Alis

5
Aman appeared in the kitchen doorway, an old man in farm clothes, rough-shaven, with a weather-beaten face and bright blue eyes.
“He be set down in the upper passageway, Mistress Elizabeth. Hurdle won’t go through chamber door I reckon. Shall us lift him?”
The Minister’s wife shook her head. “Bide a moment, Matthew, and I will come. We must move him carefully, for he bleeds.” And turning to Alis: “I shall need you in a moment, my dear, and it is a grim sight. Be prepared now and do not fail me.”
Alis heard her go up the stairs and then her voice saying, “Now Matthew, you and James must lift him, one at each end. Keep him facedown. Luke and I will link hands underneath him so that his back does not bend. Gently now . . .” Her voice faded. They had passed into the bedchamber. Alis could hear their steps upon the floor of the room above her head. In a few moments there were feet upon the stairs and the man Matthew appeared again at the kitchen door.
“If you be Alis, you be wanted above.” He jerked his head toward the ceiling.
Her heart beating at the thought of what she would see, she mounted the narrow stairs. Even before she went into the room she could smell the injured man—a chamber-pot foulness that caught in the throat and made her want to retch. He had loosed his bowels in his agony. She held herself stiffly and entered. She caught only a glimpse of the man, his back a mass of red and black, before the Minister’s wife spoke.
“Alis, go down and bring back the large bucket—Judith will show you where it is. We must get these soiled breeches off him and you must give them to her to be taken tomorrow to the wash house, for they cannot be done at home. And then we will need clean cloths to bathe him and the green ointment—it is on the side table—though I do not think we will be able to use it. Ellen will judge. But wash your hands well before you touch the cloths. Hurry now.”
Alis did as she was bid, glad of what her mother had made her do in tending the sick. Judith threw up her hands in horror when she knew what the bucket was for, but she fetched it from the scullery and took it without a word when Alis returned.
Luke had disappeared, and now Alis must make good her offer: there was the foulness to wash away, and then they must bathe the flayed back in preparation for laying on the leaves that Mistress Ellen was to bring. Alis went up and down, taking basins of water—hot first for the simple washing, and then cool for the poor, raw flesh. In the kitchen and scullery, Judith could scarcely keep pace with their need. No sooner was one basin of clean water ready than it came back stained, and fresh was needed.
At first the man did not stir, but when they began on his back he groaned piteously, turning his head this way and that, whimpering like an injured animal. There was no skin at all on his back and shoulders where the whip had fallen so cruelly. In some places, thick blood had dried purple or black, but at the least movement, the crusts broke and the fresh red oozed up again. The flesh was gouged, too, as if the embedded points had fallen repeatedly in the same places, and these places bled worse than the rest. Ribbons of skin, ripped loose but not torn away, marked the edges of the great wound. Alis kept her thoughts still, concentrating on what must be done. She did not ask yet what kind of Maker it was in whose world such things were done, and in his name, too.
At length Mistress Ellen arrived. Seeing the man from the doorway, she stopped abruptly and her hand flew to her mouth. “The Maker preserve us! What have they done? I did not dream . . .”
The Minister’s wife went to her and embraced her.
“Ellen, I thank you for coming. I have none to help me but Judith and this brave child here. Can you stay? Who will tend the animals?”
The newcomer put down the covered basket she was carrying. “My neighbor Saul will see to it. He is not of my mind in this matter”—she gestured toward the figure on the bed—“but I have done as much for him in times of trouble, as we farmers must. Besides he loves the beasts. He will not have them suffer for the follies of humankind. Now we must be about our business here. You have bathed him?”
The other nodded. “Then we must lay on the leaves and pray to the Maker for healing.”
She took up the basket and removed the cloth cover. Underneath lay a mass of the thin green leaves of the plant self-heal, which is used on cuts and wounds, especially those that will not mend. Ointment is made from it, too, which the Healers use in their work. Alis picked up the jar that she had fetched, but Ellen shook her head.
