Mother Lode

by Carol Anita Sheldon

  “No, I told you to leave them down. Get over here.”

  Barely knowing what he was doing, he obeyed, shuffled toward her.

  “Kneel. Kneel on this stone.”

  What was she going to do? He knelt on the hard stone, feeling its uneven points dig into his knees. He thought his mortification was complete when she made him stand before her with his britches around his ankles, gazing at him. But then he had not anticipated this.

  “Put your head and chest down until they touch the ground. . . Yes. Now push your backside up in the air. Higher. . . Place your arms out at your sides. Reach, as far as you can.”

  He waited, eternally, it seemed, knowing she was watching him, taking in every crevice of his shame. How could he ever look at her again? His outstretched hands scratched through the straw; his nails dug into the packed earth beneath.

  “You will wait here, in just this position, until I decide what to do with you. It may be some time. I needn’t tell you the distress this causes me. It is a violation, against God, against me! You knew that, and you must atone for it.”

  She left him then. As he remained in this mode of penance he wept deeply with an anguish he didn’t know his soul possessed. When the sobs had finally subsided, and his body ached to collapse on the ground, still he kept his position, not from fear, but contrition. The imprisoned guilt, broken loose from its confinement, came flying out with all its condemnation. He had betrayed the only person in the world who loved him, the only one he loved. Like the prince in the fairy tale, his disloyalty would doom him for all eternity. He could not forgive himself; he could find no peace.

  The soft shadows and sunlight of the afternoon had forsaken him. It was dark now, he was shivering from the cold that had descended upon the stable, and still she did not come. Once he awoke suddenly as his exhausted body tumbled to its side. Righting himself quickly, he took stock of his surroundings. He could tell by their breathing that even the horses were asleep. The barn swallows were coming home to roost. Night had fallen.

  Focusing on the sounds to keep himself awake, he listened to the owl’s soft hoot, its mate’s reply. He caught the scuttle of mice running across the dirt floor; from the woods he heard the death cry of a small animal defeated by its captor.

  Finally, he noticed a light from a lantern cast its glow in the darkness.

  Was it his mother, or had she sent his father?

  “Get up now,” she said softly.

  He felt like an old man trying to rise. His knees didn’t seem to work as he broke them open. Finally standing unsteadily, he felt the terrible cramping in his calves, thighs, back and arms. He was afraid he might collapse as he waited further instruction. But anything she would do now would be better than what he’d endured.

  “Pull your pants up.”

  Clumsily he did so.

  “Now go to the house and up to bed.”

  “Aren’t you going to punish me?”

  “Have you not been punished enough these past hours?”

  “Yes, yes I have,” he said, buttoning his trousers.

  “Then go to bed. We’ll say no more tonight.”

  He was glad she went on ahead of him. She did not see him fall twice on his way to the house.

  “Where was Jorie at suppertime?” Thomas asked his wife as she came back to the house.

  “He was being punished.”

  “What did he do to bring on your displeasure?”

  “I found him — abusing himself.”

  “You found him what?”

  Catherine reddened. “Pleasuring himself.”

  Thomas snorted. “Every boy does that.”

  The casual remark flattened her. She sucked in her breath.

  “He had been specifically told not to, that it was a violation against God!”

  “That’s a lot of bollix, Catherine.”

  “The Bible—”

  “—Would prefer us all to be celibate, but then how would we produce children to glorify God?”

  “Surely, you don’t mean to say—”

  “Glad to hear there’s something normal about him.”

  “Thomas—”

  What do you imagine other boys, do with their sexual urges? Have you never thought of that?”

  “No, I never have. Oh, Blessed Mary!”

  He laughed. “Either that, or find a handy ewe.”

  “Ah! How can you jest so?”

  “Not a jest, my dear. Not a jest at all.”

  “Oh, that is horrible! Disgusting!”

  Thomas laughed again.

  “You can’t mean to say that it’s right for him to handle himself so — that I should tell him to go ahead!”

  “Don’t tell him anything. Boys do what boys do. Best to turn your back and ignore it.”

  He laughed. “Put all the fancy dress on us you like, Catherine, we are still animals.”

  “We are not!”

  “We shall see about that, my little ewe.”

  The conversation had aroused Thomas. He pulled his wife toward him, and said lightly, “Now I’d like a little ‘ewe’ tonight.”

  Despite her long hunger, she was offended at this treatment. But he marched her up the stairs to her room, tossed her on her bed, and threw up her skirts.

  “Turn over,” he commanded.

  “Thomas! Are you mad?”

  “I see I have to do it for you.” He flipped her over, pulling her bloomers down in one swift motion.

