Barren Heath

Chapter One

During the half-year I spent lodging in the old town near the coast, I had many occasions to seek out and listen to stories and legends of the local people as well as accounts of their land and customs. But I didn’t know I had acquired such a high reputation as an observer and auditor of that town and country, until one evening a certain traveler approached me at table. He addressed me and enquired concerning a certain estate or former estate known as the Rose Hill, which he supposed to be in the county. I had to tell him I didn’t know anything about this place but I did know of whom to make enquiries, so I asked the man to meet me again at nine in the morning of the following day, at which time I would share with him whatever intelligence I hoped to gain in the meantime.

As the man rose to leave I asked his name and his mission in the colony, and he answered, “John of Windside, at your service.” Then, lowering his voice just a little, he said, “being on an investigation for the master surveyor in the service of the houses of Twine and Norfleet.” He turned and quit the room for the hall and the stairs. I sat a while longer, thinking and finishing my pipe, after which I bade good evening to the landlord and his wife and went out into the advancing night. I was lodging a little ways away in a different house, a smaller, more private one by the road that leads from town, and rises to the hills to the north. I resolved to speak to my kinswoman, Elizabeth, with whom I boarded, whose wisdom had several times been useful to me. I had every reason to imagine she would know this place Rose Hill, or at the very least could direct me to one who did know.

Elizabeth Twine Purcell was the oldest, and only kin I had still living in this low-lying county, to which my ancestors came when they first sailed to Carolina from England. Elizabeth, being about seventy-five years of age, was the widow of my great uncle Josiah in my father’s line, and also a second cousin once removed in my mother’s line. So she and I were blood kin in two different ways, beside that she had proved herself such a good and loyal friend, and I to her a supportive help.

When I asked her the question the man has posed in the inn, she studied her thoughts a minute and turned to say, “Rose Hill I know—leastwise I think I know, though my foggy head wants to confound it with another place, which used to be called Barren Heath. I think it must be very close by to it for the turning that leads to the one also leads to the other.”

She stopped and turned to the window, dark now since the sun had long since set. As she gazed she didn’t seem certain how to continue, so I prompted her by asking how these two places with names so different in meaning could be confused with each other and in what vicinity the two of them were to be found. In a moment she gave me her attention again and said, “According to my recollection, when I was a child riding on the wagon with my father, he used to say, “there’s the turning to go to Rose Hill,” but when I walked down that same road with my mother, I was taught, “yonder is the lane that leads up to Barren Heath. To my father it was the one and to my mother it was the other.”

And so, as it seemed that was the extent of her knowledge, all that remained was to determine what road exactly it was from which the lane in question turned off. She said it was the Sheep’s Landing Road, on which she traveled so many times in her childhood and so I committed it, in the form of a line chart, to the back of a page in my journal. From where we were there would only be three turnings to arrive at the Sheep’s Landing Road and then the lane would be on the right going toward the bay, midway between the old mill and the water. I closed my book and my kinswoman rose to get our supper, for which I was thankful—to God and to her. Afterward, having the required knowledge in hand, I bid her good night and took to my bed to rest.

The house was quiet and I slept well until at about the the hour of midnight my mind was stirred by a dream in which I saw a small child, a tiny girl thin and weak. Her eyes were unblinking and wide; her head was covered with a fine golden hair. I saw a woman holding her in her arms on the portico of the church. Then I came to full wakefulness, still seeing the child in my mind’s eye and wondering with wistfulness who she was or what she represented. I rose and looked for the tinder and the candle, thinking to write my dream as I had been advised to do by Dr. Inman, my teacher and friend. But my tinderbox had gone cold and I could not light the candle. Not believing I could write legibly in the dark, I gave up and went to sleep again. This time I slept until dawn, but being as it was a little cold I stayed abed a while longer, falling asleep again.

This time I dreamed again just before sunrise and the child returned to my vision, this time with more sensibility. I found myself inside the selfsame church as before while the woman brought the child inside. I began to walk down the aisle, being mindful of the two of them behind me. In front of us I could see very well the table set with the Eucharist. I could see Dr. Inman there; I wanted to commune. But when I heard the tiny child’s pitiful low cries, I knew then I had to stop and turn, and take her from the nurse. The babe reached out her arms to attach herself to me, enfolding me and clinging with a power that seemed beyond the possibility of that slight frame. I could feel the thin backbone through the pale skin and gown, and I marvelled at the greatness of the force of life within her small, weak body.

