Down from the Tree: Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series - Book Three

By Mj Pettengill

In 1878, on a poor farm in New Hampshire, lived a courageous orphan boy named Samuel.
Following the death of his mother, he is threatened to be taken away from the only home he knows.
Unworldly and innocent, he navigates merciless conditions and risks getting lost entirely, until finding comfort in a tree—a knowing tree. Legend has it that if one climbs high enough, it is possible to disappear and view the entire world. What Samuel witnesses from the heart of the tree forever changes him.
Maintaining a determined spirit, he fends for himself, piecing together clues leading to the identity of his father, the farm boss who never claimed him. Is there really such a thing as a second chance?
Destiny awaits as dark family secrets are revealed. What lies beyond the fence? Will Samuel come down from the tree?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mj Pettengill
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463246849

Mj Pettengill

Mj Pettengill, historian and author of the Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series, focuses on cultural narrative and traditions, historical and intergenerational trauma integration, ancestral healing, and social welfare development.She is that woman in the woods, one who carries nuts and seeds in her pocket, hand feeding birds, chipmunks, and other critters. She creates in her woodland studio on a farm in New Hampshire, where she also practices the art of medicinal plants and wildcraft.Mj has a background in Civil War Musicology and trumpet performance.In addition to her undergraduate work, she has an MFA in creative writing.

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Copyright © 2019 Mj Pettengill

Cover Design © Mj Pettengill

Author Photo © Brenda Ladd Photography

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781701340756 (paperback)

Dedication

For Samuel.

Together we became motherless and found the heart of the tree.

Together we came down, making ourselves whole.

In loving memory of my mother, Florence Ellen Pettengill 

April 30, 1932 — September 2, 2018

Preface

What does it mean to come down from the tree?  The answers lie in the heart of it. For a child, a safe and secret world is essential. Life-giving power and healthy growth and development dwell in the roots—the bones of the land. Self-trust and the freedom to explore, even in the harshest of conditions, may provide much-needed stability and relief.

Perhaps a child accompanied by the lowest members of society, afflicted by dire poverty—devastation, death, physical, mental, and emotional impairment, war, sin, and more—would not want to come down at all.

Poverty is not limited to one’s socioeconomic status; it is often a predicament of the soul as well. A child inmate at the County Farm would have done well to have such a tree. It is a way up, an attempt to restore what was lost, possibly the making or unmaking of a boy. It is imperative to pause and assess whether the needs of today’s children are being met or, depending on the current political climate, remaining an endless burden. 

One of the most frequently asked questions by my readers is about the fate of this little boy: What becomes of Samuel? It is time for Samuel to share his youthful journey. We learn of the unfortunate circumstances leading to his birth, and we meet him briefly at the end of both Etched in Granite, Book One, and The Angels’ Lament, Book Two. He shows up at the train station, where, for the first time, he meets his Aunt Sarah, who had been away working in a textile mill. We encounter him as a child at the stone garden, and we endure the loss of his beloved mother.

In this part of the story, Samuel’s father, Silas, has an opportunity to claim his son, to right the grievous wrongs that plagued them all for so long. Will he succeed?

For many, this will be a reunion as we revisit Abigail, Silas, Nellie, Moses, and the others that we came to know so well in the first book.

Samuel, the sole narrator in Down from the Tree, fills in the missing years and provides a fresh outlook of life on the County Farm. His bold innocence reminds us of that which is basic. Since Samuel never went beyond the fence, his comprehension of what most might find harrowing is often enlightening. He evokes what many elders in our society may consider long-forgotten, fundamental values. For instance, while gruel and bone pickin’s may repulse one, it could well be another’s feast. 

His vision—oftentimes expressed from the heart of the tree—is startling, offering an alternative perspective of that which has been hard-wired into the human psyche. From childhood to adulthood, we create and incorporate a vast array of filters, born of multiple experiences, altering the perception of nearly everything in our path. By nature, our personal history is viewed through these complex lenses as they continue to evolve and change. 

