She is right to lower her hem; lower her eyes. Even those brilliant eyes are a source of shame and suspicion here, for no godly woman could have eyes so brilliant, so blue, so bold, so shameless and rich of hue. As she passes Samuel Noyes she feels the weight of his stare, the baleful sting of his regard. He resents her, she knows. Resents that her parents died in the last, starving winter; her father of consumption, her mother of childbirth. Resents that that same winter took his wife, and yet left him his wife's niece, this wild girl with her shameless eyes and her too-bold ways, who has now wormed her way under his roof and into his life. Onto his dinner table: eating the food he can scarcely manage to provide for his own children. His own son, bearer of his name, carrier of his lineage.
If there is more there -- more to his resentment, his stare -- it is best not to think of it.
--
The church is small, and it is packed. There are men and women in every pew, heads bowed beneath the sight of the lord. Reverend Pike is upon the pulpit already, flipping through that heavy leatherbound bible that is quite possibly the most prized possession of the church in this tiny town. The reverend is young, and new, having arrived in Newbury only two winters past: a replacement for their dearly departed Reverend Upton, who died of fever. Truthfully, Reverend Pike does not yet have a full hold over his flock. There at the front, a gaggle of girls whispering and giggling to each other. There at the side, leaning against the wall: a pack of boys, the youngest half-grown, the eldest several summers past when he should have been wed. The troublemakers of the town, arms folded and rebellious.
She recognizes one of them. In another life he is called Rafael. In this life, a more mundane name: John Thornton, son of the miller. He stares at her as she sits. Perhaps he recognizes her too, but --
Samuel Noyes's hand on her shoulder, shoving her unceremoniously into her seat. He thumps down beside her. Mutters grit-toothed: "Where were you? Frolicking in the wilds again?"
witchThe part of ther that is Devon knows: the way a man looks at a woman. The flexion one feels in the lower back and hips long before an actual thrust; the heat under skin. She looks at her uncle and knows, and she is disgusted with him. Shields Faith with herself; shields Nicholas too, in her way.
By not staring too boldly at Samuel. By walking past him in good faith, in all humility. She goes to church, and finds her seat, ignoring the troublemakers (as she should) and shaming the giggling girls with her eyes (as she knows she must) --
while secretly encouraging them with her gaze, her attention, encouraging them on in their reckless bravery.
They have no Faith to protect.
They do not know their own mortality, as all good Kin do.
--
But she does look at one of the boys. Hapless, unintended, her eyes fall on him, and her heart
roars.
It thuds in her chest, heavy and passionate. It is in her to run to him, throw her arms around him, fuck him in front of literally God-and-everybody, if it would prove to her that he is real, and here, and with her, and she is not alone.
--
Devon has a memory of fire licking her feet and her shins,
and does not move.
--
He stares at her and she senses it. Returns it, for a moment, just a half-heartbeat beyond what is acceptable. Then she looks away. Her uncle's hand on her shoulder, which she longs to rip off; she doesn't. She sits. He questions her.
Staring ahead, her eyes pious on the preacher and his Bible, she says: "I saw the sea, uncle, and I was overcome by the majesty of our Father's Creation. Awe overtook me, and zeal obscured my discipline."
Devon does not look at him. She stares at that Bible
as she longs to stare at John Thornton.
stormSamuel Noyes mutters under his breath. He is scarcely convinced. She can tell. But he says nothing more, for their reverend has begun to speak, and all the congregation falls silent, heads bowed.
--
Has she ever been to church? Devon Paredes proper; the modern-day incarnation. Not this 1600s version of her self-same, wild soul: not the girl who has, perhaps against her will, been pressed into church every single fucking day of her life since the beginning, and twice as long on the Sabbath. Pressed here, in her stiff uncomfortable and rough clothing; sitting with her head bowed, her thick black hair covered by that bonnet, her unbelievable eyes demure on her folded hands in her lap. Now they repeat scripture. Now they sing. Now they heed the harsh warnings of their master the Reverend, against sin, against straying, against all the many temptations of the world. Even in this tiny seaside village they hear the news. They hear of the riches to be had in the Chesapeake, the merchants and the traders, the furs ferried to them from the redskinned natives of the land. They hear, too, of the terrible price of such greed, such sin: the witches of Salem and Ipswich and Andover, the women who caused good men to trip and twist their ankles, who caused good livestock to go milkless or barren, who wreaked all manner of havoc before beind brought to a hideous gibbet-dancing justice. High are the wages of sin. Safe is the path of the Lord.
