A Measure of Light

by Beth Powning

  On an evening in early March, the disenfranchised men gathered at the Coddingtons’ house. They had been given licence by the general court to remove themselves and their families from the Massachusetts Bay Colony before the next court, else they would be called to account. Anne herself was ordered to re-locate by the end of March, no matter the outcome of her church trial. Already, John Wheelwright and his family had fled to New Hampshire.

  William had not returned for supper. Mary put the house to rights for the night, took her candle to the bedchamber, where Jurden had lit the fire. She lay watching the pulse of shadow, wondering what was transpiring in the Coddingtons’ parlour. The logs had burned to embers by the time William returned. He eased the bedchamber door open.

  “I am awake,” Mary said.

  She smelled tobacco and snow, sharp as the scent of newly turned soil.

  “We have decided,” he said. He unfastened his lace collar, slung it onto the chest of drawers. “Tonight we incorporated ourselves and drew up a compact. We have elected our town officers. Coddington is to be the judge, I am to be clerk.”

  He worked at his buttons with a haberdasher’s efficiency, infused with new energy, empowered.

  “Where are we to go?”

  “Providence. Next week we will begin loading a vessel with building materials. A few of us will go overland to Roger Williams. We will determine where to settle—whether near by Providence, or on one of the islands.”

  “Will you go, William?”

  “Aye. As clerk, I will be needed. And I would like to help choose where we shall live.”

  He slid into the bed, gathered her with icy hands. He wedged cold feet between her warm ones. They lay heart to heart.

  “Tis you who began this, Mary,” he said. “You and Anne.”

  He said it with neither gratitude, praise, nor belittlement, simply a statement of fact, and she accepted it in the same way. They were quiet, lying in the coarse sheets.

  “They deserve it,” he said. “They are as bad as was Archbishop Laud, back home, with his army of henchmen. I am not sure on which side of this works and grace controversy I stand, in truth. It does not seem such a grave thing to me. Rather I want to know my firewood is dry and my cattle are fat.”

  “They are not done with Anne,” Mary said after a time. “Her church trial is to come.”

  “Aye, they will extract the last dregs. You will have to stand by her. Many of us will be gone.”

  “I will stand with her.”

  The delegation to Roger Williams left a week later.

  Mary rose with William long before sunrise. She packed two deerskin bags with travel food—nookick, dried apples, bacon, pickled fennel. She tucked in a small Bible, extra mittens and socks; paused with her hands on the bag’s buckle, watching William, thinking how he had become the yeoman’s son he would have been had he remained in Lincolnshire and not been apprenticed to a milliner—canny, capable; his torso bulky with wolf fur and greatcoat; his skin weathered by wind and cold; his fingernails permanently black.

  William tightened the sinew strings of a pack, slung it over his shoulder. He strode to Mary, put his arms around her shoulders. His eyes searched hers and he began a few words which he could not bring to conclusion. She, too, could not speak but laid a hand on his cheek.

  “Be well, my beloved,” he said at last. “I will find us a place where we may live as we wish.”

  They heard the voices and the crunching footsteps of the other men. Mary followed William into the freezing air. Powdery snow sparkled in the lantern light. No horse would travel with them, for there were many rivers to traverse and they hoped to find Narragansett canoes along the way.

  Mary watched from the doorstep until the swinging lanterns reached the corner and the street was empty. She gazed up at the moonless sky.

  Beyond, in the celestial heavens—the brooding mind of God.

  She went inside and latched the door. Sinnie, Jurden, and Samuel slept. There was no sound save for the crackle of flame and a loose clapboard clattering in the wind. She put fresh wood on the fire and sat reading her Bible by its light, looking up from the pages occasionally, as if listening for a voice she might trust.

  TEN

  Anathema Maranatha - 1638

  ANNE KNELT BY A CHEST, lifting out woollens.