  “Aw, you’ve still a beautiful white ass, my dear.”

  “Stop it!”

  He pushed her higher up on the bed. His powerful hands grasped her flesh while he ignored her objections. He squeezed until the protests stopped.

  “Wait,” he directed.

  He left her for a moment, and she was shamed to realize she had not the will to even attempt an escape.

  Returning with the blue jar, he put an ample amount of its contents inside her.

  “Now if I were truly to take you as a ewe, there’d be no balm to soften the sting of my arrow as it finds its mark. But I still treat you as a lady,” he said lightly.

  With no further ado, he rammed into her, ignoring her cry of pain which soon evolved into moans of pleasure, as he knew it would.

  Abruptly he paused. “You see, my dear, you too are an animal, as I have just proven.”

  She pushed against him.

  “You do grasp my point.” He laughed at his pun.

  When she moaned he rode to the finish hard and fast. When he was spent, he rolled off her and lay on the bed apart.

  Catherine was angry with him, angrier still with herself. Her body had betrayed her. How could she hope to train Jorie to rule his physical urges if she could not rule her own?

  He pulled her roughly toward him.

  “How’s that for lessons? I rest my case.”

  She tried to pull away.

  “Aw, Lass, don’t take it all so seriously. Some day I’ll take you down to the barn and we’ll pretend we’re young gypsies a-rollicking’ in the hay.”

  Lying alone later that night she looked her own blindness straight in the eye. She had to admit that if she had thought about other lads giving themselves relief in this way, it wouldn’t have bothered her. She had to ask why, then, was she so upset with Jorie?

  Ugly glimpses of her possessiveness came twisting through her mind. Having questioned her own motives, she could not now find the key to stopping them. She didn’t want to know more, but still the fact overflowed its banks, flooded her knowing: Because he’s mine.

  She shook with the truth, which was too uncomfortable to countenance, and tried to push it out of her head. She spent a restless night, and by morning knew what she must do.

  She went to his room, sat on the side of his bed, her hands in her lap. “Jorie, I have wronged you. In my ignorance I thought I was doing right to insist you not touch yourself. But I do not know as much about such things as your father does. When I told him—”

  “You told Papa!”


  “He asked me why you were being punished and I had to tell him.”

  Jorie’s heart sank.

  “He said, ‘all boys do that.’”

  Jorie couldn’t believe his ears. A great silent sigh of relief flowed from his toes upward through his whole body.

  “I don’t think that makes it right. I’m sure it’s a sin, but perhaps I shouldn’t have . . .You’d better speak to Father Dumas about it.” She waited for him to take this in.

  Jorie moved his stiff body slightly, swallowed. He’d gone to bed in misery and shame. Exhausted, he’d fallen in and out of a fitful sleep. He’d thought he heard noises coming from his mother’s room, but was too weary to give it his attention. In the morning, he’d re-experienced all the shame and pain of the previous night, covered his head with his pillow and tried to find the sweet balm of slumber. But sleep would not return. He had struggled to bend his crippled knees, forced himself to flex them until they would bear his weight when he stood up. But it was extremely painful to walk, and having no wish to go anywhere, had returned to bed.

  When she’d opened the door, he thought there would be more talk of punishment. What he was hearing now astounded him.

  Grateful that she’d been brave enough to say she’d erred, he found something frightening about it too. It was as though the lamp that led the way had been extinguished. He had trusted her implicitly, even when he was angry with her. Now he saw her for the first time, not as the idol he worshipped, but equally fallible, small and pathetic.

  He was quiet for so long, she rose to leave. “I think we’d better stop our. . .education. For the time, at least. Perhaps I am not a suitable teacher for you.”

  She waited mournfully for a response, received none and left the room.

  A cacophony of voices rang through his head.

  She apologized. Forgive her, you dog!

  How could she have shamed me so? For something normal?

  Is it wrong, or not?

  And the biggest one of all, that brought the angry tears: Why did she come back and break the Golden Bubble? He didn’t see how they could continue their voyage into the inner world now. There was no one at the helm.

  For days the rain came down unrelentingly. Mirroring Jorie’s mood, it made everything muddy, brought a bone-chilling dampness into the house that no fire could temper. It was the ugliest fall he could remember: dark clouds swirled in the angry skies and the merciless winds brought the maple leaves down before their glorious colors had played their hour upon the trees.

  His mother carried on with a distant dignity, but there was no closeness between them. The gap between them grew like a great yawning abyss. He realized he’d made an irrevocable choice that day in his room. She had waited, humbled after her confession, and he had not absolved her. She would not come to him now and beg for his understanding. And he could not bring himself to cross the gorge to meet her, though the pain was nigh intolerable.

