Grace screamed and the man clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. Grace struggled. The strange man was strangling her. A bolt of rage surged through Minnie. She didn’t want to see Grace hurt, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t want to die.
The paring knife in the knife holder wasn’t very heavy or as large as some of the others, but it was sharp and if she hit the right spot…
And she did.
* * *
—
“It’s a miracle you weren’t hurt, Mom.”
“Nonsense,” Minnie said. “Fear does amazing things for a body, even an old body.” She’d said the same thing to the police when they reported finding Frank bound and gagged in his basement. His big television was gone, along with most of his furniture. The squatter hadn’t sold off his stamp collection, and he’d been grateful for that.
“How is Frank?” Minnie asked.
“Dehydrated, but he should recover in a few days,” the police officer said.
If she was a police officer. She wasn’t wearing a uniform. Minnie couldn’t remember her name. “I really should write things down,” she said, looking around for a pen.
“You need a proper notebook,” Grace said. “And some cognitive training wouldn’t hurt, would it? Let’s be honest, Minnie.”
“Speaking of honesty, you understand now why you have to move,” said Priscilla. “The neighborhood isn’t safe.”
“I’m staying put. I’m forgetful, not crazy. And I have Grace, who incidentally will not be running any more of your silly errands. Find your own assistant. We’re going to be busy organizing a neighborhood watch.”
The young woman, a police detective, Minnie decided, cleared her throat and thanked everyone. “As we say, if you see something, say something.”
“Least of all,” said Minnie, “write it down.”
The young detective was about to leave when Priscilla said, “Detective, just a moment. Don’t you agree? The neighborhood isn’t as safe as—”
“Priscilla,” Minnie said in her best elementary school teacher voice, “that’s enough. Goodbye, Detective, and thank you again.”
“Mom, I just want you safe.”
“I do feel safe. And as Grace often says, ‘We can’t always expect the worst.’ That’s not really living, is it? And anyway, I seem to remember we have a plan.” But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what it was.
Then Grace chimed in, “Neighborhood watch. Remember?”
“Of course, I remember,” said Minnie, “I’ll just go find my notebook and write that down.”
A Cold Spell
MARK THIELMAN
The night sky above Eastham hung black, black as pitch, black as the soul of the lost. The cold air bit at Samuel’s exposed face. He could not remember weather like this during his years in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Stomping his feet to warm himself, he hurried forward; the sooner they returned to his hearth, the quicker he might feel temporary relief from this never-ending winter.
The wind pushed stinging needles at him. Though Samuel wore his linen shirt and thickest doublet beneath his cape, the cold penetrated all. Beside him, he heard a groan.
“We hath not much farther to travel, Sanaa,” Samuel said.
“We already gone too far on dis night, Mr. Samuel,” Sanaa replied.
Despite the cold and the circumstances of their journey, Samuel smiled. Sanaa’s accent seemed more pronounced in the dead of winter, a physical reaction, he supposed, to a yearning for her native Barbados.
As they passed the graveyard, Samuel resisted the impulse to glance toward Elizabeth’s and Joanna’s graves. Nothing would be gained by scratching at that wound. Instead, he pressed onward.
Soon, Samuel could see a small gathering of the town elders, their steeple-crowned hats illuminated by the torches they carried. The men talked among themselves, their exhaled breaths like smoke from a dozen fires in this cold. Samuel quickened his pace. Sanaa, by contrast, slowed, allowing the distance between them to lengthen.
“Brother Samuel,” a voice said, “evil treads heavily among us this night.”
Samuel thought he heard excitement in Reverend Purge’s tone. He nodded, acknowledging the minister.
“May God be with us all,” the reverend said.
Samuel’s eyes swept the gathering. In a circle stood most of the freemen of the village. As the elected constable, they waited on Samuel for direction.
“Who found this man?” he asked.
“I did.”
Samuel recognized Timothy Bennett, the son of John and Goodwife. He waited to see what Timothy would volunteer.
“Mother bade me to check upon the cow we keep in our far parcel of land, the one near the Glower property. Having made my inspection, I hurried home. I stumbled here upon a log that lay across the path. When I made to remove it, I discovered it to be the leg of this man, William English.”
“And this was how ye found him?”
“Aye, Brother Samuel.”
Samuel studied the body, arms outstretched, the corpse’s legs pressed together, loins clad only in a homespun cloth, dressed more like a savage than a Puritan.
“We must take English to better light and examine him more closely,” Samuel said.
No one moved.
“Perhaps the meetinghouse?”
Reverend Purge shook his head. “We shall not invite death into our sacred place.”
“Sanaa.” Samuel turned. He found her huddled alongside Bethuna, Reverend Purge’s house slave, who also had been brought out on this night. “Hurry to the house and clear the table.”
“Yes, Master Samuel,” she said and disappeared into the darkness.
Turning to the assembled men, Samuel said, “We shall take him to my home. Death has been a frequent enough visitor there. Who will help me?”
No one spoke of the fever that had taken Samuel’s wife and daughter.
“The good reverend will grant us forgiveness for any handling of the body.”
