Free Flight of the Sparrow by Amy Belding Brown Page B

alone, but for her lost children. For Sarah especially.
    “Please,” she whispers, even as she bows her head to take the knife. “Please, I beg you. Have mercy.” She closes her eyes.
    She feels the blade against her throat, feels it move back and forth across her skin. She is certain now that he is going to torture her with a slow death.The force of the blade finally becomes so great it cuts off her breath.
    The pressure is suddenly released and the rope falls to the ground. It takes her a moment to realize the Indian has not hurt her. He has set her free.
    She takes three deep breaths. “Thank you.” Her voice scratches the air and then she is suddenly, brutally cold. Her jaw shakes and her teeth clatter in her head. The Indian picks up her cloak and hands it to her. Mary wraps it around her body, though she realizes, as the cold settles into her marrow, that it is not cold alone, but the chill of death.
    “Do you know where my daughter is?” She can barely form the words. “Do you know where they have taken her?”
    He returns his knife to its pouch. “Monoco’s son carries her on a horse.”
    The name Monoco is familiar . He is the one-eyed sachem of the Nashaway tribe that sold land to her father and the other Lancaster proprietors. Mary has seen him swaggering along the town roads as if he built them himself. “Where? Where can I find her?”
    He points, and without a backward glance, she runs in that direction, though the path is crowded with Indians. She races past them, thrashing through the snow. On the far side of a ridge she sees a horse and rider. Her legs sag under her and she grabs a sapling to keep from falling, briefly leaning against it before pressing on. An Indian calls out, mocking her flight, and another grabs her arm, but she wrenches away. When she finally draws near, she finds an Indian boy about Joss’s age riding the Kettles’ mare, clasping Sarah around the waist. Her daughter is moaning. Mary runs her hand over the mare’s flank and reaches for Sarah. The boy stares down at her without expression.
    “Thank you,” Mary gasps. “Thank you for carrying her.”
    He does not respond. She doesn’t know if he’s proud, stupid, or simply doesn’t understand English. She does not care. Walking beside the horse with her hand on Sarah’s leg, Mary is flooded with gratitude. For the Lord, who has preserved Sarah’s life and given Mary reason to hope. For the Indian boy who carries her daughter. And for the tall Indian who cut her free.



CHAPTER SEVEN
    They walk west through frozen wilderness, stopping only to sleep when it grows dark. Mary trudges along, trying to keep up with the Kettles’ mare, to stay as close as she can to Sarah. On the third day, the boy riding the mare offers her his place. His kindness surprises her and she briefly wonders if it is a trick, if riding the horse will cost her more than she is willing to pay. Yet she quickly accepts, unable to resist the opportunity to hold and comfort her daughter, though the awkward heft and twist of her torso as she climbs on reopens the wound in her side.
    Every motion causes Sarah pain. She groans and grinds her teeth and rolls her head back and forth on Mary’s chest. She cries out, “I shall die!”over and over, while Mary alternately tries to hush her and murmur encouragement.
    From the mare’s back, Mary sees the line stretching out in front of her. She watches warriors hurry the captives along, prodding them with their war clubs when they stumble. She looks in vain for Joss and Marie, but spots Ann Joslin, sees her reel and nearly drop Beatrice. Elizabeth Kettle has her head bowed and weeps as she walks, continually rubbing her face with her sleeves.
    It begins to snow. The flakes fall fast and the wind catches them. Snow stings Mary’s cheeks and clots on her eyelashes. It is difficult to see more than a few rods ahead. As they start down a long hill, the mare stumbles. Sarah and Mary fly over her head and crash to