2 August 1621

A typical travel day today. I like travel days because I don't have to tie up my hair. For all that we clearly aren't a traditional bunch, I can't remember the last time I wore my hair down in public. I know some women even wear their hair up around the house but Simonn and Dolora are as important to me as Sigmun so I just don't bother, and no one seems particularly bothered by it so I just leave my hair down. I think it looks nicer that way. Putting up my hair is one of those things that I know women are divided on. I don't mind, though I like my hair better down, but I think it's about the principle of being allowed to choose.

Anyways, a good braid is good for hunting. And it's very cute when I come home from hunting with my braid coming apart and Sigmun decides that the most important thing to do in that moment is redo my braid.

4 August 1621

We arrived in the next town today. Since it wasn't a Sunday we just gathered some people from town for dinner and afterwards I sat with some of the children-orphans, I think-and showed them how to make chains out of flowers. It sounds frivolous but I remember how happy my chains of daisies made me when I was little, and it was too dark to write. (I'm writing now dangerously close to a candle.)

I hope this goes well.

6 August 1621

I almost can't believe what happened today. Someone recognized us! I introduced myself to a woman named Sara and she stared a moment, then said, "Disciple? Are you traveling with Signless?"

"Um, yes? He's my husband."

"My sister told me about you! She sent me a letter, and the priest read it to me, and she told me you're trying to make things better for women, and for everyone. I had no idea you'd be here!"

"I had no idea anyone would recognize me," I said, somewhat blankly I think.

"Are you joking? You're amazing!"

I felt my face flush a terrible scarlet and I said, "Thank you. But my husband does all the talking."

"Well, to big groups, sure. But my sister told me you taught her to write."

"What's her name?"

"Em."

"She wanted to study science," I said. "I remember her. But I only taught her how to write her name and a few other words."

"The priest did the rest, but she signed her own name! Can you teach me to write my name?"

"If you like," I said, still feeling a little off-kilter. "I can show the other women in the village, too."

She grinned so huge, and I smiled back. "Sure! Can we start today?"

"Um, sure. Just meet us outside the village, we have a camp set up."

And that's how I started teaching six women to write their names and read some simple words. How odd.

8 August 1621

His speech was today. I love hearing him speak. He has this wonderful, melodious voice when he talks to a crowd. It's different when it's just us, the four of us or the two of us. He speaks gently and softly, and more than anything he's kind. But his speech was wonderful, as always, and he used my favorite Bible quote-the one from Luke, "Do unto others as you would have them do to you." I think Luke is my favorite gospel. I know Luke himself was a physician, and it's the most compassionate of the gospels, the most about teaching people good. I know that nothing can be changed without fighting, without rebelling, without action, but I know too that sometimes it starts with teaching.

I mean, we didn't name our only son Luke just for the hell of it.

10 April 1621

It's a veritable school of women and children and even some men (those who aren't "above" being taught by a woman) learning to read and write, mostly just their own names, but I've been teaching basic phonics, too. It's amazing how excited people are to learn writing. I realize, though, that I've been reading and writing since I was a child. I can't imagine not being able to. If I couldn't keep this journal, who knows where my mind would be?

I won't write much more-I'm exhausted-but I've never seen anyone light up so much as someone who has just learned to write their own name. I think, perhaps, to be able to write your name is to be able to proclaim to everyone, now and in the future, that once, you were here.

11 August 1621

I went out to the woods last night with Sigmun and I remember how on our wedding night I was so curious. I just wanted to know everything about his body, touch every inch of his skin, find out how his hands could feel on every inch of my skin. I still wonder these things; I swear, every time I find out anew how his lips feel on my neck or how he sighs (moans?) when I touch the sweet spots on his back.

I'd love him if we could never touch again, but nonetheless I don't want to give up all those lovely sensations of touching and being touched.

12 August 1621

Our last day in this town was today. I never thought of myself as a teacher, nor a preacher, but it seems people here see me as both. It pained me to say goodbye to all these people who want to learn to write, but I think perhaps we can stay in touch. And if the world changes-when the world changes-I will make schools for everyone, so everyone can learn to read and write.

13 August 1621

Sitting by the fire last night, Simonn asked me about the writing and reading.

"I'm jealous of that. People mostly tell me about their dead families."

"Well, me too."

"But you do something! People are reading and writing!"