It was then I saw a number of the vestrymen in the pews on one side, as well as one or two women and I said to them, “Come with us. In thankfulness we will baptize my own dear child.” But at the font Dr. Inman asked for the child’s name and I didn’t know it, nor could I tell him and so I was thrust unwillingly into wakefulness.

My soul was possessed of a deep sorrow mixed with a sense of awe and wonder. I turned my heart to God and prayed, “Lord and Saviour, who is this warm and familiar child? How will I know her name and the meaning of this heart-rending vision?” And being that it was full daylight I could see well enough to write my dream on the page opposite the chart I had drawn just ten hours before.

I was closing my journal when at once I heard my cousin’s knock at the chamber door and voice in the passage. “Jonathan, are you still abed? Are you on your feet? A visitor is here for you.”

I was still in my gown so I leaned my shoulder against the door and spoke through it saying, “No, I’m not still abed and yes, I’m on my feet and who can be calling so early in the morning?” She said, “It’s a neighbor, a woman. Come and see.” I dressed quickly and came down to see the woman sitting on the edge of the chair by the door. She looked as if she would start from the chair in a second, but she stayed, and Elizabeth said, “Mrs. Hitt wants a word with you—about the man in the inn—the surveyor who spoke to you yesterday.”

With that little bit of introduction, Mrs. Hitt stood up and began immediately, “Oh Mr. Purcell, they are trying to move the boundary and take our land. It isn’t right what they are trying to do, what with my poor husband sick and in the bed these seven weeks, and the physician says he’ll be there likely seven weeks more. It isn’t right; we have the warrant for the land, but the man said—he said they have papers from the judge to negate the boundaries and make new ones. It isn’t right. It’s never been right, surely you know, to move the boundaries. It’s in the charter and it’s in the Bible. It’s always been the same. It’s just not right. What shall we do, Mr. Purcell? Are you helping the man? How can you see fit to help him in such a malevolent cause?” Her words flowed as water from an overfull cistern after the longest rain of the year and I didn’t know what to make of them, except to note the passion with which she communicated her troubles. I bade her to sit again and tried to communicate to her I wasn’t in league with any such surveyor and that I would be careful and circumspect in my dealings with him when I saw him at noon that day. Finally she calmed herself and, in a quieter voice, told me the land at Rose Hill was their sole source of income and necessary to the family’s survival and well-being. Acknowledging her concerns I helped her with her coat and walked with her back to her house, which was nearby in the next lane.

The surveyor was in the inn taking his breakfast when I arrived. He wished me a good morning, then asked the landlord to bring me whatever I wanted. But I saw fit, in order that there should be no question I was not a hired informant of any sort, to refuse all hospitality but tea, laying down the coin myself with a nod to the traveler and a word of thanks to the landlord’s wife.

“Well then Purcell, tell me what knowledge you have patched together to aid me in my business,” said Windside, as he quaffed the last of his wine and called for more.

“I know the location and am prepared to take and show you the place.” said I as I lowered myself to the board and received my tea from our hostess. “Rose Hill is close by another old place known as Barren Heath and is situated about three quarters of a mile from here out the highway and then up the Sheep’s Landing Road. As it’s a fine day, I will accompany you there if, that is, you do not have reason to insist on privacy for your errand.”

“No, I don’t have any need of privacy. It’s all the same to me; the road is free and open for anyone to walk upon. Truth be told I don’t need to be shown the way, for I already know it. And not only that, I have already made the trip to the place this morning just after dawn, while you, most likely, were still lying abed. I have located the boundary stones and made my marks and notes—all before sitting down to break my fast at this landlord’s homely board.” And with that he started suddenly to his feet, but as he rose the bench behind him rolled over backwards, clattering upon the flags, which brought the landlord rushing out into the room to check the commotion and right the furniture.

“Well then,” Windside continued, “thanks for your investigation, Mr. Purcell. ‘Twas well-intended, I’m sure—if a little redundant and late. But if you feel you must give a report to the poor Mrs. Hitt and her little husband, you may say my evidence will be on the magistrate’s bench at the county seat tomorrow afternoon. If she wants to make any entreaty concerning the matter she must do it there and there only. I only measure and reckon; I do not judge.” And with that the man strided through the front door to find his horse saddled and ready. He mounted with no delay and rode out of the village with a great clatter.