The Witch of Blackbird Pond (8 page)

The little hut with its sparsely thatched roof sagged at one corner. It looked as though it could never survive a stiff wind, let alone a flood. Two goats munched at the edges of a small vegetable patch.

"There's a well behind the house," said Hannah. "Draw some water and wash thy face, child."

Kit let the bucket down, leaning over to watch it meet the far-off circle of reflected sky. The water was deliciously cold on her hot face, and she gulped it thirstily straight from the bucket. Then she smoothed her hair and retied her apron, and went into the little house. The one small room the house contained was scoured as a seashell. There was a table, a chest, a bedstead with a faded quilt, a spinning wheel, and a small loom. A few ancient kettles hung about the clean-swept hearth. From a square of sunlight on the floor an enormous yellow cat opened one eye to look at them.

Hannah had set a wooden trencher on the table with a small corncake studded with blueberries, and beside it a gourd filled with yellow goat's milk. She sat watching as Kit ate, taking nothing herself. Probably, Kit thought too late, swallowing the last crumb, that was every bit of dinner she had!

The girl looked about her. "'Tis a pretty room," she said without thinking, and then wondered how that could be, when it was so plain and bare. Perhaps it was only the sunlight on boards that were scrubbed smooth and white, or perhaps it was the feeling of peace that lay across the room as tangibly as the bar of sunshine.

Hannah nodded. "My Thomas built this house. He made it good and snug or it wouldn't have stood all these years."

"How long have you lived here?" Kit asked curiously.

The woman's eyes clouded. "I couldn't rightly tell," she said vaguely. "But I remember well the day we came here. We had walked from Dorchester in Massachusetts, you see. Days on end we'd been, without seeing another human being. Someone had told us there would be room for us in Connecticut. But in the town there was not an inch of land to spare, not after they'd seen the brand on our foreheads. So we walked toward the river, and then we came to the meadow. It put us in mind of the marshes near Hythe. My husband was raised in Kent and 'twas like coming home to him. Here is where he would stay, and nothing could change him."

There were a hundred questions Kit dared not ask. Instead she looked about the room, and noticed with surprise the one ornament it contained. Jumping to her feet, she seized from the shelf the small rough stone and held it in her hand. "Why, 'tis corall" she exclaimed. "How did it get here?"

A small secret smile brightened the wrinkled face. "I have a seafaring friend," Hannah said importantly. "Whenever he comes back from a voyage, he brings me a present."

Kit almost laughed. Of all the unlikely things—a romance! She could imagine him, this seafaring friend, white-haired and weatherbeaten, coming shyly to the door with his small treasures from some distant shore.

"Perhaps this came from my home," she considered, turning the stone in her hand. "I come from Barbados, you know."

"Do tell—from Barbados!" marveled the woman. "Thee seemed different somehow. Is it like paradise, the way he says? Sometimes I mistrust he's just telling tales to an old woman."

"Oh, everything he has told you is true!" answered Kit fervently. "'Tis so beautiful—flowers every day of the year. You can always smell them in the air, even out to sea."

"Thee has been homesick," said Hannah softly.

"Yes," admitted Kit, laying down the stone. "I guess I have. But most of all, I miss my grandfather so much."

"That is the hardest," nodded the woman. "What was thy grandfather like, child?"

Tears sprang into Kit's eyes. No one, since she had come to America, had ever really wanted to hear about grandfather, except Reverend Bulkeley who had only been impressed by his royal favors. She scarcely knew where to begin, but all at once she was finding eager, incoherent words for the happy days on the island, the plantation, the long walks together and the swimming, the dim cool library and the books. Then she came to the flight to Connecticut and all the bitterness and confusion of the past weeks.

"I hate it here," she confessed. "I don't belong. They don't want me. Aunt Rachel would, I know, but she has too many worries. Uncle Matthew hates me. Mercy is wonderful and Judith tries to be friendly, but I'm just a trouble to them all. Everything I do and say is wrong!"

"So thee came to the meadow," said Hannah, patting the girl's hand with her small gnarled claw. "What went so wrong this morning?" She listened, nodding her head like a wizened owl, as the tale of the morning's woes came pouring out. As Kit reached the part about the schoolmaster and his cane, to her amazement a rusty chuckle interrupted her. Hannah's face had crumpled into a thousand gleeful wrinkles. Kit hesitated, and all at once the memory struck her funny, too. Her breath caught tremulously, and then she was laughing with Hannah. But instantly she sobered again. "What am I to do now?" she pleaded. "How can I ever go back and face them?"

Hannah said nothing for quite a long time. Her faded eyes studied the girl beside her, and now there was nothing childlike in that wise, kindly gaze.

