NaGeira (12 page)

“When
you
write about it, I suppose it must be.”

His face showed some surprise. But he was too arrogant to be insulted.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Thirteen,” I answered, looking at him askance.

“And what are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled.

“You must have some idea.”

“Maybe I do, but I’m not going to tell you, am I?”

“I don’t see why not,” he said, tilting his head and trying to make me out. “I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.”

“I know your story already,” I replied, picking at the straw near my foot.

“Fame at last! Even if it’s fame within these cursed walls, it’s better than the pit of oblivion.”

“I don’t see it’s anything to be proud of, writing about witchcraft and assassination.”

He smiled again, reversing his steeple and turning his palms upwards to examine them. “I didn’t write about witchcraft and assassination,” he replied quietly. “I wrote about the corrupting
power of ambition. Never mistake the cover for the book.” He smiled to himself, still gazing at the lines on his palms.

His evasions made me restless and irritable. I twisted a straw in my fingers. “They told me you had witches in place of clergy and that a rightful king was slain.”

“Oh, yes. It was a story from Scottish history. A nobleman, Macbeth, murdered the king Duncan, concealed the crime, and became king himself.”

“So it
is
about assassination.”

The playwright breathed in very slowly, then smacked his lips. “No, I told you,” he said, “I write beyond the details. Events are only important for what they reveal in men’s hearts.”

“You’re just playing with words,” I said.

The playwright closed his eyes for a moment and gave a bitter, soundless laugh. “Why won’t you tell me your crime?” he asked. “Did you murder someone? Am I safe here with you?”

He didn’t smile but I could tell he was joking, and the question made me relax a little.

“They think I’m a witch or something,” I said.

“Who does?” he asked.

“My parents … my mother and stepfather.”

“Why?”

“Because of Ireland. They think the forest infected me with evil.”

“No, what incident caused them to turn you in? Something must have happened.”

I had been twisting a straw around one of my fingers, thinking quite beyond the words I spoke, about Thomas Ridley’s red lips and sandy hair. Suddenly I realized the straw was around my fourth finger
and resembled a wedding ring. I pulled it quickly from my finger and let it fall. “My stepbrother,” I said, feeling my face burn. “They found us together.”

“Ah,” the playwright said thoughtfully. “For how long had you lived together?”

“A few weeks. My mother only just remarried.”

“Ah,” he said, as though he had discovered something.

“What do you mean, ‘ah’?” I demanded.

He ignored my question and asked his own.

“How long has your father been dead?”

“Not long. Scarcely two months. Why?”

“Why? Because the more guilty people feel, the more likely they are to accuse others.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that your mother and your stepfather cannot endure the idea that you are judging them.”

“I’m not judging him.” I shook my head, wishing we had not started on this. “You don’t know anything about it. What kind of fool ends up in prison for writing a play anyway?”

“What kind of thirteen-year-old ends up in prison?” He seemed amused again. “As you are less than half my age, you must be more than twice the fool; you have achieved the same degree of folly in less than half the time.”

I stared at him hard for a few moments, then looked away, gazing up towards the window.

We were silent for a while. I thought of Thomas, trying to picture what he’d be doing now. Was he remonstrating with his father, or somewhere in the prison offices below, perhaps, arguing to gain my freedom? Try as I could, I failed to picture Thomas locking
horns with Mr. Ridley or Mr. Jarvis; in either case it would be like a feather doing battle with a stone.

A movement from the corner interrupted my thoughts. Something had stirred under the straw. The playwright pulled some crumbs out of his pocket and whistled softly. I glanced over to see two black eyes and a quivering snout emerge from under the straw. “Looks like I must seek out what company I may,” the playwright said softly, whistling again and bouncing the crumbs upon his palm. “We two are not the only fools.”

I wanted to remain angry with the playwright, but there was so little else to do. The rat was large and grey when it fully emerged. As it approached, then scurried away, stood on its hind legs, sniffed the air, and squeaked, the creature excited first my attention and, before very long, something else. Its shining eyes and eagerness drew tender pity from some deep well inside me.

