Heartfire

Chapter 5 -- Purity

Purity did her best to live up to her name. She had been a good little girl, and only got better through her teens, for she believed what the ministers taught and besides, wickedness never had much attraction for her.

But living up to her name had come to mean more to her than mere obedience to the word of God in the Bible. For she realized that her name was her only link back to her true identity-- to the parents who had died when she was only a baby, and whose only contribution to her upbringing was the name they gave her.

The name contained clues. Here in Massachusetts, the people mostly hailed from the East Anglian and Essex Puritan traditions, which did not name children for virtues. That was a custom more common in Sussex, which suggested that Purity's family had lived in Netticut, not in Massachusetts.

And as Purity grew older in the orphan house in Cambridge, Reverend Hezekiah Study, now well into his seventies, took notice of her bright mind and insisted, against tradition, that she be given a full education of the type given to boys. Of course it was out of the question for her to enroll at Harvard College, for that school was devoted to training ministers. But she was allowed to sit on a stool in the corridor outside any classroom she wanted, and overhear whatever portion of the lesson was given loudly enough. And they let her have access to the library.

She soon learned that the library was the better teacher, for the authors of the books were helpless to shut her out because of her sex. Having put their best knowledge into print, they had to endure the ignominy of having a woman read it and understand it. The living professors, on the contrary, took notice of when Purity was listening, and most of them used that occasion to speak very quietly, to close the door, or to speak in Latin or Greek, which the students presumably spoke and Purity was presumed not to understand at all. On the contrary, she read Latin and Greek with great fluency and pronounced it better than all but a few of the male students-- how else would she have come to the notice of a traditionalist like Reverend Study? --but she began to learn that the professors were rarely as coherent, deep, or penetrating in their thought as the authors of the books.

There were exceptions. Young Waldo Emerson, who had only just graduated from Harvard himself, would have brought her right into his classroom if she had not refused. As it was, she heard every word of his teaching quite clearly, and while he was prone to epigrams as a substitute for analysis, his enthusiasm for the life of the mind was contagious and exhilarating. She knew that Emerson cared much more about being thought to be erudite than actually thinking deeply-- his "philosophy" seemed to consist of anything that would be particularly annoying to the powers that be without being so shocking that they would fire him. He got the reputation among the students as an original and a rebel without having to pay the penalty for actually being either.

It was not from Emerson, therefore, but from the library that Purity made the next leap toward understanding the meaning of her name and what it told her about her parents' lives. For it was in a treatise, "On the Care of Offspring of Witches and Heretics," by Cotton Mather that she first came to understand why she was an orphan bearing a Netticut name in a Massachusetts house.

"All children being born equally tainted with original sin from Adam," he wrote, "and the children of fallen parents being therefore not more tainted than the children of the elect, it is unjust to exact from them penalties other than those that naturally accrue to childhood, viz. subjection to authority, ignorance, inclination to disobedience, frequent punishment for inattention, etc." Purity read this passage with delight, for after all the constant implication that the children of the orphanage clearly were not as likely to be elect as children growing up with parents who were members of the churches, it was a relief to hear no less an authority than the great Cotton Mather declare that it was unjust to treat one child differently from any other.

So she was quite excited when she read the next sentence, and almost failed to notice its significance. "To give the children the best chance to avoid the posthumous influence of their parents and the suspicion of their neighbors, however, their removal from the parish, even the colony, of their birth would be the wisest course."

And the clincher, several sentences later: "Their family name should be taken from them, for it is a disgrace, but let not their baptismal name be changed, for that name cometh unto them from and in the name of Christ, however unworthy might have been the parents who proffered them up for christening."

I am named Purity, she thought. A Netticut name, but I am in Massachusetts. My parents are dead.

Hanged as witches or burned as heretics. And more likely, witches, for the most common heresy is Quakerism and then I would not be named Purity, while a witch would try to conceal what he was and would therefore name his children as his neighbors named theirs.

This knowledge brought her both alarm and relief. Alarm because she had to be on constant guard lest she also be accused of witchery. Alarm because now she had to wonder if her ability to sense easily what other people were feeling was what the witchy folk called a "knack."