Reverend Purge scrunched his face into a deeper frown. Samuel chose to assign the expression to the cold.
Major Dan limped forward. “I’ve handled my share of bodies fighting on the frontier. I shall help, Constable.” Supporting himself on his one good leg, the major grabbed the dead man’s ankles.
Samuel had hoped that another, more swiftly moving fellow, might step forward. Still, help was help. He grabbed the dead man beneath the shoulders and lifted.
The assembly gasped.
“He retains the shape of our crucified Lord,” Reverend Purge whispered.
Samuel looked down. Much to his surprise, the dead man’s arms remained extended out to the sides.
The pace proved slow and difficult. The major’s herky-jerky walk nearly pulled the corpse free from Samuel’s icy hands. No other member of the party dared come close, rendering their lights ineffective. Several times, Samuel stepped off the path, his foot crunching on the frozen snow. Eventually, however, the party arrived at his house.
Samuel and the major steered the outstretched arms inside and onto the table.
The others followed, their fear overwhelmed by their curiosity and desire for warmth. Sanaa’s thin frame bustled about the room as she quickly retrieved pewter mugs of warmed wine from the hob and delivered them to the major and Samuel. A third she handed to Reverend Purge.
“Thank you,” Samuel said. He pressed the mug against his palms, waiting for the warmth to soak through his outer wraps.
The other men said nothing. Reverend Purge brought the cup to his lips, tasted the wine and paused, studying it.
“The wine has a bit of the nutmeg,” Samuel explained. “My wife knew how I liked it, and Sanaa always paid close attention to Elizabeth. Shall we pray, Reverend?” Samuel asked.
Reverend Purge and the ot
hers bowed their heads. Purge offered up a lukewarm prayer asking that, in the unlikely event this foreigner’s soul was not already consigned to Hell, God, in his mercy, take pity upon it.
“Might not Brother English deserve more intercession?” Samuel asked quietly.
“William English must make peace with whomsoever he finds himself before,” the reverend answered.
“He was a freeman living here…”
“English was among us, but never part of us,” the reverend said, facing the crowd, “born William L’Anglais, a Huguenot. The man and his wife changed their last name when they settled on the frontier. The wars with the savages forced them upon us. Perhaps your Puritan brothers in Bermuda were more accepting of false beliefs.”
“Did English not participate in the community?”
“Paid his tithes, stood his watch. He attended meetings nearly every Sunday.”
“And be it not true that his wife, Prudence English, earned renown for her skills as a baker?”
“I do not say that they are without merit, though I disapprove of the woman’s desire for notoriety over quiet service to her husband and our Lord, but still—”
The reverend’s statements were interrupted by Sanaa’s gasp. She held one hand to her mouth and with the other pointed an outstretched finger at William English’s arm.
“Master, de marks.”
Samuel looked. The palm of English’s right hand bore a round, red wound. He located similar marks on his left hand as well as both feet.
“His side showeth the mark of the spear!” the reverend cried.
The crowd pressed closer to the table. Just above the homespun on his right side, a clean gash in his flesh.
“The Devil has made a mockery of Christ through his desecration of this body,” the reverend announced.
“Master, de tips of dem fingers.” As Sanaa spoke, she gently touched the pads of her own fingers with her thumb.
Samuel shifted his gaze back to the hands. The fingertips of English’s left hand appeared burned. He also noticed a red mark higher up on English’s forearm.
“The troubles of Salem visit us,” Reverend Purge said.
“Can thou be certain?” Samuel asked, his eyes flicking among the body’s wounds.
“The fingertip burns are well-known among those of us who study such matters,” the reverend said. “Pity you have not attended the Harvard College. Usually, such marks come from holding the flaming pen when writing your name into the Devil’s book.”
The circle slackened, every man distancing himself from this witch-vessel.
“Call thy families. We must pray,” Reverend Purge declared.
Even Major Dan shook with fright; here was an enemy against which he had no experience. He hobbled out the door as quickly as his one good leg would carry him.
Reverend Purge left last. “I trust, Samuel, that I will see thee at the meetinghouse. Your hands touched this defiled body.”
“I will be along directly, for I have no wish to fall prey to the Devil nor anyone else,” Samuel said.
The Reverend, satisfied, adopted a conciliatory tone. “You have been a welcome addition to Eastham since your family sailed from Bermuda. We mourned your tragedy and supported you by electing you for office. I trust your zeal for Puritanism.” He pulled open the door, sending a blast of frigid air into the room, then disappeared into the night.
When Samuel was sure they were alone, he looked at Sanaa. “What do you think?”
“I prepared de poultices for de women who burned fingertips pulling pans from de oven. De fingers look like dese. Dis is a burn, but de reverend may be hasty about de source.”
“And the other wounds, do you notice anything about them?”
“The Christ marks show where de Bible says,” Sanaa answered.
He looked again and nodded. “I should never have taught you to read,” he said, a faint smile on his face.
“Pity you had no opportunity to study at de Harvard College. Imagine what I know den.”
Samuel grunted. “What else do you see about the wounds?”
Sanaa studied them quietly. “Not’ing.”