--
It is a full hour of the clock before the Reverend Pike finishes. He is not an inspiring speaker, but he tries: sadly, the result is that he drones on and on, and often about the same things. The giggling girls are restless. The rough youths are bored, perhaps planning their latest excesses. When at last the congregation is dismissed, the feeling in the air is not of reverence but of relief. Neighbors begin greeting each other -- exchange pleasantries, dabble in barter.
Samuel Noyes has none of that. He is fixated and singleminded, angry. "You will control your spirit, child," he mutters, standing. "It is bad enough that you leech off my limited means. I will not have you shame me before all the congregation thus. You will present yourself on time to the sermons, orderly and demure, or I will cast you out and reveal you for the shameless little harlot that you are." And, before she can protest -- "Do not think I have missed your eyes cast at young Thornton, girl. You tread on ever thinner ice."
She hears Nicholas snickering. She feels Faith's eyes, shocked and uncertain. And John Thornton's: watchful from the side of the church, standing where he is, arms folded over his chest.
witchShe wants to fuck John Thornton. Take him into a barn or a hayloft and hike up her skirts and let him have her, let him pant gaspingly at her pale breasts; she wants him like she has never wanted anything,
for there is so little in this world for her to want.
People shift and rise around her, and Devon realizes she scarcely heard a word out of Pike's mouth today. Her eyes skip to Thorton; she thinks of his naked hips, his bare flank, thrusting into her against the wall of a barn. It is all she can do not to bite her lip or catch her breath. She wants him badly,
and perhaps Noyes catches her looking, his wayward niece in the direction of sin and rebellion itself. She hears him call her a shame, a leech, even harlot. He sees her looking at John, and she cannot help it, but
her lips curve in a faint smile as she watches the young man, who should be married by now. How she burns for him. How she lusts, witch and harlot that she is. She knows she will dance tonight, under whatever moon the Mother gives, her flesh naked, awaiting the kiss of a creature such as --
--
Devon blinks, and looks at her uncle. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir," she whispers, looking at her hands. She imagines them, fingers slid into John Thornton's mouth, his lips rich and full around her skin, his eyes verdant and intense on her own. She thinks of giving him many children, such is the strength of her lust.
She bites her lip against such thoughts, taking a breath, exhaling. "I will obey, sir,"
she murmurs, obedient, pragmatic, contrite. It mocks Samuel Noyes, her perfect mimic of obedience. She knows it. She relishes it as much as she relishes the thoughts of John Thornton pounding her against a barn wall, a tree, the earth itself.
stormMercy wants to fuck John Thornton.
Devon wants to fuck Rafael van der Valk.
Hard to tell which is which. Because truthfully: they are one and the same right now. Mercy and Devon; the girl from the 17th century and the girl from the 21st. One bound to a wolf; the other bound to -- whatever he is, that dark-haired young man leaning against the church wall, there with his compatriots, there staring at her so shamelessly that the townspeople mutter and tut. That her uncle scolds her for being a slut, a harlot, a scarlet woman worthy of excommunication, or worse.
She demurs, though. She says she will obey. And Samuel Noyes grumbles to himself, having no other ammunition against her for the moment. The congregation is dispersing. Samuel Noyes yanks his children to their feet: proud little Nicholas and shy little Faith.
"Get you home," he says to his niece-by-law. "I have business. See that the children are fed and in bed before I return. Do not tarry, and by God, if I hear of you lingering in town or dilly-dallying on your way home, you will know the back of my hand."
witchAnd John Thornton wants to fuck Mercy. Rafael van der Valk wants to fuck Devon.
She knows this, to look upon the broad-shouldered, dark-haired, green-eyed young man against the wall. They know it the way that brids of prey know their mates: whose feathers are brightest, whose wings beat strongest, who can survive the long plummet to earth for the sake of momentary completion.
Blinking, she flinches away from her uncle's slap, which doesn't come -- at least, not here in public. He will throw her to the wolves if he finds her out in the dark, seeking the companionship of any young man, but especially that hateful one. Such an indiscretion would not lead ot an early marriage, as it would with another boy; if she should be found with John Thornton, they might both burn.