Relief because the mystery of her parents had at last been solved. Her mother had not been a fornicator or adulteress who delivered up the baby to an orphanage with the name pinned to a blanket. Her father had not been carried off as a punishment of God through a plague or accident. Her parents had instead been hanged for witchery, and given what she knew of witch trials, in all likelihood they were innocent.

As Waldo Emerson said in class one day, "When does a God-given talent cross an imperceptible boundary and become a devilish knack? And how does the devil go about bestowing gifts and hidden powers that, when they were granted unto prophets and apostles in the holy scriptures, were clearly gifts of the Spirit of God? Is it not possible that in condemning the talent instead of the misuse of that talent, we are rejecting the gifts of God and slaying some of his best beloved? Should we not then judge the moral character of the act rather than its extraordinariness?"

Purity sat in the hallway when he said this, grateful that she was not inside the classroom where the young men would see her trembling, would see the tears streaming down her cheeks, and would think her a weak womanly creature. My parents were innocent, she said to herself, and my talent is from God, to be used in his holy service. Only if I were to turn it to the service of Satan would I be a witch. I might be one of the elect after all.

She fled the college before the lecture was over, lest she be forced to converse with someone, and wandered in the woods along the river Euphrates. Boats plied the river from Boston as far inland as their draft would allow, but the boatmen took no heed of her, since she was a land creature and beneath their notice.

If my talent is from God, she thought, then if I stay here and hide it, am I not rejecting that talent? Am I not burying it in the garden, like the foolish servant in the parable? Should I not find the greater purpose for which the talent was given?

She imagined herself a missionary in some heathen land like Africa or France, able to understand the natives long before she learned their language. She imagined herself a diplomat for the Protectorate, using her talent to discern when foreign ambassadors or heads of state were lying and when they were sincere.

And then, in place of imagination, she saw a boy of twelve or so, dark of skin with tight-curled hair, shoot up out of the river not three rods off, water falling off him, shining in the sunlight, his mouth open and laughing, and in midair he sees her, and she can see his face change and in that instance she knows what he feels: embarrassment to be seen buck naked by a woman, the fading remnants of his boisterous fun, and, just dawning under the surface where his own mind couldn't know it yet, love.

Well I never had that effect before, thought Purity. It was flattering. Not that the love of a twelve-year-old boy was ever going to affect her life, but it was sweet to know that at the cusp of manhood this lad could catch a glimpse of her and see, not the orphan bluestocking that so disgusted or terrified the young men of Cambridge, but a woman. Indeed, what he must have seen and loved was not a woman, but Woman, for Purity had read enough Plato to know that while wicked men lusted after particular women, a man of lofty aspirations loved the glimpse of Woman that he saw in good women, and by loving the ideal in her helped bring her to closer consonance, like lifting the flat shadow off the road and rejoining it to the whole being who cast it.

What in the world am I thinking about. This child is no doubt every bit as peculiar as I am, him being Black in a land of Whites, as I am an orphan in a land of families and am thought to be the child of witches to boot.

All these thoughts passed through her mind like a long crackle of lightning, and the boy splashed back down into the water, and then near him another person rose, a grown man, heavily muscled in the shoulders and back and arms, and considerably taller than the boy, so that although he didn't jump, when he stood his bare white buttocks showed almost completely above the water, and when he saw where the Black boy was looking, his mouth agape with love, he turned and...

Purity looked away in time. There was no reason to allow the possibility of impure thoughts into her mind. She might or might not be one of the elect, but there was no need to drag herself closer to the pit, thus requiring a greater atonement by Christ to draw her out.

"So much for a spot where nobody comes!" the man cried out, laughing. She heard a great splashing, which had to be the two of them coming out of the water. "Just a minute and we'll be dressed so you can go on with your walk, ma'am."

"Never mind," she said. "I can go another way."

But at the moment she took her first step to return along the riverbank, a coarse-looking man with heavy muscles and a menacing cast to his face stepped in front of her. She couldn't help gasping and stepping back--

Only to find that she was stepping on a man's boot.

"Ouch," he said mildly.

She whirled around. There were two men, actually, one of them a dapper but smallish man who looked at her with a candor that she found disturbing. But the man she had stepped on was a tall, dignified-looking man who dressed like a professional man. Not in the jet-black costume of a minister, but not in the earthy "sad" colors of the common folk of New England. No, he dressed like nothing so much as...

