No time for witches, p.15
No Time For Witches, page 15
Her arm still went through the motion, but she wasn’t there and he knew she didn’t see him. It was the oddest thing he’d ever seen. He knew she wasn’t from there but he didn’t know where except from the big tree his mother dreamed of. Was she being pulled back to that other side? Was she even now walking between worlds? He shivered a little. She was warm in his arms and he liked the delicate feel of her.
“Kimi, do you wish to speak with my mother?” he asked, still patting absently at her back. She didn’t lift her head from his chest but shook it.
“I want to tell you something, but I’m afraid if I do, you’ll be afraid. People of this time are afraid of people like me. They call us witches and they want to kill us. I’m not a witch though,” she said and he felt a tremor move through her body.
He felt the goose bumps rise over his body when she said ‘people of this time’. He didn’t know what witch was but thought she spoke of pauwau, one who has visions or sees spirits. He’d heard his mother use that word when speaking about Kimi.
“I am not afraid. I will let no one hurt you,” he said solemnly. He wasn’t afraid, he was unnerved, however. By her words and by her touch. He pulled away and took her hand and led her away from the huts and people. He felt perhaps she needed a moment away from too many eyes. She didn’t resist him and they began to walk. They went through the gates of the palisade and he saw some of his friends deep in the woods, keeping watch. With the Mohawk’s recent visit, no one was willing to take a chance that they might not come back and strike again. Only in deep winter were they truly safe because no one traveled in the big snows.
It was normally the safest time of the year, when the countryside was deep with snow and deadly temperatures. It was also the hungry times, but if the underground storage was any indication, they would have plenty of food for winter. It had been a good hunting season so far and they still had a while before the first flakes of snow fell. The pumpkins were coming around to ripe and the last of the squash as well. The corn was drying well on the stalks and bar any calamities, it should be a good winter with full bellies.
They found themselves alone by the river and he pulled her to a large rock that overhung the fast-moving water. It was one of his favorite places to daydream. The rock hung nearly cantilevered over the water and its smooth wide flat surface was perfect for sunning and napping. He sat on the sunbaked surface, a perfect complement to the chilled air. His fingers splayed over the warmth and drew it into his body with a shiver. He tilted his face to the sun and closed his eyes. He and Kimi sat thus for a long time, no words, just letting the heat of the rock and the sun seep in.
“Talk to me. Tell me what troubles your spirit,” he said softly, looking over at her.
“In many years from now, more than you can count on many hands, I will be born. In three hundred years. Do you understand that number?” she asked him softly. Once more, he felt his skin ripple and the tiny bumps prickled his skin. He swallowed and he felt his heart jump. He nodded, it was a big number and that was a lot of years. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t and so she continued.
“I was born over three hundred years from now. I live in this area with my grandmother. I had a life, a life so different from what is now lived today for both the Wabanaki and the wasi’chu. In my time, there are very few Wabanaki, Mohawk, Algonquin and others. There are more wasi’chu than the rocks in this river. There are many things that I can tell you, but you would not understand. Our people can fly in the sky. We have something like a canoe or a hut and it can carry people into the sky. We can go one place very far away to another within hours. What would take you weeks to travel, we can travel in merely hours,” she said and he didn’t understand, but the thought of flying was thrilling. He nodded for her to go on.
“That girl you saw me with, she was like me. We got caught in a storm and hid in a big tree. That tree was used during this time to hang witches. The wasi’chu killed people for being different. Not because they were bad, but because they were different or didn’t believe what they believed. It is happening and will keep happening for more years. If my friend didn’t die in the woods and she finds her way to where the wasi’chu live, they might kill her if she cannot pretend to be one of them, of their time.” Her eyes were tearing up again and he reached out a hand to hold her smaller one in his. She squeezed his hand and he let go.
“I was remembering my life before I came here. I was remembering my friends and my grandmother. These people will not be born for a long time. I will be dead many, many years before they are. I am alone and the only one of my kind now. I only have myself who has this knowledge and now you, of course. Do your people hurt people like me?”
“You are not alone. You are of my clan and my family now. We will protect you and no one will harm you. We believe in spirits and things that though we do not understand, we know that it is not for us to tell the world or the spirit world how it should be. If you would like, we can try to find your friend and bring her here. It might take a long time, but we could try,” he offered and her eyes lit up.
“How could you? Won’t the wasi’chu try to kill your people?” she asked.
“Some of our people trade with them. They are now your people too. I will tell my friends, who will tell their friends and the word will be passed along. It will take time, but eventually we will find her if she is in this area and still alive.”
“Thank you. Thank you for not being afraid. You’re right, you are my people now. Now that you know, I feel better. I don’t feel alone anymore. I don’t feel like I’ve got this big secret inside that I can’t share,” she said and smiled. He grinned back.
“Now, tell me about this flying canoe, it sounds like something that I would like to do,” he said and she laughed and he found that he really liked her laugh.
