by Wendy Lawton
Her family quietly left the room as she drifted to sleep.
All Things Through Christ
Mary? Are you awake?” whispered Elizabeth. “Aye.” Mary woke with the sun. She was lying still to keep her leg from aching.
“You have some visitors. Do you feel well enough to see Sofia and her family?”
“Sofia? Here? Oh, yes, Elizabeth. I hoped to see her before she left.”
Elizabeth helped scoot Mary up to a sitting position, using quilts to prop her. Mary bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“I’ll be in the kitchen heating some of the pear cider that Goodwife Emory brought you as a get-well gift,” Elizabeth whispered. “We will serve it to your guests.”
Mary heard chairs being pulled into the alcove. Then, before anyone was announced, she was wrapped in a familiar hug.
“I Puri Daj! Is it you?” Mary knew it was, from the feel of the grandmotherly embrace and the scent of wood smoke and sweetmeats.
“See for yourself, Chey.” Mary’s hands were placed on the crinkly face.
“No, question,” Mary teased, “it is Sofia’s baba. Did you bring that Rom chey with you?” Mary was smiling. She was honored that her friends came. She understood how fearful of gadje mahrime—contamination—the Rom were. To have them visit the Bunyan cottage was an honor indeed.
“I suppose you mean this Rom chey—this Sofia.” O Puri Daj chuckled.
“Sofia?”
“’Tis I, Mary.” Sofia seemed quiet.
“Sofia is surprised by your bumps and bruises, eh, Sofia?” The old woman sat in the creaking chair and Sofia moved close and took Mary’s hand.
“Timoz is here too,” said Sofia.
“Thank you for coming, Timoz, and bringing I Puri Daj and Sofia,” said Mary.
“’Tis my pleasure, Mary. When I hear what happened, I want to see you for myself.” Timoz was quiet for a time. “You look bad, but no permanent damage. Eh, Daj?”
“She vill be fine.” I Puri Daj patted Mary’s hand. “Now I vill go visit your Elizabet. Come, Timoz, Mary Bunyan’s brother has been looking like the sheepdog. You must talk to him—tell him you know he vatches Mary Bunyan good. Vas not his fault.”
“Sofia? Are you still here?”
“Yes. Does it hurt, Mary?” Sofia sighed deeply. “I wish I had followed you to help you. I am not good friend.”
“You are my best friend, Sofia. Best. I do not understand why Gifre did this, but as I lay on the ground, I saw how stubborn I have been.” Mary found Sofia’s arm and pulled her closer. “I asked God to forgive me for turning my back on those He sent to help me.”
“You did?”
“Aye. And I asked Him to forgive me for not putting my trust in Him.” Mary shook her head slightly. “All this time when I was struggling with a weight as heavy as your Gypsy caravan—”
Sofia laughed at the image.
“—I cannot believe that the Lord was walking right beside me, ready to carry the burden for me. All I had to do was ask!”
“And did you ask?” Sofia had her teasing voice.
“Yes, my friend, I did. Lying right there on the ground, I let the Lord take my burdens.” Mary laughed. “So while I may look pounded and pummeled on the outside, I am healthier than ever on the inside.”
Sofia was on the bed hugging Mary.
“Ouch, Sofia,” teased Mary. “Don’t forget the battered body.”
“Sorry, sorry.” She scooted back off the bed. “I am happy, Mary. Now we both trust Yeshua ben Miriam.”
“Mary.” Elizabeth had come quietly into the alcove. “Do you feel ready to see Gifre?”
“He’s here?” Mary could feel her heart race.
“You do not have to see him. He is here with his father.”
“If I wasn’t a believer, I’d pound and pummel him,” whispered Sofia.
Mary couldn’t help herself. She laughed until her cheek felt like it would split. “If I see him, you must promise to say nothing, Sofia.” Mary waited for an answer. When none came, she asked again, “Promise?”
“Yes, Chey. I will be wondrous kind to the stupid gadjo.”
Mary doubted not that Yeshua ben Miriam still had much work to do on two new believers. If Sofia would try to be ‘wondrous kind,’ she would agree to see Gifre. “Show them in, Elizabeth.”
Sofia chuckled under her breath. “No one trusts these two gadjo,” she whispered in Mary’s ear. “Timoz, Jake, and Elizabeth hover near the doorway, while I Puri Daj insists on having a chair pulled close enough to hear. ’Tis a scene worthy of the traveling mummers.”
Mary felt safe with her friends gathered close.
“Mary Bunyan, my son, Gifre, has something to say to you,” said an unfamiliar man’s voice. “First, please allow me to apologize for myself. Gifre learned his anger at my knee. I allowed political loyalties to color my life.”
“Political loyalties?” asked Mary.
“I am a royalist. During the years of the Protectorate, I became embittered. My bitterness spilled over onto my son—I excuse him not one whit, understand, but the fault lies at my door as well.” He cleared his throat. “I spoke out against your father and the dissenters many a time. My son took it personally and, understanding how much you mean to your father, Gifre lashed out at your father by hurting you.”
