“Yes, we will think on it,” I said, trying not to appear as morose as I felt. I smiled at Patience, thinking that perhaps she had been right to trust him, or perhaps she had lied to them to get the Indians’ help in escape. I wondered for the first time whether our absence had caused a stir at the convent. “My sister and I long to see our mother,” I said. “I can smell the flowers of Jamaica, already.”
We lived off dried corn bread and berries for five more days. We did much resting and eating, and though it was cold, they seemed in no hurry. We stopped at a road where the air was filled with the fragrance of wood smoke and bread baking. Massapoquot pointed. “There. English town. This place one road goes two ways.”
Patience put her arms around me and hugged me. “Go to that house there, and tell them you prevail upon the selectman to provide you food and shelter until such as you desire to go on.”
“Is my face dirty?” I asked.
“No. You look fine.” She sighed. “Let me see you once again. Yes, you are fine. Almost a young woman. Another year, well and aye.”
“Then I am ready. Let us go side by side, Patey. Thank you, gentlemen, for the journey. God will bless you for what you have done for us.”
Patience said, “Go on, Ressie. I will watch you go, then, before we leave.”
“You are not coming with me?”
“Ask for the selectman’s house. Here, take this, too. I shall not need it.”
“Patey?” Deep, wrenching, inconsolable sobs shook my whole frame. She removed her apron and fastened it about my waist as I moaned, “What shall I do without you, Patience Talbot? We are meant to go together.”
She wept. The Indians wept, too, I remembered later. Patience said, “I am going with my husband, Massapoquot. We wanted to bring you to a safe place. There is a town not far from here. My old petticoat is sewn inside that apron. Everything Ma gave me is yours.”
I stared at Massapoquot while pointing with one hand toward the house up the road. “Husband? What if these people are Quakers? What if they hate Catholics?”
“You are not a Catholic.”
“I do not know what I am. I am lost.”
“Someone moves in the field,” one of the Indians said. “English. We go.”
I bit my lip. She was leaving with Massapoquot. I felt as sure as if I had heard a holy voice, whatever Patience chose to do I must do the opposite for the good of my everlasting soul. As they stepped toward the woods, I stood fast. The men took Patey’s arms and slipped into the cold shadows under dark red maple leaves.
The dappling of light and red as a screen before my sister, her red hair loose over one shoulder, painted an image as I could carry in my mind for a lifetime. She looked bewitched, fairylike, part of the forest itself, a face enchanted. Au revoir! I called. “Au revoir.” I stood alone in a field of cornstalks and chaff, my heart broken, my eyes red. “Patience!” I cried. A crow flew overhead. Higher above, a V of geese squawked at each other. After many minutes, I pulled in my tears and pressed the backs of my hands against my eyes, cooling them, turned away from the woods, and moved toward the house.
CHAPTER 14
September 29, 1735
I knocked at the first door, an unpainted thatch of boards tied in place over a hole in a low stone cottage. The top half swung out at me. A gnarled hand held tight to a knot of rope, ready to pull it fast. A couple crowded themselves into the open half-doorway. They appeared more ancient than the sagging beams and rusted iron circle above the door. When I inquired were we not in a town, they looked to each other and drew back from me. “Are ye a witch?” the old man asked. “Come ye out from the woods like that, with no one to guide ye, and no horse, and naught but your bundle?”
“Did you kill our laddie?” his wife added. “He was thrown in a well by a witch.”
“No, Goodman and Mistress. I was a captive, just escaped. I found my way here with the help of—of others. I am hungry.”
The man twisted his sparsely bearded chin, then angled his head to ask, “A brownie are you, then? If we feed ye will tha’ grant us a wish?”
“I am neither fairy nor brownie. I am but a girl in need of a roof and some soup.”
“How did you know ’twas soup on the hearth?” asked the goodwife. “She’s fey, I tell you.”
“It is always soup,” I said. “Oh, please, turn me not away. At least show me the direction of the town.” Were I them, a young woman coming alone from the forest, not in rags but clothed and fair, carrying a bundle such as I had, may have seemed such an odd apparition I could not blame their superstition.
“Eleven miles. That way,” the man said, pointing to a window on the back wall where the dull light of morning came through the only opening save the door.
“Is there a road, sir? I wish to get to Boston. I am told that it is a great seagoing harbor.”
“Of course there is a road. This is not the wildi-ness, ye know.”
“Will you gi’ us a blessing ere you go?” the woman beseeched.
“I know not one,” I said. I drew back.