Flight of the Sparrow (32 page)

Increase nods, but his lips are pursed; he clearly does not accept her claim. “The Lord is rarely so explicit.” He places his hands on his knees. “Especially toward one such as yourself.”

He means toward a woman,
she thinks. Her hands have balled into fists of their own accord. Yet she nods as if she agrees, then says carefully, “I am told that you are able to clearly read His meaning in signs and portents, such as in the shapes of clouds and the position of constellations. That you prophesied the Indian rebellion.”

His eyes narrow as he looks at her, yet she catches the ghost of a smile. He is obviously flattered; she has touched his secret pride.

“So surely you cannot deny that sometimes God is both clear and precise in His messages.”

He nods slowly. “This is your requirement? Freedom for James the Printer? In exchange for your narrative?”

“Not
my
requirement. I believe it to be
God’s
will,” she says in the softest voice she can manage.

“How well do you know this James?” His gaze is bright with suspicion.

“He was one of many I met during—”

But he is not listening to her. “Are you aware that he is a deceitful traitor and mischief-maker? That there is a great price on his head?”

She looks at him dumbly. She cannot allow her face to show any emotion.

“You are asking on his behalf for mercy. For amnesty.” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid I cannot grant such a demand.”

“Not even if it be God’s will?” She knows she risks being accused of heresy. She has not forgotten Ann Hutchinson. At best, he will regard her question as disrespectful and insolent. She could end up pilloried or locked in the stocks. Or banished from the colony. Yet she continues. “I believe you
can—
should you wish to. I believe most of the authorities heed you closely.”

Again she sees he is flattered, that he likes thinking of himself as a man of great influence, that he
wants
to believe her. She leans in toward him, as if she is about to offer a secret.

“The Printer showed me mercy,” she says quietly. “He is the Lord’s servant.”

“Showed you mercy,” he murmurs.

“Aye, more than once. I believe the Lord wishes to reward him for his faithfulness. I think that is why He has instructed me to write the narrative you want—once the Printer is granted amnesty.”

There is a long silence and Mary suspects that the sun has shifted behind clouds, for the room has grown suddenly darker.

“I must pray on it,” Increase says. “And consult with others.” And now he leans toward her. “I warrant you do not comprehend the profound impact your story will have. Not only upon its readers—but upon you as well. I believe it will mean your redemption back into society.”

She feels herself begin to tremble. He is telling her that he will accept the bargain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A
few days later, Increase again summons Mary to his parlor. It is raining, a warm drizzle that soaks through her cloak and renders the cobblestones slippery under her shoes. She thinks of how the deerskin dress she wore during her captivity had shed the rain, how surely her feet had gripped the ground through the soles of her moccasins.

Increase does not smile at her this time; his face is solemn and pale. He does not even invite her to be seated. He sits in his chair and speaks slowly in a low voice, carefully choosing each word. “Arrangements have been made to grant James Printer a special amnesty. He must come in during the two-week period assigned by the Council. And because of his past, he is subject to an additional obligation.”

“What is this obligation?” She can see his jaw working. She wonders if he is angry.

“He must present the heads of two of his Indian compatriots to the authorities in Boston. In token of his loyalty.”

Mary stares at him. Her mouth feels as if it has suddenly filled
with dust. She tries to imagine James’s reaction to this decree. How could he possibly accept such an arrangement? He will flee instead, head north, deeper into the wilderness.

“That is too much to ask,” she says, her voice rasping in her dry throat. “He will never agree. You must remove this requirement.”

Mr. Mather shakes his head. “It is not mine to remove. It comes from the authorities by way of Daniel Gookin himself.”

Daniel Gookin.
Mary recalls her encounter with Silvanus in Mr. Gookin’s house. Mr. Gookin, who once
owned
Silvanus. A chill runs down her back.

“He has done a great deal of work with the Praying Indians,” Increase continues. “You should know that it is only through his advocacy that the authorities even
considered
James Printer’s case for amnesty.”

Mary cannot think what she should say. She is certain that James will not agree to this condition. She cannot parse out whether she should withdraw her agreement to write the narrative of her captivity. She must speak with James, must learn his wishes given this new stipulation.

But Mr. Mather is not waiting for her response. “You will begin writing your narrative at once,” he says. “I shall edit your pages, and provide all such guidance as you may require, so that your work may be an emblem for the enlightenment of New England.”

She stares at him. She feels a dull throb behind her eyes—the beginning of a headache.

“There is one additional condition to our covenant.” He leans forward over his knees, his back slanting over the space between them. Her feet shift uneasily beneath her skirts, making small tapping sounds on the wooden floor. “That pertains particularly to you. A condition upon which the Printer’s freedom—his very life—depends.”

She feels trapped. She has foolishly failed to anticipate that the
authorities would require something beyond a manuscript of her story. “You have pledged to preserve his life in exchange for my narrative,” she says slowly.

“Aye,” he says, “but it will only be possible if the connection between those two things is completely hidden from public view. The exchange must be kept an absolute secret. Not even your husband can be told.”

“I don’t understand.” Her mouth and lips are very dry.

His eyes go hard. Mary feels as if she’s failed some test. “I cannot be seen bartering for the life of a
savage.
” His voice is a hiss. “Surely you can understand
that
!”

