Hour of the Witch(92)
* * *
“We don’t preach from Malachi often enough,” the Reverend Eliot mused on the Monday after the Sabbath, as Jupiter walked briskly beside a field where Indians had grown corn.
“What passages specifically?” Mary asked. Her fingers were cold, despite her gloves, especially on her left hand where Thomas had stabbed her. She tried to recall the biblical text to take her mind off the discomfort. She also had less room on the pillion than the last time, because she had with her a sack with the clothing and boots for the Hawke children and a cloak—a surprise—for Esther.
“Chapter one, verse eleven. I used it on the title page of one of my first mission tracts.” She could tell that he hoped she would quote it back to him, because that might mean she had read his book. But she hadn’t, and though she knew the Bible well, she was weak on Malachi. When she said nothing, he continued, “?‘My name shall be great among the heathen, saith the Lord of hosts.’ We are making the pure offering God demands of us.”
“A pure offering,” she repeated.
“Our intentions. Doing His work because of our love for Him and our desire to see the souls of the heathen brought home to Him.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “?’Tis why we do this. There is no other reason.”
* * *
The children looked adorable in their cloaks. Mary was well pleased. They were made of a thick, shaggy wool, but they were deep red, the hoods with drawstrings to pull them tight. Esther’s was a dark burgundy, too. The girls put theirs on right away and clearly felt rather fashionable. But the clothing was also functional; that was what Mary cared about.
John Eliot had sermonized rather dramatically when she had presented the garments and boots. When he brought clothes to Indians, they were castoffs and rags, the dregs that not even the poorest of the British would wear. But these were new: cloaks and boots and stockings and mittens for the girls, as well as that cape for their mother. Mary had fretted when Eliot had used the word gift repeatedly, because this was a trade. Certainly Esther viewed it that way. But the other woman said nothing to correct the pastor, and Mary’s anxiety passed.
Now Esther was holding the boot for Honour, kneeling in front of the child, and the older girl slid her right foot into it. It looked a little big, which was what Mary had hoped. She handed the child a stocking and then said to Esther, “The stocking will take up a little room and make the boot more comfortable. And, perhaps, the boot will still fit next winter.”
“Or it will fit Dorcas.”
“Quite so.”
“When thou art on thy knees, Esther, tending to the feet of another, it is reminiscent of when our Lord Jesus Christ washed the feet of his disciples,” Eliot pontificated.
The woman gazed at the reverend, and Mary could see that she thought what he’d said was absolute idiocy. Esther was just being a mother. And even Mary Deerfield, childless and barren, understood that.
* * *
After Eliot had left and Mary was alone with the Hawkes, she opened The New England Primer and started thumbing through it for the next lesson. But Esther spoke before they could begin.
“Thou dost seem more interested in that book than in our barter,” she said. Apparently, Esther had expected her to bring up the wolfsbane right away. “Men—Indians and English alike—would not tarry so after they had struck a bargain,” she continued.
“I trust thee,” said Mary.
“Thou hast not changed thy mind?”
“No.”
The woman brushed a lock of hair off her younger girl’s forehead. “I am not sure where thy plans fit into the teachings of men like thy John Eliot,” she said.
Mary considered quoting Exodus 21:24—“eye for eye, tooth for tooth”—but did not see what good could come from sharing any more than was necessary. And so she answered, “Thou knowest not what my plans are.”
“No. But I know wolfsbane. So does Edmund. My husband had many questions when I told him what thou wanted.”
“Such as?”
“He is not sure I should trust thee. He is not sure whether we should trust anyone from Boston with such things.”
“Thou may rest assured, Esther, that my intentions will never implicate either of thee.”
“Edmund’s wolfsbane is powerful.”
“I hope so.”
“It has slain many deer and many wolves.”
“Dost thou have any regrets with our bargain, Esther? I will not hold thee accountable. I understand if thou wouldst prefer not to proceed.”
“Thou canst not hold me accountable because thine own intentions are suspect,” Esther said, and Mary felt the ground shift at the woman’s acknowledgment of how she had compromised herself. Suddenly, she was a little bit scared of this exile. But then Esther continued, “I only want to make sure thou knowest that wolfsbane is a river and, once crossed, there is no returning.”
“Thine husband seems to cross back and forth across that water.”
“He has never used it on a man.”
When Mary said nothing in reply, Esther continued, “Very well. Edmund will leave a bottle with thy friend and his occasional trading partner: Constance.”