Hour of the Witch(68)

“Yet when thou accused me of placing them into the ground, thou were much afraid. I have not forgotten. Thou accused me of evil designs or an intrigue with the Dark One. Thou were scared.”

Mary put down the sleeve and noted how sharp the tip of the needle was. She recalled her moment yesterday on the floor with the knife. “Then why in the world wouldst thou suppose I was a witch? If I were frightened, wouldst that not suggest—”

“It was that night when I spied thee at work. Thou seemed so secretive.”

“That is fair,” she admitted. “And thou art correct: when I first discovered the forks, I was scared.”

“So, if I may, I will repeat my inquiry: if thou didst not bury the pestle and the Devil’s tines, then who did?”

“I do not know.”

Catherine looked upon the washing board and then nodded as if an idea had just come to her. “And perhaps it is that, more than anything, that frightens me most when I contemplate where, once more, I am living.”



* * *





Mary tried not to parse too deeply what she was doing, but she sensed it was a longing to share the pain that Henry Simmons had volunteered to endure on her behalf. She knew it would be excruciating for her to see him lashed: it would aggravate her own festering corruption and guilt. But Thomas never told her that she couldn’t watch Henry Simmons be whipped. She guessed that it hadn’t even crossed her husband’s mind that she would go. And so, after she had finished her sewing, she reminded Catherine that Thomas would want meat for dinner and then asked a question to which she knew the answer: “Have we enough bread?”

“No, ma’am. Shall I bake some? Or shall I visit Obadiah Wood?”

Mary shook her head. “I’ll go. Thou hast much to do, and I rather enjoy the baker.” Wood was old and glib and, though a saint, prone to chatter. Then she bundled up against the snow, climbing into her heaviest, hooded cape and pulling one glove carefully onto her left hand and one with more ease onto her right. She doubted the storm would cause the constable to rethink the timing of the court-ordered lashing, and even wondered if the cold and snow on the poor man’s back might in fact be a good thing: perhaps it would numb the skin and mitigate the pain.



* * *





The snow picked up, and the cobblestones grew slippery. She nearly fell twice on her way to the center of the city, her feet sliding out from under her as if bedeviled because of the glaze on the embedded rocks, but she was able to recover each time and vowed she would walk more slowly. For all she knew, there was no reason to hurry: the whipping was finished or had been postponed. She passed the bakery and saw through the window that Obadiah still had plenty of bread. She could purchase a loaf on the way home. The world had grown muffled by the snow in a way that was beautiful and calming, despite the nature of her errand.

    As she neared the square, through the swirling snow she spotted a small crowd of two dozen people assembled before the raised platform where the deviant were punished by the devout. No one was heckling yet, which Mary attributed more to the cold and the snow than to the gravitas of the punishment. She had seen criminals decried often as they were whipped or stood in the sun imprisoned in the stocks. Hadn’t she watched the Howland children that autumn add what torment they could to that old Quaker as he was whipped while being paraded through town? But she also heard neither the crack of the whip on flesh nor Henry’s cries against the pain. Either they hadn’t begun or they had finished, because not even snow could stifle the sound of the scourge at a distance this small. She rather doubted that Henry’s aunt and uncle would be present—she wouldn’t have come if she had thought there was a chance—because most assuredly they did not approve of what he had done. Attempting to kiss a married woman? The sin was profound. Still, she pulled her dark hood tightly around her head in the event there was someone else watching who knew her and her alleged history with the man.

When she reached the crowd, she understood that, for better or worse, she had timed her arrival to coincide with the commencement of the punishment and felt both anxiety and regret at what she was about to see. But she knew also that she hadn’t a choice: she had to be here. The constable had just finished reading the charge, adultery, and then a captain of the guard whom Mary did not recognize—he was tall with handsomely chiseled cheekbones above a blond beard—took the lash and uncoiled it. The punishment was fifteen strokes and confinement in the pillory until sunset.

And there he was, his shirt off, his head and his arms imprisoned in the stocks, the black padlock that held tight the wooden slats with a flour-like coating of snow. His fingers were balled into fists, and there were icicles in his hair. Her chest went tight, and she said a prayer of penitence for what she had wrought and asked forgiveness for what she had done. Most of the spectators were standing behind Henry so they would have a view of his back. She paused before him. His head was bowed, though she couldn’t decipher whether it was due to exhaustion or resignation. It most assuredly was not humiliation. Henry Simmons was as mortal as any man and as capable of embarrassment, but not over this. He had volunteered for this. His sins were sins of defiance; his sins were born of hubris and pride. Nor did she believe he was scared. She was more frightened than he was. He was going to be lashed, and it would hurt—it would hurt mightily—but then it would be done. She guessed he wasn’t the sort who couldn’t handle a good whipping. No, his head was bowed most likely because he was tired and just wanted this over with, or he was vexed by the way the punishment had robbed him of his day. Of time.