The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

My travels now transported me to a primeval wilderness that looked like a watercolor of a utopian forest. I walked upon a path that had some evidence of prior footsteps, but nothing obtrusive enough to upset the tranquility at large. On both sides of this trail, the wood’s frondescence shielded most of the sunlight from my eyes. But occasional pockets of daylight interspersed among the tree trunks and underbrush, especially near an assemblage of boulders that were laden with moss and gray lichen. A few of these scattered stones reminded me of my beloved refuge near Lake Endelman, but the foremost source of water here ran in the form of a brook through this untamed sanctuary’s nucleus.

  I proceeded along this track as warily as a toddler approaching an unfamiliar object. Random patches of wild violets and red columbine flourished between the stones. The sound of the brook’s trickling rhythm soothed any traces of anxiety from my mind. Before I even managed to search for an avenue of import, I realized that my wanderings had positioned me within range of another pair of watchful eyes. A diminutive child, who seemed preoccupied in her fascination with the brook’s currents, stepped into my line of sight.

  In the woodland’s sparse light, this female appeared almost sprite-like, with a face as white as polished marble. She held a fistful of purple wildflowers in one hand, and at least one crimson bouquet in the other. Strangely, my presence didn’t incite any typical reaction of consternation from this girl. In fact, she observed me with eyes as black and lively as the most fruitful soils of the earth.

  On her oval head she wore a red bonnet that covered most of her umber-colored locks. A few shiny curls escaped the fabric encircling her face. A ribbon of sunlight caressed the child’s shoulders like a web of fingers, bestowing her countenance with an angelic glint. Her ankle-length dress was a russet fabric commonly displayed by the good-wives of the Puritanical era in seventeenth century New England. The girl’s clothing was remarkable in that it looked stitched by a seamstress with a meticulous eye.

  Approaching this elfish girl with an unassuming smile did nothing to alter her stoic expression. The child’s haunting eyes watched me without a flick from her luxurious lashes. I fully expected her to shriek and dash off between the trees like a startled hare, but she made no such motion. Being mindful of her aura of calmness, I was prudent to not augment any hostile feelings with my greeting.

  “Hello,” I announced. My voice was pitched as mellow as the water splashing against the rocks beside us. Naturally, the girl hesitated with any gesture to accommodate my salutation. Her glare then fixated on my hands, almost as if she expected me to reveal something diabolical. When she noticed that my palms were empty, her brow furrowed quizzically, but her mauve lips remained clamped together as if sutured from the inside out.

  Despite the girl’s initial muteness, I viewed her as a precocious child, one who possessed a facility to flawlessly perceive traits in people without the benefit of prior acquaintance. Although she seemed acclimated to these surroundings, I gathered that she hadn’t ventured too far into this glade alone. Rarely had such a precious child been left to meander through a coppice unattended. I sensed that her guardian was within watching distance from where we presently stood.

  My inclination was verified with the emergence of a second figure, although this one was a young woman. She was of an average height, petite in stature, and walked into view as if borne from the perpendicular shadows scorching the forest’s floor. It seemed reasonable that her colonial attire mimicked the child’s dress she had come to retrieve. I presumed she was the girl’s mother, for her features were remarkably similar. As intended, her drab petticoat hid her feminine attributes well, but she moved with defiant buoyancy that belied the fabric’s inflexibility. As she edged closer to my position, I discerned a vibrant marker that signified her from all others in this outskirt from a Bostonian settlement.

  On the upper portion of the woman’s garment, just beneath where a broach might’ve been displayed, a prominent vowel was clasped haughtily atop the material. This ornately shaped uppercase “A” was embroidered with shades of scarlet, and decorated by golden thread. A single flash of her sinful badge made it impossible for me to mistake her for anyone other than the ostracized Mistress Hester Prynne. By this hour, she wore her shameful ensign as a reminder of what she was as much as what she had become. She strode toward me without hesitation, almost as if her dress’s emblem enabled her to defy the gravity that caused so many women of her time to lurch slump-shouldered in the company of ordinary men.

  Hester studied me with eyes as black as burnished onyx. The hair flowing from beneath her bonnet was also colored in the richest shades of fertility. Upon witnessing her mother’s arrival, the treasured Pearl tilted her head toward her and spoke bluntly. “Thou shouldst beware, mother. The Black Man hath cometh to taketh us from hither. Yet, as thou mayst expect, he hides his big book well.”

  “Nay, my child,” corrected Hester. “This Goodman, although garmented rather queerly, hath merely forgotten where his footsteps hast lead him.”

  “You’re mother speaks the truth,” I told Pearl. “I am not a pawn for the devil’s bidding. But I’ve journeyed many miles and seen things that most people from your land wouldn’t understand.”

