Alis

18
Nights and days were equally bad. Galin kept his word and neither came to her room nor demanded her presence in his bed. But that was the only relief. Always, she lay open-eyed in the dark until the small hours. If she slept, it was only to dream of Luke, and then she must wake to remember that he was dead. To get up, to face the day with its duties and encounters, was harder than anything she had ever done.
Her mother came to help her set up in her new home, bringing extra linens, a small spinning wheel that had been her grandmother’s, pots of preserves, and other needful items. While she put away the things and inspected the household, Hannah dispensed advice. “I have made a copy for you of your grandmother’s recipe book: you must cook dishes that are wholesome and good to taste but not overindulgent to fleshly appetite. And I will inquire about a cast-iron pot for you, so that you can make your own soap when autumn comes.
Sift the ashes before you make the lye and remember that too much of it, and the soap will burn the skin.”
Alis thought wearily of the long process of soap making.
When they went to put away the sheets and bedcovers, Hannah brought out some small muslin bags of sweet-smelling herbs, one of which she placed in the linen chest. “These bags must be renewed in the spring, for they will lose their power, and then the moths will get into your garments and bedding. And do not allow Martha to make up the bags but do it with herbs you have dried yourself. Or if not, I will give you what you need from my own store. This chest is of good cedar, which keeps out the moths, too, but the lid does not fit closely. Your father shall come and amend that.”
Alis listened in silence. The moths might eat every stitch of fabric in the house for all she cared. On and on Hannah talked, casting anxious glances at her daughter from time to time, but Alis would not yield her a look or a smile. Why should she?
Galin had tactfully removed himself while all this was going on. He returned as her mother was making ready to go and Alis saw them exchange uneasy looks. When Hannah had gone and they sat at their meal, she said coldly to him, “You are not to talk of me to my mother behind my back. I will not have it.”
He flushed a little. “It is only that we are concerned. You look as if you never sleep, you are so pale. And you scarcely eat.” He indicated her plate. “You will surely make yourself ill.”
She said nothing. If she became ill, if she died, they would be punished as they deserved.
He was watching her. When she remained silent, he said in a neutral tone, “Your father is much troubled about you, too.”
Again she did not reply. An image came to her of her father’s face, the tears of joy in his eyes on the day she had returned to Freeborne. After a moment she took up her knife and began to eat.


Alis shrank from public scrutiny, but pride would not let her remain indoors. When the time came for the first prayer meeting, she dressed with particular neatness and gathered her courage to accompany Galin. He stood at the door of the prayer house to greet people as they arrived, but Alis went to the front bench where she had always sat with her parents. They were already there, seated together. She did not look at Hannah but slid in swiftly next to her father, squeezing his hand in reassurance. Then she bowed her head as if in prayer so that her mother would not try to speak to her.
When all the people had arrived, Galin took his place at the front. She had seen him there, week in and week out, all through her childhood; she could not believe that now she was a married woman and that this man was her husband. It seemed like a dream, except that she knew she was trapped in it forever.
He spoke the opening prayers and then said, “And now in silence, let us look within, and listen also, that we may know the truth of our hearts and hear the voice of the Maker.”
Alis shut her eyes. The Maker would not speak to her, but at least she need not look at Galin anymore, or try to keep a proper expression on her face. She had been sitting stiffly upright, afraid that the congregation would notice if she wavered from her rigid posture. Now she could relax a little. Behind her, people bowed their heads, folded their hands in their laps, disposed themselves for silent contemplation.
Alis listened. She could hear her father breathing softly beside her. A child whispered and was hastily hushed. Farther back, a bench creaked from time to time. Occasionally a shoe scraped on the stone floor, or cloth rustled as someone changed position. Gradually the hall grew quite still and she sat quietly, grateful for the respite.
But of course, it was too much to hope that after the obligatory period of silence there would be no testifying. One after another, members of the congregation stood up to speak about the virtues and joys of marriage. The old baker, rambling enthusiastically in praise of the example Galin had set for them all, was silenced eventually by his embarrassed daughter. Alis sat looking straight before her, desperate for it to end. She felt that everyone was watching her, judging her behavior—her body ached with tension.
Afterward, though she longed to leave, Galin stopped to speak to several people, including a tiny old woman, recently widowed, her lined face full of sorrow.
“How are you today, Mistress Hester? You are keeping your spirits up, I trust.”