“The flesh must dry, if it is to heal. We will lay on the leaves and nothing more, I think.”
Very gently she began placing the leaves, overlapping them so that gradually the man’s back was covered. All the while she kept up a soothing murmur as he moaned and shuddered.
When at last it was done, she turned to the Minister’s wife.
“Go if you wish, Elizabeth, and tend to the household or whatever else you must. I will sit with him. But send up some fresh water and a dry straw, for he must drink. I fear he will take a fever if he does not, so hurt as he is.”
They looked at him. He was quiet now, lying facedown, his head turned sideways and one hand hanging slackly over the side of the bed.
Elizabeth gestured for Alis to accompany her, and together they descended the stairs. The kitchen was full of steam and there were cloths hung to dry on racks under the ceiling. Judith at once burst into fretful protest. “Oh, Mistress Elizabeth, I doubt but you have done unwisely to bring him here. The Elders will not like it and perhaps he will bring trouble on us all. It is a fearful thing to go against the Elders, so hard as they are upon us now and—”
Her mistress broke in sharply. “Well, Judith, if you are afraid, I
give you leave to go to your brother. Ellen and I will make shift to manage without you; we have Alis to help us. Go, and take your fear with you!”
The old servant’s eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Mistress, you will not send me away after all these years. I do not mean to fail you, only”—here she could not suppress a sob—“you are so fearless. I think you would defy them even with the whip at your back, and who knows that they would not dare even that? Who is to say them nay?”
Elizabeth put her arms around the other woman. “Forgive me, Judith. I am unkind to you. It is only that I am tired with all that we have done and all that is still to do or I would not make so poor a return for your goodness. Do not weep”—for the old woman was crying in earnest now—“you shall not leave me unless you wish it. I should not know how to manage without you. Come now. You are weary, too. Go and sleep awhile, for I shall need you in the night, I daresay.” Gently she shepherded Judith from the room, and they heard her slow footsteps on the stairs.
Elizabeth sat herself by the stove on the stool that the old servant had vacated. She rubbed her forehead wearily. “I must mend my temper. Poor Judith. These are cruel times for such as her. But her fearfulness will shake my courage if I let it, and that must not be.”
Alis was dismayed. “Are you afraid, Mistress Elizabeth?”
For a moment the older woman sat silent, gazing at the fire. At length she said, “No, my dear, not as Judith is. Do not trouble yourself. Now let us eat and fortify ourselves, and then I will return to Ellen.”
She busied herself about the cupboards and drawers, placing upon the table portions of cold meat pie and some crusty bread. Alis had not thought of food, but despite what she had seen that day, she realized she was hungry. She was glad to eat.
When night came, Elizabeth would not let Alis sit up but sent her to join the snoring Judith in the attic chamber. She thought she would lie awake, but instead she fell immediately into a deep sleep.


The days passed slowly for Alis. She ate, slept, and cared for the injured man. He must have his bodily needs attended to, as well as being fed and washed. It was often unpleasant, and more often dull. Elizabeth insisted that he must not be left alone: he suffered from fever intermittently, crying out and muttering by turns.
“He must be healed if it can be done,” Elizabeth said, “and someone must be there if he seems likely to die. He must not go with none to comfort him in his last moments.”
Ellen had returned to her farm, and Judith was so fearful that Elizabeth and Alis did the nursing between them. Alis did not mind. Elizabeth had saved her that terrible day, and she was glad to be able to show her gratitude. Nevertheless, although she saw Luke sometimes, they were never alone together, and as the days went by she grew fearful. Surely her parents would expect her to return; they might even send to fetch her if she stayed away too long. But what could she do? Even if she had been willing to leave Elizabeth without explanation, she had no more idea how to get to the city than when she had arrived.