  They could take only what might be sent by shallop or be carried on their own backs; for, after the trial, no matter the outcome, they would begin the long walk to Providence, following the Pequot Trail, an old Indian path that wound through forests, bogs and valleys.

  And I am pregnant. Forty-six years old and pregnant. How can they not see that the Lord doth bless me? Dear God, do not let it snow.

  She considered the steamy room with its chests, tables and chairs, some brought from Lincolnshire, others built here in Massachusetts. The fire burned on the andirons, its light reflected by the copper warming pan. Rain lashed the windows.

  Most of this will have to be left behind.

  Her husband and many of the other men were still away seeking land. Perhaps they had begun felling trees and building houses. Down in the Narragansett Country, she’d been told, spring came earlier. When they arrived, they would dig a garden. Seeds. She must tip them from the crocks where they were stored, pack them where they could be easily found.

  One of her daughters came into the room carrying a doll and a horse with wooden wheels. Anne felt the weariness of the days to come and the sufferings all would endure. She set down the woollens, held her arms out. The little girl came and leaned against her. Together they contemplated the fire.

  I will not show only rectitude and sternness, even if ’tis for their own good.

  Two days ago, she had been brought back from Roxbury to be with her family until her church trial. There would be two days of court—the first tomorrow and the second in a week’s time. In between, she would be confined at the home of John Cotton.

  So that he may make me recant.

  He had said that he would not support her. In the cold Roxbury bedchamber, she had been told of his betrayal. He argued that her understanding of grace was different from his.

  I could reveal that he colluded in the concealment of Mary’s child. But I will not, for then I would betray her.

  “One toy, Katherine.” Her voice was calm, ignoring the agony of decision. “You must choose. And whichever you choose, you will have to carry, all through the forests and over the rivers. So be wise.”

  Mary sat at the edge of her pew, the back of her neck quivering with nervousness. The room was dank, chill, every seat filled, men and boys standing at the back.

  “Anne Hutchinson, please stand.”

  Anne stood, unfastening the brass clasp of her cloak and letting it fall. She wore a white coif, white neckerchief, and a white smock. Her belly lifted the front of her skirt, exposing the toes of black boots.

  Her best, Mary thought.

  There was no sound save the spatter of rain on the oiled paper windows and the knock of Anne’s heels as she walked to the front of the meeting house and stood before the pulpit. Beside it was a brass-bound hourglass, its white sand settled. The tithing man did not step forward to tip it. Mary saw how Anne held her shoulders back for greater ease of breath, slid a hand to her back.

  She will suffer, this long day.

  A ruling elder, Mr. Leverett, came to the pulpit. He stooped with the habit of a tall man accustomed to low ceilings. His face bore a pained, irritated expression.

  “Sister Hutchinson, here are diverse opinions laid to your charge.” He held up a sheaf of papers. “I must request you in the name of the church to declare whether you hold them or renounce them as they be read to you.”

  He read out the errors compiled by the ministers.

  Anne listened intently, eyes fixed on the man’s fastidious mouth.

  She thinks of each word, Mary thought. Each word. And its weight and placement in the sentence, and the whole of the sentence’s import and intent. And w
hether she did in fact say or intend it; or whether they twist her thoughts.

  “That your revelations about future events were as infallible as the Scriptures … that we are not bound to the earthly law … that you …”

  Coming to the end, he paused.

  “It is desired by the church, sister Hutchinson, that you express whether these be your opinions or not.”

  Mr. Leverett glanced at the ministers, received their nods, and sat.

  Mr. Cotton, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Peter, Mr. Shepard … They were sent to her in her Roxbury prison, with the express purpose of changing her opinions. Perhaps they sat beside her bedroom fire, sharing a pot of raspberry leaf tea. How she would have enjoyed their debates. Now, not one meets her gaze.

  Exaggerated patience veiled the disdain behind Anne’s words.

