We Shall Care for Her
Lila
The indigenous women melt back into the trees behind us, and a hollow shiver runs through me. For a moment, I had felt some measure of safety in their quiet kindness, but now I’m in Salem, a place where people are hanged, and the weight of history presses down on me, making my heart race as I realize how truly out of place, and out of time, I am.
Rebecca Nurse leans closer to me, her voice low. “Are you hurt? You must be frozen solid.”
“Maiden,” one of the women says, taking my wet dress from my hands. “What is your name?”
“Lila,” is all I can muster.
A calm voice replies, “I’m Sarah.” She glances at the others behind her. “This is Mary, Susannah, and Rebecca. We’ll take you to Rebecca’s house. It’s not far from here.”
Rebecca Nurse walks at the center, her back crooked and her shoulders slumped from years of labor and age. She moves slowly, her steps careful, as if each one takes effort. Her hands clutch her shawl, and her face is lined and pale, the skin thin from time and toil. She is meek and exhausted, the kind of woman who could never wield power over anyone or anything.
A sharp gust cuts through our line, and I shiver violently, staggering. One of the women grabs my elbow, her calloused hands steadying me. I let her, leaning into the support, feeling my legs tremble under me. My stomach churns, my throat is dry, and my pulse races as if I’ve been running for hours.
“Here,” Rebecca says, pointing to a brick house just off the path. The others nod, easing me toward it with careful hands. I follow as if in a dream, half-suspended between the chill outside and the dizzying heat of my body. My head lolls against the shoulder of the woman beside me, and I feel weaker than I ever have before.
We reach the door, and the group gently ushers me inside. The warmth hits me like a wave, the scent of wood smoke and dried herbs filling my senses. My legs finally give way entirely, and I collapse onto the floor. Hands lift me effortlessly, carrying me to a small, feather-stuffed bed tucked into a back bedroom. Rebecca Nurse hovers at the bedside, pulling the blanket around me with practiced ease.
“You’ll rest here,” she says, her voice calm. “You’re safe, child.”
I close my eyes, a hum of voices around me, and the heat of the fire warming the room. Relief and exhaustion wrestle for dominance, but I still feel weak.
A small tray is set at my side, where a cup of broth steams, thick with the scent of carrots and onions, along with a small cup of water, clear and cold. I gulp the water first. Then setting the cup down, I grasp the bowl of broth, my hands shaking. The steaming liquid is soothing against my tongue, but my stomach still coils with unease.
“You must drink,” Rebecca Nurse says, kneeling beside me. Her gray hair is tucked neatly beneath her bonnet. Her voice carries no impatience, only quiet insistence. “You look pale, child.”
I nod mutely, sipping the broth as Rebecca’s household stirs around me. A young girl, perhaps five, flits across the room, her eyes filled with curiosity. “Grandmother,” she says, “who is she?”
Rebecca glances down at me. “She is a maiden named Lila, and she is unwell, my dear,” she says gently. “No need for questions now. We shall care for her.”
Another deeper, rougher voice, maybe a son-in-law or an older grandson, grumbles about the bitter cold and of how I nearly caught my death.
Their movements are careful, almost reverent, as if approaching a fragile creature. I study them quickly, realizing that this is Rebecca Nurse’s family: a daughter, tall and sturdy, with a wary glance; a granddaughter, small and precocious, and a man with suspicion etched into his expression.
I close my eyes, trying to calm the panic rising like wildfire in my chest. Each detail I take in–the sturdy beams overhead, the woolen skirts and aprons–is proof that I am in the past. But my mind rebels against it. I have no name here, no explanation. If I open my mouth to ask, they will think me mad, and perhaps they’d be right.
Rebecca straightens the blanket around me one last time. “I’ll check on you soon,” she says.
The younger woman murmurs, “We’ll leave you to yourself now. You need quiet.”
“Thank you,” I croak, my throat dry.
