Seven Locks

by Christine Wade

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; General Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

The Hudson River Valley, 1769: A man mysteriously disappears without a trace, abandoning his wife and children on their farm at the foot of the Catskill Mountains. At first many believe that his wife, who has the reputation of being a scold, has driven her husband away, but as the strange circumstances of his disappearance circulate, a darker story unfolds. And as the lines between myth and reality fade in the wilderness, and an American nation struggles to emerge, the lost man’s wife embarks on a desperate journey to find the means to ensure her family’s survival . . .

Release date: January 1, 2013

Publisher: Atria Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Gone Missing

Hudson’s River Valley,
Summer 1769

Als de maan vol is, schijnt zij overal.

“When the moon is full, it shines everywhere.”

—Dutch proverb

THE LONGEST DAY of the year and a full moon. I read to the children for a long time. The boy’s breathing quickly deepened, and his gaze subsided into the depth and darkness of his pupils, but the girl’s eyes remained bright, and she continued to ask questions, not comprehending the story because of my own distraction. I could not answer her queries, as I was not listening to the words coming from my own mouth. My reading did not find the cadence in the tale, so absorbed was I within my internal heart. I had to backtrack in the text. Finally, I shut the book, kissed her again, snuffed the candle, and retreated from the bed, blowing her a kiss before I shut the door.

As I stepped toward my own enticing bed, the soles of my feet sucked up the coolness of the polished flooring, as if they were tasting something savory. The evening air too was honeyed, thick with summer. Lilies yawned around the house where I had planted bulbs in the autumn, and wafted their yellow dust, both spicy and sweet. My husband had scythed the grass in the yard of the house, which seemed a miracle in and of itself. The scent of maple pollen rode the wind toward the house from the woods, floating on the warm platform of the smell of the grass. Its golden dust settled on the sills of the windows.

I stood in the dark, drawing my breath up through the skin of my feet. Standing still with closed eyes, I could smell the salt of myself mingled with the odors of the night. I noticed the sensation of my ribs expanding and contracting, and I awakened to the rhythm of this. The breath rising and falling has its own sweetness if you attend to it. I pulled apart my thighs merely by shifting my stance, as the skin at their top was gently chafing. My breath ruffled the back of my throat.

Above the sound of my breathing in my ears, I could hear the high chirping of the tree frogs and the low burping of the bullfrogs, and knew exactly where he was. He lay on his back by the pond up the hill behind the house, watching the moon rise, swilling from a green glass bottle filled from a keg. The danger was that sleep would grab him and he would not awaken until the moon had crossed the sky, drawing the sun up in its wake. The back of his trousers and shirt would be soaked through by then. I inhaled deeply and, with my mind, called him to me. Life beckons you from your reverie. I am your wife. Rise up, Sir, and come to me.

I slid to the cupboard and removed my cap and then my clothes. I took my brush and pulled it through my hair. I smoothed my chapped hands with oil from a little glass cruet. I drew the porcelain bowl from under the bed and squatted. I patted myself dry. I donned my bed shift, slipped between the cool linens, a wedding gift now stained and worn but still quite a luxury. In the bed, I faced my own peril. The work of this day released from my hands, my neck, and my shoulders, but the work of the next day was listed in my mind and wore me out. If I slept now, I would be awakened by his snoring at dawn, and such a sound would fill me to overflow with regret. Could I face the particular dismay of yet another lonely night alongside the labors of the day? Surely I could. I had long learned to take refuge in discourse with my children, or even with the cat or the farm animals. But the assault of a rising ire could not be fended off in that moment when I first awoke to the coarse and dry disappointment of the sound of his rough breath rattling in the aftermath of too much juniper. I willed myself to wait for the creak of the kitchen door and the tread upon the step, no matter how long. I sat up listening. Frogs, breath, tread.

