He drags me to my feet with a grip so tight, I cannot extract myself. He pulls and pulls. I feel like he will tear me apart. I whip back and forth, trying to break free.
When we reach his bags, he stops. I am in too much pain to continue to fight.
With one hand, he removes the handkerchief from his breast pocket and a bottle from his satchel. He frees the cork with his teeth, soaking the handkerchief with its contents. He places it over my nose and mouth. What is it? I hold my breath for as long as I can. I do not want to breathe in whatever unction it is. But I am winded from the chase and need air.
I see gulls whirling above me. I see faded colors. I see foggy shapes. I feel like I am soaked to the skin from a rainstorm. I feel too heavy to resist anymore.
I awake with my feet and hands tied together. The world around me slowly comes into focus. I see sails. Andrew Noble is standing over me. He looks calm as he navigates his schooner.
I have been tossed among the ship’s tackle on deck. I gasp for breath and try to sit up.
I have never felt so helpless. I cannot even ask a question. He took my voice when he tied my hands.
I am freezing cold, my face chapped by the wind and sea spray. My mouth is as dry as an old rag. I open it and make a loud grunt and a whining noise. I sometimes do that if I am feeling ill in my bed so Mama will come up to check on me. Andrew Noble ignores me.
I grunt more and point with my chin to a jug by his feet. He lets go of the Defiance’s wheel, opens the jug, and holds it to my lips. He talks at me with a sour face, then quickly snatches away the jug.
He drags me across the deck, splintering an exposed foot, and shoves me down below to a small cabin, which is nearly bare. There he unties me and locks the door. I shake the latch vigorously, but it won’t open.
I pound on the door, again and again, until my knuckles are bloody. I lay my head against it, breathing heavily. I try to whine, pushing air out of my mouth. I can’t do it. I try again, holding my fingers to my vocal cords to see if I can muster a sound loud enough to call for his attention. I work it up from my stomach into my chest into my mouth till it’s an animal cry.
Andrew quickly opens the door. Upon seeing that I am in the state he left me, he sneers. He is carrying a bucket of water. I make the sign for “paper” and “writing.” He tilts his head back in scorn and pours half the bucket on the floor. He laughs when I fall down to reach for it as it spills away.
I rinse the blood from my hands and my lip where it is swollen from our fight on the beach. I rub my wrists where they were tied. My hands, once filled with stories and conversation, are swollen and wordless.
I sit and close my eyes, trying to imagine myself anywhere but in Andrew’s hold. I picture the stone wall along the high road in Chilmark, a familiar, solid path I know well. It helps to slow my tremors.
What are Andrew’s intentions?
It would have been easy to kill me on the beach. He could have slipped me under the waves while I was unconscious. Why didn’t he?
Then I remember some of the letter I read when I sneaked into the parsonage.
Bring back samples and acquire a live specimen.
I take mental stock of the items Andrew took from the Vineyard. There are several wax-sealed jars of well water, samples of Chilmark soil, clay, bark, and dung in bottles and phials. Does he have the genealogy Ezra Brewer wrote for him or the interviews with willing residents? And he took me. I am the live specimen!
My mind races with frightful ideas and questions.
Is he taking me to an asylum? What will they do to me? Will Andrew experiment on me?
Will I ever see my island again?
I remove my cloak and lay it over the stains on the hammock. Lying on it, I sob. My body spasms, and I dry heave.
I cast my mind back to my last night at home. I imagine Mama and Papa consoling each other before falling asleep in each other’s arms. I see them climbing the stairs to my bedroom when I didn’t come down for breakfast. When they found my bedroom empty, did they search the barn and outbuildings? Did they run through the pasture? Did they hitch the cart and ride to Ezra Brewer’s and the Skiffe house? Did they notice Andrew’s schooner gone from the beach?
How will they ever find me?
Other thoughts creep in. I remember Mama’s expression when I confessed my part in George’s death. Does she forgive me now, or is she glad I’m gone? Papa knew. He’d guessed. Why didn’t he talk to me and relieve my burden?
I cannot get away from my thoughts.
I try to focus on the moon glow that filters through the portal. It gives no warmth. A sea shanty Ezra Brewer taught me comes to
