As I rode in the fine coach down the road toward my own house, I felt fine and well fed, contented with my own good work, happy to be on my own, and assured of my future success. With the price that linen had brought, I knew that if I made more on my loom, in just a few months I could have money to sail around the world if I chose. If I had to winter in the colony once again, I would spend it weaving and spinning, and would have a just sum of money to show for it when the first ships sailed in the spring.
For now, the late summer of 1736 had come in heady abundance. Dragonflies, attached head to tail, came in the window of the coach and swayed to and fro. As I passed Goody Carnegie’s home, I waved to her from the coach. “Hello!”
For a moment she seemed stunned, and then she called out, “Abigail!” and clapped her hands together. “I shall come for tea, dearie!” she cried. “This very day.”
While I had been gone, Goody Carnegie had had the thatching fixed. She walked me around the inside square, pointing to every new bit and tie. “It will be so snug for winter,” she said.
“It will,” I agreed. Her joy at having me there was contagious, and I took some pride in setting out the things Lady Spencer had sent with me. We supped on bread and cheese, ale and honey. When she left I found a niche under the rafters where a small stack of coin could balance upon the sturdiest beam, and not be seen from below. Only someone who knew of their existence would reach into that small place; someone with no fear of spiders.
I spent my days spinning. I sang every song I knew, keeping the wheel running. I swept my little floor twice a day. I cooked on the big hearth, hung my clean vessels on the walls where pegs had been inserted between stones, then went back to spinning. By the time Barnabus arrived with a wobbling, squeaking cart pulled by a large dog, the stone cottage was worthy of being called a house, although I had to stand the door in place, and block the entrance with barrel staves and brush each night.
When Barnabus finished assembling the loom it took up a full half of the house. I reached out to touch it and he and Goody both let out loud noises. “Wait, wait. I have spent these days fixing and waxing it. Don’t ruin it after all that work. It must be blessed before you touch it,” he said.
“Yes,” Goody said. “The weaver must not touch it until we say Beannachd Beairte.”
“I know no prayer called that. Is it a charm?” I asked.
Goody began to speak and Barnabus joined her with the second word. They took my hands in theirs, and with the ring we made, held them above the loom’s bench and treadles, saying, “Fuidheagan no corr do shnath; cha do chum ’s cha chum mo lamh.”
The two of them turned and stared at me. “I don’t think she knows the words,” Barnabus said.
“Three must say it the first time,” Goody said. “I should get Mrs. Boyne.” And she dashed out.
“While we await her,” Barnabus said, “I would ask some water for my dog.”
I fetched the animal water, and gave it a bun from my pocket. My breads were not yet as good as those Goody Carnegie made, but the dog ate it happily.
Once Mrs. Boyne arrived, the three of them went over and over chants to bless the loom again, to bless the cloth I made from it, and to bless the wearer of anything I should sew, until I could repeat them from memory. It was more difficult than learning French, for the words had combined sounds that came not easily from my lips. At least they had a rhythm, I thought. In my mind, I pictured sitting atop the weaving bench, hands and feet busy to the pulse of the chants. That made it all part of the fabric of my mind.
Two days later I had not touched the loom, afraid to begin. I had forgotten the blessing. The odd words would not stick in my mind in the way of the smoothness of French or the static of Latin. I had to fetch Goody, and strolled down the hillocks into the misty vale where a stream at the bottom was fed by the same waters that ran by my wall. Up the side ran a path to her house. And there for the first time, I spied a wee stone upright, in the woods. A headstone. Upon it was carved quite a detailed skull set amidst angel’s wings, round about which grew vines of ivy. Overhead a holly bush shaded it from the oak and beech, and at the other side, five maple trees stood in attendance; this was a secret glen but ten feet round, made just to encircle its habitant. Beyond the maples, a scattering of five other stones, some of whose names had long ago worn away, raked the ground like great knuckles reaching through the soil, barely showing their curved tops above piles of fallen and rotted leaves. The name upon the center stone before me was “Abigail Thankful Grace Carnegie. Born March, 1719, died January, 1721.” She had been born near the same time as I.
When I reached Goody’s house, she was in her garden. Perhaps, I thought, I might take her to the stone and remind her of the dead child. Perhaps she needed to remember I was not her daughter.
“Goody, please come with me,” I said again.
“It is not good for a girl to go alone through these woods and down into that mist. Fairies inhabit these woods. They will not let you go about for long without following you, perhaps attaching to you. Ask me not again, girl.”