Her lip trembled. “Ah, Minister Galin, that’s what I shall not be able to do again in this life, I fear. I must bide now until I can see my Joshua again, if the Maker permits. I must pray He will—for whatever our sins, we loved each other well, and what’s the use of love if it comes to nothing at the end?”
“Have faith, Mistress Hester, have faith. The Maker is good and knows what is in our hearts. And you have your friends to comfort you. I shall come to see you by and by. We will sample some of your seed cake, and sit and talk of Joshua.”
A smile lit up her sad face for a moment. “You’re a good man, Minister Galin, and a blessing to this Community. The Maker grant you as much joy in your marriage as I had in mine.” She looked up at Alis. “Make much of him while he is yours, my dear. He’s a deal older than you, and you’ll be left like me, I daresay. My Joshua and me were the same age and yet he’s gone before me.”
The blood burned in Alis’s cheeks. Fortunately, old Hester did not wait for a response but turned away to answer a neighbor inviting her to take the midday meal with him and his family. “Master Daniel, most kind . . .”
But then came fat, red-faced Mistress Dinah demanding attention. She had a gift for Galin—a crock of honey from the bees she kept in the apple orchard. She handed it to Alis, saying, “You will see that he eats some, will you not, Mistress Alis? I am sure ’tis no harm for a man so self-denying to taste sweetness once in a while.”
When Alis thanked her stiffly, Galin frowned at her and broke in, covering her awkwardness.
The people admired him but they were in awe of him, too, and some were clearly very ill at ease. A thin-faced man with a shifty look left in a hurry as soon as the closing prayer was done. He had recently been brought before the people to confess that he had lain with his neighbor’s wife. The burly miller, who had been admonished, first privately and then publicly, for his mistreatment of his two sons gave Galin a black look.
The young kept their distance. The girls Alis had known gathered in little groups, smirking and shooting glances at her when they thought their parents would not notice. Her mother’s position as Senior Elder had always set Alis somewhat apart. Now that she was married to Galin, it was worse than ever. And Elzbet, who had been her dearest friend, had not come to the meeting. She was with child and very sick. Alis had been to see her, thinking to find some comfort there. But Elzbet, between bouts of terrible nausea, seemed overawed by Alis’s new status, and the meeting had not been a success.
When, at last, she and Galin left the prayer house, he took her arm. She stiffened, but with a sense of eyes upon her, she knew she must endure it.
Back in the house she had not learned to call home, he said to her, “It must have been an ordeal for you, Alis. You did well.”
She felt so lonely, she was grateful for his praise. He was a good man—she had seen his kindness to poor old Hester. And after all, he might have been like Thomas.


Martha, the servant girl, who had cooked and cleaned for Galin before his marriage, helped in the household still. Heavily built and plainer of face than she liked to think, Martha did not see why she should defer to someone younger. In awe of the Minister, she had not dared to neglect her duties before, but now that Alis was in charge, she dawdled, skimped, and looked affronted when she was given instructions. Galin noticed the difference, was displeased, and said so. It was clear that he expected Alis to deal with the matter.
She ran a fingertip along a ledge: it was dusty. In the kitchen
Martha was idly scraping the pots in water that needed changing. She stopped altogether when Alis entered.
“The cleaning has not been done. Leave that and do it at once.
The Minister will be home soon and he will not wish to lay his books among the dust.”
Martha dropped the pot back into the scummy water, sighed loudly, and reached for the towel. Alis stood still in the kitchen doorway and the girl found her way blocked.
“If you want me to do the work you’ll have to let me pass, I reckon,” she said scornfully.
Alis looked at her. “You may go home.”
The girl stared back. “I can’t go yet. I don’t finish till the prayer-house clock strikes four.” There was a note of triumph in her voice: no jumped-up minister’s wife could get the better of her.
“You finish now and you don’t come back,” Alis said evenly. She was not afraid. She needed no knife for this.
Martha smirked. “You can’t dismiss me. He took me on. He must tell me to go.”
Somebody would slap her big, bold face one of these days, Alis thought. Calmly she said, “I think you will find that the Minister regards this as a matter for a wife. You may tell your mother you were dismissed for idleness and insolence.”
Martha went white; she had not expected this. “There’s no need for that. I meant to do the cleaning. I daresay I should have done it sooner, only the pots needed scouring. There’s more to do than there used to be, now you’re here.”
Alis raised her eyebrows. “You can explain at home. I am sure your mother will understand.”
