by Wendy Lawton
“Tell me everything, Mary.”
She told her father everything—from how she went to get the midwife all the way to the little bundle that would be buried today. He was silent. Mary had to know, so she put her hands to his face. She could feel the wetness. Papa took both her hands and kissed the palms.
“I smell rosemary.”
Mary sensed his struggle to gain control. This room was filled with prisoners. Although her father was never shy about showing emotions, she knew he would want to grieve in solitude. “Yes. Does it not smell good?”
“Rosemary for remembrance.” He used to repeat the old rhymes to her when she was little. “I can never smell rosemary without thinking of you.”
Mary took the sprigs of rosemary out of her pocket and gave them to her father. “You can remember me and keep from smelling bad odors, all at the same time.”
“Thank you, wee Mary.” Crushing a stem of rosemary, he breathed deeply. “Your news reminds me of a part of my dream. It concerned a pilgrim who undertook a journey to escape the destruction of his village.”
“Did his family journey with him?” asked Mary.
“No, sadly, they did not.” He was silent so long that Mary feared he would leave the rest of the story untold.
“Where was he journeying?” Mary asked.
“His ultimate destination was the Celestial City. But that was far in the future. Early on, he conversed with a fellow traveler and paid no attention to the narrow path.” Papa tickled her. “He did not have your ability to feel the pathway with his feet.”
“Oh, Papa.” It was good to hear him teasing her again.
“He only traveled a short distance when he stumbled into a swamp. Mired in mud, he flailed around, but to no avail. His companion realized this was no pleasure trip and managed to get out of the bog and head back to the City of Destruction.”
“Was that the town the pilgrim came from?”
“Yes.”
“Why was the companion able to get out while Pilgrim could not?”
“The companion took the easy way out—back the way they had come. Pilgrim was not willing to go backward. He was weighted down by a heavy burden on his back. Knowing the burden would be lifted somewhere ahead, he continued to struggle forward.”
“How did he get out?”
“Help came along.”
“What kind of help?” Mary couldn’t stop asking questions. She loved her father’s stories.
“Nay. Help was the name of the man. He reached down and pulled the pilgrim out of the slough. Help told him the name of the bog was Slough of Despond.”
“Despond? Like grief or sadness?”
“Aye.”
“’Tis a good thing Help came along. Right, Papa? ’Tis too bad the pilgrim could not climb out on his own.”
“Sometimes in life, help will not come along. Had Pilgrim but known it, steps were placed throughout the Slough of Despond to guide him out of the mire. He did not know how to find them.”
“So, he could have done it all by himself!” A note of triumph crept into Mary’s voice.
“Well, he may have thought so, wee Mary, but the steps were provided by the King.” Papa continued to hold her hands. “This story from my dream is called an allegory. Do you remember what an allegory is?”
“’Tis like the parables in the Bible, where the story has a deeper meaning.”
“Aye. The steps provided by the King were the promises that God gave us in the Bible.”
“So when we must escape our swamps—our troubles—we need to use God’s promises instead of our own strength?”
“I know ’tis hard to believe, my stubborn little Mary, but in due time … in due time.” He lifted Mary up in his arms. “Do you enjoy being lifted high, little daughter? ’Tis one thing you cannot do on your own.”
Mary could not help but giggle.
“I want you to remember who helps you out of bogs. It is found in the second verse of David’s fortieth Psalm—‘He,’ meaning our heavenly Father, ‘brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.’”
Mary settled back into his lap when he sat down again. “What made you think of the Slough of Despond, Papa?”
“As you told me of our losing the babe and as I thought of the pain Elizabeth endures without me, I felt myself getting sucked into the quicksand of despondence.” He reached over and took something off the table by his stool. “I thank God that I have this book with me.” He placed his well-used Bible into Mary’s hands. She loved the softness of the worn leather binding. “In here are the steps to guide me out of the mire once again.” He took the Bible from her hands.
