Hour of the Witch(72)

Mary nodded. She suspected this was true, because while Thomas frequently maligned her for being dull, he was also likely to contend she was too smart for her own good.

“And…” Here Mary paused, unsure how to frame her next question. She watched a pair of squirrels ascend an oak tree that hadn’t been girdled in a dooryard.

“Speak plainly. Ask me whatever thou likest. No one can hear us but those squirrels. Clearly there is a matter of importance to thee.”

“There is. Prithee, tell me: dost thou eat with a fork?”

The other woman stopped and smiled, and though her teeth were crooked and yellow, the grin was nonetheless charming. “So, this is about the Devil’s tines.”

“Yes.”

“I do not,” she said, and resumed walking. “I have always found a knife and a spoon sufficient.”

“Dost thou fear them?”

“No.”

“Someone buried a pair of them in the dooryard to my house. Why would someone do that? Hast thou heard of such a spell?”

“A spell involving a fork?”

“Yes.”

She was silent as she thought. Finally, she replied, “Not precisely a fork. But something forked.”

“Go on.”

“Shakespeare referred to such a potion.”

    “I have not read Shakespeare since we left England,” said Mary carefully, “though I recalled one of his plays just the other day.”

“In Macbeth, there are witches, and they use the forked tongue of an adder in their brew.”

“There is a difference between a forked tongue and a fork.”

“I agree. But suppose the witch could not obtain a snake—and, thus, a snake’s tongue? Perhaps the fork was all she had handy.”

“There was also a pestle,” said Mary, and she pulled it from her pocket. “Note what has been carved into the handle. A trident.”

“That makes sense. From what I have heard—and what I am about to share with thee is hearsay, because I am most obviously not a witch,” Constance said, studying the object.

“No,” Mary agreed, because she understood that she was supposed to say this.

“This pestle is more of a metaphor than an ingredient. The Devil’s tines, too. Whoever was casting a spell was using this and the forks in lieu of a serpent’s forked tongue, properly dried and mashed in a mortar.”

“Would such a thing work? Would the Devil listen? This is not an actual concoction.”

“Of course, it’s not,” said Constance patiently. “It is, however, an offering. The Devil is less interested in the specifics of a potion than in the conversion of a saint. Again, this is just what some people—including the good men in our pulpits—say.”

Despite the snow, the streets were growing crowded now that they had left the Neck and were approaching the more settled sections of the city. Mary lowered her voice as they walked, asking, “What did the person who buried the forks and the pestle crave? What was she asking of Satan?”

“With her offering?”

“Yes.”

Constance pointed at a low-slung house with slits for windows and a stone chimney that was belching black smoke. “Here we are,” she said, and she returned the pestle to Mary.

“The cabinet maker?”

She nodded. “My hope is that he will have finished his work, and my girl and I can resume our spinning.”

    “Thou didst not answer,” Mary said. “What would be the purpose of a spell that involved a properly mashed or ground adder’s tongue? I need to know so I can try to learn who might have planted the forks. It has become imperative.”

“Thy husband stabbed thee with a fork. True?”

“Yes. He stabbed me with one of the very same forks that I pulled from the dooryard.”

“Shakespeare may not be in thy library, but good saint thou art, I suppose thou knowest well thy Bible.”

“I try to.”

“Hast thou consulted it?”

She felt a pang of guilt as she shook her head.

“Shame on thee,” the other woman said, and she made a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue.

“Should I read it for the word fork?”

“Thou could read every word in the Old Testament and the New and find it but once. Maybe twice. And in no fashion that is helpful to thy study.”

“Thou knowest the book well.”

“I have had many more years than thee to read.”

“But if not fork, then what?” she asked, but even as she was forming the question, the answer came to her. Before Constance could respond, she continued, “Serpent.”

“Good girl. Thy husband is mistaken: thy mind is nimble and quick.”

“I am grateful thou believest that.”

“Yes, I think serpent would serve thee better than fork. My point is simple: thou art pursuing game that will leave thee hungry if thou viewest the ingredient as but the Devil’s tines.”

“?’Tis but a fork,” said Mary firmly, recalling her vow that she would view the device as nothing but a kind of cutlery.

“Correct. But when the ingredient is a substitute for a serpent’s tongue? Well, that may be a food that is more satisfying. Also? That might be an ingredient one who verily is possessed would plant like a seed into the ground of thy dooryard.”