by Mark Souza
When she told the wives at Harriet Harker’s cottage, their faces turned grim. They took her seriously this time. It was as if their eyes had been opened and they realized a snake had entered the garden, a snake that could take what was most dear to them at any time.
“What do we do?” It was Harriet Harker who asked, but the eyes of all of them fell on Rebecca. She quickly realized we wasn’t we at all. It was Rebecca. Rebecca was married to the Commandant, and the Commandant had ultimate control of the fort. He alone had the power to force the Indian whore out. And Rebecca shared his bed and had his ear. Responsibility fell to her to remedy the problem.
Rebecca left feeling worse than when she’d arrived. She had gone to share her burden and warn her friends. Instead, her burden had been doubled. She slogged across the parade ground through the snow, her feet soaked and stinging cold, wishing she had a pair of high boots like the soldiers. The blanket of snow that had twinkled in the moonlight the previous night, so smooth and pure, was now a trampled, filthy eyesore.
As she neared the chapel, she decided to stop in to pray for guidance and strength. Inside she spotted Dr. Harker sitting in the back pew with his head resting in his hands. He was a tall man and lean. He looked as if he’d have trouble holding his ground in a stiff wind. But Jonathon said he was the finest doctor he’d ever met. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
Harker jolted at the sound of her voice, his face pallid and creased with worry. When he recognized her, he settled back into the pew and nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
“You look as though something is troubling you.”
He gazed at her a moment as if considering, and then let out an exasperated sigh. “I apologize if I have caused you concern.” He stood to leave.
“Has it anything to do with the New World plague?”
Dr. Harker cocked his head and stared at her like an inquisitive bird. “You know of it?”
She nodded. “My husband and I speak often.”
Harker remained silent as if digesting what she’d said. When his face relaxed, Rebecca knew he would confide in her, as he likely reasoned she would hear it later anyway. “Another man died last night, and I fear it is no plague. Disease spreads. One sick man begets two. Two begets four. Four begets eight, and so on. This has not happened. It’s been the same week after week. One victim each time. It doesn’t spread as it should. The victims are healthy the evening before, and dead in the morning. And always two or three a week. Never more. Never less. Therefore, I conclude it is not a disease, and fear the devil is in our midst. I have come to pray,” he said, “and I advise you to do the same.”
Rebecca felt uneasy the rest of the day. She waited for Jonathon to come off duty. The snow began again. It fell softly and straight down as if the Earth was holding its breath. It fell so heavily Rebecca could barely make out the Comfort Shack. She stacked more wood on the fire so the cottage would be warm for her husband's return.
Jonathon looked weary when he arrived home. He remained quiet through dinner. She hoped he'd bring up the latest news, but he didn't. “I saw Dr. Harker in the chapel. He told me there was another death.”
Jonathon glanced up and swallowed his food. “Yes, we found another plague victim up on the wall. It appears he died during his watch.”
“Dr. Harker says he no longer believes it's a plague.”
Jonathon dropped his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“Harker should keep his opinions to himself.”
“Do you know he believes the devil walks amongst us?”
“Yes, I know. I am also a God fearing man, but I am not entertaining this foolishness. All that is unfamiliar is not necessarily the devil's work.”
“It's the Indian. I know it is,” she said. Jonathon’s face tensed into a frown. Rebercca continued. “Nothing has been the same since she got here. The men fight. Soldiers are dying. Married officers are sharing her bed.”
Her husband’s brows shot upward in surprise, “What?”
“I know it's an offense and I don't want to cause trouble for anyone, but I've witnessed it with my own two eyes.”
“These are serious charges. The men involved could be court marshaled and sent to the stockade. Is that what you want?”
“No. I just want you to send that whore away. You have the authority to do it.”
“On what grounds?”
“I told you.”
“Because men fight and some are dying of sickness?”
“Because the fort is falling down around your ears. The Indian girl is at the center of it. She is a pox that threatens all of us.”
Jonathon stood and tossed his napkin on his plate. “You have had it out for that girl from the moment she broke your mirror. It was an accident. Let the matter go. I do not like this aspect of your character. The Bible says to turn the other cheek. It's good advice.” He strode off to the bedroom and left Rebecca alone at the table.