The scent of rosemary told Mary that he pressed her sprigs into the pages of his Bible before putting it back.
As Mary walked home, she thought about her father’s last question for her. “What swamp are you struggling to escape, Mary?”
How I would love to lay all my fears at Papa’s feet. I wish I could tell him about our worry over Jake and that we will soon be out of money. But all I think about is the wetness on his face and the droop of his shoulders as I sat on his lap. You have burden enough, dear Papa. I must do this on my own.
Deep in thought, she hardly noticed the round pebbles underfoot, and before she could help herself, she was slipping and skidding. She lifted the cloth with the empty soup crock to keep it from breaking. She fell to the cobbles, the force jarring her teeth.
Was that Gifre she heard, snickering in the distance? She was almost certain. She ran her fingers across the ground all around her. Small pebbles had been sprinkled across the path. It was a deliberate prank.
Just then Mary heard a sound that froze her thoughts—the sound of a loose sole beating out a familiar rhythm as someone ran in the opposite direction.
Mary picked herself up and felt inside the knotted cloth to make sure the soup crock hadn’t broken. Good, she thought. At least Papa’s mug is safe. I’ll not even think about what I think I heard. Jake would not be part of this. I must be imagining things.
She resumed her trek home. Now on to a plan. I must make my way out of this swamp. I-can-do-all-things … I-can-do-all-things …
St. Andrew’s Day Fair
Jake, please do not pull me.” Mary was tired of stumbling after an excited seven year old.
Bets stayed home to care for Elizabeth and Thomas and to make soup. Once that was cooked, she wanted to scrub the floors. Mary felt guilty taking Jake, who could have eased Bets’s workload by doing some of the harder tasks, but she wanted to keep him close today.
“We hafta hurry! I can hear music. I can smell the boiled pike!” Jake trembled with excitement, every muscle tensed like a tightly coiled spring.
Mary smelled more than boiled fish. The pungent odor of burning peat hung in the air, its acrid smokiness stinging her eyes. The warmth warded off the November chill, so the fair goers ignored the smoky pall.
She also smelled unwashed bodies. Since it was almost winter, most citizens of Bedfordshire would see no soap and water until late spring when the streams began to warm. Elizabeth stubbornly insisted that the Bunyans bathe every week. It was a strange practice, but Mary had gotten used to a level of cleanliness unusual among the people of Bedford. Jake always complained bitterly as they carried water to be heated and filled the tub near the warm stove. Elizabeth rigged hangings for privacy. Papa would bathe first, then Elizabeth. Mary was next, followed by Bets, and then a kicking, screaming Jake was hauled in. By the time they got to Baby Thomas, the water was so dirty that Papa would tease, “Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.”
Washing outer garments was as rare as bathing for most. Everyone knew that too much washing would wear the clothing out long before its time. Everyone except Elizabeth, that is. Clothing in the Bunyan home was scrubbed religiously. It was said that no one in the shire could get underclothing and nightgowns as white as Elizabeth Bunyan. Mary was glad. She loved the cl
ean, sunshiny smell of her clothing. She once heard the neighboring women pass by their yard, making clucking noises. They couldn’t understand this finicky young Elizabeth.
Clean clothes were not a point of pride, however, with most of the crowds jostling Mary and Jake today. Mary pulled a sprig of rosemary from her pocket and crushed it between her fingers, releasing the fragrance. Each time her sensitive nose protested, she raised her hand to her nostrils and once again let the rosemary scent drown the pungent smells of the crowd. She recalled her father saying, “Rosemary for remembrance.”
She remembered why she was here—to come up with a plan.
“Jake, what do you see?”
“Animals and people.” He squirmed and twisted.
“’Tis not a lot of help.” She squeezed his fingers impatiently.
Mary caught the distinctive scents of the animals. There were probably more animals than people here. Fairs took place all across the British Isles. Bedford had four fairs every year—one in June, another in August, the St. Matthew’s Day Fair in September, and this last fair of the year on St. Andrew’s Day, November 30th. People came from all over Bedford and neighboring towns to buy and sell their animals, produce, and wares.