When I set out to write this novel, I had a goal. It was to answer the pressing question about the fate of young Samuel. I needed to dig deeper into the County Farm and face the very same issues that we confront today regarding the destiny of our children. There is a fine line between the old and the new as we fail to eradicate overwhelming poverty—homelessness, hunger, lack of medical care, and equal access to quality public education.

During the crafting of the Etched in Granite Historical Fiction Series, I became accustomed to unearthing omitted history. This discovery process has proven to be life-altering as I continue opening doors that lead to stories untold. A crucial element of this unfolding is trust, not knowing what awaits, and having the courage to stay or walk away.

Over and above the research, I had not experienced or fully anticipated the emotional depth of losing one’s mother. Whether living in an upscale home, a crowded tenement, or a dismal almshouse in rural New Hampshire, this loss is momentous.

As I was preparing to write this novel, my own mother fell ill. It was not a lengthy illness, but it brought her to the grave. To write about a child enduring the loss of his mother at that time was inconceivable. At a loss for words, I stared at the blank page. In time, I accepted my state of ungrieving. I had an idea of what I wished to convey in Samuel’s story, so I wrote. It was dispassionate at best. I had stepped outside of myself when I penned over twenty chapters. Both inside and out, it was a long winter.

I needed to leave the Farm—Samuel, Abigail, and the others—behind. Day after day, I sat in the darkness of being undaughtered. I longed to experience my version of healthy grief. The deaths of our mothers had become messy, and I intended to keep them separate.

Leaving an opening for his return, I awaited his protests or for my walls to crumble. I resumed my creative, transformative work, often related to my ancestral roots. I have traced back centuries, swirling within the intricate bonds that transcend several generations.

The stories of my grandmother, my mother, and her twin sisters beckoned Sarah and Bess to the page. Along with a woman buried at the pauper cemetery, my great-grandmother inspired Nellie’s narrative. Acknowledgment invites healing, and it waits patiently in the wings.

I was ready. I scrapped the original chapters and started over, this time, hand in hand with Samuel. Together we witnessed maternal death. We made sure to view the world without her in it—to recover the senses—feel the wings of the crow, smell the fresh dirt, see that which was previously unseen, and hear the sounds silenced in our unknowing absence.

Like Samuel, I too climbed trees. My tree, also at the edge of a field, still stands today. The difference is, when I was eight-years-old, I fell from my tree. It was before I knew about magic as I do now. The skies were bright, and the summer winds high. I had nearly reached the crown.

It seemed as if hours had passed as I lay broken at the base of the tree. Finally, I was gathered up and carried away on a potato sack, loaded into a neighbor’s station wagon, and taken to the hospital, where I spent the summer in traction.

Until meeting Samuel, I was unaware that I had left a vital part of my soul in the heart of that tree. So, we climbed higher than I had ever climbed before. He brought me up to where the outstretched limbs touch the stars, where I retrieved the part of me that I had left behind. He then carefully guided me down to the thick, meandering roots—back home to a place of nourishment and self-care, where once again, I became whole.

I am indebted to the following people for their contributions to this book:

To my editor Mariel Brewster, for her insight, support, and help in fine-tuning my manuscript.

To my team: Alan J. Richardson and Cyndee Laundreman for their dedication, perception, and ability to validate my efforts. To Brian Height and E.D. Gemma for their unwavering support. And to David W. Cooper for hearing me out and being a good farmer.

To my children, Miles, Shelby, and Anna Trevor (the original girl with the monocle curl), for providing me with the rich experience of mothering, offering invaluable lessons that continue to emerge, while making their way into the many-faceted characters and stories that I weave.

To my Uncle Milton Pettengill, a living historian, whose captivating storytelling skills shared in the spirit of love and truth, provide a fundamental source of inspiration and knowledge. It is the simple acknowledgment and re-membering of our ancestors that illuminate our current path, guiding us with infinite wisdom. 