When I got up, the cow was lowing. I went to milk. It was late. The kitchen door, by far the portal most transgressed—plumb from its lintel but worn at its saddle—stepped out into a little fenced yard and flower garden. I grew the herbs there for season, for household, and for healing. Melissa, at the door for fragrance and good luck. Lavender, also for its sweet smell, easing of pain, and repelling of pests. Sage, to rub the skin of poultry and grouse. Dill, for pickling. Yarrow, to make an astringent for the skin. Cramp bark, for my monthlies. The wild rose bushes, for their sour hips. Marjoram, for sausages.

The house was in a clearing on a slope and encircled by sugar maples that had grown grand and stately since the pole saplings had been cut away. These were used to pen the pigs. The hardwoods beyond the maple sentinels were birch, sycamore, black cherry, sassafras, red oak, and horn-beam. The forest was not so thick with trees and vines that you could not find your way through it, but it was chock with stone as blue as water. The white foam of streams, which pushed the stones all together and then cut through or frothed over the boulders, always made it seem that the mountains were laughing at us. Ferns waved their verdance across the forest floor, and the sun spilt down through the canopy to touch the sway of their fronds.

The path through the garden led toward the fine Dutch beamed barn with its gambrel roof, wide planks, and wider doors. Its broad structure was built on the slope just below the house, and though as tall, we could look upon its fine roof from the upper windows.

The fence of the yard ended at the track, which was a sorry rutted thread that led to civilization. If we did not brave its puddles, we would see no one. The track led only one way: to us, so travelers did not pass by. My husband had picked the spot for its charm, seclusion, and its proximity to the mountain trails, and had discounted the prudence of living closer to our village. He was especially enamored of the knoll, as if it set us above our neighbors on the flatter plain below. The pond, surrounded by long-needled pine trees, gathered several streams together on the mossy rock shelf behind the house clearing. The water was clear and cold from the mountain runoff. Across from the track, we had a sheep pasture, bordered by stone farm walls wide enough to stop the sheep but not so very high. We grazed the cow in this meadow full of clover, butterweed, thistle, and vetch. Her milk was sweet enough.

One lone apple tree stood in our pasture like a beacon, silhouetted against the blue forests of the upslope at the edge of the fields. My husband and I had planted seven others in a circle we called our orchard on a rolling slope below the barn the first year we were here so that in spring the white blossoms would form a halo. One could feel blessed within such a circle. The deer would often come and help themselves to the low-hanging fruit of the laden branches. My husband would sometimes shoot a buck here for our stew pot, but, as often as not, let them eat, even as he complained when the cider barrels ran low.

Well into the morning, with the children fed a large breakfast and set to their tasks, I hear the footfall above the kitchen, and the pots hanging on the rafters gently sway. Then whistling, like a fife, that gladdens my heart. I had separated the coals on the hearth stone, for soon the day would be warm, but I now scraped them together and put up water in the heavy kettle. I have made flat cakes with Indian meal on a pallet, and we still have maple syrup, March’s harvest. I made a strong tea with the Dutch contraband (we did not drink English tea) in a pot, but when he came down, he went to the cider barrel and took a long draught. I could see I had mistaken the whistling for good humor. He was actually quite distracted and had a look on his face that let me know he would not speak to me. He did not touch or look at me either. Now what?

I asked him if he was well, which clearly annoyed him. He said he would go outside to smoke, which he did. And several hours later, after washing, grinding, chopping, boiling, frying, pouring, pressing, combing, sorting, folding, tending, singing, and answering questions, I called the children and him to dinner. He did not answer, so I went and looked to find him back against the hay, squinting at the sun, his hands clasped behind his head.

“Time for dinner, Sir.” I turned my back to his face as haughtily as I could and flounced away as quickly as I had come.

I served soup first, made with early potatoes and all the new spring greens. Meat then, a spring lamb, devoured by all, grease dripping on cloth. I loved my table, a great slab of oak. The children’s faces were alive above the dark wood of it, and their chatter spilled into the soup. He inquired of them and knew their world. I looked away from the food that stuck to his short, dark beard and dribbled on his shirt. He hunkered down at the table and over his pewter plate. I did not enjoy watching him eat the food I had prepared, with his elbows firmly planted on my table.

