Interlude 1750
The sun rose and set, but for me, there was only my muscles’ dull burn and an exhaustion that lingered no matter how I slept.
But I was content.
Our home was not the steadfast one my husband built, but it was secure from the elements.
A crude dwelling crafted of angled branches and mud and more than a few drops of my own blood, it kept us mostly dry, and every day either I or Florence made small improvements, our meager skills growing as we learned from our errors.
During the day, I would gather what I could—water from a nearby stream, herbs, mushrooms—and tend to the garden I started.
Florence took to her father’s rifle quite well, and by the end of the second week, we had a rabbit skinned and roasting over the fire.
She did not speak of Benjamin. I could not fault her if she thought of him, but for her silence, I was thankful.
The daily reminder of my betrayal would only serve as yet another weight on my back.
In the evenings, I would visit the tree.
Sit in the quiet as the night fell around me, my fingers tracing the bark, longing for the power it held.
The earth hummed with its magnitude; the very air shimmered with the intensity of it.
It did not matter where it came from, if it had been some deity or unknown entity from the cosmos who brought it there, I yearned to know and carry that ancient magic within myself.
To take back a portion of all I had been denied and heal myself of all those hurts.
To show others there was another path that did not involve judgment and bloodshed wrought by the pale representation of a vengeful god.
There had been years with only the taste of silence on my tongue, but this was a new world born of my hands.
Creation was an act worthy not only of gods and men.
Florence did not come with me when I visited the tree. When the dark fell, thick and soft over our dwelling, exhaustion carried her with it, and she slept hard until the morning light stole over us.
But my worship was not her worship. The tree would not have recognized her as its own no matter how I hoped the scales would finally fall away from her eyes and she would understand such things. Perhaps, in time, she would feel the power as I felt it, but for now, I was alone with my need.
It was when Florence developed a persistent cough that I felt the first sting of worry. It rattled deep in her chest, thick with phlegm, her skin glowing with fever as I boiled the small onions my garden produced for a poultice.
I sat up with her in the night, spooning what little remained of the elderberry syrup I made into her mouth, squeezing her hand as I listened to the labored rise and fall of her breath.
Fury held me in its grip, and I gave in to it on the nights I managed to bring myself to leave Florence resting and go to the tree where I would scream and scream until it seemed as if there had never been any sound in the world other than that of my own anguish.
If the power the tree contained heard me, it gave no sign.
For the first time in my life, I cursed the natural world.
To have escaped our hangings only to witness my daughter’s death at the hand of such a small thing was too cruel a fate.
The truth of it was that I was a feckless woman.
The confidence I had in my knowledge of herbs and roots and blood—the salvation tucked within those roots and leaves and small bodies—was nothing in the face of watching as life drained out of my girl.
I took no food. No water. There was only Florence and the cough that had so reduced her she looked more like a child than a woman.
When Florence’s breath became no more than a wheeze, I took up the curved blade I used for herb gathering and a bucket and set out for the tree. Intuition guided me, the power sleeping beneath the tree a constant tug that led me to kneel and dig my fingers against the bark.
“Give it to me,” I said. “Even a part. If only to save her.” Sobbing, I brought the blade to the bark and cut deep.
Above me, the moon cast its dim light, a shining crown about my head, as the tree offered up its sap.
It flowed over my fingers, warm as blood, and I brought that sweetness to my lips as the earth beneath me shuddered.
Once. Twice. As if a great eye had opened to look upon my insignificant body and then closed in indifference.
With the knife, I cut my hand. The blood came quickly, and I pressed my palm to the cut I’d left on the tree.
The magic would give. It would take. It was the nature of all things, and the power held within the tree obeyed the same laws.
With it, there was no intention for good or for evil.
No benevolent god or scheming devil at the helm.
There was only the request and the action.
The wielder of that power decided its use.
And I saw only to save my daughter’s life.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and then held the bucket beneath to catch the sap that continued to flow. Around me the earth trembled, but I did not fear it. It was only the way of things.
