by Diane Guest
"He thinks it is a fool's errand, and too hard on the horses into the bargain." She paused and considered the wisdom of telling her daughter more. "Besides, it would be more fitting, says he, were we to spend the day in prayer or hard work, instead of indulging in such frivolous enterprise."
"But Mother, he must realize how much Jenny wants to see her mother again." Hester paused, considering what she had just said. "But I guess he doesn't realize a lot of things, does he?"
Susannah did not answer at once. When she did, it was with a bluntness she did not often use with her children. "Hester, your father understands only that which he chooses to understand, and then only after he has conferred personally with God and received His Personal directive." She turned away. I really don't care what you think anymore, Edwin, she thought. From now on I'm going to do only what I think is best. She flicked a glance up at the window, but he was gone.
They were about three miles from home, following the winding road around the giant trees, when they first heard the steady, almost rhythmic wail. Susannah was sure that it was a child crying and brought the team to a halt. The three of them sat for a moment and listened.
"What do you suppose it is?"
"I don't know, but whatever it is, it's coming from in there." Susannah pointed, but the trees stood almost shoulder to shoulder, making it impossible to see for any distance. "I suppose I ought to look." She was reluctant to leave the girls alone in the wagon, nor did she fancy the thought of stumbling through that darkness alone, but the sound was real and she had heard tales of babies being abandoned out in these woods by camp women. "Make sure the horses don't get spooked. I don't feature walking back to Penobscot Landing."
Gathering her skirts together, she picked her way tentatively across the carpet of dead leaves toward the sound. She was just over the rise when a movement caught her eye. Then she saw it. She had seen steel traps before, hanging in the window of Rafer Marlowe's store. She had been appalled at the thought of what those ripping jaws might do to a small animal. Now, she saw firsthand. It was a snowshoe hare nearly broken in half. "Sweet Jesus," she breathed, "how can it be alive?" But clearly, it was alive, its fur covered with flecks of saliva and blood, its throat pulsing with piteous, staccato screams.
She took a step forward, then stopped. "What can I do? Even if I can get it out…" She sucked in her breath and with her hands so cold she could scarcely move them, she reached toward the trap.
Without sound or warning, Susannah was knocked from behind with such force that she fell forward almost on top of the dying animal. She rolled to one side; the pain in her back was sharp. Then she saw him, crouched, half-erect, rocking from side to side wound tight, ready to spring. He wore the traditional fringed vest and leggings of a trapper; he was clean-shaven, but his hair hung to his shoulders in greasy, black waves, and as he inched closer she could see that his teeth were no more than broken, rotted stumps. But it was his eyes that made her weak with terror. They were lifeless black pits in the center of what looked to her to be putrid, yellow cesspools.
He made an animal sound low in his throat and then he was on her, the reek of his foul, steaming breath making her gag; the smell of his body, filthy, ripe, like the smell of a rotting animal. His hands ripped open her bodice and manipulated her breasts and nipples while she screamed her revulsion and her pain.
With a split-second motion, he was between her legs, forcing them open with his knees, snuffling at her breast with his wolfish mouth. His arms held her in place and he began to bite her. Moving her head to one side, she threw up inches away from where the hare still lay dying. She couldn't breathe, tasting the bitterness in her mouth, and she thought she was not going to survive.
"Mother! Where are you?" Frightened voices came to her from a long way off.
"Mrs. Snell? Are you all right?" She heard the sounds of feet crunching through the underbrush.
Her mind broke free and she opened her mouth to scream a warning. "Oh God, don't let him get them."
Then the girls were there helping her to cover herself, their faces bleached white with shock. He was gone, the wild animal, frightened away from the kill by two fourteen-year-old schoolgirls carrying a shotgun they didn't even know how to use.
Overwhelmed with emotion, Susannah sat on the ground, holding the sobbing girls to her bosom, rocking them gently back and forth. "It's all right. Everything's all right. Ssshhh." And in her need to comfort them, she kept herself from dissolving into screaming, raving lunacy.
