Gideon

by Alex Gordon

  Tom’s knee complained as he and Mullin and Waycross stacked more logs large and small around the hay. Then Waycross hefted a bucket of spirits from a corner of the platform. He slopped most of the fuel over the logs and hay, then held the bucket out to Mullin, who shoved the end of an unlit torch into the dregs.

  “Let it be written that on this day of the new calendar, the twentieth of December in this year eighteen and thirty-six, justice was done in the town of Gideon.” Cateman nodded to Mullin, who struck a match on the seat of his pants and lit the torch, which sputtered for a moment, then burst into flame. Mullin then handed it to Cateman, who turned to the other men standing around the pyre. “George?” He held out the torch to Hoard.

  Hoard stared at the flame. “Fire’s his, Jacob.”

  “I don’t see him putting this out, do you?” Cateman walked down the stair toward him. “The pyre’s yours to light. No one here has a greater right.”

  “I’d have gladly sprung the trapdoor at his hanging.” Hoard stood his ground as Cateman approached, the other men backing away to allow the pair some room. “I’d have gladly done that.”

  “Do this.” Cateman’s voice emerged low, level, a voice for an old friend. “You have my word, it will have the same effect.”

  Hoard looked from the torch to the ground at his feet, then back to the flame, his lips moving as if to speak even though no words came. Then he looked to the pyre, and his eyes narrowed. He took the torch from Cateman, and mounted the steps to stand beside the hay-walled stake.

  “Curced in kirc an sal ai be,” Cateman said in the old language, “wid candil, boke, and bell.” He walked around the pyre until he stood directly in front of Blaine. “Nicholas Blaine,” he continued in the modern tongue, “we the sons of Gideon separate you, together with your accomplices and abettors, from the precious body of the host and the society of the children of Endor.” He opened the Book, and held it out before him. “We exclude you from our Body in this life and the next. We exile you outside the border that divides we the blessed from the ruined and the lost, and cast you into the wilderness. We declare you anathema and judge you damned, with the Devil and his angels and all the reprobate, to eternal fire until you shall recover yourself and return to amendment and to penitence. This sentence I pronounce upon you, by the Lady.”

  Tom and the other men signed themselves as they answered with one voice. “In her name!”

  “Ring the bell.” Cateman nodded to Petersbury, who took up a cowbell and jangled it, while down the street, untouched by mortal hands, the bell outside the meeting hall entry pealed in counterpoint, sounding the death knell of thirteen rings.

  After the last reverberation ended, Cateman held up the Book, balancing it atop his open hands. “Close the book.” He slammed the cover closed, and separated Blaine from the host from that moment until the end of time. Then he looked to Hoard, who stood still as a statue beside the stake, the torch aloft. “Light the candle.”

  Hoard brought the torch down, touching it to the turpentine-wetted hay at the base of the stake. The fire licked around, then traveled upward as Hoard circled the stake, touching the torch to the kindling, the logs. As the flames rose and strengthened, he walked down the steps, stopping along the way to snuff out the torch in a bucket of sand. “So be it,” he said under his breath.

  Tom followed Hoard down from the platform, and went to stand with the other men. The sun still warmed and there was no breeze worth mentioning, the only sounds the crackle and hiss of the growing blaze.

  How long will it take? It was Tom’s first burning, and all he knew was what he had heard from the older men. If Blaine were lucky, which no one hoped, the smoke inside the hay would suffocate him in a few minutes. If not, he would burn from feet to face, with death claiming him at some point along the way.

  “It’s a day of salvation for us all.” Petersbury removed his hat, in deference to the occasion if not the man. “I remember—” He fell silent as a low sound drifted from the pyre.

  “‘O let me in this ae nicht, this ae ae ae nicht . . .’”

  “He’s still breath enough to sing.” Cateman snorted, a laugh with no humor in it. “Good. He’ll use it up that much faster.”

  “‘. . . O let me in this ae nicht . . . And I’ll never seek back again . . .’”

  “He always could carry a tune.” Petersbury placed his hat over his heart. “Let him carry this one to hell.”