Oh, but would it be --
--
Mercy rises with Faith, takes the smaller one's hand. Faith was always the smaller of the two, the more narrow, the more fragile. Mercy survives everything but witnessing the pure cruelty of mankind unraveling before her eyes; mercy was always undone, thus. She wants to pick up her cousin and hold her, though she is far too big. She follows her scolding uncle, hearing murmurs, but she cannot help but look at him.
Meet me later, her gaze says to him, brief as it is,
meet me under moonlight. I will know you. You will know me.
But it's Samuel she follows, clutching her cousin's tiny hand, tugging her along after Samuel, after Nicholas. Obedient. Sinful. Demure. Wretched.
--
Oh, but she can't help herself:
"What business, Uncle? Shall we fear?"
storm"It is none of your concern, girl," rebuffs her uncle-by-law, gruff. "Get you home with the children. Now."
--
Samuel Noyes stands, then, and walks away. She sees him going to converse with some of the men -- the respectable names in town, Winthrop and Downing and Thorndike. The children are left to her, Faith clinging again to her hand as soon as her father is out of armsreach; Nicholas bold and brazen, smirking at her with altogether too much understanding and knowledge.
"You best not tarry," he echoes his father. "I'll be watching you, girl."
The rest of the congregation, by and large, ignores her. There under the humble bare rafters, she is left to herself: to exit the church or to tarry, as she was strictly forbidden to. Well; left to herself but for the wandering, lingering eyes of the young man leaning against the wall, dearly known to her in another life. He alone stares at her, fixedly and unwaveringly, moving to intercept her at the door if she heads that way.
witchShe reaches out, her hand faster than he dares expect, and grabs Nicholas by the hand, pulling him close, where he can feel her breath hot on his face.
"I am your elder, boy," she murmurs, sadistic and warning: "and I know what you do under your sheets at night, because I wash them, you little onanist."
Her hand wrenches his hand, tugs at his wrist, dares him to decry her. Dares him to threaten her. upset her, frighten his sister Faith. Her teeth tighten against one another as they leave the church: "Watch me all you like, Nicholas," she whispers, deathly still with each word as she tugs him ahead of her, gives her his sister's hand. "Warn me all you like, too -- you know I can make you suffer far more than your father ever dreams. That's a promise."
She nudges them on ahead, two fair-haired children, her vivid eyes rageful on the boy's back-of-head. She walks out after them, glancing only briefly at John Thornton before passing, turning up her nose at his stares, intent on ignoring him, until he bars her way.
And then she looks up at him.
And her gaze is imperious, daring, not at all like the quick submission of other women in town. She gave him her answer, in another gaze: moonlight. tonight. darkness.
She gives him no other reply now.
stormThe boy, so brave in the shadow of his father, quickly quails when confronted with her unnatural boldness. His eyes shy from hers. He shuts the fuck up, only nodding once -- and quickly -- to show he has heard her.
"Yes'm. I shan't be naughty no more, m'm."
Faith looks amazed. As they walk from the church, the little girl slips her hand into her again, clinging tight.
--
Except: at the door he bars her way. The one she knew, and the one who -- perhaps -- she knows in this lifetime. Wants to know, anyway. He wears the same rough clothes as the rest of the folk here, the baggy trousers cinched at the waist, the loose and coarse shirts knotted close with leather sinew rather than far more expensive buttons. He comes out of the shadows and meets her at the door, comes close to her, stares at her with flaring nostrils, unmistakable recognition.
He says her name,
"Devon,"
which is a name no one knows her by here -- and thus a dangerous name, a terrible name, one that could get her hung. or worse. She glances at him. That is all the answer he has.
He falls back. The door is clear to her.
--
It is mid-morning, outside. The sun has burned clear the greyness of morning, and the day is rather beautiful. She can see the virgin forests abounding their land, and that wide and familiar ocean. She can see the meager farms dotting the landscape; the small, crude houses the pilgrims have built for themselves. Her uncle's house is past the edge of town, in a patch of forest straddling the river and the sound: warding a tiny plot of farmland, abutting a vast and depthless fortress that all the godfearing men and women of Newbury fear. From the highest attic in the house, she can see the sea.