"An Englishman," she said. "A barrister."

"I confess it, but marvel that you guessed it."

"English visitors come to Cambridge often, sir," she said. "Some are barristers. They seem to have a way of dressing to show that their clothing cost considerable money without ever quite violating the sumptuary laws." She turned around to face the menacing man, unsure whether this Englishman was a match for him.

But then she realized that she had been momentarily deceived by appearances. There was no menace in the rough fellow, no more than in the Englishman. And the other one, the dapper little fellow who was still inspecting her with his eyes, posed no danger, either. It was as if he knew only one way to think of women, and therefore shelved his attitude toward Purity under the heading "objects of lust," but it was a volume that would gather dust before he cared enough to take it down and try to read it.

"We must have frightened you," said the Englishman. "Our friends were determined to bathe, and we were determined to lie on the riverbank and nap, and so you didn't see any of us until you were right among us, and I apologize that you saw two of our company in such a state of deshabille."

"And what, pray, is a state of Jezebel?"

The dapper little fellow laughed aloud, then stopped abruptly and turned away. Why? He was afraid. Of what?

"Pardon my French," said the Englishman. "In London we are not so pure as the gentlefolk of New England. When Napoleon took over France and proceeded to annex the bulk of Europe, there were few places for the displaced aristocracy and royalty to go. London is crawling with French visitors, and suddenly French words are chic. Oops, there I go again."

"You still have not told me what the French word meant. 'Cheek,' however, I understand-- it is a characteristic that your whole company here seems to have."

The barrister chuckled. "I would say that it's yourself that takes a cheeky tone with strangers, if it were not such an improper thing to say to a young lady to whom I have not been introduced. I pray you, tell me the name of your father and where he lives so I can inquire after your health."

"My father is dead," she said, and then added, despite her own sense of panic as she did so, "He was hanged as a witch in Netticut."

They fell silent, all of them, and it made her uneasy, for they had nothing like the reaction she expected. Not revulsion at her confession of such indecent family connections; rather they all simply closed off and looked another way.

"Well, I'm sorry to remind you of such a tragic event," said the Englishman.

"Please don't be. I never knew him. I only just realized what his fate must have been. You don't imagine that anyone at the orphanage would tell me such a thing outright!"

"But you are a lady, aren't you?" asked the Englishman. "There's nothing of the schoolgirl about you."

"Being an orphan does not stop when you come of age," said Purity. "But I will serve myself as father and mother, and give you my consent to introduce yourself to me."

The Englishman bowed deeply. "My name is Verily Cooper," he said. "And my company at the moment consists of Mike Fink, who has been in the waterborne transportation business but is on a leave of absence, and my dear friend John-James Audubon, who is mute."

"No he's not," said Purity. For she saw in both Cooper and Audubon himself that the statement was a lie. "You really mustn't lie to strangers. It starts things off in such an unfortunate way."

"I assure you, madam," said Cooper, "that in New England, he is and shall remain completely mute."

And with that slight change, she could see in both of them that the statement was now true. "So you choose to be mute here in New England. Let me puzzle this out. You dare not open your mouth; therefore your very speech must put you in a bad light. No, in outright danger, for I think none of you cares much about public opinion. And what could endanger a man, just by speaking? The accent of a forbidden nation. A papist nation, I daresay. And the name being Audubon, and your manners toward a woman being tinged with unspeakable presumptions, I would guess that you are French."

Audubon turned red under his suntan and faced away from her. "I do not know how you know this, but you also must be seeing that I did not act improper to you."

"What she's telling us," said Verily Cooper, "is that she's got her a knack."

"Please keep such crudity for times when you are alone with the ill-mannered," said Purity. "I observe people keenly, that is all. And from his accent I am confident that my reasoning was correct."

The rough fellow, Mike Fink, spoke up. "When you hear a bunch of squealing and snorting, you can bet you're somewhere near a pig."

Purity turned toward him. "I have no idea what you meant by that."

"I'm just saying a knack's a knack."

"Enough," said Cooper. "Less than a week in New England and we've already forgotten all caution? Knacks are illegal here. Therefore decent people don't have them."

"Oh yeah," said Mike Fink. "Except she does."