Angrily, though her lip was beginning to tremble, the other girl said, “’Tis not fair. You ought to forgive me as we’re taught, instead of getting me into trouble. I’m sure the Minister does not think ill of me. He never complains.”
Alis said coldly, “The Minister has noticed your neglectful ways. He is much displeased. No doubt your mother will wish to know that, too.”
This was too much for Martha. Her mother had never been slow to punish, and she held Galin in high esteem. “Oh, no. Please! I’m sorry, truly I am, and I’ll not give you any more trouble if only you’ll not dismiss me.”
“Complete your work, then I will decide.” Alis turned away and went out of the house.
She sat in the wilderness of the garden at the back, hearing the sounds of frenzied activity from indoors. The prayer-house clock struck four. Still she sat there. It had struck five, and six also, before Martha came out, disheveled and apprehensive, to say that she had done. Alis went indoors. Methodically she went through the house: examining surfaces, lifting chairs, checking corners. At length she looked at the waiting girl. Martha’s hair had come loose and her big face was sweaty.
“It will do well enough,” Alis said—the house was spotless—“but let me not have to speak to you again.”
Later, waiting for Galin to come home, she felt sickened. What had her life come to?
When he arrived, it was only to say that he had to go out again immediately. He had promised Eli, the stone mason, that he would visit. But he noted the newly polished wood and dust-free books approvingly. “You have spoken to Martha already, I see.”
Alis said sharply, “Of course. It is my job, is it not?”
He flinched at her tone and turned away without another word. Afterward she was sorry. He had meant well, after all. And he was gone, for the third evening in a row, to sit with Master Eli, who was dying slowly and in great pain. She must try to be kinder to him.
It was very late when he came back. Alis had been sitting in the gloom wondering what had become of Edge and Joel, dreaming of Luke. It was a relief to hear Galin returning. Hurriedly wiping away her tears, she turned up the lamp. He stopped abruptly in the doorway when he saw her.
“Alis! Why are you not in bed? Are you ill?”
“No, I am quite well. Would you like a bit of supper? You have had such a long day, you must be weary.”
For an instant, he remained quite still in surprise. Then he said, “That is kind. I am weary indeed.” He came in and sat down heavily at the table. “But I do not think I can eat. To watch such suffering—”
“You will feel better if you take a little food,” Alis said firmly. “I have made some broth. I will heat it up.”
He made no further protest but sat staring blankly before him. When she placed the bowl on the table, he lifted the spoon slowly, as if his mind was still in the sickroom with the dying man. Nevertheless, he ate what she put before him, and when he was done, he said, “Thank you, Alis. That was good. Now you must go to bed. Midnight is long gone.”
“Will you go to bed also?”
He sighed and shook his head. “I will sit up awhile. My spirit is heavy tonight.”
He sounded so heartsick, she was prompted to say hesitantly, “If it would please you, I will sit up with you. I am not tired.”
He looked up at that. For a moment she thought he would dismiss her, then he said, “Will you, Alis? That would be a comfort.”
They sat in silence until at last he said, “I have prayed that he might die and be spared more pain. None who sees him could wish him to linger. And yet he lives. In his agony he cries out to me, to know what he has done to deserve this dying when others pass peacefully in their sleep. I have no answer for him.”
She wanted to help, but she had no answer, either. Why had Luke died?
Angrily she said, “It is cruel and we must endure it. It is of no use to ask for reasons.”
“But I am the Minister. Who should answer such questions if not I?”
“Well, you must tell them that all will be made well. The dying go to the Maker and their tears are wiped away.”
It was what she had been taught as a child, but she was not a child anymore, to believe such a tale. There was sorrow, and at the end, darkness: that was all.
He was tracing circles on the table with his finger as he did when he was troubled, and almost arguing with himself. “The Maker is merciful. We must believe this. How else can we bear to live? But why must we suffer—the good and the sinner alike? It cannot be that the Maker is not good himself. Perhaps he is not all-powerful then. But . . .” He was silent once more.
She said, “You are worn out. You should go to bed.”
He sighed and got up, rubbing his forehead wearily. Then he looked at her and smiled faintly. “You have been kind, Alis.”
She shrugged. “I have done nothing.”
He shook his head. “I came home desolate but your company has cheered me. I thank you.”
He went out slowly and she listened to his feet on the stairs. Then she put out the lamp and sat in the darkness thinking about him.