  Even the hills, so healing and peaceful to him were being punished by the gods. Usually, when the waters of heaven were so violently unleashed, the storm lasted only a few hours. Now it seemed the torrents would never end, and Jorie wondered who would build the next ark. Certainly he would not be among the chosen.

  He did his chores with alacrity, and sought his own company as quickly as

  possible. But here he was miserable too. Looking for diversion, he tried to re-read

  books he’d once loved. Impatiently, he’d discard them after a chapter or two. Dissatisfied with his drawings, he threw them in the fire. His inner world was shattered; the outer was nothing without her. Again he was walking on broken glass, but this time it was shifting beneath his feet.

  When he could stand it no longer, at the end of the most confining week, he put on his oil slicker and forged his way in the dark out into the driving rain, seeking to spill his explosive feelings. Tramping up the hill and slipping in the mud, he was beaten unmercifully by the water that slashed at his face, mingled with his tears. Reaching the birch copse at last he threw himself down on the ground and wept into the earth. His sobs, absorbed by the storm, made no sound. A feeling of total insignificance overcame him, a tiny speck unnoticed in a vast uncaring universe. When he was spent, he rolled over on his back and let the rain slash at his face. It was the only clean thing in this world.

  Exhausted, he rolled over on his face again and fell asleep. He didn’t care what happened to him; it was hours later before he awoke from a stupored sleep and dragged himself through the rain back home.

  Catherine, believing him to be asleep in his room, had made no search. It was not until the next day when he didn’t come down for breakfast that she went up to rouse him and found him feverish. When she saw the heap of wet and muddy things on the floor she surmised where he’d been.

  “Good Lord, lad, have you lost your senses? Out in that misery last night to catch your death? How long were you gone?”

  Jorie shook his head, tried to say something, gave up.

  She could see he was ill, his teeth chattering and chills shaking his crumpled body. She insisted he come down by the fire and have a hot soak in the copper tub.

  She hurried into the kitchen. “Helena, build up the fire. Jorie’s chilled to the bone.”

  When all was ready, Catherine helped Jorie down the stairs. He saw the housekeeper.

  “I can’t go in with her there.”

  It was too late. Helena came to the doorway. “Begod and bejasus, Look at you, with a face like you’d seen the deevil himself. Puts me in mind of — “

  “Just pour the water in the tub, Helena.”

  “Oh, I was just havin’ a bit ‘o fun, mum.”

  “Well, now’s not the time. Go tend to his room, please.”

  “Will I be doin’ the wash?”

  “Just go, Helena.”

  The woman left and Catherine seated Jorie on a chair, where she proceeded to remove his nightshirt and help him into the steaming water.

  The tub being small, she dipped a small blanket in it and wrapped it around his shoulders. When it cooled, she repeated the process.

  “Better get out now,” she said when the tub water cooled, “before you catch a worse chill.”

  Helena had removed the muddy clothes and changed his sheets. Catherine helped him back to bed, fearing pneumonia. Retrieving the feather comforter from her own bed, she tucked him in tightly, bringing it up to his chin.

  When she’d done with that she prepared him a pot of hot dandelion tea, which she urged him to drink, against his protests.

  Not wanting to leave him, she was yet uneasy with conversation, and lapsed into telling him the old silkie stories again. They had a soporific effect, and at last he slept.

  Doctor Johnson confirmed he had pneumonia. He prescribed mustard plasters, came daily, checking his fever, administering medication, but the best medicine came from the visits themselves. They often lasted an hour or more.

  “You can hear the wolves at night, in the winter, howling up in the hills. I think they’re very lonely, sir.”

  “And hungry.”

  “I found an injured cub once up in the copse. She was shot for the bounty, I’m sure.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I cleaned her wound, and took scraps to her every day. She’d lick my hand. But one day, when I came, she was gone. Probably the bounty hunters had gotten her.”

  “Animals knows better than we when it’s time to move on.”

  “Do you think she might have survived?”

  “I think it quite possible.”

  Jorie had worried all week whether he dared broach this most difficult of subjects with the gentle doctor.

  “Could you tell me something about — human reproduction?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  Jorie flushed.

  “Where babies come from?” the doctor asked gently.

  “No, I know that much. How it all works — the organs and such.”

  �
��I’ll bring you a book on anatomy. Would you like that?”

  Jorie hesitated.

  “Was there something specific, son?”

  He blurted it out. “Sometimes — it gets stiff.”

  The doctor nodded. “Oh, I see. Yes, yes.”