After cleaning up following the meal, I stalked out to find him and asked him, “What do you plan for the rest of the day?” I could not subvert the insinuation of my question. “A hundred things need attending. Hundreds,” I told him. A farm was like that. He thought for a moment before he replied with a curled lip, “As they always will.”

“And what is your meaning, Husband? That you will leave them to me because there are too many tasks that require attention? If you do not stack wood, there will be a cold supper.”

Not wishing to be beseeched by me, he fumbled to his pocket for the spall and tinder to light his pipe. Dutch men were always hiding in the crater of their pipes. “It is not so much that what you ask of me but that your tone implies that you are after me for more than stacking wood.” His eyes were cast down to the bowl at the long end of the pipe handle, as he drew repeatedly, his suck on the tobacco a whisper between us. He glanced up but briefly before he turned away from me, as to remove the catch of the flame from any wind.

“Sir! Don’t stride away! I have not done with our negotiation. What will you do today at the height of the summer? The blossoms and the berries, you hardly know to gather them. But where will sweetness come in winter? Surely you do not plan a forage in the glade from which you will return with nothing but the tale of your nap-cultivated dreams? What could that be worth? Our fields and livestock need cultivation, not your dreams!”

“You would be in my dreams if you would only enter them. Wife, I will do as I will, and your challenge is neither wanted nor womanly!”

“And how would I be a woman if I am but a drudge and you an idler?”

“Ah, you did not call me an idler last night. You cried out other noises, like an animal in the hay of her stall.”

“That service does not put food on the table, you bed-presser! And you are not so skilled a pleasuremonger as you now claim.”

I had insulted his manhood, and he now began to give me a mouthful of his own wind. “Termagent! Scold of a woman! Carp of a wife.” I lashed back, and soon we were at familiar odds, our voices rising over the garden and venomous words spewing from our mouths.

“Godverdomse Smeerlap! Bastard, you! Illegitimate son of a snail!”

“And you, despot of a wife, you will not decide what work will be done and when.”

I clenched my fists to my waist with my elbows behind me and inched my tormented face close to his. “Despot, am I?” I spat out. “If I shall not decide this, then who? A blunderheaded bedpresser? A wastrel?! He who gets up at noon and naps after dinner and nips through the night? Ikke, ikke en de rest kan stikken.” “Me, me, the rest can choke.”

And then we follow each other around the yard, tensing out from our clothing and leaning into each other’s faces, spittle on our lips and hatred in our speech. We circle, and cannot unlock. He calls me moronic, and I call him a cur, lower than the lowest pitiful, whimpering, wormy puppy. “Hond! Dog of a man! You cannot, will not, should not call me a scold for wanting the farmwork done and an orderly house! Klootzakken!”

His eyes widened at this, and his upper lip tremored with rage. He had not yet heard such vulgarity from me. I too was surprised that I could refer to a man’s anatomy. Those round and tender parts, vulnerable at the base of the triumverate—the son and holy ghost beneath the ruling father. I enjoyed the shock on his face, for he seemed truly dumbfounded. This final word seemed to deflate him. I saw him now stubbornly turn away from me, and I knew what was next. Flight.

The long-legged and lanky dog, Wolf, never very far from my husband, had kept at the perimeter of the storm with his head down, his eyes wary, and his tail only wanting to wag as if it were he that was being scolded for digging in the garden or chewing a harness. The dog was like his master in so many ways—good-looking enough but giddy and vagrant. Now sensing that my husband might be making an excursion on which he surely would be invited, he made a wide berth around me in order to follow my husband into the barn. I swung my leg and kicked out toward him so that he broke into a trot, and the dust of my wrath swirled and glimmered in the sunlight before it settled again in the dirt.

My husband emerged silently from the cavern of the barn. I saw the old gun used for turkeys and doves at his side. His back was toward me, and he looked not in my direction—his jacket hiked at his waist and his shirt trailing beneath it, with the dog circling at his heels. The dog looked back with his yellow eyes only once, hesitating but for a moment. My husband tapped his thigh and the animal settled into a trot at his side. His breeches were torn and sagging over his flat quarters. He was a man of modest build—not tall, not stout—a pipe in his shirt pocket and the hat that shaded more than his eyes. I watched him walk away down the road, saying nothing to his children and nothing to me.