By the time I returned, Florence’s lips had gone blue. I didn’t bother with a spoon, but dipped my fingers into the sap and placed them into Florence’s mouth as I had when she was a babe and would not nurse. In this way, I fed her.
Through the night, I sat with Florence, every muscle flooded with a burning pain, but I did not leave her. Did not alter the repetition of my movements as I brought my hand again and again to her mouth.
I measured the rise and fall of her chest. Counted the seconds between one breath and the next. Waited and watched until, as the night broke and morning stole in, I saw her lips had once more gone pink, and the fever that had darkened her cheeks for the better part of a week fell away.
I laid my head against her chest and listened. The wheeze, while not gone completely, had quieted, and I wept, my arms around my darling girl. Only then, as I listened to her strengthening lungs, did I grant myself sleep. Tucked against her, I fell into it quickly. I did not dream.
I woke the moment she stirred.
“Mama?” Florence’s voice was hoarse from lack of use, but it was hers, and hearing it brought more joy than anything I’d yet experienced in this life.
“I’m here.” I crushed her to me, my nose buried in her hair as I breathed in her scent. I would forever know it as hers. I would carry it into death as a cord tying me to her.
“Thirsty,” she said.
I brought her cup after cup of water, going twice to the stream to fetch more to boil and cool. I mixed the remaining sap into it and watched as she gulped it down, marveling at her increased heartiness. By evening, she was up and moving about as if she’d never fallen ill at all.
A lightness settled over me. Joy unbound. A golden shimmer that left me wanting to laugh and run and jump and bend myself before the tree and let the power within wash over me like a wave.
“Do not tire yourself,” I said as Florence bent to stir the fire.
“I am quite well. Providence has made it so.” Her eyes gleamed in the light. “A miracle.”
It did not matter she deemed her recovery the work of God. Telling her otherwise would do little more than affirm what she already believed. That God saved her. She was well. All the rest would come in time.
A fortnight passed. Florence’s illness became a memory I could not quite forget but could tuck away.
Our garden flourished. Everything lush and green and ripening with a quickness that was a marvel.
Florence smiled again and hummed as she went about her work.
Twice more, I tapped the tree, the syrup sweetening our meals as summer flowered, thick and heavy.
FLORENCE WAS GATHERING peas when they came, her basket left to the dirt as she rose slowly and backed away.
“Mother,” she called, but I’d heard them already and was at the door, my grip tight on the ax.
Fear, keen and quick, settled within me, but I kept my face even.
My back straight. If they’d come to drag us back or to kill us, I would do my best to make it difficult.
To give Florence the opportunity to flee.
There were seven of them. Two men on horseback, two women, and three small girls, the oldest no more than six or seven, and the youngest still carried by her mother.
I remembered their faces. Their names. Their children’s ailments and the tinctures I’d made and administered.
If the men came for violence, they would not have brought their women and children.
My fear eased, but I kept hold of the ax all the same.
They held up their hands as they approached, the women bowing their heads but peeking up from under their caps.
“We mean no harm.” Isaac Hatcher dismounted, removed his hat, and came to stand beside his wife, Hope, who was now openly staring. “It took some time to find you. What with all the false trails.” He grinned. “A smart trick. We thought we’d lost it completely until Lewis found this one.”
Lewis Indicott shifted his gaze to his wife. “It was Joan who found it. I cannot take credit for that.” She smiled shyly and bounced the babe she carried.
Isaac went to take a step forward, thought better of it, and planted his feet where he stood.
“They did not look for you—Reverend Brenton and his men—if it’s troubled you. Said you were a pestilence that burned itself out.” He frowned, his jaw set in a hard line. “Even as they were the ones who did the burning.”
Lewis turned away from his wife and spat. “Hypocrites.”
A dim hope flared in my heart, but I tamped it down. Better to remain wary. “We have very little here. What would you ask of us?”