And finally, to the 298—those buried at the pauper cemetery—who called upon me to tell their stories. You are not forgotten.

—Mj Pettengill

Prologue

Samuel Josiah Hodgdon I June 29, 1855 Wolfeboro, New Hampshire

I gave up on waitin’ for God. He usually stayed right with me, but He was nowhere to be found. Along with the distant thunder, an unsettlin’ hit my gut. I knew I shoulda’ gone ahead, but instead, I waited for the messenger—a twig of a man with a crumpled hat and a clever smile. I was too obedient for my own good.

The lightnin’ cracked open the sky, and like an ax, split an oak tree straight down the middle, barely missin’ me when it fell. My horse reared and jumped over the sizzlin’ trunk. Even then, He didn’t show up. It was the angel sent in His place that kept me from dyin’ before reachin’ my wife. I swore that I was dreamin’ when I crouched down, becomin’ one with my steed, leavin’ the messenger far behind.

I was fixin’ to go. But, I’d been workin’ extra hard so that I could pay the doctor. Keepin’ Annie until the baby arrived would cost more than I could muster. Between the good doctor, his wife, and the colored woman, she was well-cared for. That was what mattered.

Annie weren’t a big woman, and I was concerned about the size of the baby. The doctor assured me that she’d be fine. I wanted to believe him, but I knew that somethin’ weren’t right.

The rain turned to hail, and I was soaked through to my bones. I clung tight to my horse while we crashed through what felt like the gates of Hell. Why it couldn’t have happened on a calm night or in the light of day, was not up to me to question. The time had come.

I spotted a dim light in the window of his lake house, and my own tears mixed in with the rain that poured down my face. I leaned forward and squeezed, demandin’ my horse to go faster.

When we reached the stables, I dismounted, nearly losin’ my balance. A tall colored man with a patch on one eye and a kind soul got ahold of me.

They be waitin’. I take care of da hoss. Now, go. He took the reins.

I followed her screams as they merged with an unendin’ rumble of thunder that rolled from one end of the lake to the other. Then, the storm just stopped, and the clouds rushed across the sky, makin’ room for the full, yellow moon.

I rushed into the house and headed towards a thin line of light that framed the door, where a woman stood with her ear pressed against it. She gasped when I tapped her shoulder.

Excuse me, ma’am, my wife’s in there.

It’s best for you to wait, she said.

Wait for what? I reached for the latch.

It was a difficult birth. You should wait until they have cleaned her up, she said.

No, I need to see her, I said, gently pushin’ her aside.

Unprepared for the state she was in—silent, pale as death bathed in the harsh moonlight, surrounded by blood-soaked linens—I stood frozen. Her thick red curls were damp and pressed onto her forehead, and her lips were nothin’ more than a faint blue line. I thought about touchin’ her, but instead, I waited for her to breathe.

It was as if I weren’t really there, and again, maybe it was a dream. The doctor didn’t hear or see me come into the room. He held a small bottle up to the light, studied it, set it down, and picked it up again. He went and got another bottle and did the same thing. His wife—a fine, clear-headed woman—calmly looked me in the face while washin’ up the blood that streamed down Annie’s thighs. The colored woman sat in the darkest corner of the room, rockin’ and singin’ softly while cradlin’ a bundle.

I knew that I should have asked questions, gone over to look at the bundle, done, or said somethin’, but I couldn’t move. I don’t remember how much time passed until the eerie call of a loon brought me back. I started to approach my wife when the doctor turned to me.

It was a hard time. We almost lost her, but she came through.

What about the baby?

He took me by the arm and led me over to the colored woman. She rewarded me with a smile—a real smile, a smile that I didn’t know that I needed until she offered it. I think that I was smilin’ too when my eyes came upon them. Two—two babies with thick black hair, a copy of each other, coiled up as one. With their tiny hands clasped together, it seemed they made each other whole. I stood over them and gazed. What I saw couldn’t have been true. Until that moment, I was unaware of perfection. I only thought that I knew.