The playwright threw a crumb, which the rat caught in its pink hands. “We three sages will dine and sup each night together,” he told the animal, “and talk of the world beyond this prison; who rises, who falls, who wins, who loses.”

“I never said anything against my stepfather,” I said sullenly. “He couldn’t think I was judging him, because I gave no clue.”

I thought too much time had passed for the playwright to remember how our conversation had stalled, and I felt foolish for starting again at the same point, but I didn’t know how else to join the odd camaraderie taking place in the cell.

“Oh, do you like him, then?” the playwright asked quietly, holding out another crumb, trying to get the rat to come closer.

“No.”

“And do you like the fact your recently widowed mother has married him?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, then, unless you are a very much better actor than you appear, your very presence judges them. Is that not so?”

I stared down at the straw by my feet. This time, I had to admit, he had a point.

I
s it my judgment that Simon Rose fears? Do I hold a blade of condemnation over his quivering form, as I did over my mother and Mr. Ridley, without even knowing it? I listen to the crackling fire and try to imagine the workings of a mind still plagued by nightmares after more than forty years of life, a mind so terrified of an old woman that approaching her is out of the question—even when a loved one goes missing, even when the old woman may hold some particle of information about the disappearance. What would my playwright companion have made of such a creature? What demons of guilt or fear must cower within such a breast?

The plaintive search still goes on in the darkness beyond. I hear footfalls in the forest, the snapping of twigs, men calling to each other. They have given up calling her name. Soon dawn will lift the veil of night, and any forlorn hopes lurking in the darkness will scatter into comfortless day. The searchers will realize
the lost one has slipped beyond reclamation. They will return to their homes to plan for more searches, but hope will have gone from them.

A rustle of leaves and the scuff of wood—something stirs outside, very close to my door. My heart stops as I turn from the fire. Simon Rose has come! He has braved the night at last because he suspects I know what happened to Sara. Perhaps Emma has told him about her sister’s visit and my own lie.

The door slowly creaks open and I rise, my breath suspended. But Elizabeth Rose, not Simon, slips in. She closes the door, her movements deft and silent as a lizard’s.

“I couldn’t knock,” she says quietly, her large eyes blinking in the glow of the firelight. “They might have heard.” She goes over to the bed and sits. “We haven’t found her. I knew we wouldn’t.”

“But it’s not even a full day yet,” I say, recovering my breath. “When the daylight comes you will find your Sara.”

Elizabeth gives a nervous smile. “Emma told me everything about her visit,” she says quietly.

My legs turn to lead. I daren’t try to sit; any movement might cause my collapse.

“You’ve no idea how grateful I am to you,” she says, glancing up at me. The firelight shines golden pools in her eyes and I see they are filling with tears.

“Grateful?” The weight of uncertainty drags me down at last; I collapse upon the chair and grip its edges with my fingers.

“Emma is so sensitive. She feels things more deeply than you can imagine.”

Blood rushes around my ears so fast, her words are muffled.

Yet I understand the danger is passing. Whatever Emma has told her mother, it is nothing that will damn me.

“She told me how you comforted her and Mary,” Elizabeth continues. “Poor Emma is so distraught about Sara. I don’t know how she’ll take it when it’s clear that all is lost.”

I run my hand over my forehead, trying to fathom what Elizabeth has said.

Emma, sensitive and distraught? I, a comfort to her? I have a sudden vision of Emma: Each of her hands holds the strings of a puppet. One of the puppets has the large eyes and delicate frame of Elizabeth Rose. The other is an ancient and hag-ridden creature like myself.

“I let Emma and Mary know I was with child. I had to tell them something that would ease the pain of their sister’s loss. Emma made me promise to come to you often as the baby grows inside me. She said you were so wise and sympathetic, you would ensure a happy outcome. ”

“Of course,” I say hoarsely. I am beginning to see there are worse things than detection, and that my unwitting role in Sara’s death, and even the lies I told afterwards, may be easier to own up to than the crimes that lay ahead. There is a pit yawning for me, a downward pathway to betrayal and self-disgust if I remain at the mercy of Emma Rose. Something rumbles inside my chest, a primal warning to extricate myself from this fate.