Mary did not know what to say, so she remained quiet.
“I knew naught of Gifre’s bullying, but this morning the story was all over Bedfordshire. I could not credit it—mine own son! I walked to the place they said the attack happened.” His voice sounded sorrowful. “I found my rope still swinging from the branch, then I saw the cloth with the shattered jug and spoon. Gifre, what have you to say to Mary Bunyan?”
“Sorry.” The voice was little more than a sullen growl and Mary knew the sentiment was not heartfelt.
“Gifre spent all morning polishing your father’s spoon.” He put the spoon in Mary’s hand. “We used my son’s egg money to buy this jug to replace the broken one.” He laid it on the bed beside her.
Mary could tell it was a fine jug. It was glazed stoneware in place of the biscuitware mug that had broken. It had a pewter hinged top that would keep Papa’s soup warm all the way to the jail.
“Thank you, Gifre,” Mary said.
Gifre grunted.
“And this leather pouch holds the jug and spoon, along with a small table covering. The tanner, Winswode, worked all morning to make this for you. Gifre gave him two chickens in exchange.” Gifre’s father cleared his throat. “’Twill not make up for the damage done by my son, but, by my oath, Gifre will never hear a bitter word come from my mouth again.”
“Thank you, sir. And thank you, Gifre, for your generous replacements.”
Again Gifre only grunted.
“Good day to you then.” The boy’s father sounded embarrassed.
Mary could tell from the scuffling of Gifre’s feet that her tormentor did not share a change of heart with his father. That was a problem she could do nothing about, but she smiled to realize that she could let God handle that problem.
As Elizabeth and the others saw the father and son out the door, Sofia pressed something into Mary’s hand. “I think you will not refuse a gift from me, will you, friend?”
Mary knew it was Timoz’s cross.
“That is to remind you of our faith, while I am on O Longo Drom.”
“Thank you, Sofia.” Mary reached out her arms and Sofia leaned into the embrace. “I will treasure it always. Every time I feel the nails of this cross, I will remember the great sacrifice. I will also remember that I no longer have to do all things alone. I have Jesus—Yeshua—and I have friends.”
Mary heard Elizabeth cry out as the door opened. “What is it, Sofia?” Mary asked. “Can you see?” She could hear talking all at once and a booming voice. Could it be?
“Is that my wee Mary, looking like she tangled with Timoz’s bear?”
“Papa!” Mary could not believe her ears. “Are you fr
ee?” She felt her father sit gently on the bed. She caught the faint scent of rosemary.
“No, I have not been freed. Not yet. My jailer accompanied me. He is having a glass of pear cider with Bets at this very moment.” Papa laughed.
“’Tis so good to hear your voice in this cottage again, Papa. Elizabeth? Are you here?” Mary asked.
“Aye,” said Elizabeth. “I am right beside him, drinking in the joy of his visit as well.”
“Look what I have, Mary.” He laid a bundle of tagged laces across her hands. “Just in time to give to my good friend Timoz.”
“They are fine laces, Neighbor Bunyan. We shall have no problem making a nice profit on these,” said Timoz. “And here is the coin to pay for them, Mary.”
“Not me, Timoz,” laughed Mary. “From now on, Elizabeth will be managing the family finances.”
“I must take O Puri Daj and Sofia to join the kumpania. Time has come to roll our wagons out.” Timoz squeezed Mary’s hand.
I Puri Daj lifted Mary’s hand to her mouth and kissed the palm. Sofia kissed Mary on the cheek.
“In the spring, Mary,” promised Sofia.
“Aye. I will wait for spring.” Something seemed to tug from deep inside as her friend moved to leave—almost as though they were connected. Mary reached out to take Timoz’s cross.
“Godspeed, my friends,” said Papa as Mary heard the door close.
“What is this, Mary?” asked Papa.
Mary told Papa about her newfound faith. As she reached her fingers up to see Papa’s face once again, she felt his tears. She knew he understood that she had finally left her heavy burden at the foot of the cross.
Papa kissed her forehead and went to spend some time alone with Elizabeth and to visit with Bets, Jake, and little Thomas. Mary loved listening to the sounds of happy voices in the cottage once again.
Papa would soon leave to return to Bedford Gaol. They did not know what the future would hold, but as she drifted off to sleep, Mary repeated a familiar verse—“I can do all things,” but she would never again forget the second part, “through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
Epilogue
Mary Bunyan was a real person. She was born in 1650 in Elstow, England, some 350 years ago. Her family—Papa, Elizabeth, Bets, Jake, and Thomas—were also real. Others—like Sofia, O Puri Daj, Timoz, and Gifre—are fictional. The Rom traveled the length and breadth of the British Isles during Mary’s day, and a more complex Legend of the Crucifixion Nails is still told among Roma.