The men at the Landing knew who he was. A dirty, crazy half-breed, they said, who lived in the woods with an Indian squaw, selling pelts and doing odd jobs in the logging camps in winter. Outraged, they organized a search party; but they had no success, for he moved like a shadow in the forest.
Edwin was strangely silent about the whole thing. Susannah half-suspected that he, in some perverted way, felt that she had been justly punished for her willful disobedience to her lord and master.
The screaming whistle of the mill blasted the morning stillness into a million fragments and rescued her from the still repulsive memory. Susannah threw her hands to her ears. "Jesus God, must they make that so loud?" Crossing to the window she could see men running toward the mill. The sawdust must be on fire again, she thought, or worse, maybe another accident with that monstrous saw. She dressed quickly and began to strip the sheets from the bed, thinking to air them, then changed her mind. Better wait until the air clears, she thought, wrinkling her nose. She made up the bed and went out into the upstairs hall.
She stood for a minute, listening for sounds that would indicate that her children had awakened, but the house was still. How they could sleep through that awful siren was beyond her, but she breathed a sigh of relief. This early morning time was hers, when only she, Abby, and Jenny were up to share a cup of tea. Soon enough, the children would be awake, flying out of bed like frightened birds. There was no such thing as lying in bed in Edwin Snell's household. "The lull between sleep and wakefulness is the Devil's time," he would intone, "to tempt your soul and weaken your body." As a result, not one of them wanted to be the last to appear for breakfast, lest he or she be accused by their father of dallying with the Devil.
She smiled to herself. It was one of the ways that she delighted in defying him, lingering under the covers under his baleful eye, stretching and loitering, silently daring him to order her out of bed. He never did, but she knew it was not because he didn't dare; it was simply because he considered her behavior proof positive that she was in league with the Devil.
She swore silently to herself as she moved down the narrow stairway. Why did Edwin have to be such a martinet? Her children's voices, their laughter, even their bickering would be so spontaneous, so free from concern, once they discovered that their father was not presiding over the morning meal. They, like Susannah, had grown accustomed in past months to his frequent morning absences, and it would not be too much to say that they were delighted to escape the endless morning sermon and the endless Bible readings that too often ended in a thrashing for one of them.
"What am I to do, Abby?" Susannah had burst into the schoolroom one morning after a nightmare scene. "I cannot bear what Edwin is doing to those children. Life offers them precious little pleasure as it is without his constant and unfair discipline."
"What on earth has he done now?" Abby asked, as Susannah paced back and forth, wringing her hands.
"He thrashed Aaron within an inch of his life. God, Abby, he's such a little boy. How could an eight-year-old have done anything to deserve such treatment?"
Abby took her cousin by the elbow and, flipping one of the school benches down, they sat side by side. She said nothing. This wasn't the first time Edwin had done something like this and she strongly suspected that it wouldn't be the last.
"I walked in on him just in time, Abby. I've come to the end of my rope. If I had had a gun I would have killed him, I swear, when I saw those awful red welts on Aaron's back. I told him so, to
o. I told him that if he ever touched one of my children again I would kill him. And that damnable 'teaching stick' of his. I ripped it right out of his hand and broke it into a dozen pieces."
"Where was Aaron all this time?"
"Quivering and quaking under my skirts, poor little boy." She couldn't help but grimace, remembering. "The two of us were shaking so hard I believe we almost frightened Edwin into thinking we were undergoing some kind of demoniac possession."
Abby said, "You're not nearly so God-fearing as I, Susannah, nor so cowardly." She was silent for a moment, thinking about how many times she had seen her cousin stand her ground with quiet dignity when Edwin was on one of his moral rampages. "How did he react?" she asked, thinking how grateful she was that it was Susannah who had to deal with Edwin and not she.
"He looked at me in that most priggish way of his and then informed me that he was going over to the church directly, to pray that the Almighty might forgive me for my outrageous behavior." A hot rage ran through her. "Pray for me, indeed! He goes too far, Abby. I told him that I was quite capable of doing my own praying, thank you kindly anyway."
