The Wolves of Andover

CHAPTER 7

MARTHA SAT AND stared at the scarlet leather-bound book in her hands. The last words she had written with an unsteady quill blurred and dissolved into meaningless swirls that threatened to slide off the page. Patience had given her the book days ago to keep the house accounts, thinking to distract her from the terrible palsy that had fallen on her after the wolf attack.

Upon presenting the book, Patience had said in an overly cheerful manner, “Daniel traded an entire load of cod for this book. See how it’s red, red as a cardinal’s cap. It’s rare fine, don’t you think? And look how fast the color holds. It never bleeds, even into a sweated palm.” When Martha had not reached for it, or even acknowledged her cousin’s words, sitting listlessly and staring into the fire, Patience had placed it gently on her lap and tiptoed away.

Martha looked again at the pages and was able to read:

Suddenly the effort to pen even a simple account of the house was overwhelming. The last few words she had written, “bother the hens,” rolled repeatedly through her mind like the last of an echo. A remembrance from childhood of swirling feathers discharged by frantic chickens in a small laying shed brought with it another, darker memory of the man whose lurching, desperate actions had created the panic. The man with whom she had once lived, and with whom she had come to believe that God, in his infinite scope, could never be found in a space as small as that inhabited by a terrified child. She watched as splatters of ink dropped from the quill poised over the page. Shaking away the old thoughts, she dipped the quill into the pot again and continued to write: “The talk with the meetinghouse men in Billerica makes much to do with Thomas and his wolves. The gossip with the women is much to do with my town dress.”

The brittle sounds of coins being counted and recounted on the common room table, still strewn with the leavings of supper, cast an edge to the otherwise silent room. Martha could sense them—her cousin, Thomas, John, and even the children—eyeing her in a doubtful, speculative way. It was out of concern for her, she knew, for she’d lain in her bed senseless and feverish for a day following the butchering of the wolves. She had woken at night, thrashing the air with her arms and legs, moaning and shrieking defensively, until Patience took up sleeping in the room with her, bathing her head and neck with cold cloths.

But the scrutiny of the Taylor household was also of a fearful sort, as though her screaming at night signaled some sort of separation from reason or, more darkly, the beginnings of ravings brought on by the infection from the wolf’s fang. She fingered the cut on her lip, which had already begun to heal cleanly without redness or swelling, but she knew it would leave a scar.

She had no fever left, but her hearing, diminished from the blast of the gun, had not fully recovered; and, all through the day, a high ringing inside her head set her nerves to fire and made her restless and curt. She bent her head closer to the page, hiding the next passage with her free hand, and penned quickly, “My dreams are all of dying, shredded joint from socket, and of the One who comes for me in the dark. I thought this remembrance to be tamed.”

She read the words again and frowned. She had not meant to give form to her most intimate thoughts and, for a moment, was poised to scratch the words over with concealing lines. Instead, she quietly placed the book on the table, thinking to later blot out the last passage; or, better still, tear out the page entirely. She looked about to see if her cousin had been watching, but the rattling on the table continued as Patience restacked her piles of ragged shillings. Martha, suddenly irritated by her cousin’s deliberate show of coin, muttered impatiently, “You’ll burnish those coppers to gold before you’re finished.”

Even John, as he sat idly staring into the fire, fingered the coins inside his money pouch possessively, as though he’d wear through the seams to touch the metal. His share of the one hundred and sixty shillings could buy a goat and, if he was shrewd in his bargaining, a new doublet, breeches, and worsted stockings still smelling of salt from the crossing.

Thinking of her own ragged skirt that could not yet be replaced, she picked up a piece of linen she had been mending and gave the cloth an exasperated shake. With a sharp exhalation of breath, she leaned closer to the hearth to capture more of the failing light from the embers. When all eyes turned to her, she realized she had startled every one of them. She put her head down and put her mind to the needle.