"Come," she said. "I have something to show thee."

Outside the house, against a sheltered wall to the south, a single stalk of green thrust upwards, with slender rapierlike leaves and one huge scarlet blossom. Kit went down on her knees.

"It looks just like the flowers at home," she marveled. "I didn't know you had such flowers here."

"It came all the way from Africa, from the Cape of Good Hope," Hannah told her. "My friend brought the bulb to me, a little brown thing like an onion. I doubted it would grow here, but it just seemed determined to keep on trying and look what has happened."

Kit glanced up suspiciously. Was Hannah trying to preach to her? But the old woman merely poked gently at the earth around the alien plant. "I hope my friend will come while it is still blooming," she said. "He will be so pleased."

"I must go now," Kit said, getting to her feet. Then something prompted her to add honestly, "You've given me an answer, haven't you? I think I know what you mean."

The woman shook her head. "The answer is in thy heart," she said softly. "Thee can always hear it if thee listens for it."

Back along South Road Kit walked with a lightness and freedom she had never known since the day she sailed into Saybrook Harbor. Hannah Tupper was far from being a witch, but certainly she had worked a magic charm. In one short hour she had conjured away the rebellion that had been seething in the girl's mind for weeks. Only one thing must be done before Kit could truly be at peace, and without speaking a word Hannah had given her the strength to do it. Straight up Broad Street she walked, up the path to a square frame house, and knocked boldly on the door of Mr. Eleazer Kimberley.

CHAPTER 10

"Y
OU DIDN'T!
" Mercy gasped. "Mr. Kimberley himself! How did you ever dare, Kit?"

"I don't know," admitted Kit. Now that it was over her knees were shaking. "But he was very fair. He listened to me, and he finally agreed I could have one more chance. I won't let you down again, Mercy, I promise."

"I never thought you had let me down," Mercy said loyally. "It's just that you do have a way of surprising people. You certainly must have surprised Mr. Kimberley. He isn't known for changing his mind."

"I surprised myself," Kit laughed. "I really can't take any credit for it, Mercy. I think I was bewitched."

"Bewitched?"

"I met the witch who lives down in the meadow. It was she who gave me the courage."

Mercy and her mother exchanged startled glances.

"You mean you talked with her?" An anxious frown wrinkled Mercy's forehead.

"I went into her house and ate her food. But I was joking about being bewitched. She's the gentlest little person you ever saw. You'd love her, Mercy."

"Kit." Aunt Rachel set down her heavy flatiron and regarded her niece seriously. "I think you had better not say anything to the others about meeting this woman."

"Why, Aunt Rachel, you of all people! You can't believe she's a witch?"

"No, of course not. That is just malicious gossip. But no one in Wethersfield has anything to do with Hannah Tupper."

"Why on earth not?"

"She is a Quaker."

"Why is that so dreadful?"

Rachel hesitated. "I can't tell you exactly. The Quakers are queer stubborn people. They don't believe in the Sacraments."

"What difference does that make? She is as kind and good as—as you are. Aunt Rachel. I could swear to it."

Rachel looked genuinely distressed. "How can you be sure? Quakers cause trouble wherever they go. They speak out against our faith. Of course, we don't torment them here in Connecticut. In Boston I've heard they even hanged some Quakers. This Hannah Tupper and her husband were branded and driven out of Massachusetts. They were thankful enough just to be let alone here in Wethersfield."

"Has she ever done any harm?"

"No—perhaps not, though there's been talk. Kit, I know your uncle would be very angry about this. Promise me you won't go there again."

Kit looked down at the floor. All her fine resolves about trying to understand and to be patient, and already she could feel the defiance rising again.

"You won't, will you, Kit?"

"I can't promise that, Aunt Rachel," said Kit unhappily. "I'm sorry, but I just can't. Hannah was good to me, and she's very lonely."

"I know you mean to be kind," insisted Rachel. "But you are very young, child. You don't understand how sometimes evil can seem innocent and harmless. 'Tis dangerous for you to see that woman. You must believe me."

Kit picked up her wool cards and set to work. She knew she looked stubborn and ungrateful, and she felt so. The hard little knot had kinked up inside her tighter than ever. Coming home through the meadow everything had seemed so simple, and here it was all tangled again. Only one thing was sure. She had found a secret place, a place of freedom and clear sunlight and peace. Nothing, nothing that anyone could say would prevent her from going back to that place again.