The click of the latch echoes in the small room as they leave, and I sink into the pillows, the hush around me pressing in. My eyelids grow heavy, and despite the fever, I finally drift into sleep.
Fever blooms like fire beneath my skin, making each breath feel heavy, each blink a labor. My stomach aches, and my head spins with a fog that seems to thicken with every second. Rebecca kneels beside me, her hands firm on my forehead. “The child is burning up,” she mutters, her voice low, almost to herself. “We must fetch help.”
A voice answers quickly. “I’ll fetch the healer.” The footsteps fade, leaving only my ragged breathing.
Time stretches, and the room spins. Every sound, every shadow is dull against the fog of fever.
Finally, I hear the clatter of shoes on the wooden boards and a knock at the door. Rebecca rises and opens it to a poised woman who carries herself with a quiet authority. Her dark curls are lined with streaks of gray, billowing loosely, and her eyes are deep green.
“Good day, Mistress Nurse,” she says to Rebecca, her voice calm and smooth. “I hear there is illness here. I am told the girl is feverish and weak.”
Rebecca nods, gesturing toward the bed. “Indeed. She is ailing, and I fear the sickness will take hold. Please, see what you can do.”
I squint at the small satchel the woman begins removing leaves from. “Is that feverfew?” I croak, pointing to a sprig. “And lavender… and… that looks like elderflower?”
The woman’s eyes fill with curiosity. “You know these leaves?” she asks, her voice inquisitive. She kneels beside me, carefully spreading the herbs in front of me. “Most girls your age wouldn’t have the sense to recognize even one of them.”
“I… my mother taught me,” I whisper. “And I’ve gathered and dried them myself. I know which to brew for fevers, which for pain, which to ward off sickness.”
“Well, then you’ll make this easier for both of us. Let’s see how we can help you recover.”
I nod weakly, trying to focus. “I… yes,” I croak. “I have prepared teas of catnip and chamomile. The raspberry leaves are also helpful for fever.”
She smiles faintly, a small, secretive curve of her lips. “You are wise beyond your years. We shall combine what we have. A tea of mint and elderflower, a poultice of yarrow and plantain, and if the fever rises, a compress of comfrey on the temples.”
I watch her work, fascinated despite the haze of illness. She moves with deliberation, crushing herbs with the pestle, boiling water over the hearth.
I sip the bitter tea she hands me, and it seems to ease some of the ache. “Thank you,” I murmur, my voice still rough. “I… I don’t even know your name.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Miriam Carter,” she says softly. “I’m the village healer. You, my dear, have strength, even in this sickness. That strength will see you through.”
Miriam settles into a chair beside my bed, her emerald eyes fixed on me with curiosity. “Child, tell me,” she says, her voice calm. “Who brought you here? Who guided you to this place?”
I falter, realizing this woman won’t know the word indigenous. “Some very kind women brought me here,” I manage, voice trembling. “They’re not English, not from this village.”
Miriam studies me, her expression patient. “Ah,” she says finally, nodding. “You mean the people of the land, the ones who know the forests, the rivers, the winds before us.” She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Naumkeag, the children of this soil long before Salem was here.”
The women who helped me were Naumkeag, just as I thought.
“Yes,” she continues, tilting her head. “They saw you lost, drifting between worlds. You are fortunate to have crossed paths with them. Few are so guided.”
Her words hit me like a strike I can’t see coming. How could she know this? Nothing I have said gives her any reason to, and yet she seems to understand. My chest tightens in panic, but I force myself to remain still, unable to voice the questions swirling in my mind.
“Some things happen outside the bounds of understanding,” Miriam says quietly. “Not everything must be explained.”
The soft shuffle of footsteps fades, the click of the latch marking their departure. I feel the heat of the blankets, and the quiet settling around me. My thoughts drift, scattered deep in the fever haze, and I hope, desperately, that when I open my eyes, I’ll be back in 2025, back in my own time, back where none of this could possibly be real.
And then, finally, sleep takes me.