Hour of the Witch(81)

“What dost thou need, Mary?” he asked.

“Is the reverend here?”

“He’s writing in the back.”

“Prithee, may I see him?”

“Certainly. Art thou well? Has something happened to Thomas?”

She smiled to reassure him. “I am fine and so is Thomas.”

“Then is this”—and here he hesitated briefly before continuing—“is this about thy marriage and the verdict of the Court of Assistants?”

“No. I am not here about my marriage.” And now it was her turn to pause, in this case because she was about to lie, and she knew it was the first of many that she was going to speak in the coming days. If this was a sign she was damned, so be it. But her Lord God was a mystery and had placed monsters before her. And so it was just as possible that she was merely a pilgrim doing her best to navigate the evils in a path that would eventually lead to paradise. She screwed up her courage and said, “I accept fully the verdict of the magistrates and have prayed that the Lord will be with Thomas and me, and help us to feel His love in our love,” she told the elder.

    “The reverend will be well pleased.”

“I have an idea for something I can do for the Lord, if Reverend Norton thinks it is fitting. It is what I have come to discuss.”

“Let me fetch him,” said Zebulon, and he gestured toward the apse, behind which was a small room where the pastor worked. “I’ll be but a moment.”

Mary smiled and looked into the sanctuary, her eyes moving beyond the elder to the pew where she had sat for years beside her mother. Was it a worse sin to lie inside these walls than outside them? Was it especially damning that she was planning to lie to John Norton, a minister? She understood how sinful were the adornments of the churches back in England and the cathedrals across France, the hanging images of Christ on the walls and in the stained-glass windows, but she wondered if she would be able to proceed if she were speaking such appalling untruths beneath the gaze of her risen Savior. It was going to be easier to lie amidst walls this spare.

When she heard the sound of men’s boots echoing on the wood in the empty church, she turned her focus upon the altar, where she saw the reverend starting down one of the aisles, his elder trailing behind him.

“Good day, Reverend,” she said. Zebulon took his broom and said he would sweep the light dusting of snow from the front steps, his intent to give the parishioner and her pastor their privacy.

“How art thou recovering from thine ordeal at the Town House?” the reverend asked, smiling as he rubbed at the tip of his beard. “It could not have been easy, especially given that the ruling was not in thy favor.”

    “I just told Zebulon: I respect the wisdom of the magistrates. I will respect the covenant that I have made with my husband.”

“Thou art a wise woman.”

She said nothing, and she could tell that he was unsure whether to see docility or defiance in her silence. “Tell me,” he said. “What hast thou come to discuss?”

“I would like to be a missionary of sorts—to some children. I know there are men who work with the savages. I have heard much of the efforts of John Eliot.”

“John is a rare breed. Hast thou read his books?”

“I have not. But I know of them.”

“He has learned their language. He is so fluent that he is translating the Bible into Algonquian. Dost thou plan to learn it, too?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

“I was thinking of the Hawkes. Not the savages—at least not yet. The parents were excommunicated, but they have five children on a farm.”

“The Hawkes are difficult people. Stubborn. There is good reason for their excommunication.”

“I do not doubt that. It is the souls of the children I care about.”

“And thou art asking my permission? If so, that is a decision for Thomas, not me.”

“Not thy permission,” she said, lowering her eyes deferentially.

“Then what?”

“I would like an introduction to Reverend Eliot. He passes the Hawke farm on the way to the praying Indians east of Natick. I would like to ask him to escort me there and back on the days he is with the savages. I may never know precisely why God chose not to bless me with children of my own. But I accept that, and I pray that what I am suggesting does not mask an ill-advised pride. I want to help the Hawke young ones grow into adults who love their Savior as I do—as we do—and to behave appropriately.”

Norton gestured vaguely with the back of his hand at the world beyond the doors to the church. “Thou wouldst prefer that the children do not grow into heretics.”

She was unable to read his tone. She heard a tinge of good-natured sarcasm, but he may also have revealed he was taking her seriously. “That is a level of specificity beyond what I was imagining,” she replied.

    “John Eliot is doing work that is as dangerous as it is important with savages. Thou hopest to do the same with a small English tribe barely more civil. Why dost thou suppose they would want thee in their life?”

“I may not succeed. But is a missionary worse for failing or failing to try?”

“I appreciate thy courage.”

“And the Reverend Eliot knows them, true?”