"And?"
"He told me that my disrespect would one day bear unwanted fruit, that I'd best pay more mind to praying and less to frivolities, as I was setting a bad example for the children and for the congregation." She smiled, thoughtful for a minute. "I wonder if Edwin knows what a 'frivolity' is? Eating good food? Wanting a pretty dress? Laughing once in a while? I know for sure that he hates it when I talk to my baby goats. I think he suspects that I'm using them as a witch's medium." The smile faded. "He also reminded me about the day of reckoning that's coming. How we are all going to pay for our perfidy. I hate it when he talks like that." Susannah stood up. "You know, Abby, sometimes I have to hide myself away, lest in my anger I forget that Edwin is my husband. If nothing else, I still owe him my loyalty."
The whistle of the teakettle brought Susannah back to reality. She poured herself a cup of tea with milk. "Jenny?" No answer. "Abby?" Before she had a chance to sit down the door opened and Jenny, her face gray, threw herself into the room, followed by a grim Sam Becker, one of the teamsters who worked at the mill.
"What on earth… ?"
"You better come quick, Miz Snell. There's been a bad accident. Sure as hell there has. 'Scuse me, but…" His eyes flickered. He made a quick, involuntary grimace and looked as though he might be suddenly sick.
"Mr. Becker. Perhaps you'd better sit." She was wondering what could possibly have sent a nonbeliever like Sam into Edwin Snell's kitchen, but aloud she said, "Perhaps a cup of tea might help."
"No, no, Miz Snell." He was almost frantic now. "You don't understand. It's the Reverend. It's real bad. You'd best come quick."
Susannah took a hard look at Sam Becker's sallow green face and bulging eyes. Her impulse was to grab this man and shake him until his teeth rattled, make him tell her what had happened. Instead, she took a deep breath. With clear mind and controlled emotion, she turned to a shaking Jenny and said, "See to the children, Jenny. Abby will help."
It was as if her mind had left her body and was floating suspended. She walked steadily down the road after Sam Becker, who was already halfway to the mill. Deliberately turning her face away from the church, the thought struck her that Edwin's bleak God was watching her from the window with stern disapproval. You're losing your mind, Susannah, she thought, and quickened her pace.
She reached the mill and pushed her way through the small group of people gawking from the doorway. She began to feel sick almost at once. Despite the openness of the structure, choking heat mixed with the metallic stench of blood and sweat. Don't faint, like some dumb priss, she told herself. Nothing can be so bad that you can't get through it. Remember when Ethan cut his foot so badly? She gritted her teeth and swallowed hard. Perspiration ran down under her arms and she could feel her bodice sticking to her sides. She was conscious of the sound of flies swarming around her head. Then Dr. Meade was beside her, holding her arm.
"Susannah, you'd better prepare yourself. This is pretty grim."
"John. What happened?"
"We don't know, really. Near as anyone can figure, Edwin must have started the saw for something and fallen against it. Or something might have startled him." Something. She had known John Meade for fifteen years and, for a man who always spoke with firm conviction, he was being so… so tentative about what he was saying.
"What was he doing here, John?"
"No one seems to know. We thought maybe you would." He said it in a voice so quiet that she had to strain to hear. "We found no evidence that he was cutting anything. Except himself, that is."
"Where is he?"
"Over here." He took her arm and led her across the dust-covered floor to a motionless gray form stretched out on the floor.
"Is he dead?" Her mouth was dry.
"No. Old Jacob Elliot found him. Lucky for Edwin. He's hurt himself pretty badly, though."
Susannah knelt beside her husband. Until then, she hadn't known what he had done to himself. And no amount of imagining could have prepared her for what she saw. "Sweet Jesus," she breathed and felt the bile rise in her throat.
Edwin's eyes were closed; she assumed that he must be in shock. In the dim light, he looked so young, so vulnerable. It was like looking at a portrait of a man she hadn't seen in fifteen years, a man she had almost forgotten ever existed.