By the time Rebecca finished the dishes and dressed for bed, Jonathon was already asleep. She blew out the lantern and crept under the blankets beside him. It was then that she sensed he was awake.
She spoke in a low voice, “I have been considering what you said. Perhaps you are right. I think I need to forgive and let bygones be bygones.”
Jonathon rolled over and kissed her forehead.
Rebecca woke during the night shivering. She turned for Jonathon but the bed was empty. A dull silvery light glowed through the curtains and lit the room in shades of gray and black. She put on her housecoat and slippers, and made her way to the front room. Jonathon wasn’t there. She checked the sitting room. The snow had stopped and a fresh white blanket shimmered under a full moon, its smooth billowy surface broken by a single track of footprints leading from the cottage to the Comfort Shack. She slumped into her rocker, woozy and unable to breathe. This just couldn’t be. Her Jonathon was a man of honor. He would never… There must be an innocent explanation. She could think of none.
As she rocked, moonbeams played on the raised filigree of her broken mirror. She plucked it off the bureau and turned it over to see her own angry image twisted into that of a gorgon. It was the whore’s fault, all of it. The mirror was heavy in her hand, its handle as icy as she felt inside.
Movement drew her attention out the window. Jonathon stood on the porch of the Comfort Shack holding the Indian girl tight in his arms. He leaned down and kissed her with a passion he hadn’t shown Rebecca in years. Rebecca narrowed her eyes to slits and clenched her jaw until she thought her teeth would crack. She stood and hurried to the bedroom. She stripped off her housecoat and slippers, and slid into bed. When Jonathon entered, she pretended to be asleep.
Rebecca waited until Jonathon snored. When she felt sure he was sleeping soundly, she slinked out of bed, put on her housecoat and slippers, collected the mirror, and crept out of the house. She was careful through the snow to step in Jonathon’s footprints and leave none of her own on her way to the Comfort Shack. Snow bunched on her slippers and wedged inside. Her feet were soaked and throbbed with cold by the time she reached the porch. A board creaked when she climbed the stairs. She paused. The house remained still. She stalked to the door and pressed her ear to it. She heard nothing. She reached for the door handle and hesitated. There was one thing to check first. She turned the mirror in her hand and brought it down hard onto her palm, edge first. She winced. The mirror definitely had heft and was solid enough to make a serviceable weapon.
She took a deep breath and reassured herself that it was no sin to kill a servant of the devil. She reached for the door handle and it jerked from her hand. Libby stood in the doorway, her dark eyes glistening in the moonlight. She scanned Rebecca top to bottom.
“Mrs. Smythe, what are you doing about at this time of night?” Libby looked down at the mirror and smirked. “You weren’t planning to dash my brains out with that, were you?” She smiled and reached for the mirror. She curled her fingers over Rebecca’s hand. A tingle radiated up Rebecca'
s arm and she gasped. Libby pinned her against the wall. She was so strong. Rebecca couldn't move. Libby looked into her eyes and smiled. She pulled Rebecca inside and closed the door.
The fetid air of the Comfort Shack stunk of smoke and sex. Libby led Rebecca to a bedroom furnished with three small beds. Sleeping women occupied two. The third, beside the window, sat empty with the blankets drawn back. Libby seized Rebecca by the shoulders and pulled her tight. She leaned in and Rebecca felt frozen in place, powerless. Libby’s lips touched hers, soft and wet, caressing. Her breath was hot and sweet. Her tongue hungrily probed Rebecca’s mouth. Rebecca’s knees trembled. Libby lowered her into bed.
Libby’s weight pressed down on her. She kissed Rebecca’s cheek and then her neck. She puddled her long, black hair on Rebecca’s chest and, as Libby shimmied back toward Rebecca’s feet, slid her heavy mane down Rebecca’s stomach. She straddled Rebecca’s ankles and took the hem of her nightdress in her hands. In one smooth motion, she pushed the nightdress up over Rebecca’s hips. She glided her hands over the tops of Rebecca’s thighs, grasped her knees, and pressed them apart. Gentle kisses danced in slow procession up Rebecca’s thigh.