One night, she woke suddenly to the sound of groans. Softly, so as not to wake Judith, she felt her way out of the attic and down the dark stairs to the landing below. The door of the back bedchamber was open. Huge shadows swelled and sank on the visible parts of the wall and ceiling, as those within moved about in the lamplight. Elizabeth came out carrying a chamber pot covered with a cloth. She was drawn and pale but she smiled when she saw Alis.
“Are you awake, my dear? Then go in and keep my grandson company. In ordinary times I would not permit it but I must tend to my husband, who is sick, and Luke may need your assistance.”
When she entered the chamber, Alis found Luke kneeling beside the bed, holding a cup of water and guiding a straw to the man’s mouth so that he might drink. He sucked in the water desperately, noisily, like a man in a desert place who finds the spring that will save his life. When he had done, he closed his eyes as if exhausted and his head dropped forward. He lay on his side, for his back was still raw and he could not lie upon it.
Alis and Luke sat in silence for a while. Their charge stirred and moaned intermittently, but whether in sleep or not was impossible to tell. At length, he fell silent and his breathing seemed to steady. Luke whispered, “My grandmother has given him some of the potion that Ellen left to ease his pain—something powerful, she said.”
“Is he asleep?” Alis asked.
Luke nodded. “I think so. The potion acts swiftly, Ellen says, but in such cases it does not act for long. And the stuff is dangerous. He must not have it too often. He has a fever, too, and my grandmother thinks he may die, otherwise she would not have left us together unwatched. No doubt she expects that you will know what to do for him if the end comes. She thinks much of you: you are brave, she says, and good.”
Alis felt herself flush. Mistress Elizabeth did not know that she planned to run away in defiance of her parents and her Minister. But she was alone with Luke and here was her chance. She was about to reopen the subject of the city, when Luke did it for her.
“And now that we will not be overheard, tell me why you want to go to the city. It is not a place for one such as you. Why must you go there?”
Alis wondered how much she should reveal. She did not know him. He might tell his grandparents, who would surely send her straight back to Freeborne. He was watching her curiously. Sensing her unease, he said, keeping his voice low for fear of disturbing the sleeper, “I trusted you.”
She nodded. It was true. He had told her what he and Tobias had planned, taking the risk that she would report to it Thomas. At last she said, “My parents have agreed to a marriage . . . and the man . . . I cannot marry him.”
Luke nodded. “A forced marriage is no marriage, my grandmother says. But did your parents give you no say at all?”
Alis shook her head.
Luke whispered angrily, “Why must they rule our lives? Even my grandparents sometimes, though they would never force me to marry against my will. But it is hard for a girl. A boy can run away and make a life for himself—”
“A girl can run away, too,” Alis broke in fiercely. “I will not go back.” He looked at her. “Are you not afraid? The city is a dangerous place, they say. People disappear and are never heard of again. Without friends, how will you live and be safe?”
“My brother is there,” Alis said firmly. “I will go to him.”
“You have a brother? In the city? What is he doing there? Surely your parents do not permit him to live there?”
“He ran away.”
Luke raised his eyebrows. “And you know where he is? You could find him?”
“I will find him,” Alis said stubbornly.
“But, Alis . . .”
“I will find him,” she repeated. “And if you will not help me, I will manage without you. But you promised! Will you refuse me and perhaps betray me? I will not go back, I tell you. I would rather die!”
Her voice had risen and they both looked instinctively toward the bed. The sick man had not moved, and his eyes were still shut.
Luke said softly, “I will not betray you. I will help you if I can but . . .” He stopped uneasily. “I would come with you if I could, but I cannot leave my grandparents, especially now.”
They were silent for a while. Then Luke said, “Since the reformers—as they call themselves—grew in power here, we have had one or two such marriages. In the past it would not have been permitted. Is that how it was with you?”
Alis shook her head. Freeborne was not like Two Rivers.
He went on. “What did they say to you? Did they not explain why you must marry the man?”
Bitterness rose in Alis’s throat. “They said it was the will of the Maker, an honor.”
“And the man? Who is he? Is he well known to you?”