They sat the rest of the afternoon talking, something that he’d never really done with a woman. Most of the time they were all busy, but today had been a special day and he had learned something quite special. She was a spirit walker, she had walked from her world, in between and come out in this world. Some of her words did trouble him. What happened to his people? And the other people of the nations? He couldn’t say he was sad that the Mohawk had diminished, but still. There was a balance in nature and it seemed like her world was out of balance.
EIGHT
Prudence moved about the house. Each day that she had to look at that mealy-mouthed woman sent something akin to rage pouring into her heart. What was it about the girl that set her on edge? Prudence shook her head. At every turn Martha fought her, disagreed with her. She hadn’t missed the fact that Martha acted differently in front of the men. Why? The young woman was a guest in her home, her home. Yet George looked at Prudence with something close to disappointment. Why? The girl was useless and lazy. She was also turning her husband against her.
It was as though asking the girl to help with tasks had somehow become taboo. Prudence found herself in a constant state of apprehension over the woman, where life had been harmonious before, now there was only acrimony. The girl was odd and Prudence didn’t know what was so unusual about her that made her feel so aggressive and want Martha out of her home. George had said it was their duty to be kind to the girl. If Prudence didn’t make her work, the girl simply sat idle. The fact that she had to point this out to George made her angry.
She was even quarreling with Beatrice and that wasn’t normal. She and Beatrice were the closest of friends, though the woman was a bit foolish at times. When they had argued, they had drawn a crowd and she’d been thoroughly embarrassed. It was as though she couldn’t seem to help herself and she put the blame squarely on Martha. She was a conniving little chit. No one could see this except for her. Her head throbbed.
She would go and see Beatrice; the woman wasn’t feeling well. Perhaps they could patch things up? There was already a divide between herself and her husband. She didn’t want one between herself and Beatrice. This had to stop.
Martha sat on the bench shelling beans. There had been a big ruckus over the spoiled milk and she was glad. She watched her hands as though she were outside her body. Her hands looked a thousand years old now, the nails dirty and broken. Heavy calluses were growing like mushrooms on her fingers and palms. Her hands were beginning to look like Prudence’s man hands. She sniffed. She began to sing again the song she’d heard when she’d been ten or eleven, which was now a lifetime ago. That had been when she’d started really listening to music and enjoying it. Her mother had it playing over and over sometimes and she’d heard it on the radio. It had been a happy time in her life. The song was Sam Smith’s Writing on the Wall. She’d not seen the Bond movies; her mother had said those were too violent. But she had liked the song and the artist was one of her favorites.
She only sang when Prudence wasn’t around. She’d been singing that song the previous week when she’d been doing laundry. It was her way to get lost while she did the unpleasant and mindless chores she was assigned. She hadn’t been singing loud, but Prudence came out and berated her.
“You are not praising our Lord God, your words make no sense,” Prudence spat. Once more, Martha thought that Prudence was simply being mean spirited, since she heard children laughing and singing and young girls as well. She heard a lot of people laughing and talking and visiting with their neighbors. But somehow, Martha lived in some kind of bubble where it was simply miserable within. She wondered if perhaps Prudence was just a discontented woman and made all those around her despondent? She didn’t remember hearing any of them laugh. She’d seen the look George had given Prudence a time or two when they didn’t know she was watching. She slept with Prudence every night, so she knew the couple weren’t having sex. Martha wasn’t allowed to leave the house without permission, so Prudence and George could get away for a quickly. They acted all religious and upstanding, but Prudence was an underhanded backstabber. She knew the type and had run into plenty in her short life.
The previous day had been agonizing, they had been at church. Every time they went, it was arduous. Never had she even stepped foot in a church and now she knew why. The men droned on and on for hours and when she started to nod off, Prudence would nudge her viciously. Or some jerk would come with stick, with a feather attached and tickle her nose. She wanted to take that pole with the feather and shove it up his ass. They did sing from time to time, she didn’t mind that. But then the talking would start anew and her brain felt as though it had turned to mush. To keep her mind busy, she began to tell herself stories that she remembered and she sang songs in her mind. Newer songs and old songs, children’s songs and made-up songs. Her life consisted of heavy chores and no conversations with anyone.
She had tried to talk to Prudence early on but that had been a disaster. The two of them had absolutely nothing in common and half the conversations ended in Prudence rebuking her. Martha spoke less and less and began to turn inward. There was nothing out in this world that she cared to know about or talk about. She missed her own time desperately and now toyed with the idea of suicide. It was only her growing hatred of Prudence that spurred her on. Once more she wondered about her mental stability. Was she losing her shit? She would have never in a million years thought she was emotionally weak or mentally vulnerable. But here, in this place, she felt her core self being whittled away, little by little by Prudence’s abrasive words and actions.
Only the inner dialogue and the songs helped keep her steady. When she’d been stirring the laundry, she had been singing Writing on the Wall, when Prudence caught her, she’d not even been singing it loud, just a whisper really. She now sang it in defiance of Prudence, whenever she could. She’d seen Philip watching her, always watching her. She shivered and looked around. He was nowhere in sight. She’d seen a drawing of herself on a wooden plank. It had been rubbed out, in an attempt to obliterate her likeness, but she’d seen it none the less.
