The Turning

by Linda Watkins

  “So, you not only give shelter and comfort to a witch, but are a horse thief, too?”

  Micah smiled. “No, not a thief. But you can call me a ‘caretaker.’ When we reach the border, I’ll let these animals go. With luck, they’ll find their way home. Be grateful I’m not taking your boots, as well.”

  As he spoke, Davis and another man gathered up the group’s horses and tied them to the rear of our wagons.

  “Now, off with you,” commanded Micah.

  With those words, everyone got back into their wagons and, as if nothing had happened, we began our trek again. Zachariah and his friends watched us go and I could see the anger and hatred in his eyes had increased tenfold. He would not forget this humiliation at the hands of my lover and I knew that someday we would have to deal with him again. However, for now, my heart swelled with pride for my Micah. He had, indeed, proved himself to be a good, strong, courageous man.

  The Village of Falmouth

  DAY AFTER DAY we journeyed, finally crossing the border into New Hampshire. At this juncture, we all breathed a sigh of relief.

  As we traveled north, we were joined by a small group of friendly Native Americans who were returning to their homeland. Micah, ever curious, was determined to communicate and learn from them and, in these conversations (if you could call them that), he discovered that the Indians were very familiar with the islands we were headed for. They offered to take Micah and others to these places in their canoes when we arrived. This excited us all as we had no boats of our own and worried at having to build some.

  After an arduous two weeks on the road, we finally arrived at the settlement called “Falmouth.” We found an open area near the shore where we could circle our wagons and make camp. It was late June and the weather was turning warmer. We were all overjoyed to have made it safely to our destination and, also, to once again visit a market to purchase much-needed supplies.

  Micah, Mr. Davis, and one of the other men journeyed with our Abenaki Indian friends out to an island they called “Storm.” It was close to the coast and, by all accounts, would serve our purposes well. About four miles long and two wide, it had an abundance of fresh water and land that could be farmed.

  Shortly after our arrival, it became obvious to me that I was with child. I had suspected it when we were traveling, but hadn’t said anything to Micah as I was afraid the stress of the journey might cause me to lose the babe. When I finally told him, he was elated and insisted on marrying me right away. Unfortunately, because of our different religions, we could not receive the blessing of church or synagogue, so we settled for a simple ceremony performed by the settlement’s magistrate. Contrary to the traditions of my church, Micah presented me with a token of his love – a ring he’d made from a rose head nail. As he slipped it on my finger, I vowed I would wear it always.

  Also, unlike my previous wedding, my marriage to Micah was celebrated heartily with food, drink, music, dancing, and much merriment by the other members of our little band of refugees.

  After partaking of the celebratory food and drink, Micah and I retired to our wagon for our wedding night. Imelda, respecting our need for privacy, took Samuel for the evening so that we could be alone.

  As we lay side by side under our canvas roof, I was puzzled. Micah had not touched me since I’d told him of my condition. And it seemed he had no plans to touch me on this our wedding night, either. This was something I could not abide.

  “Micah, my love,” I whispered. “Have I grown ugly in your eyes? Has my pregnancy made you lose your ardor?”

  He sat up, startled by my question.

  “No, my love. You are even more beautiful than the first day I saw you. I will desire you always.”

  “Then why, Micah? Why on this our special night do you lie distant from me?”

  He stared down at his hands, obviously embarrassed. Finally, he spoke.

  “I am afraid, my love.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  He hesitated but a moment. “Afraid that, if I join with you, I might hurt the baby. Damage him in some way. And, that I would not do.”

  I smiled. “Oh, Micah. You will not hurt the babe. For he is but the size of a walnut now and lies safe in my womb. Take my word, you will not cause him harm by lying with me. But by not lying with me, you may cause me harm.”

  Micah looked into my eyes and could see I was telling him the truth. Then, without further discussion, he smiled and reached for me.

  A Home of Our Own

  AFTER SEVERAL FORAYS to the islands, the one called “Storm” was deemed by our menfolk to suit our needs the best. To move the equipment and livestock that would be used to clear land and build cabins, we had to first construct a barge. This was planned to be a flat-bottomed boat, made of logs, on which a sail could be erected and a tiller attached. Once this was complete, the animals, nervous about being transported over water, were given a potion concocted by Imelda. She assured us that it would cause no harm and would serve only to calm the beasts.

  Our first journey on the barge was fraught with peril, but with our Abenaki friends’ guidance, we made it without incident. Once our tools and animals were safely ashore, we began the process of clearing the land on which we would build our homes. So we didn’t have to travel back and forth from the mainland every day, our Indian friends again assisted us, erecting structures called “tee-pees” which gave us a place to sleep, safe from the elements.

  Because access to the tools needed to build wood-slat homes, like the ones we were used to in Boston, was limited, Micah suggested we erect log cabins like the Swedes and Finns were known to build. He’d done some research on this before leaving Boston and, in no time, became our colony’s chief architect.

