Hour of the Witch(80)

“Or cross me.”

“In that case, I think something involving monkshood would be worth considering.”

Had Peregrine—or Rebeckah—used monkshood in the boiled apples and raisins? Would that have accounted for the taste they noticed? “Thou couldst give me the recipe?” Mary asked.

“I could make it for thee.”

“No. Thou must not risk incriminating thyself in this world or damning thyself in the next.”

“Oh, simply providing thee with the knowledge is likely to ensure my time with the Devil—that is, if He actually wants to waste His time with the likes of me. I am honestly not sure that He does. But thy point about this world? I thank thee. ’Tis kind counsel. But thou canst trust me to protect myself and to protect thee. I am nothing if not discreet.”

“So, thou wilt guide me to a poison that is efficacious?”

“I will. But only if thou wilt assure me the victim is the fiend who tried to spike thee to a table. I do not countenance murder—only furthering the speed with which those already deserving of Hell make their way there.”

    “Fine. Yes, ’tis Thomas.”

She nodded. “If the winter were not so far along, I would bring thee to my garden to harvest the ingredients. But, alas, we have already had snow.”

“I need to wait for the spring? Or, worse, the summer?” Mary asked, and she feared her disappointment had made her voice grow shrill.

“Calm thyself. I know where thou canst still find what thou cravest. I know where there is some harvested and well-preserved monkshood.”

“And that is where?”

“The woods.”

“The same snow that fell in the city fell in the forest,” said Mary.

“Art thou willing to go into the woods?” Constance asked, her tone more adamant, ignoring the point that Mary had made.

“Yes. I am.”

“Which means thou wilt need an excuse.”

“I will find one.”

“Very well. Just as I do, they begin with monkshood. Wolfsbane.”

“They?”

“Edmund and Esther Hawke. They make the tincture for his arrows.”

“That excommunicated family?”

Constance nodded. “Precisely. ‘Obdurate disobedience.’ It’s in her humours: her mother, I believe, was an antinomian. Recanted. But still…”

“They have a small brood and a large farm.”

“Quite right. They live near a village of praying Indians. In a rebellion of sorts, they have taken on some of their ways.”

“How will I find them?”

“They live a little east of Natick. John Eliot sometimes visits them on his way to the praying Indians.”

“And they make poison arrows?”

“I presume Edmund uses them only on deer. He has certainly not killed one of us. At least not yet.”

    “Will they sell me this tincture or the plant itself?”

“Thou wilt tell Esther that I am thy friend. She knows me. She will give thee the plants and thou wilt bring them to me.”

“But—”

“I shall prepare the tincture. Or we can mix it together. Or I can teach thee. It makes no difference.”

But Mary still worried that Constance was taking too great a risk. “Thy hands and soul will be much sullied,” she said. “Thou wouldst have insufficient distance from the crime, both in the eyes of the Court of Assistants here and in Heaven above.”

“Let me worry about the magistrates in Boston and the angels in the firmament. I have always been rather self-sufficient and unencumbered by the idiosyncrasies of man.”

“I cannot change thy mind?”

“No, because thou canst not do it alone. Now, may I give thee one additional suggestion?”

“Prithee.”

“Outwardly thou must not merely be in church. Outwardly thou must be more than merely obedient. Outwardly thou must be more saintly than thou hast ever been in thy life.”

“My good works must be a beacon.”

“Do something that practically invites martyrdom and that gives thee allies in the church who are staunch.”

“Who can protect me against charges of witchcraft.”

“That is correct.”

“Well, I am not interested in witchcraft. I am interested in what might be more appropriately viewed as apothecary.”

Constance leaned into her and said, her tone almost whimsical: “No. Thou art interested in murder. That, my young friend, is what has its hooks in thee.”





I have a righteous fear of Lucifer.

    —The Testimony of Catherine Stileman, from the Records and Files of the Court of Assistants, Boston, Massachusetts, 1663, Volume I





Twenty-Five



Mary stared up at the steeple of the First Church against the midday sun, and thought of the comfort she had once found inside it. She rehearsed in her mind her story—her plan—and felt a deep pang of fear. But she had resolved that she hadn’t a choice, none at all, and asked God to have mercy on her soul.

When she went inside, she saw that Zebulon Bartram was sweeping an aisle between the pews. The elder saw her and came to the front of the church. He was in his sixties, Mary guessed, stoop-shouldered, his hands so gnarled that they resembled apple-tree branches. He had been a cooper before the labor had grown too much for him. But he still needed to work—he craved it, a sign, one could suppose, that he was among the elect—and he was an excellent elder. He leaned the broom against the wall and bowed slightly.