  “‘. . . But when he got in he was sae glad . . . he knockit the bottom-boards oot o’ the bed . . . he stole . . . the lassie’s maiden . . . head’”—Blaine coughed, once, then again.—“‘and the auld—’” Another cough, then silence. The flames shot up to the top of the hay mound, roaring as though stoked by a bellows, glowing to rival the sun. The minutes passed, the men marking time’s passage by watching the fire, as somber as surgeons observing a procedure.

  We’ve removed a disease from our midst. Tom scuffed the toe of his boot into the dirt. Now we can heal. He thought of Eliza, waiting for him in Petrie’s barn, as the fire died and the stake and what remained bound to it became visible.

  Petersbury strode up the steps, pike in hand. He poked at the dark, smoldering shape, then turned to Cateman. “We can bring Maude Hoard here to declare matters proper, but I’d say it’s dead.”

  Cateman nodded. “Wait till it cools. Then we’ll cut it down, take it to the lowest level of the hall, lay it out.”

  “Better to smash it to powder and spread the ashes hither and yon.” Hoard shook the smothered torch. “Why keep him here? It makes no sense.”

  “Because that which we sundered could be made whole again with the right spell.” Cateman paced, his chin high and his step quick, his earlier energy returned. “Better to keep him here, intact, where we can keep an eye on him.” He stopped, and turned to face them. “Ann has seen it done. Says it’s common practice back east.”

  “The cellars of the Boston host must be sights to behold.” Hoard looked at the spent torch he held as though he’d never seen it before, and tossed it aside. “A corpse in each, laid out next to the coal and the preserves.”

  “Be quiet, George.” Cateman looked up at the sky, and took a deep breath. “Let’s get—” He fell silent, and stared toward the northwest.

  Tom followed Cateman’s gaze, and saw the heavy gray line of cloud where just a few moments before there had been clear blue sky. “Change comin’.” He flexed his knee, felt it crack.

  “Comin’ in mighty fast.” Cateman’s voice emerged quiet.

  “It does, sometimes.” Tom watched the clouds tumble toward them, as dark as the pyre smoke. “One hour, it’s bright and sunny, and the next—” He stopped as a gust of wind slapped his face, cold as sleet and just as sharp.

  “Inside!” Cateman turned and ran as above them, the sky filled and blackened. “Into the nearest shelter and bar the doors!”

  Hoard pointed to the pyre. “The body—”

  “Leave it!” Cateman stumbled, the Book flying from his grasp. He fell to his knees, and scrambled on all fours toward Hoard’s store.

  Icehouse cold. Blizzard freeze. It washed over like a wave and struck like a blow, an invisible avalanche that stopped them in their tracks and drove them to the ground.

  Tom looked toward the pyre in time to see Hoard collapse, clutching his left arm. Watched him shudder, then lie still. He saw Petersbury sag to the ground, Mullin slump against a water trough.

  He won’t kill by fire, my love—he’ll leave the fire be. He wants to die—I don’t know why, but he wants to. He has to.

  Tom looked overhead, saw nothing but swirling blackness, and started to run—

  But he won’t stop there. Tom, he won’t stop there. He’s more powerful than the host—

  —felt his knee crack, the pain shoot like roaring flame. His leg buckled, and he grabbed the edge of a trough to break his fall. But it proved near empty, and he pulled it over as he fell.

  —and he’s had help. And you know who that
is, Tom. She’s tried to drive a wedge between us since we wed.

  “Darling.” Tom tried to rise, but a spasm of shivering took him. You were right, dear Liza. Shaking like a newborn calf, he rose onto his elbow as the storm darkened the day to night and the water that splashed his skin and clothing froze. “I love you. Forgive me. Forgive . . .” He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a puddle, and saw the slack features of a dead man. Felt his heart shudder as his face altered, the bones narrowing as the hair lengthened, until his wife’s face formed. “Eliza? Can you see me . . . hear . . . me . . . ?” Then her face vanished, leaving only his reflection, which hazed and faded as the ice skinned over the water. “Eliza . . .” He laid down his head, shivered again, then stilled as the pain of freezing subsided. He no longer felt the ache in his knee. He no longer felt cold. Only tired. So tired . . .

  Eliza Blaylock hunched over the mirror, the scream rising in her throat as she watched Tom’s face fade. She prayed again, every visualization she could remember. But still the surface of the mirror continued to lighten, until she could see nothing but her own face in the silver.