  Our resulting house was small – a kitchen/dining area, two bedrooms, and a parlor. At first, Imelda stayed with us. But as privacy was hard to come by in such a cramped space, and because she was by nature an urban creature, she eventually opted to leave the island and set up shop in town. Micah helped her find a suitable storefront and, though we missed her, it was convenient for all of us to have a connection on the mainland. On market days, she would meet us with her wagon and, thus, save us the task of walking to and from the settlement.

  Micah’s and my baby was born in December in the midst of a snowstorm. The birth went smoothly and we were blessed with a beautiful daughter we named “Sarah.”

  So, we made our home on Storm and, as the years passed, we prospered. Our men fished and hunted while the women planted and reaped. We all developed a taste for those spiny crustaceans called lobsters which were plentiful in the tide pools surrounding our island, and while the winters could prove to be deadly, we survived.

  Micah and I tried for another child, but, alas, it was not to be. But we had our Sarah and Samuel, who was now no longer a baby but a real little boy. He would often go out fishing with Micah, whom he now joyfully called “Father.”

  Our crops, mostly herbs and vegetables, were the envy of all. It seemed that no matter the weather, our produce grew bigger, juicer, and more tasteful than that found on the mainland. Many ascribed this to the seaweed we used as fertilizer, but I often wondered if it were not those strange incantations that old man had bestowed upon me that I, on the wake of the full moon, visited upon our fields.

  However, despite all this good fortune, I still felt a finger of fear niggling at the back of my brain. I discovered there were caves beneath the surface of the island and, to calm my fevered mind, decided to use them to my advantage.

  One such cave began not far from where our house sat and I begged and cajoled poor Micah into widening and lengthening it so that, if need be, we could escape from our house without being seen. Thus, he built a trapdoor in our bedroom that led down beneath the island’s surface. The cave below opened onto the ocean and, not far from its mouth, I secreted a small skiff to be used should we need it.

  In addition to these efforts, I convinced Micah to build me a tower, out of stone, the entry
to which would be from the caves below. It would be a one-room structure – a place we could go to hide should our enemies ever find us. Once it was complete, I used one of the spells that old devil had planted in my brain to cloak the tower so that no one, excepting my kin, could see it.

  Did this work? Surprisingly, yes. The tower or silo was located deep in the woods and, when I walked nearby with those who were not related to me, by marriage or birth, they saw nothing. I often wondered about this – what dark magic that old conjurer had bestowed upon me – but, in the end, I questioned it not. My family’s safety meant more to me than any evil that old man could do.

  At least, that’s what I thought then.

  Storm Island

  June 1, 1698

  IT WAS A fine summer day and Micah, Sarah, and Samuel left early to go fishing. Alone in the house, I puttered around for a while, humming a cheerful tune as I worked.

  I was happy. It had been six years since we’d come to this place and we had prospered. The only thing marring my happiness had been my inability to give Micah the son he so wanted. Oh, I knew he had Samuel and he cared for him just as much as if he had been of his blood. But every man wants a son of his own and, on this day, I finally knew I would give him one.

  I had suspected I was with child for the past month or so, but wanted to wait to be sure before I told Micah. I planned to inform him that evening and, in my mind’s eye, I could already see the joy blossoming on his face.

  Smiling at this thought, I wiped my hands on a towel and decided to take a walk down to the shore. I knew to do this would be shirking – it was the first day of planting season and I should be in gardens. But I was too full of joy to get on my knees and put my hands in the dirt. No, I could do that later. Now was the time to rejoice in nature and thank the Mother for all she had bestowed upon me.

  Our house lay near the south end of the island and it was a short walk through the woods to an outcropping of black, craggy rocks. We often searched the shallow pools that formed at low tide on these rocks for mussels, lobsters, and crabs and, today, I brought with me a bucket just in case I should find some.

  After searching for an hour or so, my bucket was full and I sat on the rocks with my face to the sun, letting its rays warm me. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but, finally, I opened my eyes and stared out at the endless sea before me. A soft breeze rustled my hair and I removed my cap so as to enjoy its warmth on my scalp.

  As I sat luxuriating in the wonders of nature, I spied something on the horizon – something that appeared to traveling toward my island.

  A whale? I thought, for we often saw those magnificent creatures out here. I leaned forward, straining to get a better view.

  No, not a whale. It’s a ship! Now what would a ship that large be doing coming to Storm?

  Puzzled, I tried to make out the flags that I could now see flying from the mainsail. The top one was no surprise – it was the Union Jack – the flag of our home country, England. But the lower one…

  An icy finger of fear stabbed at my heart. It was the flag of the Bay Colony – the flag of the place we had barely escaped from.

  I watched as the ship passed by and could see soldiers on its deck. They were coming for us, of that I was sure. But, how did they find us? Unable to answer, I quickly got to my feet. I needed to warn everyone and see that they, along with me, made it to the caves to hide. There was a large brass bell erected at the northern edge of our land – put there to use as an alarm should any danger arise. We’d never needed to use it before, but, now, I needed to make haste to send out the warning.

  I left my bucket and began to scurry along the jagged, seaweed-covered rocks. I had almost reached the pathway that led to our house when my foot landed in a patch of slick eel grass and, finding no solid purchase, it turned at the ankle, causing me to fall and slide down the rocks.