“Obsessed much?” she muttered. She couldn’t be too hard on him though. He was the only one nice to her. The whole of the village stayed clear, none of the other women or girls her age came to visit or even to talk to her. She didn’t know what she would say to them, but it would have been nice if they would have attempted it. Was it because she was living with Prudence? Was Prudence herself the reason, maybe nobody like the intractable woman? George was just there, polite but distant. Maybe he was afraid Prudence would start in on him?
She shifted on the bench at the back of the house, wishing for a cushion. She liked this spot; it was where the sun cut through the brilliantly colored trees. She no longer saw their beauty as she once had. It was getting cooler now, later in the season. The once suffocating clothing was now providing warmth when a chilled breeze whipped past her. Her eyes went to her hands again and she grimaced. They were filthy and she was pretty sure that she had shit on them. Oh, these people washed, but only the exposed flesh and they used no soap. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness’ as Prudence would spout. Her head itched constantly and Martha was pretty sure she had lice in her hair. Her eyes began to tear up at the thought. If she didn’t think they would treat her like a freak, she would shave her head. And perhaps at some point, she might not even care and cut it all off anyway. She thought again of Philip’s presence and she wondered if she should start worrying that he might rape her? No, he didn’t seem like that kind of guy. Though the attention he paid to her was creepy, she thought he was harmless enough. She thought he might be someone she could talk to, but then she was sure that Prudence would say that she was sinning and leading him into sin. She snorted at the thought.
She felt nasty and gross and now understood why these people died so young and why at twenty-four, Prudence looked forty. In a few years she would look old as well. All those movies she saw about people in the olden days were lies, all lies. These people were nasty, because without soap, you were just making mud.
“A bunch of mud people,” she said and giggled. She sighed heavily and began to sing again. Tonight, she planned to go out and set fire to a few of the corn cribs around her. The corn was just now starting to dry on their stalks and the people were beginning to fill their corncribs. If she set several on fire, that would be upsetting and again, send a ripple of unease through these people. If she did it now, not much of the food would be destroyed. She didn’t want to starve them, because she would be starving herself. But she did want to stir up trouble.
“Shall I help you?” Philip asked from behind and caused Martha to jerk violently. She had not seen Philip sneak up on her. She’d been singing to herself so it hadn’t been loud.
“Won’t your aunt get angry? She’ll say I’m shirking my chores and seducing you with my wiles,” she said and laughed when his eyes widened when she said seducing. She wondered if it was the word itself or the act that bothered him? Did they all have dirty minds? Maybe some, she thought.
She wondered if these people thought that every action was designed to have some ulterior motive? Perhaps because what they did have ulterior motives. Or maybe it was just Prudence who was that way and the rest were innocent of it. She didn’t know and she really didn’t care.
“I shall tell her I insisted, if she comes home early. She is visiting her friend, Mistress Beatrice. The woman is ill and Prudence has taken a poultice to her.”
“What’s a poultice?” she asked, picking up another bean to shell. There was a large basket beside her and a large clay bowl in her lap. Philip sat down at the end of the bench, putting at least three feet between them. Very appropriate.
“It is a medicine. Placed on the area afflicted to draw out the ill humors. Often times, it is quite successful,” Philip said, picking up a hand full of dried bean pods. He split the bean pod open by running his thumbnail down the seam of the pod and the dried beans within popped out into his large hand.
“I don’t know a lot about that kind of stuff,” she said, not bothering to even try to speak in their vernacular. She was only careful around Prudence, because the woman eyed her otherwise. George didn’t seem to even notice her laps in speech etiquette. It exhausted her when she spoke with Prudence at any length. Her mind felt dull and disinterested.
“I know little myself. I thought it interesting and perhaps unusual when the milk curdled for so many,” Philip said, his voice soft and even. Martha froze and her heart skittered along her ribs. Did he suspect her? How could he? He was snoring away when she’d left the house.
“It was, what do you think it means?” she asked and hoped he wouldn’t jump up and accuse her.
“It would seem that perhaps there is a disturbance,” he said. His long legs stretched out in front of him in a relaxed manner. He didn’t seem to be pointing a finger at her.
“A disturbance in the force?” she asked and laughed. When he looked at her quizzically, she shook her head and smiled and looked back at her beans. She really needed to be careful. She didn’t need him thinking she was a lunatic or worse, a witch.
“I’m not sure what you mean by disturbance,” she said and kept the humor out of her voice.
“Only that it was an unusual occurrence. I have encountered several neighbors who enquired about the argument my aunt had with Mistress Beatrice. I think perhaps that is a reason my aunt has gone to visit with her friend. To quell the speculation.” He shifted and dropped a large handful of shelled beans into her bowl.
“I don’t understand. What has one thing to do with the other?” she asked. He eyed her then and she shrugged.
“If someone thinks that my aunt has unkind intent, they would not think kindly of her. She does not wish this,” he said.
“So, Prudence really doesn’t care about Beatrice, this is all pretend? So, make sure everyone thinks she’s a sweetheart?” At his blank look, she thinned her lips.
“So, she wants to fool everyone to make them think she’s nice?”
