Free Flight of the Sparrow by Amy Belding Brown

building a huge fire. Mary is shaking with cold and hunger. But instead of leading her to shelter the warrior pulls her to a large stone two rods away from the fire, and sweeps it clean of snow.
    “Here,” he says, pointing. “You sleep here.”
    Mary cannot imagine sleeping ever again, let alone on a frozen rock with no blanket. She shakes her head. “Please,” she says. “Let me sleep in the shelter with my children.”
    He strikes her so hard she loses her footing and tumbles back onto the rock. Sarah falls, thrashing, on top of her. Mary sprawls there, wondering at her own foolishness. She had reacted impulsively, without thinking of the consequences—as if she and Sarah were not in the gravest danger.
    Her captor gestures that she must sleep where she fell. Mary pulls Sarah to her and spreads the cloak over both of them, though it is a poor barrier against the bitterly cold night. Her head swims and her side feels as if a hot iron is pressing against it, pressing deeper with every breath. She closes her eyes and prays—for her husband’s safety and for God’s mercy upon her and her poor captive children.
    •   •   •
    M ary starts awake. Unearthly, piercing cries swirl through the darkness, lifting the small hairs on her neck. She raises her head. The Indians have gathered in a wide circle around the fire.Some are making the rhythmic yelps and shrieks that awakened her, while others writhe before them in grotesque postures. Like creatures from hell, she thinks. They hop and twist around the fire, their bodies black against the bright flames. It takes her a moment to understand what she is seeing. But she finally realizes—their cries are an unholy music, and their convoluted movements are a barbaric form of dancing. She is witnessing a celebration, a pagan thanksgiving.
    The men have butchered livestock. The leg of a cow—perhaps her own milk cow—roasts on a spit over the fire. A sow’s head lies near a pile of unplucked hens. Mary does not move, yet as she watches, she grows angry. It is English food they are eating, the fruit of her labor feeding the enemy, while she has not even a morsel to nourish herself or her child.
    She sits all the way up and pulls Sarah into her lap. The girl’s eyes blink open and shut and she whimpers, “Mother .” Her skirt and bodice are torn at the waist, the fabric soaked in blood. Mary tries to examine her wound without hurting her, but every time she starts to open the bodice, Sarah moans and flails her arms. After several attempts, Mary admits defeat. Even if she could clearly see the wound, she has no salve to treat it. She resettles Sarah against her bosom and rocks her back to sleep.
    The chanting and dancing go on and on. Mary feels herself slide into a sort of trance, brooding on what she witnessed that day and wondering what lies ahead. She reminds herself that it is God’s providence that Sarah still lives, and that she herself has been preserved to care for her daughter. Perhaps He wants Mary to prevail against the heathens. Didn’t He show the people of Israel again and again that their strength was in Him? Didn’t He lead them out of Egypt?
    In the flickering light, Mary notes that the rope that binds her neck has been thrown over a branch above her head, with the other end tied to a tree some distance away. As she studies thearrangement, she sees its cleverness—it permits her some limited movement, but if she tries to go too far, she will quickly strangle herself.
    She peers into the trees that rise beyond the firelight. The Indians are occupied with their celebration and pay no attention to her. If she moves slowly and quietly, she might be able to untie the knot, carry Sarah into the concealing trees, and find her way home.
    Home. She has no home. Her house is gone, no more than charred beams on the frozen earth. Yet she reasons that there must be some building or shed in Lancaster left standing, a place where she and Sarah could shelter