"But then, perhaps she is not decent," said Audubon.

It was Purity's turn to blush. "You forget yourself, sir," she said.

"Never mind him," said Cooper. "He's just miffed because you made that remark about unspeakable presumptions."

"You're travelers," she said.

"John-James paints North American birds with an eye toward publishing a book of his pictures for the use of scientists in Europe."

"And for this he needs a troop along? What do you do, hold his brushes?"

"We're not all on the same errand," said Cooper.

At that moment the two she had seen in the river came out of the bushes, still damp-haired but fully clothed.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry you had to see so much horseflesh without no horses," said the White one.

The Black one said not a thing, but never took his eyes from her.

"This is Alvin Smith," said Cooper. "He's a man of inestimable abilities, but only because nobody has cared enough to estimate them. The short one is Arthur Stuart, no kin to the King, who travels with Alvin as his adopted nephew-in-law, or some such relationship."

"And you," said Purity, "have been long enough out of England to pick up some American brag."

"But surrounded by Americans as I am," said Cooper, "my brag is like a farthing in a sack of guineas."

She couldn't help but laugh at the way he spoke. "So you travel in New England with a Frenchman, who is only able to avoid being expelled or, worse, arrested as a spy, by pretending to be a mute. You are a barrister, this fellow is a boatman, as I assume, and the two bathers are..." Her voice trailed off.

"Are what?" asked Alvin Smith.

"Clean," she said. Then she smiled.

"What were you going to say?" asked Smith.

"Don't press her," said Cooper. "If someone decides to leave something unsaid, my experience is that everyone is happier if they don't insist on his saying it."

"That's OK," said Arthur Stuart. "I don't think she knows herself what was on her lips to say."

She laughed in embarrassment. "It's true," she said. "I think I was hoping that a jest would come to mind, and it didn't."

Alvin smiled at her. "Or else the jest that did come to mind was of a sort that you couldn't imagine yourself making, and so it went away."

She didn't like the way he looked at her as if he thought he knew all about her. Never mind that she must be looking at him the same way-- she did know about him. He was so full of confidence it made her want to throw mud on him just to show him he wasn't carried along by angels. It was as if he feared nothing and imagined himself capable of achieving anything. And it wasn't an illusion he was trying to create, either. He really was conceited; his attitude reeked of it. His only fear was that, when push came to shove, he might turn out to be even better than he thought himself to be.

"I don't know what I done to rub you the wrong way, ma'am," said Smith, "other than bathing nekkid, but that's how my mama taught me it ought to be done, so my clothes don't shrink."

The others laughed. Purity didn't.

"Want something to eat?" Arthur Stuart asked her.

"I don't know, what do you have?" she said.

His eyes were still focused on her, slightly widened, his jaw just a bit slack. Oh, it was love all right, the swooning moon-in-juning kind.

"Berries," said the boy. He held out his hat, which had several dozen blackberries down in it. She reached in, took one, tasted it.

"Oh no," said Cooper mildly. "You've eaten a berry, so you must spend one month of every year in Hades."

"But these berries are from New England, not hell," she said.

"That's a relief," said Smith. "I wasn't sure where the border was."

Purity didn't know how to take this Smith fellow. She didn't like looking at him. His boldness bothered her. He didn't even seem ashamed that she had seen him naked.

Instead she looked at Cooper. The barrister was a pleasant sight indeed. His manner, his dress, his voice, all belonged to a man that Purity thought existed only in a dream. Why was he different from other men who dressed in such a way?

"You aren't an ordinary lawyer," she said to him.

Cooper looked at her in surprise. And then his surprise turned to dread.

"I'm not," he said.

What was he afraid of?

"Yes he is," said Smith.

"No," said Cooper. "Ordinary lawyers make a lot of money. I haven't made a shilling in the past year."

"Is that it?" asked Purity. It could be. Barristers did seem a prosperous lot. But no, it was something else. "I think what makes you different is you don't think you're better than these others."

Cooper looked around at his companions-- the smith, the riverman, the French artist, the Black boy-- and grinned. "You're mistaken," he said. "I'm definitely the better man."

The others laughed. "Better at what?" asked Mike Fink. "Whining like a mosquito whenever you see a bee?"