Mary heard the bawl of cows mixed with the clang of cowbells. Cowbells always reminded her of Papa. He fancied casting the big iron bells.
Cows were not the only animals at the fair. She heard the rustle of doves’ wings against the wire of their dovecote. When they settled down, she caught the clear coo-coo-coo of their talk.
Could doves be the answer to their problem? She wished there were time to sit alongside and overhear their cooing. The dovecote was a fascinating community. She pretended the doves were talking about her. If she listened long enough, would she come to understand what they were saying? She pushed her finger between the wires. If she was very still, one might come close to investigate and she could rub the soft, feathery down of his head.
“What ya doing, Mary?” Jake pulled her out of her reverie.
“I wonder if we could raise doves to make money.”
“Naw, there’s not much meat in doves, so they only sell for a penny apiece.”
“Meat?” Mary was horrified. “You mean they raise these gentle birds for meat?”
“Sure. Gif—I mean, my friend tried to raise them to make money and finally gave up on the whole thing. He ended up with chickens. Besides, where would you get the money to buy the first pair?”
“Hmmm. I guess you are right, Jake. ’Tis not for us.” She pulled herself away from the dovecote.
Her feet told of the bustle of the fair. She could feel the quiver in the ground that bespoke a herd of sheep on the move. As they got closer she picked out the staccato bark of the sheepdogs, the sharp commands of the shepherd, and the bleating of sheep. The smell of dust and sheep mingled as the herd moved on. She sensed, by the bustle of activity, that the St. Andrew’s Day Fair was far more exciting than a mere market day. The wriggling young hand holding hers told her that Jake felt the excitement too.
“I smell good food and I hear music up ahead.”
“You know I smell and hear just fine, Master John Bunyan, the Younger. Please, tell me what you see!”
“Aw, Mary, ’tis too much to tell.” He was practically squirming. “And don’t use my whole name. I hate it when you say my name all the way through the younger.”
“Please.” She hungered for details. “Tell me what it looks like.”
“’Swounds! I’m sick of having to look at everything for you.” He wriggled impatiently. “I want to do, not just to see.”
“You watch your language! If you want to talk about Jesus’ wounds, you do it before Papa. He would be so disappointed to hear you. You know what a time he had ridding his own language of profanity in his youth. How he would hate to see you take up the habit.”
Mary wished she could see Jake. Did his face show penitence? She missed much of the subtle information that came from watching faces. If Bets were not around to see for her, she could only listen for it in the voice.
“I don’t even know why I came with you.” Jake’s voice was almost a whine. “This is no fun. If I have to spend my time making words for you, ’twould be better had I stayed home with Bets.”
“You can be such a beast, Jake.” She gave his arm a jerk for emphasis. “We are here to solve a problem, not to have fun.” Brothers were hardly worth the work sometimes. “You have to help me.”
“Awright.” His reluctance showed in his voice. “Just ahead of us is a squire talking to his lady.”
“What do they look like?”
“The lady is dressed real fancy with big skirts.” He whistled. “She must have a hunnerd petticoats on.”
“She couldn’t have a hundred.”
“Well, it looks like it. Every one o’ them is dragging in the dirt.”
Mary laughed. Now this was a picture! “You know what’s funny, Mary?”
“What?”
“The squire is dressed fancier than his lady.”
“Tell me.”
“Well … she is dressed in a sort of dull color, not much different from chicken splat.”
“Jake!”
“You asked for a picture, Mary. You want me to go on or not?”
Mary laughed. “Go on, Jake. I guess I did ask you to give me a picture.”
“An’ he’s dressed in a jacket the color of … umm … sunset in late summer. You know, when the dust of harvest turns it orangey red.” He paused. “He’s got little thread squiggles all over his waistcoat.”
