Emma Donoghue The Lost Seed |
In this world we are as seed scattered from God's hand. Some fall on the fat soil and thrive. Some fall among thorns and are choked as they grow. Some fall on hard ground, and their roots get no purchase, for the bitter rocks lie all around. I, Richard Berry, make this record in the margins of the Good Book for those who come after, lest our plantation fail and all trace of our endeavours be wiped from the earth. Shielded by the Lord's arm, our shiphas travelled safe across the ocean through all travails, to make landfall at New Plimouth. Today we stretched our legs on land again. The snow reaches our knees. We never saw stuff like this before. It is bright as children's teeth and squeaks underfoot. * On the first day of June came the quake. So powerful is the mighty hand of the Lord, it makes both the earth and the sea to shake. I was afraid, and I was not the only one. But we and the settlers who arrived in the years before us keep faith with our Maker and our mission. We hack ourselves a space in the wilderness they call Cape Cod. May we cast off the old sins of England like dust from our boots. * I have written nothing in this book for a time, being much occupied with labouring for the good of the Lord and this whole plantation. We have made new laws, and set down on paper the liberties of all freemen. The Indians have shown us how to bury dead fish with our seeds to sweeten the soil. We have sold them guns. I am still unmarried. Of late I have been troubled by a weakness of spirit. I think on my mother and father and come near to weeping, for I will never see them again in this life. But I must remember that all who till the soil beside me are my brethren; not only those of my congregation but the less godly settlers too. There are few enough of us. A goodly number of us are in the ground, more than have been born. Edward Preston lost his wife this past winter. So did Teague Joanes, whose field lies next to mine. He and I think as one in most matters; he is a godly man. There are others who seek to stir up division like mud in a creek. At Meeting they grasp at privilege and make much of themselves. But our dissensions must be thrust aside. If we do not help each other, who will help us? We are all sojourners in a strange land. We hear of other plantations where there is not a Christian left alive. Word comes that there is a new king in England, Charles, as bad as his father James was. * Our court sentenced Seb Mitchel to be fined three pounds for his unseemly and blasphemous speeches. He spoke against his Maker for taking all three of Seb's children in one winter. He will have to give his hog to pay the fine. At least Seb Mitchel has a wife. God has not yet granted me one. I look about me diligently enough at the sisters in our plantation, but the greater part are married already, and others are shrewish, and still others have a barren look about them, or a limp, or a cast in the eye. I thought of Sara Jennet but she is young and laughs overmuch. Our numbers are increased with the coming of ships, yet I dislike these incomers, who are all puffed up and never think of our sweat that built this town. Hugh Norman said old ways should give way to new, and it was his first Meeting. I pray these incomers be not like the seed that springs up quick and eager but is soon parched and blasted by the noonday sun. * These days some play and drink while others work. Each man would go his own way. There is no concord or meekness of spirit. People forget that we are not separate, one from the other. In this rough country we stand together or we fall. In the first days we were all one family in the Lord. But now each household shuts its doors at night. Every man looks to his own wife and his own children. I think on the first days, when there was great fellowship, through all trials. Teague Joanes is the only man who says more to me than yea and nay. Last night there was a snow so heavy that the whole plantation was made one white. I stood in my door and saw some flakes as wide as my hand, that came down faster than the others. Every flake falls alone, and yet on the ground they are all one. * I made addresses to Sara Jennet’s father, and he was not opposed, but she said she would not have me, and he would not force her. At sunset most evenings I meet Teague Joanes where our cornfields join. He tells me that though marriage be our duty, it brings much grief, and from the hour a child is born his father is never without fear for him. Our court sentenced Joan Younge’s master to pay her fine of two pounds, for she was rude to her mistress on the Lord’s day and blocked her ears when the Bible was read, and the master should have kept her under firm governance. I would have had the girl whipped down to the bone. * Good news on the last ship. King Charles has been cast down for his Popish wickedness. Men