That, presumably, is where she heads, children in tow: Faith still quiet, Nicholas growing bold and brazen again. He's found a stick somewhere. He whacks at plants and grasses on their way, prattling on, repeating half-understood bits and pieces of gossip:
"And then she wagged her finger and all of Mr. Miller's crops died!"
"Yesterday Judge Hathorne sentenced her to DEATH and by morning she danced the graveyard jig on the gibbet!"
"But he denounced her for a harlot and set her to the trial by water!"
and on and on until their humble house and its small farm, smaller garden, smaller still livestock yard: a cow, two goats, a flock of chickens. It is a long walk, and their feet are likely sore by then, but in the morning they will have to make the trek again: puritans prayed as regularly and as often as they breathed.
"You must churn the butter," Nicholas says, imperious again. "Father says so. And after, you must mend his shirt, the one he tore on the brambles yesternight."
"But she was going to read to me," ventures Faith, "she was going to teach me the words."
"Don't be a fool, Faith. Girls don't read. They only sew and darn and mend and mind the kitchen. Now hush," Nicholas holds his hand out for his sister's, "I'll take you down to the creek to catch bull-frogs. Let Mercy mind her chores." He smirks, "If she's not too caught upon John Thornton, that is."
witchThe little boy darts onward, entitled and free in a way she never could be in this life -- Devon realizes with a touch of bitterness that even in her own life, her own time, she has never felt quite that unfettered. Closer. But never quite the same. She feels Faith's hand, though, and looks down at her. Faith is touching her hand to her chin, her fingers dangerously close to be sucked on like a child far younger than she is supposed to be. Devon feels a sharp pang of protection and sympathy for the girl, her mother gone, her only ally a despised and recalcitrant cousin. She reaches down and gently nudges Faith's hand away from her chin and cheek and mouth, so that she doesn't suck her thumb in public and get in trouble.
Turning, she walks, and glances at John Thornton as she passes, but only just. And he moves, steps before her, gets in her way, and her heart starts beating faster. She thinks it must show, somehow, despite all her layers of thick, rough clothing. She thinks anyone who looks at her can probably see how badly she wants him, though she doesn't meet his eyes and keeps them fixed firmly on his chest.
And then he says her name.
And then she looks up, sharply and suddenly, and her whole body clenches tight and then melts, and she looks at him with such naked desire that some people do see it, some people do murmur and stare at her flushing cheeks, her parting lips.
Rafa, she mouths, the only sound to the name a spare breath. She has to say it. She has to make sure he knows she recognizes him, too.
She shakes as she leaves the church. Her hand holds Faith's but really, it is more Faith that holds to her. She hurries, leaving Rafael behind, even though she's not alone. She's not alone. She's not alone. She's not here by herself. Her chances of being burned alive just dropped, she hopes. She doesn't glance back; bad enough that they were staring at each other during the sermon. Bad enough that everyone seems to know she is a stubborn, outspoken, immodest girl, two of the worst things a girl can be in any time period but especially this one.
--
On the way home, which is a long and overwarm walk, Devon sweats. She wants to tear off her coif and shake her hair out. She wants air on her legs, but they're buried beneath a shift, and petticoats, and skirts, and apron, and of course the damn stockings itching behind her knees. She wants to unlace her waistcoat and shrug out of it. She doesn't dare any of this. Her clothes are green but faded from much washing, just as Faith's dress is a faded yellowish, just as Nicholas wears a faded russet. She sweats, and her feet grow sore, but she doesn't complain because she knows the children will as soon as she does. Faith does end up sticking her fingers in her mouth, and this time Devon doesn't stop her.
Nicholas prattles. She wants to tell him to shut up and just thinks it at him, bores her intent into the back of his head. She's never in her own life had the power to control or influence another's will, but maybe somehow she does. She chants it silently to herself regardless, willing Nicholas to just shut his stupid mouth.
But then they're at the house and the farm and she doesn't recognize it but that's where Faith and Nicholas turn, so she goes with them. She hears the chickens and the goats and exhales, and glances at Nicholas giving her orders about butter and shirt-mending. Her eyes are sharp. Faith has let go of her and is going to say hello to the newborn chicks, whom she adores and nuzzles, obsessed with their down, softer than anything she's ever known.
