DEDICATED TO
THE MEMORY OF
MY BROTHER,
PETER GEORGE LE ZOTTE (1968–2016),
AND TO
THE FELLOW DREAMERS
AND ADVENTURERS
OF OUR YOUTH
The Deaf … are everywhere …
They existed before you spoke of them
and before you saw them.
LAURENT CLERC,
DEAF FRENCHMAN, AND THE FIRST DEAF TEACHER IN AMERICA
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
If you are reading this, I suppose you want to know more about the terrible events of last year—which I almost didn’t survive—and the community where I live.
Every small village must think itself perfectly unique. I now know there was not another like ours in America, in the Year of Our Lord, 1805. For those who take hearing and speaking for granted, our way of life may be hard to understand.
You may be fooled into believing that Chilmark, on Martha’s Vineyard—an island south of Boston—is a fancy of my imagination. Or the lost paradise that the English captain who named the land after his daughter was seeking long ago.
I’ve tried to be true to every detail and do justice not only to my friends and family, but also to my enemies. It was the stranger invited to our shores who changed my view forever.
I warn you, there are accounts of great wickedness along with hope in these pages.
As for my mastery of the language, I will remind you that not every writer comes to English from the same direction.
My story is built not with brick and mortar, but by finding the right words and making events come to life. If it were a palace, it would have many windows and doors—to see your reflection, peer into, and walk through. I hope you will be brave enough to enter.
Mary Elizabeth Lambert
I like to walk early in the morning, before I begin my chores, even in this crisp November weather. I use my birch stick to poke at curious things on the ground, like the tunnels made by moles. They go so deep, they churn up the sand below the soil.
When I leave home early enough, I can see bright flashes from the Gay Head Light in the distance. But today the sun is up.
I run my stick across the top of the mossy stone wall that frames the high road and watch the sea glitter behind gabled houses with sloping yards. Sea grass borders the sand, blowing lightly in the cool breeze. Blue crabs burrow into the mud near the shore, where they’ll lay dormant for the winter.
On the beach, there’s little left of the humpback whale that washed upon our shores four days ago, delivered by the Almighty.
My closest friend, Nancy Skiffe, and I discovered the whale while playing. It was already dead when we found it, but its smell was not yet putrid. Small seabirds pecked at its carcass. Its sea-worn, mottled black skin was covered in humps and bumps. We were awestruck by its massive bulk.
Nancy and I walked a large circle around it. I collected scallop shells, moon shells, and quahog shells and put them next to the whale, as a final offering from a human friend. Nancy took a recorder out of her cloak and played a song to guide the beast to its end.
When Nancy and I ran to get her father, my papa, and the other men, they came with spades, knives, rope, and wheelbarrows.
As they made plans to dispose of the whale, Papa, sensing my sadness, signed to me assuredly, “Not one piece shall go unused. Meat for the whole town, oil for our lamps, and baleen in the beast’s mouth for brushes.”
I couldn’t watch as our treasure was flensed, cut, and taken away, piece by piece.
I stop and write whale in the sand with my stick. I love words, but they confound me too. The way my mind thinks is not just in signs or English words and sentences, but in images and a flow of feeling that I imagine resembles the music I’ve never heard.
I watch the tide leaping in and out.
I pass a stretch of high road that I have come to avoid. I circle around it as if it is hallowed ground and head back home. Leaves jump and twirl ahead of me; the wind beckons me toward a small graveyard. I choose to ignore its silent whispers.
Great warmth and a savory smell emanate from our kitchen. A large, clean brick fireplace dominates the room, along with the kettle hanging from a trammel hook. I step through a beautiful slice of sunlight on the floor and touch my mother’s back.
“Morning,” she signs, one hand rounded like the sun, the other arm acting as the horizon it climbs.
“Morning. Cooking?” I ask, mimicking stirring a pot.
Mama signs, “For supper.”
She points to the meat pie on the table. I helped her make it two days ago. Today is the last serving. She places the pitcher beside me on the table. I’m to fill it from a shallow well in our yard. “First pie eat.”
Mama delicately wipes the back of her hand across her sweat-beaded forehead. Even with the dirt smudges, her face is beautiful, with cheeks reddened by the fire. Her black hair and blue eyes are like coal and sky. George had her coloring. Mama glances at his empty chair and blinks away unshed tears. Then she’s back to work, with her spoon dipped in the large kettle.
I dutifully finish the last piece of meat pie and grab the pitcher. Mama taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to face her.
“Three,” she