“I had not thought—”

“No, apparently you had not. So I will make it plain to you: There cannot be the slightest
whisper
of any involvement on my part—or yours—in his reprieve. If James Printer is to live, you shall have no contact with him. Ever. You shall not seek him out to find out how he fares. You shall not speak to him if you encounter him on the street. You shall not communicate with him by letter or messenger or any other means.” He pauses, slides back so that his head is resting against the knot of decorative scrollwork at the top of the chair. “He will be as dead to you. Else, he
will
be dead—arrested, tortured, and executed. As he no doubt deserves.”

She stares at him, trying to absorb his words. She feels dizzy, ill. The price she must pay for James’s freedom—for his life—will be his complete removal from her life. And the price he must pay is even more horrific.

She does not think she can bear it. She will never see him again. James—
the man she loves
.
She is stunned by the thought. It jars her so violently that for a moment she sees nothing but a blank oval where the minister’s face should be. Since childhood she has been taught that love belongs to God, that love of things and people is a certain path to damnation. It is the reason Joseph warned her
against loving her children, the reason he never said he loved her. The reason he forbade her from ever saying she loved him.

And indeed, she realizes now, as she sits facing Mr. Mather in his dark parlor, that she never has loved Joseph. It is nothing like the mixture of passion and devotion, gratitude and longing she feels for James. The feeling that she cannot bear to be alive without him.

Yet before this moment, she had no idea her feelings for James were in any way related to love. In fact, she has rigorously avoided examining those feelings. Was she afraid of the truth she would find there?

Dazed, she looks around the room and focuses again with difficulty on Mr. Mather’s long face. “He is Christian,” she says quietly.

“Pardon me?” He seems genuinely puzzled by her statement.

“James Printer is a true Christian,” she says. “Baptized in the Lord. He is not a savage. He was kind to me.”

He shakes his head. “I fail to see how that pertains,” he says. “This covenant is between you and me. And it is binding. It cannot be broken without consequence. You must agree today—now—or there will be no amnesty for the Printer.”

She feels cold all over. As if the rain that soaked her clothes has turned to ice against her skin. She holds herself erect so that she will not shiver.

“I agree,” she says. “I shall begin writing my story directly. This very afternoon.”

•   •   •

M
ary sharpens one of the quills from Joseph’s writing box, then sits at the small table in the parlor, where she has already arranged the bottle of black ink and the two precious sheets of paper she purchased in the market. The table, donated by a member of Increase’s congregation, is so wobbly it can be used only when pushed against the wall. She arranges a sheet on the wooden surface and carefully smoothes it under her hand. She has to force her thoughts
away from James. How odd—now that she is banned from seeing him, she is filled with longing. Only a month ago she felt anger and bitterness toward him, counted him as one who had betrayed her. Now she knows he is the only man she has ever loved. Her mind races, inventing one ruse after another to outmaneuver Increase so that she can see James again. She
must
find a way to meet him. She needs to know if he will comply with the grisly requirement sent down by the Boston authorities. And she must be certain that he knows what she has agreed to do, that she has repaid all his kindnesses in full. That she has saved his life. As he saved hers.

She stares down at the blank paper in front of her. First, she must make good on her promise so that Mr. Mather will have no excuse to break his part of the covenant.

She dips the quill into the ink. She cannot think how to begin. With the selectmen’s order to garrison the town? With her husband’s departure for Boston? With the snowstorm the night before the attack? With the shriek she confused with the wind? She recalls kneeling on the hearth and hearing the first musket shot as she tried to bring the fire to life.

She sees that the ink has dried on the quill while she sat thinking. She dips her pen again and begins to write. The words come with difficulty, with painful slowness, one or two at a time. She starts with the day of the attack, that terrible morning of death and destruction that still plagues her dreams and shortens her sleep.

On the tenth of February, 1675, came the Indians in great numbers upon Lancaster. Their first coming was about sun-rising.

Her words cover less than half the page when Marie comes through the door carrying a basket of goods from the market. Mary quickly blots the paper to dry the ink, realizing that she foolishly has not thought of a place to keep her narrative. She cannot leave it sitting on the table in plain sight, for it will quickly be stained with grease and all manner of other substances.

She rises, takes the page and slides it under the mattress of their bedstead. It will have to wait until she can spare another few minutes to add to it. She wipes her hands on her apron and turns to greet her daughter.

“Did you find some good onions?” she asks, taking the basket from Marie’s arm and setting it on the table.

Marie nods but does not answer, and Mary’s stomach knots. A maternal response, as much a part of her being as her bones and blood. “What is it? Did something vex you at the market?”

Marie dips her head—a gesture of submission all girls learn at their mothers’ knees.
It can also signal evasion,
Mary thinks.

“You’d best unburden yourself,” she says, pulling the towel off the basket and briskly taking out three onions, a small wheel of cheese, and a loaf of bread. “Did you bargain well for this?” she asks, sniffing, confirming her suspicion that it is not fresh.

But Marie does not answer. Her glance slides sideways and she appears unduly busy with her apron.

Mary sets the loaf on the table and steps directly in front of her daughter. “I’ll have no more of this. Speak the plain truth, child.”

Marie sobs and covers her face with her hands. Mary takes her by the wrists and gently draws her hands away. “Come, tell me.”

And finally Marie confesses what she overheard in the market. “I heard a woman say your name when I was near the weaver’s stall. I peeked over the bolts of cloth to look. There were two of them—finely dressed they both were, with great wide sleeves and lace collars. They spoke exceeding ill of you, Mother.” Her eyes are swimming with tears.