Flight of the Sparrow
CHAPTER ONE
Later, Mary will trace the first signs of the Lord’s displeasure back to a hot July morning in 1672 when she pauses on her way to the barn to watch the sun rise burnt orange over the meetinghouse. She feels a momentary sinking in her bowels as it flashes like fire through a damp haze, putting her in mind of the terrors of hell. She has never been adept at reading omens. That is the gift and duty of her husband, Joseph, and other Bay Colony ministers. Mary sees the world matter-of-factly, as a practical, intelligible creation fashioned by God for the convenience of His people. As she plucks a paltry three eggs from under her anxious hens and slips them into her pocket, her chief thought is that by noon the heat will be suffocating. Yet, when she comes out of the barn, the ginger-colored hairs on the nape of her neck rise and she thinks she hears the Devil’s footsteps rounding the corner of the lane.
A moment later, she sees it is not the Devil, but Edmund Parker, in nightshirt and breeches, pounding toward her in his bare feet, hair flying about his head like tufts of white flame. His eyes bulge and the mottled birthmark on his left cheek burns dark red. Mary hurries to steady him when she sees his legs sway. They look as rickety as a babe’s.
“Mistress Rowlandson!” His fingers dig cruelly into her arm, yet she does not shrink from his distress. “I beg you, help me!” he cries. “’Tis my Bess. Her time has come.”
Bess. The daughter who has shamed him by conceiving a child during her indenture to Deacon Park in Roxbury. Bess, who has refused to name the man who got the child on her and so was cast out with no place to go except back to her father’s failing farm. The girl of whom the goodwives speak only in whispers, for fear the Lord will punish all of Lancaster for her sin.
“Where is Goody Turner?” Mary asks, wondering why he has come to her instead of the midwife.
His beard winks amber in the ominous light as he shakes his head. “Her daughter says she lies abed with the summer flux. But I think she refuses out of malice.”
“Malice? I cannot credit that.” Mary frowns, though she suspects what he says may be true. Every pious, God-fearing woman in this frontier town has kept her distance from Bess. They all believe that evil is contagious, that proximity to sin provides a foothold for the Devil, who can easily pass from one person to the next. “I’m sure she must be ill, if her daughter says so. The sweating fever has been abroad for a fortnight.”
“Fever or no, she will not help. Nor will any other.” His fingers dig yet deeper. “I’ve knocked on every door. There is no one else. I beg you, as a Christian, help us!”
Mary sees plainly enough where her duty lies. Indeed, how can she refuse? Did not Jesus command his disciples to help the poor and lowly? Did he not mingle with sinners? Edmund is beside himself with worry and she is the wife of the town’s minister. She has no choice but to assent.
Mary has been present at a dozen births, though never in place of a midwife, and never alone. The prospect frightens her, not only because of the risk to her soul, but because the girl is young and may not be well formed enough to safely deliver a child. Mary has no birthing stool or linens with which to practice a proper midwife’s art. Yet Edmund is in such a state that she cannot delay any longer with talk of flux and fevers.
She hurries into the house, empties the eggs from her pocket and stuffs it with scissors and thread and what rags she can quickly find. She briefly considers taking her eldest daughter with her. Marie is dutiful and steadfast and could provide an extra pair of hands. Yet she is so young—only a few months past her sixth birthday—Mary does not want her badly affected if things do not go well. Even in the best circumstance, childbirth is a perilous business, and if Bess should die—or the child be born a monster—it could set Marie’s mind against childbearing for life. She instructs Rebekah, the servant girl, to keep a close eye on Marie and little Sarah, who is still so young she could easily toddle into the fire or drown in a puddle. She knows her son, Joss, will be tending the flax field with Joseph this morning. Her glance falls on the eggs she placed on the shelf and, at the last moment, she ties them up in a napkin to carry with her.
She and Edmund say little as they hasten over the hill to his farm. Neither has much breath to speak. Though it is just past dawn, the sun already pours down so fiercely that Mary has to wipe her face with her apron many times. There is no breeze; the heavy air reeks with the stink of pig offal and swamp water. The branches of the great chestnut tree by the meetinghouse droop while its leaves curl and wilt. They look gray in the light. Even the birds are still, as if they, too, sense the evils of the day.
