M. Wren: A Gift Upon the Shore

She takes her place at Jerry’s side a few feet from the door, and as if the contrast were purposely staged, the next to emerge are Enid, Bernadette, and Grace. The three crones, so I call them, well aware that I am the fourth crone. Enid is holding Deborah’s hand, and Grace is carrying three-year-old Rachel, who is crying disconsolately. Jonathan, Jerry’s eldest, comes out next, with his half-brother, Isaac, at his side and Little Mary behind him. Then Esther emerges, tall and lithe, her dark skin the color of a Benin bronze. I call her our earth mother, and she is in fact five months pregnant. I see in her face none of her usual calm, and her distress, obvious even from a distance, sounds in my mind the first faint alarm. She rests one hand on her son’s shoulder.

Stephen. He surprises me sometimes because I look at him expecting to see a boy and instead see a youth nearing manhood. He’s thirteen now, nearly as tall as his mother, and he has her dark, curling hair, her obsidian black eyes, her supple grace. But now there is an odd rigidity in his stance.

None of the family makes a move to go to the house. They all remain near the church door, and my curiosity is piqued. Something has altered the routine.

I realize that something is not only unusual, but seriously wrong when I see Esther appealing to Jerry. I’m too far away to understand what she’s saying except for her last words: “He didn’t mean to. Please —he’s only a child!”

Jerry shakes his head, and Esther slowly retreats from Stephen, who stands with his back to the closed door. When Miriam holds out her hand, Jerry—reluctantly, it seems—unbuckles his leather belt and gives it to her. She speaks to Stephen, and I watch, baffled, as he takes off his shirt, turns, reaches out to brace his palms against the door.

I don’t believe what I’m seeing, and that doubt paralyzes me. Miriam folds her hands over the leather strap and bows her head. Her voice carries easily to me. I hear every word. “Heavenly Father, have mercy on this our brother, who has blasphemed in Your presence….”

Blasphemed ?

The word impels me forward, rage rising from some capped well deep within me where memories and hatred are stored. I throw my weight onto my cane at every step, but I can’t run. Old woman, half-crippled old woman, hobbling along on aching limbs.

Miriam stands in an empty circle whose radius is the length of the belt, and now she draws back her hand, the belt snakes out with a vicious whisper, cracks against Stephen’s naked back, leaves its livid track burned into his flesh.

And over his muffled cry I shout, “ Stop it! ”

My protest goes unheard, and again the belt slashes through the air, snaps across Stephen’s back, forcing out another cry, leaving another dark welt. I stumble on, while Miriam draws the belt back again, but I’m only a few feet away now, and I reach out for the flailing leather.

It hits my hand with a burning shock as it wraps around my wrist and pulls me off balance. I fall, hard and clumsily, lie clutching green spring grass in my hands, while my heart pounds against the constriction in my chest that stops my breath. Beyond the ringing whine in my ears, I hear the dogs barking, little Rachel wailing, all the women talking at once, and finally Jerry bellowing, “Enough! That’s enough, everybody!”

At length silence prevails, except for Shadow, who stands by me, growling at Miriam. And Miriam glares at me, her ivory skin spoiled with mottled red. I manage to get enough breath to quiet Shadow, then Jerry helps me to my feet. He offers me my cane, never once looking me in the eye. The belt is still wrapped around my wrist, and when I remove it, I make no effort to hide the red weals under it. I hand the belt to Jerry, and he takes it, frowning as if he’s never seen it before.

I glance at Stephen. Esther is draping his shirt around his shoulders, but he seems unaware of her. He’s staring at me.

And I demand, “What’s going on here, Jeremiah?”

Miriam answers my question. Blue eyes glacier cold, she says, “This is a just punishment! Five lashes, that’s all, and he’d be better for it. He’d be cleansed in the eyes of the Lord!”

Behind Miriam, Grace nods emphatically. Her white scarf rekindles some of my rage. Enid and Esther seem bewildered, while Bernadette watches with narrowed eyes, like a spectator at a play waiting for the next line. And Jerry—he stands with his wide shoulders slumped, and now he seems annoyed more than anything else. The children watch, silent and motionless. Why should they understand any of this? No child has ever been punished here by any means other than a hand to the posterior, and even that was unusual. This is absurd.

I turn on Miriam. “A just punishment?” The words are burdened with dark memories. “What did Stephen do to deserve this?”

“He blasphemed!”

I demand of Jerry, “What did Stephen do ?”

Jerry’s big hands curl into fists. “He… asked questions he shouldn’t have.”

“ What questions?”

Jerry looks at Stephen. “You tell her.”

Stephen swallows, but his voice is level, uninflected. “I asked why Jesus was called the son of David if Mary was a virgin. The begats —there’s two of them in the gospels, one in the third chapter of Luke, the other in the first chapter of Matthew, and they both go from David to Joseph , not Mary. Besides, they don’t match up, and I—”

“Be quiet!” Miriam shrills. “You’ll not repeat your blasphemy!”

I feel the binding ache in my chest again. “Miriam, he only asked a question! Why didn’t you answer it?”

“Because there are some questions a child shouldn’t ask!”

“What questions should a child not be free to ask?”

“Mary, please…” Jerry’s quiet voice reminds me that I’ve let mine get out of control. He looks around at the family. “This has gone too far,” he pronounces solemnly. “I’m making an end to it, and I never want to hear any more about it. Is that understood?” He waits for the expected nods, then: “Miriam, it’s time for breakfast.”

She stares at him, seems on the verge of protesting that dismissal, but her eyes narrow, anger retreating into calculation. Jerry is Elder here, and she won’t openly defy him. The patriarchal traditions of her childhood are too well ingrained in her. I doubt such defiance has occurred to her as a possibility. Not yet.

She says to me, “I’m sorry about your hand, Mary, but you got in my way.”

Then she turns and strides past the breezeway gate toward the house, and one by one the other women and the children follow her. Bernadette takes Stephen’s arm. “Come on, I’ll fix an aloe poultice for your back. Mary? What about your hand?”

“Later, Bernadette. Thanks.”

When Jerry and I are finally alone, I ask, “How did this happen?”

He grimaces, nervously adjusts the headband confining his long hair—a strip of cloth on which is embroidered, white on blue, DO UNTO OTHERS AS YOU WOULD HAVE THEM DO UNTO YOU. He says “I’m… not sure. I mean, it happened so fast, and—well, I told Miriam she could run the morning services. It means a lot to her, and I didn’t want…”

“You didn’t want to argue with her?”

“Mary, it’s important to keep peace in the family. You know that.”

“Yes, I know.” I know that we’re a fragile, profoundly isolated community, and that dissension could destroy us. But what does he consider a reasonable price for peace?

He seems encouraged by my apparent agreement. “And Stephen did blaspheme.”

“Jerry, don’t be silly. He only asked a question. Do you really think Stephen is capable of blasphemy?”