“But Simon is the problem now,” Elizabeth whispers.

“What about him?” I ask.

“He thinks you are responsible for Sara’s death.”

The hammer-blow comes with sickening power. A minute ago, when Elizabeth first entered and I was braced for any
onslaught, nothing happened. Now that I am tired and slackened with relief, it hits me. And it hits with such force I can feel my secrets spilling like caplin teeming from a broken net. It is relief that sweeps over me as I part my lips to speak.

“Elizab—”

“You mustn’t blame him too much,” she interrupts with some passion, “although I see it must hurt.” I hold off for a moment. It seems I was mistaken; she does not concur with her husband. “Simon is the most superstitious man I have ever known,” she continues, her tone almost a plea. “It’s part of his faith, you see, his tendency to see monsters lurking in every shadow. In the daytime he’s a man true and brave, but at night his courage scatters like the sand. It’s his burden. As spiritual leader he has to be more sensitive than other men …” Her speech trails away, and she seems embarrassed for a moment. “Simon’s father told him a story about you,” she continues. “When I mentioned you tonight, he told me again, in more detail than before. His fear of you is fresher than ever.”

Elizabeth pauses, looking down thoughtfully, the flames reflected on her pale cheeks. I wait, not making a sound. “His father told him that every child has a guardian angel who comforts them and looks out for them until they are grown.”

“That’s nothing to be afraid of,” I say.

Elizabeth holds out her hand to let her finish. “His father also told him that some unlucky children have an evil spirit.”

“An evil spirit?” I repeat.

Elizabeth nods and continues through tightened lips. “An evil spirit whose job it is to find a way through the guardian angel’s defences and harm the child. Unlike the guardian angel, such a
spirit appears as human and makes its home close to the child it wishes to harm.”

“This is madness! Why would a father fill his child’s head with such wicked nonsense?”

Elizabeth shakes her head. “I don’t know, but he isn’t free of it, even now. You see, you and Simon came to our settlement at the same time. This was part of the legend my father-in-law repeated to Simon. The evil spirit comes newly to a settlement with the arrival of the child it haunts.”

“I was unlucky indeed, then, to come when I did,” I say, trembling with quiet anger, “so soon after Simon’s mother gave birth.”

“No, Simon’s mother did not bear him,” Elizabeth says, looking suddenly tired. “He was found.”

“Found? Where?”

“Simon’s father wanted it never to be talked about, and rarely is it mentioned, although, of course, all the elders know.” She smiles, glancing at me. “And in a way, it’s helped Simon as community leader.” She pauses and sighs. “You see, he was found in a boat drifting off into the bay while John Rose was fishing. John brought the baby home and had his wife nurse him as his own son. He became very protective, too much so, perhaps; he had wanted a boy for so long.” Elizabeth laughs fondly for a second so that the tiredness and grief almost lift from her heavy eyes. “They made a great deal, John and his wife, about how Simon was found. Privately, of course. John told Simon he was like Moses who the Bible tells us was found in the bulrushes and, like Moses, he too was certain to be a great leader of his people.”

“But why would he want to make the child fear me? How is that helping to build a past for him?”

“You were the stranger, I suppose. To John’s fevered mind you must have been a threat.” I stare at Elizabeth and, as I can see pity in her face, I know she must see the hurt in mine. “Is it not possible,” she asks, “that a woman who has lost everything—husband, children, grandchildren—can be a threat to a man in his position? Is it not possible that a woman with nothing may stake claim to an orphan child?”

“For
this,
I was ostracized?” I gasp. “For
this,
I was kept away?”

“Many elders said that you too preferred it that way. That you were too wounded to be part of the day-to-day life of the settlement.”

I consider this for a moment.

“It’s true I hardly noticed the people around me and I did not mind them staying away. Any wounded animal retreats. It is nature. But the settlement should not have encouraged me to hide.”

“No, we should not have encouraged you,” Elizabeth whispers. “But it is too late now.”