“Thread squiggles? Oh, you mean embroidery.”
“Yes. Embroidery. An’ he has more’n a hunnerd silver buttons on his jacket.”
“Jake?”
“I’m not joshing, Mary. He has ’em running up and down the front of his waistcoat, holding up his cuffs, on his jacket. Everywhere.”
“Buttons, huh?” Could Papa make buttons in prison? He had mentioned that many prisoners crafted things in order to support their families. Where could she get money to buy silver? And how could he heat the metal to pour into molds? They didn’t even have the heat of a fireplace in the prison, let alone a place to set up a small forge. No, buttons would never work.
“Do you want to hear more or not?” Jake hated to be ignored.
“I’m sorry, Jake, I was thinking. Please go on.”
“She wears a funny little cap, but his is a tall-crowned hat with a huge feather that curls in toward his face.”
“Those are called ostrich plumes. Can you picture the bird who once wore those?”
Jake giggled. “And he wears ribbons everywhere—tied in bows at the cuff of his breeches—around his waist. They even dangle from the skirt of his jacket.”
“Why is it that when he moves, he makes a tinkling sound?”
“’Cause every one of those laces has a metal tip.”
“Father would have called him a popinjay, wouldn’t he, Jake?”
Jake laughed as the couple moved off, probably never realizing they were the subject of such close scrutiny.
Mary couldn’t stop thinking of those ribbons. She continued to play that tinkling sound in her memory.
When Mary realized that the fair was in town, she knew she must investigate. Although pretty sure Elizabeth would have forbidden it, she had committed herself by telling Bets she had a plan to feed the family. Now she had to make her wish into truth. She must come up with something and she was not about to apply for help from the parish!
Because of her blindness, she was certainly eligible for help. Everyone knew well the three categories of poverty. The law specified that the orphan, the blind, the aged, the lame, and the incurably diseased belonged to one class, which they called “poor by impotency.” Just the name made Mary’s stomach clench. There was hardly a word she hated more than the word poor.
The second class, the “poor by casualty,” included wounded soldiers and the sick. Both of these classes made up the Paris
h Poor and could apply for help from the state church. The church squeezed the money out of the parishioners with the poor tax, collected each week. Mary knew that the parishioners hated the poor, no matter what class, because of that poor tax. She was not about to put her hand in their pockets! They could just keep their baskets of moldy bread and their rags. If that be pride, then I shall be judged guilty, Mary fumed inwardly. Better to be prideful than to resign myself to living with “poor blind Mary.”
The third category of the poor crowded the St. Andrew’s Day Fair. Mary heard the roll of dice on the top of overturned barrels. She caught snatches of minstrel song. She knew the jongleurs were juggling their leather balls and the fortunetellers plying their tricks. These were the “thriftless poor.” It was against the law to be poor by choice.
No doubt about it—England dealt harshly with these folk. The first time arrested they were whipped and a hole was burned through the gristle of their ear. Then they were sentenced to work for a whole year on the land of one of the leading citizens. If they were caught idle a second time, the other ear was burnt and they were sentenced to a second year’s servitude. The law offered no third chances. If they were caught again they were hung. The saying was well known—“you can only beg food until the gallows devour you.” Nay, there is no protection for the penniless.
“Can you describe the wares to me, Jake?” Mary asked. “Tell me what the people look like, what they are selling, what kind of people are …”
“Oh, look, Mary! There’s a man with a dancing bear. You stay right here. I’ll be back. I hafta go.” Jake dropped Mary’s hand.
“Jake! You must not go. Come back!”
Mary sensed emptiness where he had been standing. That boy! She should have been pleased at this proof that her brother believed in her ability to fend for herself, but somehow she just felt frightened.
She reached out her hand and cautiously took a step forward just as a group of whirling, laughing children parted to run around her. Tipped off balance, she landed on hands and knees in the dirt. Don’t cry … Don’t cry … I can do all things … I …