Should she tell William Ashby about Hannah? she wondered that evening as they sat talking in the summer twilight. No, he would doubtless be horrified. William still seemed a stranger, even though he came faithfully every Saturday evening and often now appeared unexpectedly on fine evenings between. She could never be sure what thoughts were hidden behind that impassive face, but she had learned to recognize the sudden stiffening of his jaw muscles that meant she had said something shocking. That happened often enough in spite of her best intentions. Better not to provoke it now by mentioning a harmless Quaker.

She would like to tell John Holbrook, she thought, but there was never a moment when she could speak to him alone. Frequently now, on these mild evenings of early summer, John joined the family as they sat outside. The women would carry their knitting to the doorstep, and they would all talk quietly there till the mosquitoes and the coming darkness drove them indoors. John had never asked formal permission to call; he had merely taken literally Rachel's invitation to come again. There had never been the slightest hint that he was courting Judith. He never seemed to single her out, but sometimes he consented when she suggested that they walk along the green in the twilight. That was all the encouragement Judith needed. Indeed, it was more than enough to satisfy the whole family of John's intentions.

Not even her father could have failed to guess that Judith was in love. She had never spoken another word, even to Mercy or Kit, after that first surprising disclosure. But there was a brilliance in her eyes, a warm color in her cheeks, and a new sweetness in her manner. Less and less often, as the summer set in, did her tart tongue discomfort her cousin. She did not even chatter as readily, and often she seemed to be withdrawn into some secret world. Kit watched her, half envious and half puzzled. The sober young divinity student seemed an odd match for Judith's high spirits. Truth to tell. Kit herself was a little disappointed in John. Beside William, who was so set in his ways, John seemed scarcely able to make up his mind at all. When the talk turned to politics, as it invariably did, William made a far better showing than John. Nothing the revered Dr. Bulkeley could say or do could be wrong in his pupil's eyes, even the fervent defense of the King's policies which went against all John's upbringing. Matthew Wood, after baiting John with fierce questions that threw the young student into confusion, had scornfully labeled him a "young toady with no mind of his own." For once Kit was inclined to agree with her uncle. Probably, she concluded now, it would do no good to ask John about Hannah Tupper. Whatever Dr. Bulkeley thought about Quakers, John would think so too.

She had to bide her time for two weeks before she could find another opportunity to visit the Meadows. Kit kept her word to Mr. Kimberley and threw herself so diligently into the school work that the children were bewildered. There were no more stories, no games, even no small unorthodox poems. After school hours there were the gardens to weed, and the first crop of flax to harvest in the hilly slopes above the town. Finally, on one hot afternoon, Kit and Judith finished their stint of onion rows a little early, and as they trudged back along the dusty path, Kit looked across the fields to the roof of the lopsided house by Blackbird Pond and knew that she could not pass by one more time.

"I am going over there to see Hannah Tupper," she announced, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

"The witch? Have you lost your senses, Kit?" Judith was scandalized.

"She's not a witch, and you know it. She's a lonely old woman, and Judith, you couldn't help liking her if you knew her."

"How do you know?" demanded Judith.

Kit gave her cousin a short and careful version of the meeting in the meadow.

"I don't see how you dared," Judith exclaimed. "Really, Kit, you do the oddest things."

"Come with me now, Judith, and see for yourself."

Judith couldn't be budged. "I wouldn't step inside that house for anything, and I don't think you should either. Father would be furious."

"Then you go on without me. I won't be long."

"What shall I tell them at home?"

"Tell them the truth if you like," responded Kit airily, knowing quite well that Judith, for all her disapproval, would never give her away. The common bond of just being young together in that household was strong enough for that. She set off through the long grass, leaving her cousin standing doubtfully in the path.

There was a pleasant humming sound in the small cabin. Hannah sat before her small flax wheel, her foot moving briskly on the treadle.

"Sit down, child, while I finish this spindleful." She smiled as though Kit had merely stepped outside the door a moment before. Kit perched on a bench and watched the whirring wheel.

"I came to tell you that I made my peace with the schoolmaster," she said at last. "I couldn't come before because I've been teaching in the school again."

Hannah nodded without surprise. "I thought thee would," she commented. "Does it go better with thee now?"

"Yes, I suppose so. At least Mr. Kimberley should be satisfied. He says that children are evil by nature and that they have to be held with a firm hand. But it's not much fun trying to keep my hand firm and being so solemn all day long. I feel sorry for those little boys."

Hannah glanced over at Kit briefly. "So do I," she said dryly. "Did the schoolmaster make thee promise never to smile?"

Kit looked back at the faded eyes, sunk deep in wrinkles, and caught the twinkle there. Suddenly she laughed. "You're right," she admitted. "I haven't even dared to smile. I'm afraid if I let myself go an inch I'll do something disgraceful again. But Mercy smiles all day long, and still keeps order."

