The Heretic's Daughter: A Novel - By Kathleen Kent Page 0,10
season that the wind was finding its way up his open sleeves, making him feel the bite of winter all the more.
CHAPTER TWO
December 1690–March 1691
THERE ARE WINTER evenings in Massachusetts when there is no wind and the crust on the snow seems to hold in the cold. And if the moon is three-quarters full, its light adds a kind of warmth to the surrounding earth. The light was so sharp I could see the dark form of a hare rushing across the fields, braving the hooked death of an owl. The long, pitted barrel of Father’s flintlock lay across his knees and I wondered if he regretted missing the chance at bagging such a prize. I had heard Richard many times brag that Father could shoot with deadly measure up to eighty yards and could load and discharge four rounds in a minute’s time, whereas most men could load only three at best.
The silence of the countryside was absolute and we held our breath whenever passing a darkened house. The rattling of the horse’s trappings was fearfully loud, and Father let the horse go at a slackened pace to ease the quaking of the wagon. Hannah had fallen asleep cradled in my arms, and I prayed she would not waken and cry, as a baby’s mewling can travel a great distance in the night. We did not fear discovery once we had passed over the Shawshin bridge, for although the wagon jostled to wake the dead over the trestle, there were no settlers nearby to question us.
I lay back in the straw and watched the stars in a perfect black bowl, which made the sky look like curdled milk in Mother’s dye pot. The trip would take three hours, enough time for Father to deliver us, then turn straight around to reach Andover before dawn. I fell asleep after a time and dreamt I was floating in a little boat, carried in the strong current of a river, my hand trailing next to the hull. There were dark, dimly formed creatures gliding beneath the surface of the water, the bright sunlight masking what swam below. A creeping numbness started in all my limbs and I could not pull my hand from the water. There soon came the tug of grasping mouths at my fingertips, mouths filled with the buds of tiny sharp teeth. I waited to feel the first stabbing pains drawing blood but woke instead with a start to feel Hannah sucking hungrily upon my fingers.
In the near distance was the dark silhouette of a house, dim yellow light shining from its open doorway. Standing on the threshold was the form of a man, his voice calling out in warning, “Who are you, then?” In his hand was the curved shape of a small scythe. My father’s deep Welsh accent cut through the air like a bass viol. “Thomas Carrier. And I be carrying my two daughters with me, Sarah and Hannah.” At that moment a woman’s shape stood next to the man and she, pulling a cloak about her shoulders, walked out towards the wagon.
“Thomas, what is it? What has happened?” Without seeing her face I knew it was my aunt and could hear the fear in her voice. What else but misfortune would have brought her sister’s husband and two nieces to her doorstep so late of an evening? She drew close to the wagon, but Father said, “Mary, do not yet come so near. I have a letter from your mother. Best you read it first.” His long arm held out the parchment and Mary took it reluctantly, as though it were a serpent that could bite. She walked back to the light of the open door and read the letter, her fingers restless about her neck. She handed it to my uncle and waited for him to finish reading as she strained to see our faces through the darkness. Hannah, satisfied no longer with my fingers, began to cry in earnest. Her crying took on a queer jolting sound as I bounced her harder and harder upon my knees and we waited for a welcome or a turning-away.
Mary walked carefully back to the wagon, carrying a lighted taper, her every step dragging, like one following behind a funeral cart. She stood close by, looking at our white and shuddering forms, pinched from the cold and the late hour. I could see she was afraid, for in taking us into her house, she could well be