The Heretic's Daughter: A Novel - By Kathleen Kent Page 0,16

help of the oldest son, Allen. Allen did not yet have his own farm but lived and worked in north Andover in the house of his friend, Timothy Swan. He came often during planting and harvest seasons to help work his father’s fields and share in the yield. It would be Allen who would someday inherit Uncle’s farm. In their barn was a milk cow, two oxen, a large hog, her belly swollen with a litter soon to come, three chickens, and a rooster.

Uncle also had a large roan gelding that he used only for the saddle. He said the horse was too finely bred for a cart. One of Henry’s chores was to keep his father’s saddle well cleaned and oiled. Once he showed me a place just under the horn that had been nicked half a dozen times by a sharp knife. Henry whispered to me that these marks were the number of Indians his father had killed with his own hands during King Philip’s War. He ran his finger along the small gouges in the leather and bragged, “Someday this saddle will be mine, and there’ll be a dozen marks on the horn before I turn twenty.” I looked at him through slitted eyes and wondered how he was to accomplish so great a murdering task, because he had no great strength and no full measure of courage. Perhaps, as he had done with Hannah and me, he’d ambush them all from behind.

When Uncle came into the barn, he always brought some fine treat, a piece of dried apple or some kernels of corn, for his prized gelding, Bucephalus. It was the name Alexander, the Greek king, had given to his favorite war steed. An apocalyptic horse, for where the horse went, so went Alexander’s troops, bringing the fire of battle. The name meant “Oxhead,” which made me laugh, as the gelding had a very small, neat head. Uncle would wag his finger at me and say, “Ah, but there is the word and then there is the spirit of the word. Bucephalus is so called because I see in him the spirit of bravery. I see the world, Sarah, and call it by what I feel it should be, not by what others who in their dull reveries think it is.”

“So, should I now call you Alexander, Uncle?” I asked slyly. He laughed but I could see that it puffed him up. I did not know then that Alexander had been poisoned by his troops.

MOST EVENINGS MARGARET and I sat side by side for many hours repairing torn winter clothing, watching Hannah play with the odd bits of yarn or thread too short for use. Margaret’s fingers were very nimble and at times I pretended to drop a stitch or lose my place on a piece of cloth so that she would fold her hands over my two clumsy ones and guide them into an orderly procession of stitches once more. She never called me to my mistakes but always praised me for my own poor efforts. As we sat together, our heads bent, our lips scarcely moving, we told each other secrets. We thought ourselves clever and undetected, but once Aunt surprised me by saying, “How many times as girls have your mother and I sat as you and Margaret do, telling confidences, whispering our hopes. . .” She pulled impatiently at a tangled thread caught in Henry’s shirt and smiled.

“My sister could tease out a knot the size of a raisin with more patience than I’ve ever seen.” I mulled over for a moment who she might mean, for I knew she had only one sister: my mother. I could not imagine the gentle seamstress described by Aunt as the same woman who could see from the back of her cap my misdeeds at two hundred paces.

Without thinking, I asked, “Why do we never see you, Aunt?” Her smile faltered, and Margaret tapped at my foot for silence. Aunt called for Henry to come and put back on his mended shirt. He had been sitting at the fire shivering under a blanket, and, as she pulled the cloth over his head, Aunt said softly, “I will only ever say the discord is not between me and your mother. I love her well and would see her more if I could.”

Towards dusk I followed Henry out to the barn and asked him about the chasm dividing our two families. He crossed his arms and sniffed.