Holder of the World - Bharati Mukherjee [19]
A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts
Forsake at home their pastry-crust and tarts
To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurl,
Their undulating silks they closely furl.
The pickaxe one as a commandress holds,
While t’other at her awkness gently scolds.
One puffs and sweats …
and the next she was sweating and writhing on the rug by the hearth.
Neighbors stopped by the Fitch house and made uplifting conversation. Others prayed and, remembering her doleful experience in the woods during King Philip’s raid, began probing just below the threshold of consciousness. Of course their inquiries were always considerately phrased in proper Puritan language of bad influences, unchristian proclivities learned early and perhaps never expunged by the charities of Goodwife Fitch and her sober and righteous husband and suffering, unfortunate son.
For the Fitches, who viewed their foster daughter as especially talented and obedient, but of a secretive disposition whose origins could only be traced to the night in the woods when she saw her mother murdered before her eyes (and, worse, mysteriously disposed of so that not a trace remained), there was always the fear that the memory of that night would someday return. They feared for her sanity when they saw Indians on the streets of Salem, or scalped men, but she never revealed the slightest interest in any of the direct perpetrators or victims of that terrible night.
HER CLOSEST FRIEND was Hester Manning, daughter of the smith, whose house and forge on Herbert Street always gathered a crowd of Salem’s least pious young men. Something about fire and hammers and horses, Hester said, brought out a male’s recalcitrant streak. Or perhaps it was the presence of Hester herself, small and dimpled, with a saucy air that promised more favor than it ever delivered. Hester had lost an aunt when King Philip’s warriors had massacred settlers in Lancaster in the winter of 1676, and she brought Hannah the book that she insisted everybody, everybody, was reading, even the fancy dressers on Chestnut Street, for whom Hannah would make breeches and farthingales as soon as she was well again. The book was The Sovereignty and Goodness of God, together with the Faithfulness of His Promises Displayed; Being a Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson. Commended by her to all that Desire to know the Lord’s Doings to, and Dealings with Her. Especially to Her Dear Children and Relations.
Hester had entrusted herself to marriage for deliverance. She had the sort of imagination that was all too compliant; she could see herself enacting nearly any situation a book, or an anecdote, even a whimsical suggestion, presented to her. This made her an ideal companion for Hannah, whose own sense of special mission in life was firmly set though rarely articulated. Anyone looking at these two fifteen-year-old maidens in the summer of 1685 would have thought them destined for opposite fates: Hannah to linger in Salem, Hester to reposition the stars.
Hannah must have shuddered or screamed when she heard the name Rowlandson. She must have wondered if this Rowlandson was not a relative of the minister Joseph Rowlandson, who hadn’t succeeded in halting her father’s mad ride to Brookfield and encampments beyond. I imagine her speculations. What if Edward Easton had stayed in Lancaster? Would Rebecca not have run off with her Indian? Would she and Rebecca have been taken prisoner like Mary Rowlandson, sold as slaves, moved from swamp to swamp, forced to beg for food scraps, even learn to savor the vile tastes of horse hooves and parched corn?
There were rumors, never put to rest, that not all white women abducted were enslaved or scalped or mercifully sacrificed to the heathen deities. This was Hester’s special theory; she could fancy herself abducted by heathens. Of course it was the devil himself whispering into the pillow at night, and of course it was sinful even to mention it to one whose own mother—
Hannah raised her hand.