  “These elders did come to me in private to desire satisfaction in some points of doctrine, professing in the sight of God that they did not come to entrap or ensnare me,” she said. “And now they bring it publicly into the church. For them to come and inquire for light, and afterwards to bear witness against it, I think is a breach of church rule.”

  No one answered the charge. Rather, they stood, one by one, and explicated the doctrines they had argued with her.

  Such anger! As if she personally insulted each one of them.

  Anne parried their logic, expounding upon theological issues so abstruse that most of the congregation ceased to listen.

  An hour passed. Then another. She staggered, took a slight step forward. Her son-in-law brought a stool.

  “Thank you.”

  She sat, but lost no intensity.

  “Yes,” she agreed, once, after long thought. “Yes, in this instance I was, indeed, in error. I thank you for elucidating my mistake.”

  She answered another question with a long dissertation.

  “May we have proof of your opinions?” Mr. Leverett asked, a sneer in his tone.

  Exasperation swept over her.

  “Who could interpret with absolute certainty individual passages of Scripture?” she demanded. Her voice sharpened and rose. “Who among you?”

  Morning passed into afternoon. Reverend Cotton stood. He studied his papers. An image came, full-forced in colour and sound, so that Anne closed her eyes, attempting to expunge it. The baby, sliding into her hands. Her cry of horror. How she had nearly dropped it and Jane Hawkins had come to her side; her hands, too, had flown up, away, not wishing to touch it. You must help me, Jane, please. And together they had …

  Stop.

  Anne looked intently at John Cotton. His effort not to meet her eyes was betrayed by the set of his jaw.

  He will say nothing. For he knows his danger. He played his part in the concealment. And after all, he did not see the creature. He can beg ignorance of the true facts.

  “I shall now re-read all of the twenty-nine errors,” he said. His voice was sorrowful, self-righteous. He described each in detail and then called, once more, for each theological issue to be debated.

  For the first time, Anne felt grief—a sweet, savage ache, combining remembered passion with present loss. Thy teachers shall not be removed in a corner anymore … Year upon year upon year, she had sat in this man’s Lincolnshire study, meeting his pained kindly eyes, striving to understand his teachings. For him and for his wisdom, she had left the great timbered house, and the gentle wolds with their bluebells, and the parents and children who lay buried beneath English soil.

  For my beloved teacher.

  Mary sat, head bowed, surrounded by other silent women.

  We have no part in this, save to watch.

  In the large, bare room, the light lost whiteness and gained a film of grainy black.

  The men on the front bench whispered amongst themselves. Reverend Wilson rose and spoke in his cold voice, announcing that the church was convinced of Anne’s errors and that they would be considered as gross and damnable heresies.

  Anne’s oldest son rose.

  “We shall refer further dealing with our sister until the next lecture day,” Wilson continued.

  “How can the church act without unanimity? I and my brother-in-law support our mother.”

  “You yourself, then, will need prove those opinions which you support,” one of the ministers snapped.

  Reverend Shepard stood, prominent nostrils flared, skin stretched tight over cheekbones. “If there be any of this congregation that do hold the same opinions, I advise them to take heed of it, for the hand of the Lord will find you out!” His chest laboured, mouth fixed in a peevish underbite. Then his voice rose. “She is likely, with her fluent tongue and forwardness in expression, to seduce and draw away many—especially simple people of her own sex.”

  Simple. Mary longed to share a look with Anne. Simple!

  Anne’s son-in-law stood.

  “The church hath throughout its history harboured those of unsound opinions. You do condemn my mother-in-law for nothing more heinous than opinion.”

  “She hath not been accused of anything in point of fact or practice, such as incest,” John Cotton agreed. He spoke the words readily, as if they bore an equivalent value to what had gone before, ignoring the muted gasps. “Yet she holds errors, and as such must be admonished.” He clasped his hands together, looked up and down the row of clergy. “Since only those tied to her by natural relation support her, I suppose that admonition may be agreed upon.”