"I cannot churn butter properly, though," Devon tells him, affecting a plaintive cant to her words and her eyes. "I haven't the strength of arm. Not like you. Perhaps you will show me, while I mend Uncle's shirt."
Her tone shifts slightly, almost seductive as she walks a few steps nearer, her hands folded before her. "We could all stay outside where the light is good. I can mend and you can churn, and Faith will hold the Bible while I read to you both." Her eyes glint, sparking. "One of the stories of King David, hiding in a cave from King Saul."
She doesn't respond to mention of what girls can and can't do. She doesn't respond to mention of John Thornton. She doesn't even look at Faith, who is cradling a baby chick and watching them, waiting to see if she is going to catch bullfrogs or learn to read.
stormShe can't take her bonnet off. She can't shake her hair loose. She can't fling off her apron, hike up her skirts, tear off her shift, roll up her sleeves, peel off her stockings, run barefoot through the tender young grass. She can't do any of these things, no more than she can raise her voice and shout at the firstborn son of her uncle-by-marriage.
She can think it though. She can think shut up over and over, though it'll do no good, and --
-- and Nicholas shuts up.
But surely it's just happenstance. They walk the rest of the way home in silence, and as the morning deepens toward noon the sun burns away some of the seaside mist. She does not complain, though it's hot. She can't take her bonnet off, after all.
--
The construction of her uncle's house tells her something about him. They are not rich -- none of them are -- his house, though small, is sturdily built of stone and stout timber. The animals are winter-thin but not starved. There are even chicks, tiny fluff of yellow and brown and white down. The interior of the house is dark, for no one would be so wasteful as to burn candles in the day, but the air is sweet and every corner is meticulously swept. Her uncle must be a man of some status. His word must matter in the community. And she -- Mercy, that is -- must be responsible for the upkeep of his house. Perhaps that is why she is tolerated, if barely; why she has not been turned out to starve when she is only an unimportant orphan, half-grown and troublesome, not even related to him by blood.
She should be grateful for his charity. That is what they all think in the village. That is what Samuel Noyes thinks. That is what Nicholas Noyes has been taught to think.
--
But Nicholas is still young, and there are still parts to him that will take an impression. That can be molded. She suggests something different: he will churn, she will mend, Faith will hold the Bible, and then they can all enjoy stories. Stories! Nicholas is tempted and torn. "But churning butter is for girls," he wavers. "It was always mother's task."
"That's not true!" Faith protests. "I saw Father help her! Twice!"
"Oh hush, Faith!" Nicholas thinks hard, brow beetled. "Well, all right. I suppose, just this once. If you read us three stories." He catches himself. "I mean recite. Reading is not for girls."
witchShe wants to argue with him. Tell him that it was always his mother's task because he was not yet old enough to help her as a son properly should. Tell him that if it is the work of a woman, then he should have no trouble at all with it. Tell him, also, that he betrays his sin of pride with his cruelty to his sister. Tell him that she'll pull his hair out while he sleeps and sew it onto a poppet and throw that poppet in the river if he doesn't stop being such a little shit.
But Devon is very smart. She has always been very smart. Too smart for her own good and too smart for much affection from her peers. She is used to being an outcast, familiar with that simultaneous loneliness and freedom and rejection and meditation since long before she knew she was anything else. Anything special.
She holds her tongue. Faith argues instead. Nicholas thinks, and Devon pretends to let him decide. She does not smile but curtsies, giving a little nod to Faith to run inside and fetch the Bible, going with Nicholas to help him carry out the churn, pour in the cream. While they do that, Faith is busy looking at the Bible, the words a swim of marks across the page, magical in their mystery and untold meaning. Nicholas is permitted out of his jacket to churn, and Devon fetches a torn shirt and a spool of coarse thread with a needle, settling down on the grass outside near the churn.
To mend. To read. She cannot run her finger along the page under the words for Faith as she would like to, because of her stupid uncle's shirt in her hands, but she reads slowly and clearly, telling Faith when to turn the page for her, chiding her gently when she sucks her fingers because she mustn't get the pages damp.
This is how they pass the afternoon: churning, mending, reading the Bible. Fucking idyllic. And Devon cannot stop thinking about John Thornton-Rafael. She cannot stop thinking about her craving for him, or how intense it is, or where he might be, and how she might find him, and how long til the sun sets and the township goes to sleep.
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