I did not want him to go, for I faced a long afternoon of lonely work. Lonely and wearisome. But neither could I call out to him, so thick was my dismay. I turned toward the demands of my labor and squeezed back the salt in the corners of my eyes so that I could see my many tasks more clearly. I never once thought back to the tenderness we had expressed in the night.

The shadows fell upon the day of my labor. I let the children catch fireflies that twinkled at the edge of the fields where the black trunks of the tall trees cast their darkness over the ferns. When the long light finally faded, and the softness of evening became the inevitable night, I sent the children to their slumber. When there was not another task or duty to perform and he still had not returned, I bolted the kitchen door from the inside. Let him sleep off his drunkenness in the barn, as he had dozens of times. I heated water that I had drawn and carried from the pond earlier and poured it into my widest and lowest barrel. I crumbled petals of wild roses and lavender stalks that I pulled down from the kitchen rafters. I stood naked in my kitchen with the smell of the herbs rising on the steam from the water and mixing with my own fishy smell. Then I washed it all away with ashes.

Judith Wakes in the Night

I wake in my bed, but I do not call for her. I can hear my brother breathing into his pillow. I go to the open window and look past the barn and garden where the moonlight falls into the sheep meadow. I fold my elbows on the sill. That is when I first hear it. Someone calling my name. Choodhoo o hoo. And then a hissing whisper. I’m here, I answer in my heart without speaking. I stand on my toes and turn my ear on the quiet, which is forever. How do you know my name? It comes again. Choodhoo o hoo. And then the hissing. It comes from below me. I think it might be my Papa at the kitchen door, coming in from his wanderings. Perhaps he will come now and tell me a story. Once more. Choodhoo o hoo. Tsst. Tsst. And then suddenly a flapping shape flies out from the walls of the house just below me, over the yard, and crosses the road of light that comes from the moon. It is not my Papa, but it knows my name.

Our farm was tucked up toward the mountains offset and above the river plain and a distance from the village. My husband liked to view the river from afar and often climbed the hillsides behind the farm to do so. He said there could be no finer landscape in all the Americas. And no wonder that our forefathers would have returned to such a spectacular territory, once it had been observed and reported. For were not the Dutch in their homeland limited to a flat, dreary landscape that disappeared at a distant horizon, with nothing of note between the good people and the vanishing point? Endless flattened fields laid out on a chess board—monotonous polders of colorless dirt stretching into ashen skies—and the sea held back only by stubbornness.

Our neighbor’s pastures were spread like yellow butter amongst the slices and the rolls of the land of river silt below us. My husband said there was more blue stone than red earth in the foothills of these mountains, and that if we could eat rocks instead of potatoes, we would never be hungry. Yet the soil was rich enough, and our plantings thrived well enough. It was hard work. On that I would hand him no argument.

The kills run down the mountains through birch and hemlock, ash and maple. They stutter and roll, cutting through the rocky chasms and pressing boulders forward and away and finally flowing around them and falling off cliffs, in the white froth of brides’ veils to reach the river plain. After the horse race of the scuttle and run down the rock faces, the kills widen and meander through our lush meadows and undulating pastures, and gather in our ponds. But these waters do not fool us that they will abide with us. No, they push on through the marshes and join the mighty ebb and flow of Hudson’s River and leave us well behind on our well-watered farms.

I fetched the day’s water. I had not found him in the barn when I went to milk. Another day elaborated itself with work, and by nightfall I was spent. As the dark of the evening descended at the end of the long day, my son called in the woods to the dog, but he did not come. My daughter would not go to the edge of the trees with her brother but stared anxiously after him, standing outside in her nightdress listening, a little waif in bare feet with the June glow bugs blinking about her. If the dog had come, I would have known, and so would they, that their father was nearby, perhaps lying on his back, elbows folded to cradle his head, and gazing at the summer moon. I called them inside and importuned them toward their beds. I insisted that the boy tell a story to his sister, for I was too tired to read one, but he did not wish to. “No story, then,” I said. I coddled them not at all, for to do so would signal them that there was something amiss. I went to bed and slept soundly enough.