  Around her, the wood of the barn creaked and thumped, battered by the wind and the sudden drop in temperature. She could sense the change in the air, even from her place among the stalls. Through a gap in a wall, a finger of wind found its way to her and brushed her face, cold as death and just as pitiless. Are you trying to tell me something, Young Nick? As if in reply, her mirror fogged, threads of frost radiating across the surface. I thought you might be. Horses and mules whinnied and stamped, and hard cracks sounded as Eli Petrie’s prize stallion kicked the wall of his loose box.

  “Damned beast will bring the barn down on us.” Maude Hoard dragged a stool beside Eliza and sat, tucking her skirt around her and tugging at her cloak. She wore her graying hair in a braid that coiled her head like a crown, white strands catching the light of the scattered lanterns and shimmering amid the brown. “See anything?”

  Eliza had dropped the mirror in the folds of her skirt as soon as she sensed the elder woman approach. She rested her hands on her knees, spread her fingers, tried not to look at her wedding ring. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t give me that, Eliza Blaylock. You’ve been espyin’.” Maude paused as the wind rose again, as the barn shook and rattled. “Did something happen?”

  “Can’t you sense it?”

  “Sense what? Master Cateman himself warded this place. Swaddled us like babes, he did, and crippled us in the process, the damned fool.” Maude leaned close, hawk face set in grim lines. “Except for you, Eliza. The Lady herself touched you with her power, and no mistake. What happened?”

  Eliza dug out the mirror, wiped away a drop of ice melt, and held it so Maude could see the reflective surface. “Tom’s dead.”

  Maude’s breath caught. She looked away, swallowed hard. “Likely George is, as well.” She fell silent for a time, then sniffled. “Likely they all are.” She pulled a handkerchief from inside her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “Did you see what happened?”

  “I couldn’t see anything. It was all black and swirling, like the bottom of a well.” The ache took hold of Eliza’s throat, like a slow strangling. “I shall die.”

  “No, you will not.” Maude gripped her hand and squeezed. “You will hold your head up as you have these past months, and you will give them no reason to think you know anything of this.”

  “But I must tell them. Their husbands—”

  “Are dead. And there are two miles of witchstorm between us and them. What can we do?” Maude gave Eliza’s hand another squeeze, then let go. “You knew something would happen. So did George. ‘Blaine was for the rope, Maude.’ He told me that just the other day. ‘But Jacob deemed that he will perish by fire. You grant a witch an elemental death at your own peril.’” She fingered her own wedding ring, a heavy silver band, its beaded border long since worn away. “He warned me—” Her face screwed up as though she would burst into tears, but she breathed slowly and steadied herself. “It will end badly. That’s what George said. ‘Gideon is one of the thin places,’ he said. ‘The wilderness is closer here, and Blaine knows the way.’” She glared at the wall at the far end of the barn, hard enough to bore through it to the outside, to what lay beyond. “But even he couldn’t see what really went on. Sometimes men can be so blind.”

  “Are women any better?” Eliza looked up at the heavy oaken beams that ran the width of the barn. “They would string me up from one of those if they had their way. The only thing preventing them is the word of our dear mistress, and how long will she hold her tongue?”

  “Your presence buys her time. As long as you live, those fools won’t see her for what she is.” Maude patted Eliza’s knee. “But if they do try to hang you, they’ll have to hang me first, and good luck to any who try.” She tensed, head raised like an animal sniffing the wind. “She’s coming.” She sat up straight. “Hide your mirror, and clear your mind.” She folded her hands in her lap, as prim and collected as if she sat in convocation.

  “It’s snowing hard. We will be here for some days.” Ann Cateman walked past as if she intended to keep going. Then she stopped and turned, her skirts swirling. “But we’ve food enough for a fortnight, and I’ve invoked the essences in the wood to strengthen the barn.” She paused as the wind rose, shaking the double doors and rattling windows. “Eli built it as a refuge, a place of safety, and Jacob’s warding has made it even stronger.” She smiled. “As has my own. It will stand.”

  “We hope.” Maude fussed with the hem of her cloak.

  The blush rose in Ann’s fine-boned face. “It will stand.” She turned away from the elder woman and fixed on Eliza, eyes narrowed and gauging.