Mary went to be with her Lord in the spring of 1663.* She was sorely missed by her family and friends, but Mary Bunyan will never be remembered as a tragic figure. The picture that is indelibly etched in history is the ten-year-old blind daughter making the daily journey to the Bedford Gaol, carrying her father’s supper.
Mary’s father, John Bunyan, lived in Bedford Gaol for the greater part of fourteen years, though he was occasionally allowed freedom to preach and visit his family when accompanied by his jailer. It was during his time in jail that he wrote his famous Pilgrim’s Progress, which has sold more copies than any book in history except the Bible. Some of the ideas that you read about in The Tinker’s Daughter—like the Slough of Despond and leaving our burden at the foot of the cross—come from Pilgrim’s Progress.
John Bunyan’s uncanny ability to paint a picture with words may have come from his deep relationship with Mary, who, in his own words, “lay nearer my heart than all I had besides.” In addition to his writing and preaching, which has forever changed the world, John Bunyan made tagged laces “many hundred gross” by his own admission.
* History doesn’t record the cause of Mary’s death, only that she became sick and died. Most likely her illness was bubonic or pneumonic plague. These were epidemic in England during this period. 1664–6 marked the years of the Great London Plague.
Glossary
Apothecary vials. Small glass containers for medicine.
Assizes. English county court sessions.
Baba. The Romani word for grandmother.
Baiting. A mixture of dung and water that opens the pores of the leather to make the leather smooth in the process of tanning.
Baiting dub. The vat that holds the baiting mixture.
Boria. The Romani word for sisters-in-law.
Casket. A box.
Chemise. A one-piece undergarment like a slip.
Chey. The Romani word for girl.
Curried. Finished leather.
Daft. Insane or silly.
Dissenter. A person who did not agree with and follow the rules of the official Church of England.
Dovecote. A house built for doves.
Firebell. A clay bell-shaped cover with a handle at the top that was used to safely cover the remains of a fire and keep the ash smoldering.
Furlong. A distance that is 220 yards or 201 meters long.
Gadje. The Romani word for anyone who is not Rom.
Gallows. The structure from which criminals were hung as a form of capital punishment.
Gaol. Jail.
Gristle. Cartilage.
Groat. A coin worth four English pennies.
Hippocras. Spiced wine with honey.
I Puri Daj; O Puri Daj. The Romani terms for grandmother.
Jongleur. A traveling minstrel.
Kumpania. A group of families who travel together.
Leading strings. Strips of fabric sewn to the child’s clothing at the shoulders that were used to help children learn to walk. Also used to control children’s movements.
Leeches. Worms that suck blood.
Lime. limes, limed. A powdery white substance from limestone or shells used in the process of tanning leather.
Lungo Drom; O Longo Drom. The long road, or the journey that Rom people traveled.
Mahrime. Unclean.
Marchpane. Marzipan, a candy made of sweet almond paste.
Maslin. Dry bread that is half rye and half wheat.
Mechanick. A manual laborer.
Minstrel. A medieval entertainer who sang.
Mummer. A mime.
Mutton. Meat from a mature sheep.
Nonconformist. A person who did not agree with and follow the rules of the official Church of England.
O Puro Dad. The Romani term for grandfather.
Oozing. Powdered oak bark.
Pallet. A bed.
Pantalets. Long underpants worn by women.
Peaky. Sickly.
Peat. A moss that was dried and used as fuel for fires.
Plat. An area of land.
Pommage. Apple cider.
Popinjay. A very proud person who likes to show off.
Protectorate. The English government (1654–60) under Oliver Cromwell that allowed religious freedom.
Pure. Animal dung.
Restoration. In 1660 the Protectorate was defeated, monarchy was restored, and religious expression limited.
Rom. A nomadic people group. Also known as Gypsies.
Romani. The language spoken by Rom.
Royalists. Those who supported the monarchy.
Shire. A county in England.
Stone. Fourteen pounds.
Suckets. Sweetmeats.
Swoon. Faint.
’Swounds. A vulgar word that referred to the wounds of Jesus.
Yeshua. The Romani word for Jesus.
Yeshua ben Miriam. The Romani term for Jesus, Son of Mary.
Zuhho. The Romani word for pure or clean.
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Daughters of the Faith Series
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As the persecution intensifies, Anita and her family must leave everything and everyone they love—even each other.
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The Hallelujah Lass
As a teenager growing up in nineteenth-century England, Eliza Shirley was the picture of a proper young lady. She loved crinolines, kid-leather gloves, and her best friend, Beck. But Eliza longed for more than an ordinary, middle-class life.
When a group of Hallelujah Lassies marches into Coventry with a ragtag bunch of followers, singing and banging tambourines, even the ensuing riots cannot keep Eliza away. She knows, at last, that this is the work God has prepared for her. And she is ready, no matter what the cost. Even if it means singlehandedly taking this “Salvation Army” across the sea—to America.