You have two daughters, the colored woman said. God smiled down on you.

Two… daughters? It was no dream. I had to rise up in my own strength. I had to breathe.

She laughed, but not harsh or mean. She had a pleasin’ way about her—all things gentle, demandin’ calm. The golden lamplight shined on her beautiful black face, so different from anyone I’d ever met. I had only seen a few colored folks before. One worked in the stables here, and the other was a carriage driver that I’d seen over at the Wolfeboro station. They weren’t as dark as this woman. She had a faraway look with a mass of coils all wound up in a cloth on her head. I was curiously drawn to her.

You go to your wife, then come back, and you’ll get to know dem, she said.

It was hard to take my eyes away from the babies. Together and apart, bonded as one, I studied them.

Go to her. Don’t be afraid. She may not wake up now, but she’ll come ’round, she said.

I walked towards the bed. How hard it was to go from birth to what seemed like death.

I’m here, Annie, I whispered.

Samuel… Where am I?

You know. You’re at the doctor’s house. I knelt down beside the bed and took her hand.

Am I gonna bleed to death?

No, you’ll be fine, I said.

I need the Indian woman, Nellie. Will you get her, please?

Not now, I said. She often mentioned the Indian woman, who lived in the back of the store. I didn’t want to get mixed up with it all, but Annie liked her tea. She said that it made her feel better and would keep the baby safe inside until the right time. I s’posed that the old Indian woman didn’t know that there were two babies. But then again, maybe she did. No one ever heard her speak a word.

The doctor reached over and gave her some drops. This will help with the pain.

What about the baby? I thought I heard cryin’, but it’s quiet. Do we have a son or a daughter?

She reached out to me and began to whimper.

Don’t cry. Everything’s fine. You had a hard time is all—

—Daidí, quick, get Mam, and Seamus. There’s a strong wind. We’re comin’ into port. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she went limp.

I was too stunned to move.

Sir, sir, you should leave now. The colored woman took me by the elbow and led me to a chair in the sittin’ room.

Shouldn’t I stay with her? I asked.

She was already in the kitchen and didn’t hear a word. I looked out over the lake. The soft, amber clouds rested on the curves of the mountains, signalin’ a new day—not just any day, but this day.

When I started shakin’ in the knees, I knew enough to sit. I had two daughters. But what about Annie? What if she didn’t make it? I stood up, ready to go back, but was met by the colored woman.

Here, drink this cool cinnamon water. It’s good. You’ll like it. She handed me a glass and pointed at the chair.

Thank you, I said, takin’ a long tug.

It will be good for you, she said.

What’s your name?

Tempy Bailey, sir, she said, lookin’ down at her feet.

Miss Bailey, shouldn’t I be with my wife?

She’ll come ’round. There’s no need to be fearin’ a thing. The drops will make her sleep and talk nonsense. So, no worries. You be blessed. She turned and started to walk away, and then she stopped. You can call me Tempy. Everybody does.

It was the first time I’d had the likes of cinnamon water. Tempy was right; it was good. I closed my eyes.

God? If you’re here, please listen. I know I’m not the best man in town, but I try. I’ll do better. Just see to it that Annie wakes up right. I’ll do whatever you want. Take anything, but please don’t take her. Please, God. I love her more than life itself, Amen.

Chapter 1

Samuel Josiah Hodgdon II Carroll County Farm, Ossipee, New Hampshire 1878

I had many mothers. Abigail Hodgdon, known on this side of the fence as number 188, was taken away in my sixth year. When she carried me in the womb, she was but a child herself. Those who thought of us as cursed were mistaken. No sign of heavy burdens rested upon her delicate frame; no apparent scars marked her fair skin; nor had she any visible flaws. Her beauty lay in raw, wild imperfection—stained fingertips, a scarred heart, and tangled hair—a pearl at rest in the dirt. I knew not the source of her radiance, out of place in the deeps. Perhaps she was above an angel—a bein’ that strayed down from another world—turnin’ shame into dignity, fear into courage, and hate into love.