Thomas had taken the prime spot on the long bench, nearest the fire, and was rubbing an oil rag over a trap. Through her lashes she studied his sharp profile as he bent over his task, his brows furrowing with concentration, and felt a sudden flare of resentment at his quiet, solemn pridefulness. He never once boasted or swaggered with any of the other men about besting the wolves, turning over to John the pleasure of describing the capture and the kill. But there was a look of satisfaction in his bearing and she envied him his bounty.

He had given no special notice of her presence after carrying her to the house, and yet that morning she had found a new broom propped against her chair, a solid, tightly woven broom to replace the broom she had broken. She had no doubt that Thomas had made it, but he had said not a word to her.

Keeping her eyes on her piecework, she said quietly, “I thank you for the broom.”

She could sense his eyes on her for a moment and then he answered only, “Aye.”

John had begun a teasing play with Will, making growling and snapping noises with his mouth, pawing the air like a beast, until Will squealed loudly in terrified delight. Martha felt panic, like a taut, vibrating rope, in her chest, and at every shrill, piercing scream from Will, she felt her hold on any moderate reserve slipping away.

“For pity’s sake,” she snapped. “Can’t you leave us in peace?” Boy and man, startled from their play, looked at her in reproachful silence, so equally matched in hurt that had she not felt so weary, she would have laughed.

Following the sudden silence, images of the hens began to plague her again and, to dull her own thoughts, she asked tersely, “And what is it you plan with your share of the bounty?”

Thomas, finally realizing the question was to him, answered solemnly, “It goes, missus, to my house that is to be.”

Martha had asked the question lightly and had expected his answer to be more homely: acquiring a brace of pigs or a breed cow and a gallon of hard cider to be drunk in spartan sips through the long winter’s night. A new, deeper sense of jealousy pricked at her as she remembered his plot of land to be granted by Daniel after one more year of work.

Patience, relieved to see her cousin out of bed and anxious to make peace of the night, offered eagerly, “Martha, now that Daniel is bringing us cloth, I’ll make you a new skirt myself. Then, if there be enough piglets, you can trade them for the making of a cloak as well.” She continued chatting in an idle way about Daniel’s return and the goods he would bring them, all the while petting and rocking Joanna, who had fallen asleep on her diminished lap.

Will, restless and weary of uninteresting talk, began to pull at John’s shirtsleeve and begged, “Tell us a story now. Tell us about when Thomas was t’ soldiering.”

The childish pitch of his voice carried through the roaring in Martha’s ears and she instinctively looked to Thomas, whose gaze was still bent to the now-glistening workings of the box trap he had been oiling. Without looking up, and with no great emphasis on the movement of his head, he turned his chin slowly, first to the left and then to the right, moving in a ponderous and stately manner; an arc so subtle that its meaning, an irrefutable no, would be discovered only after the motion had stopped.

She could sense John shifting nervously about in his chair, shushing Will, trying to placate him with a cat’s cradle made from an errant piece of string. John’s deft hands quickly made a Jacob’s ladder, and as Will’s two fingers climbed the rungs from bottom to top like pale, naked feet climbing a set of stairs, the image of fluttering hens and an unformed, but terrifying image at the periphery of her memory threatened to unseat her and set her to screaming once more.

“There is a tale of Gelert,” Thomas said abruptly, his few words rumbling through the common room, which had grown almost entirely dark from the lack of new wood to the fire. The one candle, set next to Patience, guttered and smoked, exaggerating the shading beneath every slanting surface and under every angled feature of noses, brows, and lips, so that even Will’s childish face was painted to a savage mask with the ink of shadows.

“I have the tale from my own country,” he began. “Gelert were a hound. Given to Llywelyn, a prince of Wales, by King John of England, Gelert were the best of hounds. He could hunt game and bring down a wolf, so large and fearless was he, and Llywelyn loved him beyond anything else but his own son.” He stopped for a moment to set down his trap and picked up another, larger one.