"Why can't you do that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Men don't like to listen to me-why don't you teach men to read and write? At the next village, you can give it a shot."

"I suppose…"

"Only if you want to."

"I'll think on it."

I nodded and he sighed.

"They've threatened him."

"Who?"

"People who don't like what we're doing. They want things to stay the same, politically and socially. And they say they'd kill him."

"He'd be a martyr, then."

"I know. I think the revolution-if that's what this is-will live on. I just don't know if we will."

"What do you mean?"

"Our family. He's kind of at the center."

"What's this, then? What's Dolora to you?"

"You both mean the world to me. But I worry…if he died, would we ever recover?"

"You told me that you're never the same. It's a new normal. I think we'd find a new normal."

He nodded and sighed again, sounding tired. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," I said, and then we went back to the tent to go to bed, and I felt safe snuggled up to my love.

15 August 1621

We arrive in the village tomorrow. But tonight the four of us sat around the fire, singing hymns and dance songs, and I felt so at home that I felt I could turn around and the house would be right behind us.

16 August 1621

I think I might fry in the heat sometimes, these dog days of summer. But staying outside in the shade makes it a little more bearable. Speaking of, at least two dozen women and children gathered in the shade of a huge elm tree and learned how to write their names. And even when it was too dark to see, I talked with women about everything-dreams, families, goals, work, religion, children-I mean absolutely everything! I had-have-friends at home I talk about these things with, but it was amazing sitting there with all these women, talking about anything that came to mind.

I don't know how anyone comes to the conclusion that women aren't as intelligent as men, or that people with dark skin aren't as clever as people with light skin. Sitting and talking with all different kinds of people (if people can be said to have kinds) in the dark, I challenge anyone to pick out who has what color skin. Indeed, I challenge anyone to tell a written speech by a woman from one by a man (I imagine the register of the voice could give it away otherwise, for some people).

19 August 1621

More reading, more writing. As usual. Today I talked with a woman named Edith, and though I've heard hundreds of stories of women who've suffered terribly at the hands of men and fate, but Edith wanted to talk to me because she had ambition, too. She wanted to study at university, like me, and it was wonderful sharing my dream with another woman.

I wish I could tell her our dream was possible.

21 August 1621

Heaven knows I don't get along with every woman I've ever met, but it makes me furious when men challenge what we say because of that. This man John found me today and accused me of not caring about the movement because of that, and I was one word from reaching for my breadknife, but I kept my head. Luckily.

I asked him if he liked every man he knew, and he said no, and I said in that case men must be an awful bunch, then. He got all red in the face and said that's not what he meant, so I told him that if he didn't get along with all men in the world, then they all must be awful-and I don't like all women, so aren't we an awful bunch, too?

He was very red by then, so I walked away. He knows he's wrong, I hope.

I hope.

22 August 1621

I turned twenty-six today. I don't feel much older than twenty many days. I'm not sure I can say I'm an adult, though I know I must be one. I still like reading those romance novels and I blush when people ask about Sigmun and I and heaven knows I hardly know what's going on half the time. How is it possible that I'm an adult?

Well, anyways, we didn't really celebrate. Sigmun kissed me when I woke up and wished me a happy birthday, but like with the others in my family, we didn't really celebrate. I suppose we're too busy with this whole rebellion business. Not that I want to make it seem trivial! It's the most important thing we've ever done-I've ever done. And I believe with all my heart that we are going to make a difference. But it makes me sad to see all our old special occasions pass without comment.

He made his speech today, the usual one, and I was impressed, as ever. It's so selfish to wish he would pay attention to me the way he does his speeches. I shouldn't be so selfish.

24 August 1621

My love seemed so tired earlier tonight, and when I asked him what was wrong, he asked me what was wrong.

"What on Earth do you mean?"

"You've been so tired these days, love."

"Not anymore than usual."

"You don't seem to talk to me as much."

"You've been sleeping earlier than usual-I normally talk to you later."

"Well, you haven't been talking, so I slept because I assumed you were tired!"

I almost laughed at how ridiculous the situation was. "Love, I just didn't want to tire you out when you're doing so much."

He nodded. "I understand. But love, you could never tire me out. Talk to me?" It was a question, and I knew he really wanted to know what was going on in my head.

"I know it's selfish to want you to pay attention to me," I said, but quietly.