  Eliza felt the tingle at the base of her skull, the rough probing of an arrogant talent. She made herself look Ann in the eye, and met the lifeless gray of old ice. Did poor Jacob ever see himself in your stare, Mistress? Did he ever wonder at the misbegotten thing that his old man’s lust drove him to marry? Had he realized the truth in the end, or had he gone to his frozen death still believing in his wife’s fidelity, her goodness?

  “We must be strong.” Ann allowed Eliza the barest of smiles.

  Eliza smiled in return, cheeks aching from the effort. “Yes, Mistress.” She winced as the first needles of a headache prickled, brought on by her struggles to keep Ann Cateman from divining her thoughts. She lowered her head and covered her eyes, and prayed that the woman would mistake her pain for worry, and leave her be. Felt a soft hand caress her shoulder, and forced herself not to flinch.

  “Courage.” Ann fingered the edging of Eliza’s collar as though judging its workmanship, then slowly pulled away. “You will see your Tom soon.”

  “Not her Tom she wants to be seein’, is it?” A sniff from a dark corner, the rustle of a skirt.

  “Shut your mouth, Nan Petrie.” Maude stood and turned toward the voice. “You keep carrying tales, you’ll grow one of your own.”

  “Stop defending her, Maude.” Nan stepped out of the shadows, followed by some of the other women. “She’s his and you know it. My Will said—”

  “But was he sober when he said it? That’s the question.” Maude’s voice was deceptively quiet, calm. “That would make for a change.”

  “How can you say such things?” Nan’s face reddened. “Her lover did this.” She pointed to Eliza, then overhead as the wind battered. “Nicholas Blaine.”

  “Blaine? Raise a storm?” Maude’s voice dripped mockery. “Do you remember the last harvest dance, when he tried to light the bonfire with his touch. He failed there, didn’t he? The task fell to my George and his flints and spirits, as usual.” She lowered her voice, playing it like an instrument. “But this powerful witch who could do nothing while he lived but take our hospitality as his Lady-given right and give nothing in return but pain and grief can compel the weather to do his bidding after he dies.” She tsked. “Such power.”

  Nan looked back at her fr
iends, but they had returned to the safety of the shadows. Maude Hoard had midwifed their children, doctored them in sickness, and to go against her was like going against Gideon itself.

  “Couldn’t light a fire.” Maude snorted. “And yet you believe that that excuse for a man, that soft-handed fop, could command the weather like a god.”

  Take care, Maude. Eliza kept an eye on Ann Cateman as Maude ranted, caught the flicker in the cold gray eyes as the insults to her lover struck home.

  “How can you talk like this, Maude?” Nan shuffled her feet. “After what he did to your Dolly.”

  Maude nodded. “Yes, I lost my darling to him. My beautiful, beautiful—” She pressed her hand to her mouth, then slowly lowered it. “This is why you will listen to me. He killed her as an animal would. What magic in that?” She breathed out with a shudder, hung her head. “Our men are in town, with more shelter and sustenance than we have, my girl. If you wish to ponder something, ponder that. We’ll be crammed together cheek by jowl until this storm subsides, and there’ll be enough upset in that without looking for more. Go to your children. See to their feeding.” Her voice came exhausted now, colored by age and grief. “Then see to your own business.”

  “One could say the same to you, Maude.” Laura Petersbury stepped into the light, her mending still in hand. She was an elder and Maude’s oldest friend, and all but Ann Cateman bowed their heads as she spoke. “Defend her if you will. It’s your choice.” She looked past Maude to Eliza, and her expression hardened. “Although one could ask why she doesn’t defend herself.”

  “What have I done that needs defending?” Eliza’s voice came thin and ragged, her throat aching, the barn dust burning like ash. “Nan’s had her turn—who’s next? Speak your accusations to my face.”

  “You saw fit to visit Adam Blaine in his cell on the day of his execution.” Laura Petersbury smoothed a hand over the shirt she mended, and all could see it was one of her husband’s. “He stole money from Joshua Corey and goods from just about everyone else here. Frank Mullin’s best horse. With him began the story that Will didn’t father Nan’s youngest—a vile slander. He turned us against one another, friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor, and yet you gave him comfort.”