“One day, that prince goes hunting with his hounds and his men and his hawks. A deer were killed, but Gelert is not to be found, and the heart of the deer, by rights to be fed to Gelert, grows cold within the corpse. But no one can find him. So the prince goes himself to home with his hounds and his men and his hawks and is greeted at the door by Gelert, his muzzle blooded up to his eyes.”

He stopped for a moment and his long arms reached for the water urn and he upturned it, taking deep, unhurried drinks. Martha jumped to feel a soft hand creeping under her arm, and she turned to see Will trying to climb his way into her lap. She pursed her lips at him but pulled him onto her thighs and was grateful for his weight and warmth. She hugged him to her breast, her arms encircling him tightly.

“Seeing the gore, a terrible fear overcomes the prince and he runs to his son’s bed to find it o’erturned, bedclothes scattered and bloody, the boy nowhere to be found. A terrible rage builds within the prince and he takes from his belt his sword and pierces Gelert through the heart. Upon the dying howls of the hound, the prince hears a babe’s mewling, and throwing off the bedclothes, he finds his son, whole and unblemished. And next to his son is the body of the wolf Gelert has killed, keeping safe the boy. From that day, Llywelyn never smiles or laughs again and it’s said in Beddgelert, the place where the hound was laid, that you can of an evening hear his dyin’ howls.”

Martha turned her face from the remaining light of the hearth, carefully brushing away with her fingertips the water pooling at the corners of her eyes. She could hear Patience sniffling and sighing, giving full import to the sadness of the story, and she bit the inside of her cheek in aggravation that she would be so close to tearfulness over such a rustic, overworked tale, the kind of tale that would have sent her father into a spasm of ridicule.

She gently dislodged Will from her lap and directed his nodding form towards his mother. Patience stood awkwardly holding the sleeping Joanna and, gesturing for Will to come, carried the sole candle to her room. John stretched elaborately and, muttering and grimacing, followed his own feet to bed.

Slumped deeply into her chair, Martha let her chin fall sharply against the hollow of her chest and watched Thomas gathering up his traps, stringing them together as he would trout on a length of heavy string, his fingers finding the open hooks that his eyes could not see in the dark. The remnants of embers, briefly pulsating in orange and vermilion, lit only the most prominent features of his face and hands, leaving them to float, disembodied and massive like a statue buried to the neck and wrists in black tar.

The knot in her throat had finally dissolved, and though she granted dignity to the grave telling of the story, she resented her own response to it, as though he had deliberately sought to draw her out of her protecting reserve. An irrational play of thought rose up behind her eyes along with a sudden, embittered anger, and she remembered the brown hen passed over, not even worthy of sacrifice to beasts.

“D’ye think of yourself as the wolf?” she hissed, the words overdrawn and sibilant. “Or is it the wrongly accused dog that lives to serve and is trampled underfoot for it?”

He stood carefully to his full height, mindful of the beams above his head, and at that moment the last of the embers were extinguished. She listened for heavy footfalls as he fumbled his way to his room behind the hearth; but she heard nothing, as though he had disappeared along with the light.

A panicked nervousness began beneath her ribcage and she blurted out harshly, “Or do you imagine yourself a prince from Wales?” Her hands gripped the loosely jointed armrests, causing them to creak loudly. “Well…?” The room was an endless cave, the dark subsuming every familiar object, vanishing the floor beneath her until the chair in which she sat balanced solely on the points of its four slender legs. “Tell me, which are you?”

Against the river of noise in her head, she thought she could hear the cadence of his breathing, a slow and steady inhalation and exhalation, as though he had begun to slumber on his feet, and she strained to hear his advance or retreat.

“It’s not about me, missus.” His voice floated somewhere over her head, a bass counterpoint to the brittle rustling of the traps. “It’s about yourself.”

He moved expertly past her, not touching the chair, or any other thing in the room, causing only the boards on the floor to creak rhythmically, stirring the air briefly with the scent from his body.