Rebecca wanted to scream, “Stop,” but nothing came out. She gazed at the mirror still clutched in her hand. She could end this with one good blow except that she felt paralyzed and unable to move. As Libby’s warm mouth advanced, Rebecca felt a heat growing within. Her breathing came fast and shallow. Her chest fluttered. Her head felt light, overwhelmed with conflicting feelings of anticipation and dread, excitement and shame. It was then that she noticed the image in the mirror. She could see her hips and nightdress, and nothing else but the far wall. She looked at Libby’s head between her legs and glanced back at the mirror. Libby’s image was not there.
Libby’s lips found their mark. Rebecca moaned. Rebecca’s eyes darted to the girls in their beds. Please don’t wake up. For the love of God, don’t wake up. No one can know. Libby’s lips caressed. Her tongue stroked coarse and hot. The warmth of Libby's mouth melded with the heat between Rebecca's thighs. Languid strokes increased in tempo. Libby's tongue flicked and darted, circled and strummed. Something swelled inside Rebecca. Her pulse quickened. Her breathing became ragged. She wrapped a hand in Libby's hair and instead of pushing her away, pulled her closer. Blood surged to her head and between her thighs. She inhaled and held her breath. Her scalp began to tingle. The feeling spread down her neck into her chest. She trembled. A shudder bolted through her. It felt as though her head was exploding. The breath she held so tight came out in a long, low moan. She jerked and twitched. Instead of stopping, Libby picked up the pace. Rebecca's body shuddered again. Her legs shot out straight and her back arched. Libby teased with her tongue. Another jolt coursed through Rebecca. Her toes curled until they cramped.
Libby pulled away and Rebecca collapsed into the mattress sweaty and panting. She felt spent and weak. She still clung to her broken mirror. She glanced into the glass and again there was no reflection of Libby. She peered over her stomach. Libby's face was poised between her legs. From her angle she couldn't see the lower portion of Libby's face but she saw her eyes, wide and staring back at her. And from the set of her brows, Rebecca knew Libby was gloating. She'd won. Libby rose up onto her knees with a smug grin on her face and lowered Rebecca's nightdress over her legs.
“I'm done with you now,” Libby said. “Go back to your house. Back to your bed and back to your husband. Just remember one thing; you have no power. The power lies with the men, and the men belong to me.” She raised an eyebrow and curled her lips into a malicious grin. “And now, so do you.”
Rebecca stood on trembling legs. She felt ashamed and angry. But she was so drained that what emotion she felt, she felt at a distance. There wasn't much fight or emotion left in her. Rebecca did as she was told. She wandered to the door and let herself out. As she approached her cottage, she began to cry. She stood sobbing in the snow shivering, her feet burning with cold, until she was finally cried out.
Rebecca awoke the next day to a layer of low clouds that obscured the sun. She felt as dreary as the weather. Jonathon was already up and gone. She lingered in bed wishing the previous night had been a nightmare. When she moved, the twinge in her groin told her it hadn't been. She sat up and realized she still had the mirror clutched in her hand. The clock read almost four. She'd slept most of the day away.
Rebecca had no desire to move and found it hard to think. She remembered the vision of the footprints leading from her cabin to the Comfort Shack; her husband in Libby's arms. She knew that if she did nothing, she would lose him. She went to the armoire and dressed. She stuffed the mirror into the pocket of her coat and draped it over her shoulders.
Outside, day was fast becoming night. Rebecca asked the first soldier she saw where to find her husband. He was with Dr. Harker. She slogged through the snow to the infirmary. Jonathon and Dr. Harker stood over a table. Their backs blocked most of her view. Beyond them, a bare foot pointed skyward, its flesh beyond white. It was tinged blue like glacier ice. She moved closer. They didn't hear her come in. A man lay on the table naked and dead. It was the first corpse she'd ever seen. Doctor Harker’s hands danced and pointed as he tried to explain something to Jonathon.