"I don't like bees," said Cooper.

"They like you." said Arthur Stuart.

"Because I'm sweet." He was joking, but Purity could see that his fear was growing greater. She glanced around, looking for the source of the danger.

Smith noticed the way she looked around and took it as a sign, or perhaps just a reminder. "Come on now," said Smith. "Time for us to move on."

"No," said Cooper. Purity could see his resolve harden. He wasn't just afraid-- he was going to act on his fear.

"What's wrong?" asked Smith.

"The girl," said Cooper.

"What about her?" demanded Arthur Stuart. He spoke so truculently that Purity expected one of the men to rebuke him. But no, he was treated as if his voice had equal weight in the company.

"She's going to get us killed."

Now she understood. He was afraid of her. "I'm not," she said. "I won't tell anybody he's a papist."

"When they put your hand on the Bible and swear you to tell the truth?" asked Cooper. "You'd send yourself to hell and deny that you know that he's Catholic?"

"I am not a good Catholic," said Audubon modestly.

"Then you go to hell no matter who's right," said Smith. It was a joke, but nobody laughed.

Cooper still held Purity in gaze, and now it was her turn to be afraid. She had never seen such intensity in a man, except a preacher in his pulpit, during the most fiery part of the sermon. "Why are you afraid of me?" asked Purity.

"That's why," said Cooper.

"What's why?"

"You know that I'm afraid of you. You know too much about what we're thinking."

"I already told you, I don't know what anybody's thinking."

"What we're feeling, then." Cooper grinned mirthlessly. "It's your knack."

"We already said that," said Fink.

"What if it is?" Purity said defiantly. "Who's to say that knacks aren't gifts from God?"

"The courts of Massachusetts," said Cooper. "The gallows."

"So she's got a knack," said Smith. "Who doesn't?"

The others nodded.

Except Cooper. "Have you lost your minds? Look at you! Talking knowledgeably of knacks! Admitting that Jean-Jacques here is French and Catholic to boot."

"But she already knew," said Audubon.

"And that didn't bother you?" said Cooper. "That she knew what she could not possibly know?"

"We all know things we shouldn't know," said Smith.

"But until she came along, we were doing a pretty good job of keeping it to ourselves!" Cooper rounded on Purity, loomed over her. "In Puritan country, people hide their knacks or they die. It's a secret they all keep, that they have some special talent, and as soon as they realize what it is they also learn to hide it, to avoid letting anyone know what it is that they do so much better than other people. They call it 'humility.' But this girl has been flaunting her knack."

Only then did Purity realize what she had been doing. Cooper was right-- she had never let anyone see how easily she understood their feelings. She had held it back, remaining humble.

"By this time tomorrow I expect this girl will be in jail, and in a month she'll be hanged. The trouble is, when they put her to the question of other witches she's consorted with, whom do you imagine that she'll name? A friend? A beloved teacher? She seems to be a decent person, so it won't be an enemy. No, it'll be strangers. A papist. A journeyman blacksmith. A barrister who seems to be living in the woods. An American riverman."

"I'd never accuse you," she said.

"Oh, well, since you say so," said Cooper.

Suddenly she was aware of Mike Fink standing directly behind her. She could hear his breathing. Long, slow breaths. He wasn't even worried. But she knew that he was capable of killing.

Smith sighed. "Well, Very, you're a quick thinker and you're right. We can't just go on with our journey as if it were safe."

"Yes, you can," she said. "I don't normally act like this. I was careless. In the surprise of meeting you here."

"No," said Cooper, "it wasn't meeting us. You were out here walking alone. Oblivious. Blind and deaf. You didn't hear Al and Arthur splashing like babies in the water. You didn't hear Mike howling miserable river ballads in his high-pitched hound-dog voice."

"I wasn't singing," said Mike.

"I never said you were," said Cooper. "Miss-- what's your name again?"

"She never said," Fink answered.

"Purity," she said. "My parents named me."

"Miss Purity, why after all these years of living in humility are you suddenly so careless about showing your knack?"