  Neither Hester nor her illegitimate daughter was certain how to interpret my confession, but both of them resisted an urge to turn away from me. Finally, when I showed no intolerance to her presence, Hester asked, “Dost thou not knowst of my ill repute?”

  “I am familiar with the sin you’re branded with,” I replied. “But I know that it’s this same stigma that I wish to investigate. I’ve come here to ask you a few questions, Mistress Prynne, but I wish not to offend you in the process.”

  My request must’ve registered as earnest under Hester’s scrutiny, otherwise she would’ve escorted Pearl by the hand and scurried back to her nearby cottage. The business I had with her, however, was not meant for a child’s ears, so Hester sent Pearl away to collect some anemones from the woods. Pearl sensed that there was more to learn from covert conversation than a bushel full of pale flowers. She resisted her mother’s command at first.

  “Tend to what I asketh of thee, my child,” cried Hester. “I shalt be hasty with this affair, as I have several gloves yet to mend ere the morrow.”

  After Pearl scampered off on yet another exploration, I attempted to establish trust with this shunned Puritan. I told Hester my name and assured her that my mission didn’t include any further judgment upon her character. “All I really seek,” I avowed, “is to perhaps develop some solutions to the troubles I still must face.”

  Hester looked at me with a flickering hint of trepidation. It seemed like a defensive reflex on her part, but perfectly reasonable when considering how so few men consulted women on crucial matters during this patriarchal age. In spite of this, I hoped she had a sense of my own humility. Had there been a letter emblazoned on my own clothing to reflect my crisis, I don’t know if I could’ve exhibited it as so unreservedly as this woman. I trembled at the prospect of Hester detecting the sorrow churning in my heart.

  “I come to you with nothing but good intentions,” I said contritely. “Considering what I’ve learned from your past, my first question may sound quite obvious.” My gaze plunged deeper into the core of Hester’s dark optics, which glistened like ripples on moonless water. She had no reason to confide in me, or any man for that matter. But, despite the hardship she already endured, I sensed Hester was a woman who carried herself with a delicate strength, not because of any extraordinary measure of character more than a set of prejudicial circumstances.

  “I knowest thou hast no alliance with the Black Man,” she declared. “He, in the form of a shadow, hast visited me but once.” Hester then raised her hands to her breast as if her fingers were imitating the action of fire. “He leaveth his mark in the shape of this inflamed letter.”

  The morning sun ascended higher than the treetops now, permitting a few cooper rays to cast upon Mistress Prynne like an unearthly
spotlight. But more unsettling for my observations, this illumination only served to ignite the scarlet badge stitched to her gray garb. Yet even while that damning symbol blazed tauntingly upon her breast, Hester stood before me as unshakable as an oaken pillar embedded in this timbered vista.

  “You wear that letter as if it no longer singes your heart,” I told her.

  “I hast donned it time enough for it to scorch me with both shame and strength,” she muttered. “Like fire follows smoke, curses and blessings worketh in unison.”

  “But you’ve risked so much because of temptation,” I declared. “The solitude that you must now endure can’t be satisfying.”

  Hester traced her fingertip upon her dress’s calligraphy with a wraithlike touch before saying, “And this is the purpose of thy sojourn? Dost thou aim to speculate on the interior workings of this sin?” Her eyes remained locked onto mine while I pondered her inquiry. And once feeling the synergetic effects of her ocular embrace, it seemed as if my own head was fettered in a stockade.

  “I didn’t mean to sound presumptuous, but surely there must be somewhere else you can go to escape your neighbors’ scorn.”

  “If thou knowest of my point of refuge, then thou must also be privileged with the insight that I am free to stray as far from Boston as I deem fit. Yet this option is a fruitless one, sir, for I never encountered a person capable of fleeing his own conscience.”

  I, of course, already realized that Hester’s unremitting spirit impelled her to challenge those who passed judgment against her. By comparison to the maltreatment she received from those theological zealots, her illicit affair with Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale almost seemed like a venial transgression. Yet even though at least seven years had separated her from the adulterous deed, I still espied evidence of remorse creeping into her expression.

  “It canst not be an honest reply for me to sayeth that I am sans regret for what I hast done,” she sulked. “Mine once pure name shalt never be seen as unsullied again. Hence, it is a fair claim to maketh, sir, that all justice is not infallible. But knowst this: as I moveth betwixt this forest and listen to the stream that weavest a path somewhere yonder, the nature of my humanity flares far more resplendently than this letter thou now gazeth upon.”

  In light of my own circumstances, it was impossible for me to look upon Hester without a critical eye. I perceived her as a flawed woman, but tainted no more so than most of those who teetered on passion’s narrow ledge. Hester’s redeeming feature was her ability to recognize her shortcomings while still maintaining a glimmer of dignity. In this way, I determined that those who persecuted her with their righteousness were more akin to evil incarnate.