of conscience govern England. Heathenish festivities no longer defile the name of the Lord, and there is no more Christmas. Here we work till the light fails. We have indentured men, some blacks among them, to hoe the land, but still too much of the crop is lost in the weeds, and strangled in rankness. I have no time to write in this book. * Our court sentenced Nathaniel Hatch and his sister Lydia Hatch to be cast out for unclean practices. He is to be sent off to the south and she to the north. We are not to break bread with them, or so much as throw them a crust. If we happen to pass either of them in the road, we are to turn our faces away. If either tries to speak to any of our community, we are to stop up our ears. No other Christian plantation will take them in. I said in Meeting that the pair of them should have been put to death, as a sign to waverers. (And after all, to be banished is itself a sort of death, for who would wish to roam this wilderness alone?) It has seemed to me for some time that our laws are too soft. If any man go after strange flesh, or children, or fowl or other beasts, even if the deed be not accomplished, it should be death. If any man act upon himself so as to spill his seed on the ground, it should be death. For the seed is most precious in these times and must not be lost. I know I am a fruitless man. My grievous sins of pride and hardheartedness have made me to bury my coin in the ground, like the bad servant in the parable. I have begot no children to increase our plantation. All I can do is work harder. * Nathaniel Hatch is rumoured to be living still in the woods to the south of Yarmouth. I wonder if he has repented of his filthy incest. It would be too late to bring him back, even if the wolves have spared him. He has no people now. As for his sister, no one has set eyes on her for a long time. My face is furrowed like a cornfield. The ice leaves its mark in winter, and the burning summer turns all things brown. But I will cast off vanity. The body is but the husk that is tossed aside in the end. There is talk of making a law against the single life, so that every unmarried man or woman would have to go and live in some godly family. But I do not know any house that would take me in. Sara Jennet is married to Hugh Norman these two years past. I forgot to put that down before. * Sara Norman - Sara Jennet, as was - is lightsome of countenance and speech. She forgets the saying of the Apostle, that wives should submit. If she does not take care, her behaviour will be spoken of at Meeting. I passed by her house the other day, and she was singing a song. I could not make out the words, but it was no hymn. Sin creeps around like a fog in the night. Too many of us forget to be watchful. Too many have left their doors open for the Tempter to slip in. I puzzle over it as I lie on my bed in the darkness, but I cannot tell why stinking lusts and things fearful to name should arise so commonly among us. It may be that our strict laws stop up the channel of wickedness, but it searches everywhere and at last breaks out worse than before. I consider it my pressing business to stand guard. Where vice crawls out of the shadows, I shine a light on it. John Hammon said to Teague Joanes that Sara Norman told his wife I was an old snooping killjoy. It matters not. * Death seizes so many each winter, we cannot spare a single soul. All must be saved for this flock to survive. Better I should anger my neighbour than stand by and watch the Tempter pluck up his soul as the eagle fastens on the lamb. Better I should be spurned and despised, and feel myself to be entirely alone on this earth, than that I should relinquish my holy labour. They call me killjoy, but let them tell me this, what business have we with joy? What time have we to spare for joy, and what have we done to deserve it? * The Lord has entered into the Temple and the cleansing has begun. Let the godless tremble, but the clean of heart rejoice. This day by my information charges were laid against Sara Norman, together with Mary Hammon, fifteen years old and newly a wife, the more her shame. I testified to what I witnessed. With my own eyes I saw them, as I stood by Hugh Norman's window in the heat of the day. His wife and John Hammon's wife were lying on the one bed together. They were naked as demons, and there was not a handspan between their bodies. They were laughing. It is time now to put our feet to the spades to dig up evil and all its roots. But already there is weakening. Our court was prevailed upon to let the girl Mary Hammon go, with only an admonition, on account of her youth. The woman's case has been held over until the weight of business allows it to be heard. But I have faith she will be brought to judgment at last after all these years of giddiness. In the meantime, Hugh Norman has sworn he will put her and her