"I told you, I wasn't, or I'm not usually, and it's not a knack anyway, it's a talent, I'm simply observant, I--"

"Today," said Cooper. "This hour. Do you think I'm a fool? I grew up in one of the most witch-ridden parts of England. Not because more people had knacks but because more people were watching for them. You don't last an hour if you're careless. It's a good thing you ran into us and not someone you knew. This place is thick with ministers, and you were going to show your knack no matter whom you met."

Purity was confused. Was he right? Was that why she had fled the college, because she knew that her knack could no longer be hidden? But why couldn't it be hidden now? What was driving her to reveal it?

"I believe you may be right," she said. "I thank you for waking me up to what I was doing. You have nothing to fear now. I'm going to be careful now."

"Good enough for me," said Smith.

"No, it isn't," said Cooper. "Al, I yield to you on most things, but not on something that's going to get us caught up in some witch trial."

Smith laughed. "I've done my time setting around waiting for lawyers. There ain't no jail can hold me or any of my friends."

"Yes, there is," said Cooper. "It's six feet long, and they nail it shut and bury it."

They all looked thoughtful. Except Arthur Stuart. "So what are you going to do to her?" he demanded. "She ain't done nothing wrong."

"She hain't done nothing," said Mike Fink.

Arthur looked at the river rat like he was crazy. "How can you correct me? You're even wronger than I was!"

"You left out the h in haint."

"I won't be accused myself, and I won't accuse you," said Purity.

"I think you will," said Cooper. "I think you want to die."

"Don't be absurd!" she cried.

"More specifically, I think you want to be hanged as a witch."

For a moment she remained poised, meaning to treat this idea with the scorn it deserved. Then the image of her parents on a gallows came to her mind. Or rather, she admitted that it was already in her mind, that it was an image that had dwelt with her ever since she made the connections and realized how they had died. She burst into tears.

"You got no right to make her cry!" shouted Arthur Stuart.

"Hush up, Arthur," said Smith. "Verily's right."

"How do you know this?" said Audubon.

"Look at her."

She was sobbing so hard now that she could hardly stand. She felt long, strong arms around her, and at first she tried to flinch away, thinking it was Mike Fink seizing her from behind; but her movement took her closer to the man who was reaching for her, and she found herself pressed against the fine suit of the barrister, his arms holding her tightly.

"It's all right," said Cooper.

"They hanged my mother and father," she said. Or tried to say-- her voice could hardly be understood.

"And you just found out," said Cooper. "Who told you?"

She shook her head, unable to explain.

"Figured it out for yourself?" said Cooper.

She nodded.

"And you belong with them. Not with the people who killed them and put you out to an orphanage."

"They had no right!" she cried. "This is a land of murderers!"

"Hush," said Cooper. "That's how it feels, but you know it isn't true. Oh, there are murderers among them, but that's true everywhere. People who are glad to denounce a neighbor for witchcraft-- to settle a quarrel, to get a piece of land, to show everyone how righteous and perceptive they are. But most folks are content to live humbly and let others do the same."

"You don't know!" she said. "Pious killers, all of them!"

"Pious," said Cooper, "but not killers. Think about it, just think. Every living soul has some kind of knack. But how many get hanged for witchcraft? Some years maybe five or six. Most years none at all. The people don't want to surround themselves with death. It's life that they want, like all good people everywhere."

"Good people wouldn't take me away from my parents!" Purity cried.

"They thought they were doing good," said Verily. "They thought they were saving you from hell."

She tried to pull away from him. He wouldn't let her.

"Let me go."

"Not yet," he said. "Besides, you have nowhere to go."

"Let her go if she wants," said Arthur Stuart. "We can get away from here. Alvin can start up the greensong and we'll run like the wind and be out of New England before she tells anybody anything."

"That ain't the problem," said Smith. "It's her. Very's worried about keeping her from getting herself killed."

"He doesn't need to worry," Purity said. This time when she pulled away, Cooper let her. "I'll be fine. I just needed to tell somebody. Now I have."

"No," said Cooper. "It's gone. You're not afraid of death anymore, you welcome it, because you think that's the only way you can get home to your family."

"How do you know what I think?" she said. "Is that your knack? I hope not, because you're wrong."

"I didn't say you were thinking those things. And no, that's not my knack at all. But I'm a barrister. I've seen people at the most trying moments of their lives. I've seen them when they've decided to give up and let the world have its way. I recognize that decision when I see it. You've decided."