Within the confines of a shabby yellow dress, reserved for harlots, she was chained to her sins. However, in grace, she rose up against her punishers, keepin’ whole her spirit and pure her heart. Her faith kept her free from those bonds. There was no room for judgment. For I was blessed to be her bastard son, named after her father, who had been fatally shot durin’ the war.

It is said that he was a hero, but more importantly, to Mamma, his death had been a gift to future generations, especially to me. Had it not been for the courage that pulsed within the memory of his shattered heart, ours wouldn’t have beat as strongly as they did. Together, we are Samuel. God heard.

My first mother gave me glowin’ warm mornin’s in a house where others could only see darkness and feel shiverin’ cold. Before Death’s final blow, she was but a flower that never faded, showin’ me the fierceness of a mother’s love.

The other mothers came and went, and should not be forgotten either. When appropriate, we carried each other. We shared that which was good and shouldered the burdens set before us. If need be, when the time was right, we let each other go. Knowin’ why guided us. Knowin’ when, where, and how gave us the strength to do so. 

Lettin’ go was a curious thing. We didn’t sever our ties completely. We took all that was valued in us and made a place for it. The memories that we tried to forget were never entirely lost nor wasted but protected behind the veil. Folks on the Farm had their own way of holdin’ tight.

It took time for the truth to be openly revealed, but I did know the identity of my father—Silas Putman. I knew him too well. Perhaps, like so many, I was always aware of the truth, but our survival somehow depended upon dwellin’ in secrets and lies. 

For most folks, lies created devastation. For me, they were just another doorway openin’ up to possibilities. My first mother, Abigail, taught me to choose love over all else, but never at the cost of my good self. This wisdom served me well.

I learned early that birth was a hard thing. At least it seemed so for most women. I’d been out in the barn when the pigs and cows gave birth, and it didn’t appear to be as bad, only requirin’ a hand now and then.

I stayed in with Mamma and the others, crammed together in one room. Some had it worse than others. I’d seen more than I probably should have, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Most of us were just bein’ our best selves.

Usually, the children were placed out, but because of Silas and Moses, I lived at the Farm for a number of years. The rule was, if I behaved and didn’t get in the way, I was allowed to stay. Mamma was careful to keep me from fussin’ while she worked.

Then there was Bella, my second mother, always there to help. She didn’t have a child of her own. The one time she gave birth, it ended in tragedy, and she was never with child again. Accordin’ to Mamma, Bella took a particular interest in me, especially after her beloved William—number 102—was planted in the stone garden after his loggin’ accident. Of course, no one could have replaced Sarah, but Mamma told me that Bella had become like a sister to her.

Other than those like Bella, it helped that I was a good-natured baby. That is what I had been told. And when I was big enough, I was the best helper that anyone could have asked for. In my fifth year, I began doin’ real chores—collectin’ eggs, weedin’ the big garden and sweepin’.

It was mostly the ones who wore yellow dresses that had the babies, and it wasn’t a secret that the matrons had nothin’ nice to say about them. Mamma made sure to say good things. She even prayed for them when we were at the sanctuary—a hard, big word—another one of those secret places that, until I told Agnes, no one knew about ’cept us.

When the time came for a child to enter the world, the screams would wake me up, and then I was quickly taken to the great room, usually by Bella, where we would wait out the night. Bella—a worryin’ sort—bit her fingernails and paced the floor. I tried to get her to tell her a story, but every time there was a scream, she lost her place.

Many folks on the Farm were tough and knew about takin’ care of each other. Givin’ birth was the business of women. They even tried to keep Doc Gilman out of it when they could. Mamma said that Nellie was a natural at birthin’ babies, and she passed along all that she knew.