Later, Mary will trace the first signs of the Lord’s displeasure back to a hot July morning in 1672 when she pauses on her way to the barn to watch the sun rise burnt orange over the meetinghouse. She feels a momentary sinking in her bowels as it flashes like fire through a damp haze, putting her in mind of the terrors of hell. She has never been adept at reading omens. That is the gift and duty of her husband, Joseph, and other Bay Colony ministers. Mary sees the world matter-of-factly, as a practical, intelligible creation fashioned by God for the convenience of His people. As she plucks a paltry three eggs from under her anxious hens and slips them into her pocket, her chief thought is that by noon the heat will be suffocating. Yet, when she comes out of the barn, the ginger-colored hairs on the nape of her neck rise and she thinks she hears the Devil’s footsteps rounding the corner of the lane.
A moment later, she sees it is not the Devil, but Edmund Parker, in nightshirt and breeches, pounding toward her in his bare feet, hair flying about his head like tufts of white flame. His eyes bulge and the mottled birthmark on his left cheek burns dark red. Mary hurries to steady him when she sees his legs sway. They look as rickety as a babe’s.
“Mistress Rowlandson!” His fingers dig cruelly into her arm, yet she does not shrink from his distress. “I beg you, help me!” he cries. “’Tis my Bess. Her time has come.”
Bess. The daughter who has shamed him by conceiving a child during her indenture to Deacon Park in Roxbury. Bess, who has refused to name the man who got the child on her and so was cast out with no place to go except back to her father’s failing farm. The girl of whom the goodwives speak only in whispers, for fear the Lord will punish all of Lancaster for her sin.
“Where is Goody Turner?” Mary asks, wondering why he has come to her instead of the midwife.
His beard winks amber in the ominous light as he shakes his head. “Her daughter says she lies abed with the summer flux. But I think she refuses out of malice.”
“Malice? I cannot credit that.” Mary frowns, though she suspects what he says may be true. Every pious, God-fearing woman in this frontier town has kept her distance from Bess. They all believe that evil is contagious, that proximity to sin provides a foothold for the Devil, who can easily pass from one person to the next. “I’m sure she must be ill, if her daughter says so. The sweating fever has been abroad for a fortnight.”
“Fever or no, she will not help. Nor will any other.” His fingers dig yet deeper. “I’ve knocked on every door. There is no one else. I beg you, as a Christian, help us!”
Mary sees plainly enough where her duty lies. Indeed, how can she refuse? Did not Jesus command his disciples to help the poor and lowly? Did he not mingle with sinners? Edmund is beside himself with worry and she is the wife of the town’s minister. She has no choice but to assent.
Mary has been present at a dozen births, though never in place of a midwife, and never alone. The prospect frightens her, not only because of the risk to her soul, but because the girl is young and may not be well formed enough to safely deliver a child. Mary has no birthing stool or linens with which to practice a proper midwife’s art. Yet Edmund is in such a state that she cannot delay any longer with talk of flux and fevers.
She hurries into the house, empties the eggs from her pocket and stuffs it with scissors and thread and what rags she can quickly find. She briefly considers taking her eldest daughter with her. Marie is dutiful and steadfast and could provide an extra pair of hands. Yet she is so young—only a few months past her sixth birthday—Mary does not want her badly affected if things do not go well. Even in the best circumstance, childbirth is a perilous business, and if Bess should die—or the child be born a monster—it could set Marie’s mind against childbearing for life. She instructs Rebekah, the servant girl, to keep a close eye on Marie and little Sarah, who is still so young she could easily toddle into the fire or drown in a puddle. She knows her son, Joss, will be tending the flax field with Joseph this morning. Her glance falls on the eggs she placed on the shelf and, at the last moment, she ties them up in a napkin to carry with her.
She and Edmund say little as they hasten over the hill to his farm. Neither has much breath to speak. Though it is just past dawn, the sun already pours down so fiercely that Mary has to wipe her face with her apron many times. There is no breeze; the heavy air reeks with the stink of pig offal and swamp water. The branches of the great chestnut tree by the meetinghouse droop while its leaves curl and wilt. They look gray in the light. Even the birds are still, as if they, too, sense the evils of the day.