  “I see nothing inherently wicked in your eyes,” I told Hester. “Others may have marked you as a harlot for your actions, but you have already repented. It is only your courage that prevents you from besmirching the name of your daughter’s father. Even in sin, you have risen above those who’ve condemned you.”

  “Prithee, sir, these art kindly words thou bringeth to mine ears, but also better tendered to those more deserving. I warrant no praise from thee, as I hast no pride to showeth. Yet, relenting to curiosity, wherefore doth this matter revolve in thy brain so tumultuously?”

  As I much I wanted to shelter myself from the embarrassment of uttering this truth to another woman, I had come to an impasse with my own humility. “I am on the bitter side of what should never occur between a married couple,” I confessed. “I must come to terms with the knowledge that my wife has been unfaithful.”

  “The tiding is grave indeed,” Hester responded. “A wound such as thine taketh time to mend. But let not thy infection swell, sir, or it shalt fester in thy heart and bones until all but a feverish spell remaineth.”

  Who among mankind did not trip at their heels when accosted by jealousy? I certainly couldn’t claim any immunity to its mesmeric control over human thought and action. It’s stranglehold on my emotions surfaced within me like some leviathan from the murky depths of my imagination. Standing before Hester Prynne served as a reminder of what fate awaited me. I didn’t want to become as malevolent as Roger Chillingsworth. She must’ve watched the adulterated hatred thickening in my eyes like a fog consuming a seascape.

  “Please, don’t judge me by my present condition,” I implored her.

  Hester still refused to avert her eyes from mine as she inquired, “Wilt thou love thy wife with any less ardor because of this mark upon thy matrimony? If this be the matter, sayeth so now.”

  My response was immediate, but somehow still not inclusive to all the contradictions roiling inside me. “I haven’t lost my feelings for her,” I muttered. “I wouldn’t be here with you now if I didn’t still love my wife.”

  Hester’s petrified eyes softened, and at first I believed I had alleviated the rigidity from her expression. But the woman’s gaze pivoted toward her daughter, who had returned with another sampling of the forest’s wildflowers. Pearl trod the soil as if pockets of air suspended beneath her shoes. Nothing false or pretentious existed in this child’s countenance. She remained undimmed by this world’s shrouded calamities and exuded a sprite-like glow that had not yet been extinguished by the dogmatic pundits of her time.

  “Look upon my Pearl,” Hester advised, “for no protracted stare canst find any semblance of darkness hither. Nay, she colors this wooded canopy with shades more vibrant than the violets and columbines. Who shalt cast gray stones in our paths? If thou seeketh the pulse of inhumanity, sir, search not farther than the reflection that is thine.”

  “But I want to do the proper thing,” I countered. “If my wife has dirtied our bed with lust, is it fair that her misdeed go unchecked? If there is no punishment, then why would she resist another lover at some point in the future?”

  “Let not thy voice function as a persecutor. If thy wife loveth thou, then she shalt find her way back to thee. If the case be otherwise, then no amount of punishment or praise wouldst alter her affection.”

  “I despise what she’s done,” I continued. “It has caused me to question my own identity. I’m not even sure who I am anymore.”

  Hester’s impervious black eyes settled on me once again. She could’ve likely detected the folly in my heart as if I was just another lost child in the woods. “It hath been stated that a man’s true reflection doth not shine boldest beneath unclouded skies. The beckon of his soul is navigated most rightly when the air is blackest. Hearken unto me, sir, vengeance hath no end. It shalt darken thy mind, disease thy purpose, and render thee as an aberrant villain. As I mentioned ere, the coldest demon lurkest in those who repel forgiveness. Verily, if thou canst not forgive sin, thou shalt never be at peace, even after thy wife lieth in the earth for her impetuous act.”

  Pearl rejoined her mother by now. The child examined me as if she was not yet convinced that I was indeed the Black Man of this habitat. In these seconds, a grouping of pewter clouds blotted out the sun’s rays, rendering the incendiary letter on Hester’s dress a shade closer to blood. Hester entwined her fingers with her treasured daughter’s hand and watched me until I recognized that she had no more wisdom to impart. I suddenly felt like an intruder in their land.

  My trek away from them grew darker. I no longer perceived the forest’s makeshift trail. But I continued as intrepidly as before, overstepping the natural obstructions at a steady pace. I soon came upon the blackest region of this woodland, a place where even the most vivid wedges of wildflowers were blotted by shadows. I then noticed a lone figure with sulfur-colored eyes watching me as a panther might’ve skulked its prey. I shuddered at the prospect of confronting this pilferer of hope, and roused myself into consciousness before our paths united.

  Chapter 43

  12:20 P.M.