She reached down and scooped up the sleeping cat from the floor, settling its limp weight in her lap and tickling the soft chin until a contented purr almost matched the hum of the spinning wheel. The late afternoon sun slanted through the open door and fell across Hannah's gnarled hands as they moved swiftly and surely. Peace flowed into Kit. She felt warm and happy.

"How fast you go," she said, watching the thread fattening on the bobbin. "Did you grow the flax yourself?"

Hannah dipped her fingers into a gourd shell without slackening the wheel. "Some of the families in town always bring me their flax to spin," she explained. "I make a nice neat thread, if I do say so, but every year it seems to get harder to see it. I have to tell by the feel. Is it smooth enough, does thee think?"

Kit admired the fine perfect thread that slipped evenly through Hannah's fingers. "It's beautiful," she said. "Even Mercy can't spin it like that."

Hannah looked pleased as a child. "Fourpence a skein," she said. "Enough to pay the taxes and buy what I need."

"Taxes? On this swamp land?" Kit was indignant.

"Of course," Hannah said matter-of-factly, "and the fines for not going to Meeting."

"They make you pay fines for that? Wouldn't it be better to go to Meeting instead?" Kit looked around at the much mended clothing and the sparse furnishings of the little room.

"I doubt they would welcome me," Hannah said, again dryly, "even if I chose to go. In Massachusetts we Quakers had our own meetings."

"Can I become a Quaker?" asked Kit, only half joking. "I'd rather pay a fine any day than go to Meeting."

Hannah chuckled. "Thee doesn't become a Quaker just to escape the Meeting," she said, and Kit flushed at the gentle reproof in her tone.

"How does one become a Quaker?" she asked seriously. "I wish I knew something about it, Hannah."

The old woman was silent for a moment. Before she could answer, a shadow fell across the sunlight. A tall figure filled the doorway. Kit started. For an instant she thought that Hannah actually had conjured up a vision. There, unbelievably, was Nathaniel Eaton, the captain's son, leaning easily against the doorpost, with that well-remembered mocking smile in his blue eyes.

"I might have known," he said, "that you two would find each other."

Hannah's face crinkled up with pleasure. "I knew thee would come today," she triumphed. "I saw the
Dolphin
pass Wright's Island this morning. Kit, my dear, this is the seafaring friend I told thee about."

Nat made a bow. "Mistress Tyler and I are already acquainted," he acknowledged. He tried to set down, without anyone's noticing, the small barrel he carried under one arm, but Kit's glance was quick. A keg of fine Barbados molasses. So it was not just coral trinkets and flower bulbs that this seafaring friend of Hannah's brought from afar! Hannah caught the action, too.

"Bless thee, Nat," she said quietly. "Now sit down and tell us where thee has been this time."

"Charlestown," he answered, settling on an upturned barrel. Instantly the cat slid from Kit's lap and with a loud "R-rr-iouw" leaped into Nat's and circled contentedly. Nat winced as her claws dug rapturously into his coarse homespun trousers.

Hannah made fast the thread and sat with idle hands, her eyes never leaving the young sailor's face. "And thy father?"

"He is well and sends you his greetings."

"I've been listening for a breeze every morning, just thinking thee might be coming up the river. I said to Thomas just yesterday, 'Tom,' I said, Tm going to save the last of these berries, just in case the
Dolphin
comes soon.' He'll be pleased when I tell him you've been here."

Kit's breath caught suddenly in her throat. Hannah had spoken as though her husband, so many years dead, were still here in the little house. A cloud had passed across the old woman's eyes, a vagueness that Kit had noticed there before. Kit turned a troubled look to Nat. He seemed not to have noticed anything amiss, but very casually he reached out his hand and covered Hannah's worn fingers with his own.

"Has the old she-goat had her kids yet?" he asked easily. "Don't tell me you've sold them before I could see them."

The vagueness was gone as suddenly as it had come. "I had to, Nat," Hannah said regretfully. "They were getting into the cornfield. They brought a good price—two hanks of wool for a new cape."

Nat leaned back now and surveyed Kit with frank interest. She had forgotten the intense blue of his eyes, like the sea itself.

"Tell me," he asked her, "how did they ever let you find your way to Hannah?"

Kit hesitated, and Hannah chuckled. "How did thee find a way here?" she demanded of him. "'Tis a strange thing, that the only friends I have I found in the same way, lying flat in the meadows, crying as though their hearts would break."

The two young people stared at each other. "You?" breathed Kit incredulously.

Nat laughed. "I'll have you know that I was only eight years old," he explained.

"Were you running away?"