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The Spiritualist
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Excerpt
Salem Village, Massachusetts—late October, 1691
I dreamed the baby died. The
vision was still with me when I woke, sweating and uneasy, into a night
gripped by a shrieking nor'easter. I told myself there was nothing to fear as
I laid there listening to the pine shakes on the roof clattering and
creaking. The boughs of the great oak outside our front door crashed in the
wind. The
room was cold, too dark even for shadows. In the trundle bed, my little
sister Jude slept on, untroubled. But then, Jude was not like me; she did not
hear souls screaming in the wind. She was only six, too young to know the
horror a nor'easter could bring: animals lost and shattered houses, men
drowned at sea. At fifteen, I knew all these things, and so the storm gave
power to my dream. I
did not ignore premonitions. No one I knew did. God sent us signs all the
time; 'twas a sin to scorn them. The wheat blight of a few years ago, the
scourge of smallpox that raced through our town, a bird not nesting as it
should ... these were marks of His displeasure, and I was a good Puritan girl
who knew to pay attention. But I did not know what to do about this one. I
crept from bed, shivering as I worked my way by feel and memory towards the
bedroom door. I was trying to decide whether to wake my mother, when I saw
light come through the seams of the floorboards. 'Twas
too early for anyone to be awake. The
floorboards were thin—a single layer only, with cracks between that gave a
clear view of downstairs. I knelt at the widest of them, pressing my eye
close to the floor to see. I saw my mother bending to the fire, my father
sitting at the nearby tableboard, pulling on his boots with hurried motions. The
wind howled, and before I knew it, I was out of the bedroom and hurrying
downstairs. I
stopped on the bottom step and stayed in the shadows. My mother's back was to
me as she laid a fire in the huge hearth, and my father was not looking in my
direction as he protested in a quiet voice, "... I don't have time for
that now. I'd best go if I'm to make it back today." "'Tis
not dawn yet," my mother said. "We've hours ahead of us." The
flames leapt; she straightened and backed away, her huge belly outlined now
in the light. She was not in labor, not yet. I sagged against the wall in
relief. The baby was not due for another month, and everything was fine. It
had only been a bad dream, no premonition. Then
she gasped. One hand went to her belly, the other clutched the mantle. I
could not keep from crying out. Horrified, I put my hand over my mouth to
stifle the sound. Too late. My parents both looked toward where I stood in
the shadows of the stairs. "Charity?"
My mother asked softly. "Is that you, child?" I
hurried towards her. "Oh, tell me 'tis not the babe coming
already." My
mother smiled. I knew she meant to be reassuring, but I saw her strain. I saw
her hope and her fear. "Aye." She reached out and held me close
enough that I felt the movement of the child through her skirt. Her hand
rested lightly on my hair, and I closed my eyes, comforted at the feel of it,
at her familiar smell—firesmoke and the mint and sugar she burned on the
hearth to scent the room. She nodded to my father, who still sat at the
table. "Your father's going to town." I pulled away in confusion. "To town?" "To
fetch your aunt," Mama said gently. "The Sunfish came in yesterday. She's waiting." I
turned to my father. "W—what about the storm? Who's to fetch Goody Way?
And the others?" "You
needn't worry about the storm," Father said. "You help your
mother." I
felt panicked. "But I had a dream...." "Hush,
hush," Mama said. reaching for me again. When I pulled away, she sighed.
"'Tis only the storm that has you so upset, child. There's no need to
worry. Your father will wake Prudence Way before he goes. She'll bring the
others. 'Twill all work out. 'Tis good you're awake. You can help with the
groaning cake." I
looked to my father. "Can't Aunt Susannah wait another day? At least
'til the babe's born and the storm's passed?" Father
gave me a look I knew too well, the one that made me flush and stutter and
wish I'd kept quiet in spite of my worry. 'Twas not my place to question him,
and I looked away again, wanting still to protest, holding my words back. My
mother made a hiss of pain. "Mama,"
I said. "You should sit down." "Standing
makes the child come faster," she said when she could breathe again, and
then she smiled, but she glanced over at my father, and told him, "You'd
best tell Prudence to come quickly." He
stopped. "Perhaps 'tis better if I stay, Judith. Your sister will wait
another day." "No,
no," Mama said quickly. "Sixteen years have already passed. I'd not
have another needless hour between us." I
held my breath, waiting for my father to remember Mama's other labors, the
terrible small graves dotting the thick, wild grass of the burying ground. He will refuse to go. The storm was
bad, and Mama's labors were always so hard, and the babe was too early
besides. I willed him to stay with all my strength. "I'll
do my best to hurry." He paused at the door, staring out the window as
he grabbed his cloak and his hat. "'Tis as if God put his hand over the
sun," he murmured. Then, in a swirl of movement, he was out into the
night, and my mother and I were left alone with the fire and the sizzle of
rain falling down the wide chimney, while little drafts of wind sent the thin
coarse linen of my chemise shivering against my legs. "Get
dressed, Charity," my mother said. "The storm will be over soon, and
we've the baking to do." Copyright 2002 Megan Chance Susannah
Morrow Mass Market edition:
Also available as an E-Book Grand Central Publishing
ISBN: 0-446-52953-2 (HC) 0-446-61323-1 (MM) Copyright 2009 Megan Chance |
