slowly in her hands.
“You know, Kitto, that I . . . I am a member of the Religious Society of Friends. A Quaker, you would say.” Kitto nodded.
“My father knew George Fox, who started the movement, and he brought it to Falmouth. That is how I became involved.”
“You have told me that before,” Kitto said.
“A central principle among Friends is that of peace.” Sarah looked down warily at the weapon in her hands.
“And for that reason you never tolerated guns in our home,” Kitto said. He remembered times when she had marched tradesmen straight out of the shop because they had entered with pistols in their belts. Sarah took a slow and deep breath and raised the pistol. She sighted along its barrel, aiming down the beach.
Kitto felt alarmed. “What are you doing?”
Van stepped away swinging a medium-size turtleshell in one hand. He ran several yards down the beach and turned.
“Here?” he said to Sarah, grinning broadly. Sarah nodded with a look of resignation. She took a step away from Kitto.
“You are going to fire it?” Kitto said, even more astonished now. “Do you even know how?”
Ontoquas held up her palm toward Van to tell him to wait, then retreated up the path by which they had come, pressing Bucket’s turned head to her shoulder to cover the baby’s ears.
“Right, then!” Van said. “Here goes!” Van drew his arm behind his back and then whipped it forward, sending the shell hurtling outward over the surf. Kitto barely had time to comprehend what Van intended before Sarah’s pistol exploded in her hand and recoiled. Instantly the shell shattered into a thousand shards and tumbled into the white foam to vanish.
Kitto, incredulous, pointed to the spot in the air where the shell had been.
“How? But . . .”
Sarah carefully returned the pistol to the oilcloth and draped the excess over the guns to keep the sand from them. She sat down next to Kitto.
“My father taught me. In secret, of course.”
Kitto finally found his tongue. “So you . . . all this time you have known how to shoot?” Sarah nodded.
“And all this time I have greatly been opposed to weapons and to violence.” She hung her head a moment.“And still I am.” She took Kitto’s hand. “You will remember the words I have told you all these years, that what you see in your mind’s eye and deeply believe, you can make come true?” Kitto nodded. How could he ever forget that lesson? Who might he have let himself become without it?
“Those are not just words for me. They run deep. My father taught them to me, taught me that notion.” Sarah let go Kitto’s hand and stood again. She bent over and took up the musket. “They run deeper than the teachings of Friends.”
Kitto had forgotten the burning pain in his stump. “I do not understand, Mum.”
Sarah reached down to Van’s pile of shells, snatched a largish one up and cast it toward Van who caught it neatly. Van grinned, turning and walking down the beach again.
Sarah set her feet in a wide stance and lifted the musket to shoulder level. She lowered her eye to the site and pulled back the hammer.
“Morris will be back. He has my boy. I know it. And I will be ready to do whatever a mother must, no matter how it might imperil my soul.” A long way down the beach now, Van hurled the shell out over the surf. Kitto watched Sarah’s body tense. The musket bucked, roared, and a plume of smoke drifted off in the breeze. Kitto turned in time to see the last shards of turtle shell scatter into the white foam.
Sarah sat down next to Kitto, but Kitto edged away.This was all too much: his clubfoot, this island, a baby . . . now this. His mother knew how to shoot!
A long moment of silence passed between them until Van charged up and gave Kitto a slap on the shoulder.
“Is that not something? Your mum could best the king’s own marksmen!” Van’s bright teeth flashed in the sun. “What a wonder, eh?”
Sarah silenced him with a look.
“You know, Kitto, that I . . . I am a member of the Religious Society of Friends. A Quaker, you would say.” Kitto nodded.
“My father knew George Fox, who started the movement, and he brought it to Falmouth. That is how I became involved.”
“You have told me that before,” Kitto said.
“A central principle among Friends is that of peace.” Sarah looked down warily at the weapon in her hands.
“And for that reason you never tolerated guns in our home,” Kitto said. He remembered times when she had marched tradesmen straight out of the shop because they had entered with pistols in their belts. Sarah took a slow and deep breath and raised the pistol. She sighted along its barrel, aiming down the beach.
Kitto felt alarmed. “What are you doing?”
Van stepped away swinging a medium-size turtleshell in one hand. He ran several yards down the beach and turned.
“Here?” he said to Sarah, grinning broadly. Sarah nodded with a look of resignation. She took a step away from Kitto.
“You are going to fire it?” Kitto said, even more astonished now. “Do you even know how?”
Ontoquas held up her palm toward Van to tell him to wait, then retreated up the path by which they had come, pressing Bucket’s turned head to her shoulder to cover the baby’s ears.
“Right, then!” Van said. “Here goes!” Van drew his arm behind his back and then whipped it forward, sending the shell hurtling outward over the surf. Kitto barely had time to comprehend what Van intended before Sarah’s pistol exploded in her hand and recoiled. Instantly the shell shattered into a thousand shards and tumbled into the white foam to vanish.
Kitto, incredulous, pointed to the spot in the air where the shell had been.
“How? But . . .”
Sarah carefully returned the pistol to the oilcloth and draped the excess over the guns to keep the sand from them. She sat down next to Kitto.
“My father taught me. In secret, of course.”
Kitto finally found his tongue. “So you . . . all this time you have known how to shoot?” Sarah nodded.
“And all this time I have greatly been opposed to weapons and to violence.” She hung her head a moment.“And still I am.” She took Kitto’s hand. “You will remember the words I have told you all these years, that what you see in your mind’s eye and deeply believe, you can make come true?” Kitto nodded. How could he ever forget that lesson? Who might he have let himself become without it?
“Those are not just words for me. They run deep. My father taught them to me, taught me that notion.” Sarah let go Kitto’s hand and stood again. She bent over and took up the musket. “They run deeper than the teachings of Friends.”
Kitto had forgotten the burning pain in his stump. “I do not understand, Mum.”
Sarah reached down to Van’s pile of shells, snatched a largish one up and cast it toward Van who caught it neatly. Van grinned, turning and walking down the beach again.
Sarah set her feet in a wide stance and lifted the musket to shoulder level. She lowered her eye to the site and pulled back the hammer.
“Morris will be back. He has my boy. I know it. And I will be ready to do whatever a mother must, no matter how it might imperil my soul.” A long way down the beach now, Van hurled the shell out over the surf. Kitto watched Sarah’s body tense. The musket bucked, roared, and a plume of smoke drifted off in the breeze. Kitto turned in time to see the last shards of turtle shell scatter into the white foam.
Sarah sat down next to Kitto, but Kitto edged away.This was all too much: his clubfoot, this island, a baby . . . now this. His mother knew how to shoot!
A long moment of silence passed between them until Van charged up and gave Kitto a slap on the shoulder.
“Is that not something? Your mum could best the king’s own marksmen!” Van’s bright teeth flashed in the sun. “What a wonder, eh?”
Sarah silenced him with a look.
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