“No blood,” he said. “Nor was there any spilt where the body lay. We shall confirm this on our walk to the meetinghouse.”
This time Sanaa grunted. “I just thawed from de last walk.”
“Help me carry English’s body to the barn. The cold is like the sunshine in Barbados. Continual exposure will lessen your sensitivity.” Samuel slid into his cape, adjusted his hat, and then opened the door to the outside. A blast of arctic air punched them both. Samuel slammed shut the door.
“The master, he know best about de sensitivity,” Sanaa said.
Wrapped tightly, Samuel looked to her. She reluctantly nodded and bent down to clasp English’s feet. Samuel again slid his arms down to the shoulders. His hand brushed against the back of the dead man’s head.
“Sanaa, come here.”
She joined him at the head.
Taking her wrist, he guided her hand behind the man’s head.
Her eyes widened.
Together, they carried the body to the barn, then set out for the meetinghouse, pausing only briefly at the spot where English’s body had lain.
“No blood, Samuel,” Sanaa confirmed through chattering teeth.
They hurried to the gathering place.
Inside, a nervous crowd had assembled. Prudence English and her daughter were already in their seats, red-eyed, crying softly, surrounded by supportive women, many the wives of the men who had fled Samuel’s house. He slid into his assigned seat while Sanaa moved to her spot in the very back corner of the building.
As Reverend Purge climbed the high pulpit, the low rumble of conversation fell away. He had dressed tonight in full ministerial robe, black with only the white Geneva bands providing contrast. Against this backdrop, his bald head and silver beard shone. His glowering eyes, framed by wrinkles of wisdom and experience, focused slowly on everyone in the room. Occasional sniffles could be heard from Prudence and Eden, her daughter.
“Bow your heads,” the reverend commanded.
Purge prayed with far more zeal than he had earlier. The Devil, he began, attacked most strongly his harshest foes, and this night fiendishly had visited Eastham, their utopia of godliness. But, he prayed, we believers would not falter, but rather unite to uncover the witch among us. We pray there is but one, he added.
When he finished, only the wind could be heard, battling the walls of the meetinghouse, probing for chinks in the wooden exterior, the penetrating cold searching for a way inside.
Reverend Purge lifted his face, glistening with perspiration from the force of his entreaties. “We must pursue this matter,” he declared. “Prudence English, come forward, that you might answer questions about your husband’s death.”
Prudence lifted her head, and although Samuel would not have thought it possible, her complexion, already ashen, seemed to pale. Red-rimmed eyes looked weakly to the pulpit.
Samuel stood. “Reverend, the woman has just learned of her husband’s death. Let us show charity.” Samuel heard murmurings among the gathered, although he could not tell whether they supported or opposed his suggestion.
“As we have seen, the Devil shows no pity. We must proceed.”
No one else challenged Purge.
With a woman supporting each elbow, Prudence English shuffled toward the front of the room.
“Goody English, pray tell when you last ate?” Samuel asked.
“I made rye cakes earlier. My daughter ate, but I have not yet taken a meal.”
“We must at least allow Goody English to eat before examining her,” Samuel said.
“She has no need of earthly food. Though she walks through the valley of the shadow of death, the rod and staff shall suppo
rt her in this necessary task,” the reverend answered.
The women assisting her hurried back to the safety of their seats. Prudence English stood before the assembled townsfolk, quaking. Reverend Purge climbed down from the pulpit, heavy footfalls echoing in the silent room. He lovingly laid the Bible upon the unadorned communion table, the only other piece of furniture within the simple room.
“Come to me, Goodwife English.”
Haltingly, she moved forward.
“Lay your hand upon the Bible.”
Her shaky hand touched the Scriptures.
“What do you know of your husband’s last hours?”
Prudence said nothing; her arm shook and her teeth chewed upon her lower lip.
“Speak,” the reverend commanded.
Everyone in the pews pressed forward to hear.
“We escaped the frontier with little,” she began, “and have tried to rebuild. With limited land, we survive as shopkeepers. We sell the wheat bread I bake and live upon the rye. We churn butter from excess milk God grants us. Goodman English sometimes finds items within the community from which we profit. God blessed us, and we began to prosper. William left this afternoon. He was to meet another and to tend the cow. I expected him home to sup. Several townsfolk came by seeking to do business. I recall your servant, Bethuna, as well as Widow Glower. When he did not return, I became worried. And then…” She fell silent, her shoulders shaking.
“And pray tell us, whom did he meet?” the reverend asked.
“I do not know.”
Outside, the howling wind rattled the clapboards.
Then, Eden English laughed hysterically and fell to the floor of the meetinghouse writhing, her legs spasmodically kicking the pew.
Moving quickly from the men’s side of the room, two freemen pulled Eden upright. They carried her backward to the front of the church, heels dragging. At the communion table, they turned her to face Reverend Purge and Prudence English.
The girl’s head lolled to the right side and her hands danced as if unconnected to her arms. “I see Father,” she said. “Father surrounded by light. He points his arm at you, Mother. He doth speak, but I cannot hear what he is saying.”
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