from outside.

  “We have a little time, surely, Charis.” He put his hands on my shoulders and I seemed to wake. Staring up at him, the thought that all our life here was passing away came to me with force.

  “But we must act now or be lost,” he said.

  “Yes, that restlessness is in my mind also. There will soon be a warrant for my arrest. By now I may be settled in Mr. Barnard’s opinion as a wildcat-riding witch and nefarious she-rogue. If you agree, I will seek for Hortus and lead him to the shed,” I said. “And you may carry Samuel there and meet me.”