She heard someone tell the doctor that the iron was ready. "I'm going to have to cauterize this," John said to her. "It's going to be nasty so you'd better wait outside."
She stood, unsteady, and turned away, but not before she heard the sickening hiss of hot metal against the pulp of Edwin's arm, smelled the indescribable stench of burning flesh. She stumbled and would have fallen had someone not reached out to steady her. She walked toward the door, her mind numb, her legs numb, her stomach aching and sore. Why would he do such a thing to himself? What could have driven him to such an act of madness?
The answer came into her mind so clearly that she thought for a minute someone had spoken it in her ear. She knew that Edwin had done it deliberately, in an insane sacrifice to a wrathful God who needed proof of his worth. And more than that. He had mutilated himself to make these ignorant woodspeople realize that he was the messenger, the teller of truth, the chosen deliverer. She glanced sideways at Sam Becker, who stood dumbfounded beside the door. Dear God, Ned, she thought, these people will never understand what you've done, or why you've done it. They'll never, never understand, not in a million years. It was for nothing. Dear God, it was for nothing.
Outside, the tears that she had kept so well hidden ran down her cheeks, and she was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of loss. What had changed him? What had turned the man she had once loved with such passion into this pompous ass, this sermonizing zealot, this… this madman?
She turned with clenched teeth and heaving breast and walked to the church, following the path taken by her husband only a few hours before. She walked down the aisle to the high pulpit. But Susannah Snell did not kneel. Instead, she raised her fist to the emptiness above and screamed her rage to heaven. "You damned fake! You are no God of mine."
Standing on the veranda with Abby, waiting for the men to bring Edwin home, Susannah wondered at her sudden feeling that they were all under siege; that something too dreadful to imagine was still waiting to happen.
Abby broke the silence. "Did he do it deliberately?"
"I think so."
"But why?"
She shrugged. "Probably so that he can change the morality of men by sacrificing himself to that wretched God of his. Who knows?" A bitter note crept into her voice. "Do you really think that these people," she waved her arm in the direction of the mill, "will be flocking to church now? It's ludicrous. It's worse than that."
"Did you suspect he was going to do it?"
Susannah was startled by her cousin's question. "Lord, no. But he would never have let on, at least not to me. You kno
w how he feels about me. Devil's daughter." She could see them coming. "I've known for months, though, that something dreadful was happening to Edwin, that he was no longer behaving normally." She turned and watched the group of men carrying Edwin toward the house. "He was so different, Abby. Before." She was quiet. "The way he is now, I don't really know him at all. He sees no good in anybody anymore." The bitter note crept back into her voice. "Except in himself, that is."
The two women stood aside to allow the men room to bring the stretcher through. Edwin lay motionless. Susannah reached for Dr. Meade's arm. "John, is he going to die?"
"It will be several days before we can tell. He's in shock now. This is going to require a lot of work. Not hard work, but steady."
He took her aside. "Susannah, you're a strong woman. You've got a level head, but I want you to be prepared for what he may be like when he regains consciousness. You and I both know that this was no accident."
She nodded. "Edwin has been under a lot of strain lately." Her words sounded hollow, flat.
"I know. I've heard his sermons, my dear. Remember?"
She smiled her quick, flashing smile. "They have been a shade on the drastic side, haven't they?"
"Fire and brimstone have been a bit overworked lately."
"Will you be home if I need you?" she asked.
"Just yell," he said, putting an arm around her shoulder and brushing a wisp of hair away from her forehead. He kissed her on the top of the head. "I'll be around tomorrow to change that poultice. And don't forget. I'm down the road if anything happens."
"Thank you, John. You're a good friend."
After he had gone, Susannah stood quietly at the foot of Edwin's bed, looking at the thin body that lay so still except for the shallow, up-and-down movement of his chest. The tears came, trickles at first, and then she cried, brokenhearted, for herself, for her children, and for Edwin—her poet, her dreamer, who had once taught her above the love and compassion of Christ, who now could see nothing but vengeance and destruction.