  Reverend Wilson called a vote. The utter stillness in the meeting house was taken by the ministers as unanimous condemnation.

  Anne sat straight-backed. In the fading light, her skin was pale as sun-dried linen. Mr. Cotton had risen to give the admonition, but he paused to point towards Anne’s son and son-in-law.

  “Instead of loving and natural children, you have proved vipers to eat through the very bowels of your mother—to her ruin, if God do not graciously prevent. Take heed how by your flattery or mourning over her, or your applauding of her when you come home, you do hinder the work of repentance.” He turned to the women’s side of the church. “To the sisters of our own congregation, I admonish you in the Lord to take heed that you receive nothing for truth which hath not the stamp of the word of God. She is but a woman …”

  Then he turned to Anne. She stared back.

  Her teacher. For whom she crossed an ocean.

  “Your opinions fret like a gangrene and spread like a leprosy, and infect far and near, and will eat out the very bowels of religion. Therefore, I do admonish you and also charge you in the name of Christ Jesus, that you would sadly consider the just hand of God against you, the great hurt you have done to the churches, the great dishonour you have brought to Jesus Christ, and the evil that you have done to many a poor soul.” He pointed to the women’s side of the meeting house. “Take heed how you did leaven the hearts of young women with such unsound and dangerous principles, and labour to recover them out of the snares which you have drawn them to. And so the Lord carry home to your soul what I have spoken in his name.”

  Mary could no longer bear to watch Anne’s brave face as exhaustion took its toll and injustice bore its weight upon her, relentless, like the tolling of funeral bells.

  The ministers surrounded Anne. They walked her from the building, moved in a phalanx into the gathering dusk of late March.

  As if I were a wild animal.

  The air bore the seaweed stench of low tide. Beneath the cry of gulls came the rat-a-tat of drums. Couples moved away into the half-dark, women walking behind their men. They passed up along streets where icy puddles gave the only light. Anne caught sight of Mary standing alone.

  Her eyes do see more than most.

  She remembered what Mary had told her. How, in the first days of attending Anne’s meetings, Mary had felt that the Holy Spirit dwelt within her—and so, she told me, the world did seem lucid, rimmed with holy light …

  The men began to move and Anne was swept forward. In the set of their shoulders, she sensed their conviction that
Cotton would succeed in his mission. Six days—for six weary days, Cotton would chivvy her to recant, to renounce her powers of prophecy, to admit that she had been in error. In the eyes of God, and for the good of the colony, she must become an example for the goodwives of the New Jerusalem—virtuous, submissive, humbled.

  Cotton’s words burned within her.

  One week later, the meeting house was packed.

  The magistrates and the ministers resumed their places. Again, Anne stood before them, hands folded beneath her belly, a mound of black wool.

  Reverend Cotton held up a paper.

  “She hath reviewed and recanted most of her errors.”

  A mingling of sighs and murmurs rose from the congregation.

  “ ‘I do acknowledge I was deeply deceived … my mistake … a hateful error … See that Christ is united to our fleshly bodies …’ ”

  The long, isolated days in John Cotton’s study, before and after which she had been given meals alone in her bedroom and been allowed no visits from her children or any other person, were revealed for what they had been: as rain upon a block of salt.

  She looked along the row of ministers, realizing that the issue before her was none of the errors that Cotton had read out, but her own error in judgment, a misstep taken as in the ordinary parlours of the earth: she had offended their sense of mission. Yet how could they not see that they were not the only people to whom God spoke? Surely they know this in their own hearts.

  She sought reparation, although her voice was sharp.

  “It was never in my heart to slight any man.”

  Faces opened with surprise, there was a shuffle as people sat straighter to see the ministers’ reactions.

  “Only that man should be kept in his own place and not set in the room of God.”

  The ministers surged to their feet, furious.

  “I would be glad to see any humiliation in Mistress Hutchinson …”

  “Repentance is not in her countenance.”