"What if I have?" she asked defiantly. "And anyway I haven't, so it doesn't matter."

Cooper ignored her. "If we leave her here, she'll die, sooner or later. She'll do it just to prove she's part of her family."

"No I won't," said Purity. "I don't even know for sure that that's what happened to them. I think the evidence points that way, but it's a slender arrow indeed."

"But you want it to be true," said Cooper.

"That's silly! Why would I want that!"

Cooper said nothing.

"I don't hate it here! People have been kind to me. Reverend Study arranged to let me use the Harvard library. I get to listen to the lectures. Not that it will ever amount to anything."

Cooper smiled ever-so-slightly.

"Well, what can it amount to?" Purity demanded. "I'm a woman. Either I'll marry or I won't. If I marry, I'll be raising children. Maybe I'll teach them to read before they get to school. But I won't be the one who gets to teach them Latin and Greek. They'll get their Caesar and their Tully and their Homer from someone else. And if I don't marry, the best I can hope for is to be kept on as a matron in the orphanage. Children are the only people who'll ever hear my voice."

"Ain't nothing wrong with children," said Arthur Stuart.

"That's not what she means anyway," said Cooper.

"Don't you dare interpret me anymore!" Purity cried. "You think you know me better than you know yourself!"

"Yes, I think I do," said Cooper. "I've been down the same road."

"Oh, were you an orphan? As a barrister, did they make you work with children all the time? Did they make you sit outside the courtroom to plead your case?"

"All these sacrifices," said Cooper, "you'd make them gladly, if you believed in the cause."

"Are you accusing me of being an unbeliever?"

"Yes," said Cooper.

"I'm a Christian!" she said. "You're the heretics! You're the witches!"

"Keep your voice down," said Fink menacingly.

"I'm not a witch!" said Audubon fervently.

"You see?" said Cooper. "Now you are accusing us."

"I'm not!" she said. "There's no one here but you."

"You're a woman whose world has just turned upside down. You're the daughter of witches. You're angry that they were killed. You're angry at yourself for being alive, for being part of the very society that killed them. And you're angry at that society for not being worthy of the sacrifice."

"I'm not judging others," she said.

"They were supposed to build Zion here," said Cooper. "The city of God. The place where Christ at his coming could find the righteous gathered together, waiting for him."

"Yes," whispered Purity.

"They even named you Purity. And yet you see that nothing is pure. The people are trying to be good, but it isn't good enough. When Christ comes, all he'll find here is a group of people who have done no more than to find another way to be stubble that he will have to burn."

"No, the virtue is real, the people are good," said Purity. "Reverend Study--"

"Virtue is real outside New England, too," said Verily Cooper.

"Is it?" she asked. "Most people here live the commandments. Adultery is as rare as fish with feet. Murder never happens. Drunkenness can never be seen anywhere except at the docks, where sailors from other lands are permitted-- and why should I defend New England to you?"

"You don't have to," said Cooper. "I grew up with the dream of New England all around me. In every pulpit, in every home. When someone behaved badly, when someone in authority made a mistake, we'd say, 'What do you expect? This isn't New England.' When somebody was exceptionally kind or self-sacrificing, or humble and sweet, we'd say, 'He belongs in New England,' or 'He's already got his passage to Boston.'"

Purity looked at him in surprise. "Well, we're not that good here."

"I know," said Cooper. "For one thing, you still hang witches and put their babies in orphanages."

"I'm not going to cry again, if that's what you're hoping for," said Purity.

"I'm hoping for something else," said Cooper. "Come with us."

"Verily!" said Smith. "For pete's sake, if we wanted a woman with us we'd be traveling with Margaret! You think this girl's ready to sleep rough?"

"Ain't decent anyway," said Mike Fink. "She's a lady."

"You needn't worry about my going with you," said Purity. "What kind of madman are you? Perhaps I am angry and disillusioned about the dream of purity here in New England. Why would I be any happier with you, who aren't even as pure as we are here?"

"Because we have the one thing you're hungry for."

"And what is that?"

"A reason to live."

She laughed in his face. "The five of you! And all the rest of the world lacks it? Why don't they all just give up and die?"