children out of his house. * Teague Joanes came to my house last night after dark, a thing he has never done before. He would have prevailed upon me to show mercy to Sara Norman. He said, was it not likely the women were only comforting each other when I saw them through the window, and what soul did not need some consolation in these hard times? I reminded him that consolation was not to be sought nor found in this life, but the next. Then he asked me did I never feel lonely. In the depth of winter, say, when the snow fills up all the pathways. I told him I never did. But this was akin to a lie. Teague said he could not believe I was such a hard man. I gave him no answer, for my thoughts were all confounded. Then he said he would not part with me on bad terms, and came up to me and embraced me, and held onto me, and his leg lay against my leg. All that was last night. And today charges were laid by my information against Teague Joanes for an attempt at sodomy. * These are bitter times. The wind of opposition blows full in my face, but I must not turn aside, for fear of my soul. At last our court found Sara Norman guilty of lewd behaviour with Mary Hammon, but sentenced her merely to make a public acknowledgement on the Sunday following. She lives now in a mud hut on the edge of our plantation, and her children with her. With my own eyes I have seen some of the brethren stop to speak with her on the road. I ask why she has not been cast out, and there is none will answer me. The case against Teague Joanes has not yet been heard. He is well liked among those who are deceived by a show of friendliness and Satan's own sweet smile. Many whisper that the charges should be struck out. No one says a word to me these days. But I know what I know. Our paths crossed on Sunday, and he spat on my back. * I am not a dreaming man, but last night the most dreadful sight was shown to me. I saw Teague Joanes and Sara Norman on a bed, consorting together uncleanly, turning the natural use to that which is against nature, and laughing all the while. And when I woke I knew this was no fancy but a true vision, granted me by the Lord, so that with the eyes of sleep I could witness what is hidden in the light of day. So I walked to the court and laid charges against them both. The clerk did not want to write down my dream. So I took him by the collar and I asked would he wrestle with God's own angel? * In the whole town there is none who will greet me. I hear the slurs they cast upon me as I go down the street. I work in my own field, though these days my bones creak like dead trees. I keep my head down if ever someone passes by. I wait for the court to hear my evidence. I must stand fast. I must not give in to the soft persuasions of Satan, who would have me show what he calls mercy. * Today I was called to the court. I stepped out my door and over my head were hanging icicles as thick as my fist and sharp like swords of glass. There in the court were Teague Jones and Sara Norman and many others, the whole people of Plimouth. And I read on their faces that they were my enemies and God's. At first I spoke up stoutly and told of the wickedness that is spreading through this plantation, and of the secrets that hide in the folds of men's hearts. And then Teague Joanes stood up and shouted out that I had no heart. It was quiet for a moment, a quietness I have never heard before. Then I was asked over and over again about what I had seen, and what I had imagined, and what I knew for sure. But I could not answer. I felt a terrible spinning. All I could think on was the evening Teague Joanes walked in my door. Not of the words he spoke, but the way he stood there, looking in my eyes as few know how to in these times. The way he laid his arms around me, fearless, and pressed me to him, as one brother to another. And all of a sudden I remembered the treacherous stirring between us, the swelling of evil, and I knew whose body began it. So I said out very loud in front of the whole court that I had perjured myself and that I withdrew all charges and that I was damned for all time. And when I walked to the door, the people moved out of my way, so as not to touch me. I went across the fields for fear of meeting any human creature on the road. And it seemed to me the snow was like a face, for its crust is an image of perfection, but underneath is all darkness and slime. And I wept, a thing I have not done since I was a child, and the water turned to ice on my cheeks.
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‘The Lost Seed’ was broadcast on BBC Radio 4, May 2000, and first published in GROUNDSWELL: THE DIVA BOOK OF SHORT STORIES 2 (London: Diva Books, 2002). ‘The Lost Seed’, © Emma Donoghue, 2000, 2009 [slightly revised). Not to be copied, downloaded or otherwise used without permission.
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