Mary Rowlandson died in 1711, in her early seventies. In an early draft of Flight of the Sparrow I imagined her sitting in her dooryard near the end of her life, looking back on her captivity and pondering how it shaped her life:
I sit in the doorway of the house in the chair my stepson set out for me this morning. I have taken my scissors out of my pocket and they lie in my lap. I like to look upon them, though my fingers have so stiffened that I can no longer hold them properly. They glint in the sunlight, mocking me with their reminder that my days of usefulness and duty have passed. Yet I take them with me everywhere. I cannot be separated from them, for they once saved my life.
My second husband built this house. Samuel Talcott was an upright man, a captain in the militia, a man of boldness and daring. When he asked me to wed, he promised to provide for me well, and so he has. In his will he left me a room with a bed and a chest, use of the oven and cellar, land for a garden, and a cow for my own. His son has honored his word. I have meat and bread and beer.
Yet I am restive. It is as if those months of captivity traveling up and down the wilderness, so many years ago, left me with a hunger for adventure that could not be slaked by a pious and civilized life. As if I once discovered something that filled and gladdened me, but then lost it forever.
My book was my passage back to civilization, the price of my acceptance. If I had imagined that the good people of Boston would receive me with open arms, I was soon rid of the illusion. I became the chief subject of the Boston gossips; even my own husband feared that I had been contaminated by the savages. When Reverend Mather asked that I write an account of my ordeal, it opened a door to my restoration.
Yet I have wondered since if it was too high a price to pay. If the necessary twisting of the truth corrupted me even more than my reluctant sojourn among the Indians.
I am old now, nearly seventy years. I did not expect to live so long. My back is bent like that of the old Pequot woman I oftimes see on the streets of Wethersfield. She walks with her head bowed as if studying the ground in quest of a place to lie down for her final rest. She has no doubt borne heavy burdens on her back all her life, whereas I carried them only during my time of captivity. Yet we are bent the same.
I am troubled with thoughts of my son, Joss, who was recently arrested, and even now lies in the Hartford goal, awaiting trial. I will post bond for him, though I secretly doubt that he is innocent of the charges against him. He has nursed a troubled spirit ever since that terrible winter morning when our home in Lancaster was assaulted by Indians and we were carried off into the wilderness. He was not yet grown, still possessed of a boy’s liveliness and curiosity, and though he only spent a few months with the Indians, he was corrupted forever.
He is accused of the crime of selling his wife’s brother into Virginia as an indentured servant. This is purported to have happened five years ago. I do not want to credit it, yet I have long understood that Joss possesses some malevolent darkness within, and I suspect he is capable of this. And more.
Still, he is my only son. I must do what I can to save him. I will use the scissors of my reputation to cut him free from this new captivity.
Life is not what we expect it to be when we are young. The world is transformed, even as we move through it. The ground heaves beneath our feet. The sky darkens suddenly and thunder crashes down. Whole villages are laid waste; strong houses are consumed in flame. We are assaulted by our enemies. We are crushed and betrayed by those we believed were our friends. We are corrupted by our own iniquity.
And yet we are redeemed, again and again.