"No it's not."

"It is, I know that."

"My love, we're married. For love. Isn't part of the deal that we pay attention to each other?"

"I don't want to take away from your time."

"Love," he said, taking both my hands in his. "Didn't we talk about this? I care about the hundreds of people I talk to, in a crowd or alone, but that doesn't mean you're not important to me. I love you."

"I know you do. And I love you. But…I can't even explain it. I just can't stop worrying." I don't know why I always think this way. "I think it's the sadness."

"It's alright, love," he said. "I understand."

That was all he had to say, and we just sat around the fire talking about each other until it was so late he fell asleep on my shoulder, and I woke him up and we walked back to bed. And as usual, I felt safe in his arms.

25 August 1621

I don't know what's wrong with me that I'm so insecure. I've been through this same thing more than once-worrying he doesn't care, then finally talking with him and of course him telling me he loves me. I know my family loves me. I don't know why that's so hard to remember sometimes.

Anyways, more reading and writing today. I also talked Edith again, and a woman named Mary who lost her only child-a daughter named Ruth.

"I understand. My son Luke died when he was fourteen months old."

"Your only child?"

I nodded. "He had winter fever."

"My Ruth caught measles."

There was a moment of quiet, while the two of us thought about our children, and then I asked, "Your husband?"

She shrugged. "He isn't a remarkably warm fellow, but he's kind enough." She blushed. "I mean, we don't…we don't sleep in the same bed anymore, if you know what I mean."

I nodded. "So you don't want any more children?"

"Oh, I don't think so. I loved Ruth, but I don't think I would again. You do?"

"I suppose. I don't think I'd want more than two children-given the choice-but it's not really my choice anymore, so."

"Not your choice?"

"I can't have children."

"Your son…?"

"I…I miscarry, usually, in the fourth or fifth month. My mother-in-law, our midwife, told me that being pregnant again would be very dangerous for me. I might bleed to death."

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," I said gratefully. "I…I know I must be cursed, or a sinner, or what have you. But I suppose I can't let it bother me too much. I have other things to do."

"I'm sorry," Mary said again.

"Thank you."

"For what it's worth, you don't strike me as a sinner."

"Frankly, me neither. But I suppose it's got to do with my mother…she was not a kind woman, but I suppose my sin would be that I never listened to her."

"I suppose," she said, neutrally.

"My husband tries to convince me it's nothing I've done-some things just happen that way. And I'd love to believe him. It's just so hard."

"He's right about a lot of things. About fairness, and the government, and equality. Or, I think so, anyways." She smiles. "You've all opened my eyes. I see doors where I used to see walls. I think…I liked what he said about forgiveness. How if men are forgiven for all sins through Jesus, why aren't women? I imagine you all believe that."

"I do. My mind does. My heart is a little more slippery."

She nodded her agreement, and there was quiet for a moment. "Is there any way I could teach myself to write?"

"I could send you letters. It's better in person, but if you can copy the letters and someone else can read them, you could keep learning."

She smiled at me. "I'd appreciate that."

"I don't think there's anything so important as being able to record your thoughts. It's no trouble at all. Just share them with everyone."

"I will," she said, like a promise.

I know she will.

27 August 1621

A travel day today. It wasn't bad at all. I'm tired from traveling, but it was nice to sit around the fire with just my family. I can't begin to explain how much I love them, except to say that that house I live in wasn't what made it home-it was the people in it.

29 August 1621

Today was his speech in the town, and once again our reputation preceded us. People knew who we were. People wanted to talk to us. People wanted to talk to me! They wanted to ask us about our ideas, our ideals, about the writing, about the reading. I couldn't believe it. I talked with at least a dozen women, and promised all of them reading and writing lessons, and of course their children, too. Children were playing and people were chatting and it felt very friendly and warm.

When I see the children playing, when they start writing their own names and reading simple words, I really believe that there is hope for the future.

31 August 1621

More lessons today. I always start with names before I move on to the rest of the letters. I'm always astounded by the varieties of handwriting people develop, even though I'm the only one teaching. How does that happen? Is it in our very blood to have our own handwriting? I see how unique each person is, and I think that handwriting is part of it.

I think a person's writing is part of them. If each person is unique, and writing is their mark on the world, then of course each person's hand must be unique. It must be.