  Over and over I tumbled, the sharp edges of the black shelf cutting into my hands and legs. I knew that if I didn’t do something soon to break my fall, the next thing I would feel would be the icy bite of the water below.

  Desperately I flailed my arms, trying to find something to grasp onto as the sound of the waves below became louder and I knew that, soon, my time would be at an end.

  Then, when I was almost out of luck, my hand caught hold of a crevice that was bare and dry. Hanging there, I held my breath, reached up with my other hand, and, slowly, pulled myself up to the top of the craggy shelf. Kneeling on the rocks, I took several seconds to catch my breath and thank God for my deliverance. As I dragged myself to my feet, I felt a brief cramping in my stomach, but I dismissed it. I had no time for pain. I had to warn my people. Determined, I lifted my skirts and, once again, began to run toward the house.

  The warning bell was a quarter-mile away and I was about halfway there when a bolt of white-hot agony struck me deep in my abdomen. I fell to my knees, clutching myself as wave after wave of pain ripped through me.

  My baby! I was losing him!

  I tried to get to my feet, but another heavy shot of pain hit me and I screamed as it threatened to take away my consciousness. Dizzy and feeling weak, I lay in the dirt, letting the throes of what felt like childbirth pass through me.

  Finally, the pain lessened and, gasping for breath, I dragged myself back to the house. I could not give a warning now – I was close to passing out. No, I had to get to my tower. I had taken to storing my potions and formulas there along with my writings and those of other herbalists and scholars. If I could get to my remedies, I could perhaps stop the pain, save my child, and, once again, make for the warning bell.

  Biting my bottom lip, I made my way to the bedroom where, by the side of the bed, lay the trapdoor that led to the caves below. A wave of dizziness passed over me as I threw it open. For a moment, I sat silent, letting the cool, damp air that came through the opening wash over me, clearing my head.

  Quickly, I entered the passageway and dragged myself through the tunnel that led to my sanctuary.

  Once inside, I lay on the wooden floor, panting. I’d made it. I tried to get up, but, once more, pain enveloped me and I felt like my insides were being ripped apart. A wet stickiness began to slide down my legs and it was then I knew for sure – I had lost my child.

  With this realization, I surrendered to unconsciousness.

  I don’t know how long I lay there, but when I awoke, I could see the sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon. I also could see wisps of smoke in the air and I opened the silo’s one window to better observe what had occurred while I was passed out on the floor.

  As soon as it opened, the smell of burning flesh assailed my nostrils and I quickly pulled the window shut, retching as I did so.

  They had burnt them.

  Burned my friends who were no more witches than their accusers were. Burned women who healed selflessly, who brought babies into the world safely, who nurtured and honored the land and its bounty.

  I sunk to the floor, tears streaming down my cheeks. How had everything we had worked for been destroyed in one day? What kind of God would do this to His people?

  I slowly got to my feet, knowing that, despite my grief, I needed to take care of myself. A pitcher of water sat on a desk in the center of the room and I used it to wash the remnants of my child from my body. I then brewed some tea into which I put pain-killers and other herbs that would promote healing.

  When this was done, I sat at my desk and waited for the pain to cease. When that happened, I got to my feet and made my way back through the tunnels to the house.

  It was empty when I arrived, but it was obvious someone had been there. All the cupboards were open and their contents strew about and broken on the floor. One of my dresses lay on my bed, a large stain covering the front of it. I leaned over to examine it more closely, but was driven back by the strong odor of urine.

  Zachariah Palmer! That cur! Why did he hate me so? All I had ever done to him was to spurn his advances. I shook my head in bewilderment, then put
this question aside. There were more important issues to dwell on now. Most urgently, what had happened to my husband and children? Had they stayed out to sea and escaped the carnage on the island? Or had they been victims, too? Had it been their flesh I’d smelt in the once clean, salty air?

  I had to know.

  Determined, I walked to the barn and harnessed our horse to the wagon. Then, without much hope, I began to go from house to house.

  Hot tears scalded my face when I saw a man whom I had called “friend,” lying in the dirt, riddled with bullet and bayonet wounds. But that was not the worst.

  The soldiers had apparently gathered all of the women of the island together and taken them to the wharf where they had assembled a huge pyre. There, they had tied the women to stakes and set fire to the pile, burning them alive.

  I walked through the still-hot rubble, staring at the remains – friends, almost unrecognizable to my eyes.

  A random piece of cloth, caught on the branch of a tree, danced in the wind. I stared at it. It had been part of a dress I had helped make for a young woman to wear on her wedding day. Where was that young woman now? Was it her bones that lay at my feet?

  A cold anger pulsed through me and I fell to my knees and began to pound the earth with my fists, screaming and cursing God for His cruelty.

  But when I could scream no longer, a thought crept into my mind. I had seen the burnt bodies of our women and the bodies of some of our men, but no bodies of children. Could it be that the soldiers had taken them prisoner? Could it be that they were still alive? And what of my Micah, Sarah, and Samuel? I had seen them not anywhere I’d gone on the island.