“He is our pastor, Minister Galin. I have known him all my life. As my minister. And he is forty years old!”
“Forty!” Luke was appalled. “But that is more than twice your age, nearly three times.”
Alis nodded. “So you see why you must help me. I cannot marry him.”
“So Pastor Galin is your minister. I have heard of him,” Luke said slowly. “Our reformers speak slightingly of him. They say he is too easygoing with sinners, that he does not think the Communities need purifying. Why would he, of all people, insist on marrying a girl who does not wish it?”
“My wishes do not come into it,” Alis said furiously.
Luke was frowning. “It does not make sense.”
“Whether it makes sense or not”—she was angry with Luke now: what was the point of trying to understand—“I will have to marry him if I go back, and so I must go elsewhere. Unless . . .” A new thought occurred to her. “Do you think your grandmother would let me stay here with her?”
Luke shook his head. “Your parents know where you are and would send for you. Our Elders would never countenance your defiance, and my grandmother would have no power to prevent their sending you back. Even if we were leaving, I doubt she would let you come with us in opposition to your parents. But we shall be here until we are driven out. My grandfather thinks he may persuade the reformers to reconsider! He is ever the optimist and sees good in the worst of people. My grandmother knows better, but of course she will not go without him, and they are both determined to serve the people here while they can.”
“Then there is no help for it,” Alis said decisively. “I must go to the city to find Joel, and you must show me the way.”
He looked troubled. “A girl on her own in the city is . . .” He stopped and swallowed. “How will you find your brother? You will not know who to ask, who is to be trusted. I have heard . . .”
“What have you heard?” She was angry again. What business of his was it to hinder her?
He began again hesitantly. “Alis, this marriage. Is it so dreadful?” She gasped and would have interrupted him but he went on hurriedly, “Only they say that for a girl . . . there are dangers . . . worse even, than such a marriage.” Again he hesitated. Even in the flickering lamplight of the sickroom she could see that he was flushed.
“Tell me what you mean.” She was afraid now.
“There was a girl here once. She was older than me but I remember her. She was wild. They could not hold her: she feared nothing and no one. She disappeared one day and her father went looking for her. He was a man of means and he spent freely to find her.”
He stopped again. Alis held her breath. He had turned his head away from her.
“She was in a house where the men of the city come when they want . . . a woman for . . . pleasure. There are those who keep a lookout for innocent runaways and trick them with promises of work and shelter. Her father would have brought her back but she would not come. She was too ashamed, he said.”
Alis did not speak. She hated him. How could she go to the city now? He was still speaking.
“I am sorry, Alis. If only you were a boy, it would be different.”
“If only I were a boy,” she repeated angrily. “What use is that? If I were a boy I would not be in this trouble. Minister Galin would certainly not want to marry me!” She paused. “Well, I do not care. I mean to go to the city, and I will.”
“My grandmother is right about you. You have courage.” Luke’s eyes were shining. “Oh, Alis. If only I could come with you. There are great houses there I have heard, and street upon street, and shops, too. If you have money, you may buy anything in the world. The rich people parade up and down in fine clothes such as we are not allowed to wear. And the sailors come ashore from the merchant ships. They speak strange tongues and do not dress as we do. What would I not give to see it all! But my grandparents need me.”
He would have said more but the door opened and Ellen came in. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of the two of them, but she said only, “Your grandmother sent for me to come. She thinks he is worse.”
She went over to the man on the bed and stooped down beside him, examining his features, rolling back his eyelids to look at his eyes.
“He will sleep awhile yet,” she said. “And you must do so also, if you are to be useful. I will watch now. Begone, the pair of you.”
Outside Luke said in a whisper, “Good night, Alis. Do not fear, I will not fail you.”
Back in the attic, awake to the rhythm of Judith’s snores, Alis lay with her eyes wide open. Luke’s face came before her with its smooth olive skin and eyes bright in the lamplight of the sickroom. He would help her, he had said. And she believed him.