“I don't know why I didn't see it before. When someone dies and the heart stops, blood sinks to the lowest levels of the body. It's the nature of any liquid. Where the blood pools the skin turns purple. You will notice that that has not happened here. In fact, I found no signs of it on any of the victims. It started me thinking. What happened to all that blood? I started searching for it. There wasn't a drop of it in this man. And there was none where he died. Where did it go?”
“What could do such a thing?” Jonathon asked.
“I don't know. I've never seen a disease do anything like this. There is a legend from Eastern Europe of a monster that drains its victims of blood. It's said to leave neck wounds like those on this man. But the scientific community has dismissed it as a wives tale.”
“It's the Indian whore,” Rebecca said, “she's a witch.”
Jonathon and the doctor startled. Rage contorted her husband's face. She’d never seen him so angry. “Go home, Rebecca. We've been over this. You don't belong here.” He took her by the shoulders, spun her toward the door, and gave her a shove. She checked her momentum within a couple steps. The strain of holding back what she begged to say left her quaking. If she revealed she knew he'd slept with Libby, she'd lose him. She left before the temptation grew too great, slamming the door behind her.
From the doorway of the infirmary, she saw Beatrice Bennett hauling water from the well to her cottage. She intercepted her and took one of the buckets. Beatrice was a broad shouldered woman of full proportions, fully capable of bucking her own water, and certainly more capable than Rebecca, yet she freely yielded. Rebecca supposed Beatrice understood the gesture was a ploy to stop and visit. She imagined the awkwardness the other wives felt toward Beatrice with the knowledge of her husband's infidelity had left the woman craving company.
Rebecca waited until they were inside and seated at the table before she told her what she'd witnessed at the Comfort Shack. Beatrice stared at her slack-jawed, her eyes riddled with doubt. Rebecca realized it was easier for Beatrice to dismiss what she said than believe it.
“I saw it with my own eyes. She slept with Millicent's husband too. And last night…” Rebecca hesitated. She tilted her head down in shame. A pair of tears fell leaving dark spots on the tablecloth. Rebecca cleared her throat and continued. “She slept with my Jonathan.”
Her admission tipped the scales. Beatrice knew it was true, it was in her eyes. She began to crumble like a dam giving way. Her lips quivered, then her shoulders. Rebecca put an arm around her. “It's all right,” Rebecca said. “She's got most of the men under her spell. She's a witch, and I can prove it. I tried to get the men to act, but they won't for obvious reasons. We wives must do something. It's up to us, and I need your help
. I need to talk to Millicent Potter. You round up the rest of the wives and meet me at the chapel.”
It was dark by the time Rebecca led a puffy-eyed Millicent Potter into the nave. Pungent traces of incense lingered in the air from that day’s services. The rest of the wives huddled around the votive candles trying to keep warm, their breath coming out in white plumes. A light shone from beneath Reverend Jones' door. He was in his room, but not yet asleep. Rebecca kept her voice low. “Do we all know what we must do?”
The women nodded.
“We will drag her out to make them see. We must draw as large a crowd as possible. But we can not let them stop us, and they will try. She has her hooks in them. They will not give her up willingly. Be strong and stand your ground.”
The ladies marched out of the chapel toward the Comfort Shack. A line of men waited patiently outside in the snow, hopping up and down and jogging in place to stay warm. Some tipped their hats as the wives approached. Most turned away, embarrassed. The ladies assembled on the porch. When the door opened, Rebecca pounced and dragged Libby out by the hair.
The first soldier in line rushed up the steps and pulled at Rebecca’s arms. “I'm next. Be on your way.”
Beatrice charged and caught the private from the side. He tumbled across the porch like he'd been hit by a bull. He scrambled to his feet with his fists raised. “Do you know who this is?” Beatrice said, pointing at Rebecca. “Are you willing to threaten the Commandant's wife?”
The private backed off. The line started to disperse. Libby stopped struggling. This wasn’t what Rebecca wanted at all. She needed a crowd. Her plan was falling apart. “She's a witch!” she screamed. “A witch!” Some of the men stopped. Rebecca started chanting, “Kill the witch. Kill the witch. Kill the witch.” The wives joined in. “Kill the witch. Kill the witch.”