"Few give up living," said Cooper. "Most give up looking for a reason. But some have to keep searching. They can't bear to live without a purpose. Something larger than themselves, something so good that just being a part of it makes everything worthwhile. You're a seeker, Miss Purity."

"How do you know all these things about me?"

"Because I'm a seeker, too. Do you think I don't know my own kind?"

She looked around at the others. "If I were this thing, a seeker, why would I want to be with other seekers? If you're still seeking, it means you haven't found anything, either."

"But we have," said Cooper.

Smith rolled his eyes. "Verily Cooper, you know I still don't have a clue what we're even looking for."

"That's not what I'm talking about," said Cooper. "You're not a seeker, Alvin. You already have your life handed to you, whether you want it or not. And Arthur here, he's not a seeker, either. He's already found what he wants."

Arthur hung his head, embarrassed. "Don't you go saying!"

"Just like Mike Fink. They've found you, Al. They're going to follow you till they die."

"Or till I do," said Smith.

"Ain't going to happen," said Fink. "I'll have to be dead first."

"You see?" said Cooper. "And Jean-Jacques here, he's no seeker. He knows the purpose of his life as well."

Audubon grinned. "Birds, women, and wine."

"Birds," said Cooper.

"But you're still seeking?" asked Smith.

"I've found you, too," said Cooper. "But I haven't found what I'm good for. I haven't figured out what my life means." He turned to Purity again. "That's why I knew. Because I've stood where you're standing. You've fooled them all, they think they know you but it just means you've kept your secret, only now you're fed up with secrets and you have to get out, you have to find the people who know why you're alive."

"Yes," she whispered.

"So come with us," said Cooper.

"Dammit, Very," said Smith, "how can we have a woman along?"

"Why not?" said Cooper. "Quite soon you're going to rejoin your wife and start traveling with her. We can't camp in the woods our whole lives. And Miss Purity can help us. Our painter friend may be happy with what he's accomplished here, but we don't know anything more than we did before we arrived. We see the villages, but we can hardly talk to anyone because we have so many secrets and they're so reticent with strangers. Miss Purity can explain things to us. She can help you learn what you need to learn about building the City of--"

He stopped.

"The City," he finally said.

"Why not say it?" said Purity. "The City of God."

Cooper and Smith looked at each other, and Purity could see that both of them were filled with the pleasure of having understood something. "See?" said Cooper. "We've already learned something, just by having Miss Purity with us."

"What did you learn?" demanded Arthur Stuart.

"That maybe the Crystal City has another name," said Smith.

"Crystal City?" asked Miss Purity.

Cooper looked at Smith for permission. Alvin glanced at each of them in turn, until at last his gaze lingered on Purity herself. "If you think she's all right," said Alvin.

"I know she is," said Cooper.

"Got a couple of minutes?" Alvin asked Purity.

"More like a couple of hours," said Mike Fink.

"Maybe while you talk and talk I bath in the river," said Audubon.

"I'll keep watch," said Fink. "I fell in enough rivers in my time without getting nekkid to do it on purpose."

Soon Purity, Smith, Cooper, and Arthur Stuart were sitting in the tall soft grass on the riverbank. "I got a story to tell you," said Alvin. "About who we are and what we're doing here. And then you can decide what you want to do about it."

"Let me tell it," demanded Arthur Stuart.

"You?" asked Alvin.

"You always mix it up and tell it back end to."

"What do you mean, 'always'? I hardly tell this story to anybody."

"You ain't no Taleswapper, Alvin," said Arthur Stuart.

"And you are?"

"At least I can tell it front to back instead of always adding in stuff I forgot to tell in the proper place."

Alvin laughed. "All right, Arthur Stuart, you tell the story of my life, since you know it better than I do."

"It ain't the story of your life anyway," said Arthur Stuart. "Cause it starts with Little Peggy."

"'Little' Peggy?" asked Alvin.

"That's what her name was then," said Arthur.

"Go ahead," said Alvin.

Arthur Stuart looked to the others. Cooper and Purity both nodded. At once Arthur Stuart bounded to his feet and walked a couple of paces away. Then he came back and stood before them, his back to the water, and with boats sailing along behind him, and the summer sun beating down on him while his listeners sat in the shade, he put his hands behind his back and closed his eyes and began to talk.