The Farm sisters tried to get on as best they could. It was usually the matrons who sent for the doctor. Mamma said that it was the right thing to do because they didn’t understand trust like the sisters did. We were different, and that was the way of the world.

Most of the women knew what to do, though. If at first, they didn’t, Mamma tried to prepare them. She said it was their circle and that they had to stick together as if their lives depended on it. Course, some were just plain ornery and didn’t want any part of it. Those women were on the outs, as Mamma said. They tried to use fightin’ words and didn’t believe in others, let alone themselves. Their harsh ways left them out in the cold. Sometimes, if they had a change of heart, she’d let them in, but only if they remembered that they were part of the circle, or Farm sisters as she called them. They weren’t sisters in blood, but from a deeper place that could not be explained.

Grandmothers were as plentiful as dandelions. Since there were few children at the farm, some of the elder women tended to fuss over us. Like anything else, there were good ones and bad ones. Some were mean and even believed you to be someone else, while the nice ones just wanted to give you an occasional hug or a kind word.

If the elders were of sound mind, as Mamma said, then they should be looked to for wisdom. If they no longer made sense, it was up to the sisters to make sure that they were not hurt or abused. A lot of them crushed bone or cornmeal, and others were tied to chairs in the great room. She checked on them when she could and used to send me in to listen to their stories, even when they didn’t make a lick of sense. When Polly or Miss Noyes found me, they chased me out of the room, but I went back as soon as they got caught up in somethin’ else. It was a hard fight, but Mamma was prepared to do what she was put on this great earth to do.

Then there was Nellie, the old Indian woman. From what I knew, had it not been for her, I would have been born in lock-up. I was a baby when she was planted in the stone garden. I don’t remember her from my own memories but from the memories of my mother, who often reminded me that she was always with us. For a long time, I kept an eye out for her but didn’t see her, not at first.

It took many years for Mamma’s words to make sense, but little by little, they did. She was Mamma’s grandmother, not accordin’ to the rules beyond the fence, but in a much bigger way. I s’posed that this made her my great-grandmother.

The way I saw it, Nellie saved us. It took practice and time for me to say it right, but her real name, her Indian name, was Nanatasis. It means hummingbird. Mamma—a good storyteller—always smiled when she told the story about her name. As a grandmother to my mother, Nellie guided without words. It wasn’t until the very end when Nellie’s daughter arrived that anyone knew she could speak.

The old stories about her bein’ a witch set Mamma off, and she corrected anyone who said it. After Mamma died, it became my job to defend Nellie. She knew all about plants and how to make medicine. She had a way with animals, birds—all livin’ things. Folks said she talked to the sky, knew when storms were comin’, and when and how to prepare for winter. Nellie brought me into the world, and she gave me a gift that opened a bit more each day.

Most of what Mamma knew about medicine and takin’ care of others came from Nellie. She only had a short time with her, enough to rise up and over what could have been much worse. She often said, Samuel, us bein’ here is no accident. I used to think of ours as ill fortune, but I was wrong. We’re both meant to be right here, right now. It is God’s will.

The only thing I remember about Mamma’s blood mother was what I was told. She crossed the ocean on a big ship and could sing like an angel. Mamma didn’t say too much about her, only that she was on the other side of the fence and would have been deeply troubled if she had known our fate. Sometimes, that’s how the Lord works. He spared her from my sins, she’d say.

She warned me about bitterness, and she claimed that it would eat you up from the inside. When she first arrived at the Farm, she was angry, afraid, and hopeless. Then, she understood why she had to be there. We created it all.

If we went outside and all we saw was black smoke comin’ from the chimney and Asa’s forge, broken shutters, and the crumblin’ fence, we might feel broken ourselves. But, if we looked past all of that, to the green hills, apple trees, blue skies, and listened to the