On the morning after the second night, fear welled in me, lodging in the lower belly and quelling any hunger I had for food. I kept extremely busy by making a large dinner for the children with the new abundance of the garden food. I felt unsettled when I glanced at the woodpile. I expected him to walk in, and my resentments toward him were like a wall around my heart. He had ne’er been absent this long before. If he were to appear suddenly, I might be overcome by not only a vicious cant but also by an unbecoming—no, no, far beyond unbecoming—in fact, a dissolute violence. My eyes flickered to the road, the pasture gate. I checked the pond. But when he did not come, I began to doubt. Worse than fear, I began to feel the humiliation that all abandoned women feel. It was never only loss. The actual loss could be measured out in spoons: he would not replenish the woodpile, warm the bed, bring the game. I was uncertain, besides the wood and game, what his absence could mean. Would I miss him? I was fairly certain I could manage with my garden and my dairy. They were fruitful, and I produced enough for trade.

I was not afraid of hard work, or even loneliness, for surely I had been lonely enough, in spite of the occasional full-moon tryst in the marriage bed. Yet, while in the abundance of summer managing was not my worry, a seed of shame had sprouted in the earth of my feeling and was growing fast. It filled my throat and lingered just behind my eyes, where I knew it would be spotted if I managed to raise them to look into another’s. I was short with the children and worked them hard. When I had enjoined them enough, I told them to leave me alone and sent them away to amuse themselves.

I must use the axe, as much as I hated to. Why must I? Because the time had come. I needed wood and would as soon sink its blade into my husband, were he to walk heedlessly into the yard. He would have forgotten the bile between us, and would hail me and ask cheerfully for supper. Such forgetfulness is a privilege, as are his midday dreams and jenever-soaked stories. So entitled is he in these boons that he wears them like his hat on his head. At the same time, he can hardly admit them for what they are—an escape from our world. An escape from me.

I could wait no longer. I was forsaken and ashamed, and I could no longer bear it. A black cloud had filled my brain. I knew that using a dull axe blade is dangerous, and the axe that was wedged in the splitting stump was certainly dull. The felling axe is a large tool for the cutting of upright and living trees. Its thin blade and long handle make it ideal for striking power. In order to perform its best, an axe needs to be properly cared for and sharpened, and its proportions must match the man. My shorter, lighter tool had been misplaced. I had looked but could find it nowhere. Now I must care for a tool that I could barely lift. And wield it with precision. Would the challenge to my spirit never end? Would ease ever, ever come?

I fetched a whetstone, water, and oil. There is no one way to sharpen a mistreated instrument, and all can be done in a short amount of time. I inspected the axe blade carefully and noticed it was badly chipped. Sharpening a dirty blade could cause an even greater damage, so I cleaned it completely, removing an oily grit. I then supported it on a block atop my oak table. I poured water over the whetstone and started with the medium-grain side against the blade, using long, smooth strokes at an angle and away from my body. I ran my finger along the edge and checked the grade, adjusting the stone accordingly. For every ten strokes away from the body, I stroked once to the other side.

It had not taken long. But it should not be me who sharpened the blade and pondered the dark days ahead. If I were to wait until my husband returned home, the kingdom would have already come. And because of this, we would all be angels in the firmament, and we would hover above him while he cowered below, unaware that the cloud that blocked his sun was the wings of his unprotected wife and children. Lost to him. His absence was senseless and wicked. And if he walked through the door at this moment, I would take the axe, dull or sharp, to the wood of his pate.

As this sinister thought bubbled in my addled mind, which had not sharpened regardless of my performance at my task, a shadow crossed my worktable, and I started. Looking up, I saw my son gazing at me with an expression of penetrating curiosity. “What, boy? What?” But if he had a question, he did not put it forth.

“Come, you will have to learn this now. And in your father’s absence, I will have to teach you. Listen to me, your mother, that which you should learn from your father.” He was reluctant, wary of my mood, which, while usually generous to him, had been foul. He tried to get away, but I ordered him remain with such a severity it made him pause.

