"Rowlandson had never written anything before she was kidnapped, but her book vividly dramatizes the psychological stages of the abduction experience, from the violent and disorienting “taking” to the “grievous” captivity, which Rowlandson divided into “removes,” because the Indians moved camp 20 times. Step by painful step, she was being removed from her life as a pious Puritan matron and entering the harsh world of the Narragansetts, where she found that her will to survive was stronger than her fear or grief. She surprised herself with her endurance and ability to adapt. She ate food that previously would have disgusted her, including raw horse liver and bear meat. Regarding the Indians as savages, she also learned to acknowledge their humanity, and to negotiate and bargain with them. After being ransomed, Rowlandson relived her ordeal for many months in dreams and flashbacks of “the night season.” But as she slowly adjusted to her return, Rowlandson came to understand how much she had changed, and found emotional expression, religious grace and public acceptance through writing her story. As an author of a book about suffering and redemption, she was able to re-enter Puritan society in a new role."
- excerpted from "Dark Places" by feminist critic, Elaine Showalter
The whole essay, which considers Mary Rowlandson's captivity alongside the modern kidnapping cases of Jacee Dugard and the three girls who were held in captivity in Cleveland, can be read using the link below:
An incredibly talented Native American writer, Louise Erdrich, composed the poem, "Captivity" below in response to Rowlandson's narrative. Erdrich is primarily a novelist, know for great books like Tracks and The Round House, but here she uses her lyrical voice to show the human capacity to love and accept within crisis.
Just as a side note, one of top 5 favorite books is Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. That novel fits into this genre of tales of kidnapping and how one can affiliate, understand and even love one's captor. It explores an upheaval in a fictional South American country where a whole mansion of diplomats, socialites, and even the opera singer brought in to entertain them are held hostage by political dissidents. I highly suggest you read it, and anything else by Patchett!
Captivity
Louise Erdrich
He (my captor) gave me a bisquit, which I put in my pocket, and not daring to eat it, buried it under a log, fearing he had put something in it to make me love him.
—From the narrative of the captivity of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, who was taken prisoner by the Wampanoag when Lancaster, Massachusetts, was destroyed, in the year 1676
The stream was swift, and so cold
I thought I would be sliced in two.
But he dragged me from the flood
by the ends of my hair.
I had grown to recognize his face.
I could distinguish it from the others.
There were times I feared I understood
his language, which was not human,
and I knelt to pray for strength.
We were pursued by God’s agents
or pitch devils, I did not know.
Only that we must march.
Their guns were loaded with swan shot.
I could not suckle and my child’s wail
put them in danger.
He had a woman
with teeth black and glittering.
She fed the child milk of acorns.
The forest closed, the light deepened.
I told myself that I would starve
before I took food from his hands
but I did not starve.
One night
he killed a deer with a young one in her
and gave me to eat of the fawn.
It was so tender,
the bones like the stems of flowers,
that I followed where he took me.
The night was thick. He cut the cord
that bound me to the tree.
After that the birds mocked.
Shadows gaped and roared
and the trees flung down
their sharpened lashes.
He did not notice God’s wrath.
God blasted fire from half-buried stumps.
I hid my face in my dress, fearing He would burn us all
but this, too, passed.
Rescued, I see no truth in things.
My husband drives a thick wedge
through the earth, still it shuts
to him year after year.
My child is fed of the first wheat.
I lay myself to sleep
on a Holland-laced pillowbeer.
I lay to sleep.
And in the dark I see myself
as I was outside their circle.
They knelt on deerskins, some with sticks,
and he led his company in the noise
until I could no longer bear
the thought of how I was.
I stripped a branch
and struck the earth,
in time, begging it to open
to admit me
as he was
and feed me honey from the rock.
Louise Erdrich, “Captivity” from Original Fire: Selected and New Poems. Copyright © 2003 by Louise Erdrich. Reprinted with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
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