Now that the blade was true, I moved to a smoother-grained whetting stone to encourage a very fine edge. I then showed the boy how to wipe the delicious extremity cautiously with an oiled rag. Suddenly I could see that my industry had caught his interest. Never mind that the axe was rather too heavy for either of us to lift, and that soon we would be needing wood, which would require an endless labor, more than either of us would ever want to perform. With a great effort, the boy raised the axe high over his head and landed the glinting blade in its stump. The handle had a perfect arc. He looked to me to see if I approved. And I suppose, in spite of everything, I did.

Our village, an hour’s walk on a winding track, was not unlike any other along Hudson’s River. The hamlet had come to be more than a hundred years ago as a settlement of trappers’ huts amid the kills and falls that ran down from the mountains. Evidently a Dutchman, small in stature but large in reputation, and known only by the double diminutive of klein sagertje, or little sawyer, had once built a mill here, perhaps providing boards and beams to erect the grand estate houses across the river. So the place of our little bracket of a dozen houses was sometimes called the Sager’s Killetje. Now, with its stone houses, it was steeped in its own traditions. We celebrated Kerstydt, Nieuw Jaar, Paas, and Pinxter. In the larger town of Kingston to the south lived carpenters, blacksmiths, masons, tailors, weavers, shoemakers, brick makers, sloep builders, sailmakers, and tanners. But in our little neck of the woods, almost all the families did a little of everything and took up what in the case of my husband is ironically called husbandry—that is, extracting from the land, and not without considerable effort, sustenance, and larder.

I did not wish to walk down to the village with my shame-filled eyes. I forced myself, leaving the children alone at the farm. I decided to visit Nicholas Vedder purposefully and in the morning in order to avoid the tavern crowd, which gathered just prior to the afternoon meal. He was my choice over our parish dominie, who might serve me a sermon and, besides, who was here only on Sundays when his services were required—while a brewmaster did daily service in even a village as small as ours. I considered that the tavern keeper would have the ear of the men, while a churchman would have the ear of the women, and it was true that if you gained the women’s sympathy, the men would follow. But I took my chances with the men because I thought the women’s kindness might be out of reach. I did not want their pity, and I could not think how to approach them. I seemed to have had the double misfortune of not gaining the hearts and minds of other women, and the men had me pegged as the embodiment of all that they could suffer from their wives. By that I mean that the men could chastise me instead of the wife on whom they depended, and thereby a man could mark for her the boundary over which she must not cross.

Our village was one street with a dozen or more freestanding stone houses, lined up neat as a pin, and much alike in size and shape, with a stone church at one end and a crossroad, the King’s Highway, at the other. Don’t let the word Highway with the King’s title before it fool you. The highway was a mud track much like the one that led to our farm, and not a penny of it was paid for by the King. The sloeps on the river, with their wide planks and high quarter-decks, were the most reliable means of transportation. The roads between towns were but rocky ditches, and cargoes were hardly ever transported along them. A well-made Dutch sloep had a high forward mast and lovely sheets, and could carry upward of a hundred tons upon her decks. And this is how our goods came to us—when the river wasn’t iced over. In those winter months, we had no goods at all.

The tavern was at the turning from the village street north onto the highway. I kept my eyes low and hurried passed the houses. Much to my chagrin, Mr. Vedder was not yet up, and I found myself waiting on the bench beneath the grim portrait of George the Third. I had brought edging and worked my needle up close to my face so that while I nodded at any passersby, I quickly returned to my task, which kept them on the path of their morning’s errands. Finally, when the sun was hot, I heard the tread on the stairs and the inn maid scurrying to bring the keeper his mead or cider, and his mild cough when she told him that I was waiting to speak to him. Still I waited, and when he finally emerged through the inn’s door, he was tamping down his pipe. I was too tentative to express any annoyance by the wait, but he responded to the expected annoyance in me by being deliberately slow. After greeting me, he fumbled in his pocket for a flint to light it, as yet not ready to begin our conversation.

Eventually he asked about my family, and while I could not meet his eyes—for