Sarah Bishop (17 page)

Isaac started to answer. He paused and turned to the post rider.

"Has thee come directly down from Boston, as is thy wont?" he asked.

"Departed Boston town nine days ago," the rider replied.

"Tell me, what was the weather when thee left Boston?"

"Dry."

"Very dry?"

"Dry as a year-old codfish. Not a drop of rain in weeks. People complain of it bitterly and pray on their knees."

"Did thee find sickness along the way?"

"Sickness everywhere. Real bad in Hartford."

The rider finished his drink and closed the mail pouch. He left with a wave of a hand, ran down the stairs, and slammed the front door behind him. The clop, clop of hoofs sounded in a room that had grown quiet. Isaac glanced at the men huddled around the table.

"It is possible that bats can fly from Lake Waccabuc as far as Ridgeford village," he said. "But they cannot fly hundreds of miles to the city of Boston." He looked at each man in turn. "Is there anyone here who seriously believes otherwise?"

His father mumbled something but fell silent. The others were silent, too. Mr. Cavendish opened his letter and began to read.

"Furthermore," Isaac said, "if the weather in Boston
is dry as a year-old cod, if sickness lingers in all towns and cities and villages, then they cannot be caused by the girl who stands before you in this room."

"Witches fly," his father answered. "Around the world, if they are so minded."

Mr. Cavendish looked up from his letter. "That I doubt," he said and went on reading.

One of the men said that he likewise had doubts. Another started to say something but coughed instead. They both looked shamefaced. Sam Goshen rose and went to a window and looked out. The Indian finished what the post rider had left in the glass.

Isaac said, "Sarah, let the men ponder on God's admonitions. It is time they did."

He took my arm and led the way down the stairs and into the ladies' parlor. He ordered two vanilla squibs and some tarts. They came on a pewter tray as Goshen and the Indian and four men of the committee trooped silently down the stairs. Mr. Morton lagged behind. When he passed the parlor he glanced in and hesitated. For a moment I thought he was about to confront me again. But he quickly turned away and stamped out into the rain-pocked street.

"My father," Isaac said, "has not changed his mind an inch. He still thinks thee is a witch and will think so until his dying day. Likewise, the apothecary, Harold Stokes. However, they are only two men against four.
Father will therefore hold his tongue and not condemn thee to the village."

"I will not leave Long Pond," I said, "even if they all condemn me."

T
HROUGH THE OPEN
window came a gust of wind. People were still wandering around in the street, looking up at an empty sky.

We drank the squibs and ate the tarts, which Isaac thought were very tasteful. At least, he said they were. It was so hot that the sugar had melted on them. I didn't tell him that I myself had made the tarts the night before.

There was a sudden, distant roll of thunder. But nearer, from somewhere down the street, came the sound of hoofs. A solitary horseman rode up and stopped in front of the tavern. He was a Hessian, with long hair and a wide mustache dyed black.

He tethered his horse and hurried up the stairs and into the tavern. He glanced through the door, first at Isaac, then at me. I returned his gaze.

He went to the board at the end of the hallway. I watched him as he put up a notice. In a few minutes he was back on his horse, galloping down the street. Isaac waited for me to go out and read the notice that the Hessian had left. I didn't move.

My musket stood in the corner. Isaac glanced at it now. He smiled. "The first time I've seen thee without it. Thee must have felt brave when thee set it there. I was glad thee did not take it up when the soldier came. I wonder about the musket. When did thee get so wedded to it?"

"A long time ago. Last year. I bought it from a ferryman on the Sound. He taught me how to use it. That was after my father was killed and my brother died. When I tore a page from the Bible."

Isaac was eating a tart. He stopped eating.

"The Sermon on the Mount," I explained. "The part that says, 'Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.'"

Isaac was shocked. "Thee tore it from the Bible? Thee destroyed a page from the Holy Bible?"

"Yes, I threw it in the fire."

Isaac stared at me in disbelief. "Thee reads a Bible that has its heart torn out?"

"I don't read the Bible much."

"When thee does?"

"The Old Testament is the part I read."

"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?"

I nodded and handed him the last tart on the tray. He
put it on the table and brought forth his Bible and slowly opened it to Matthew. Then with great care he tore out a single page. He held it up.

"Will thee place this in thy Bible?" he said.

"Yes."

"Will thee read it?"

"I may."

The hot breeze rustled the page.

"Pledge me that thee will," he said.

I took the page and put it in my bodice.

A clock struck the hour. Isaac jumped to his feet. "I am late to tend the store. I will be there this evening, too. Does thee require anything...?"

I required many things, but had no money to pay for them. "Nothing," I said.

"There is another Meeting two Sundays hence," Isaac said. "Can thee come?"

"I think so."

"Do! And bring the Bible with the page from Matthew that I have given thee. We cannot live without God's love. And our own love, which we must share with Him and with each other."

We said good-bye and he ran down the stairs and up the street. I watched him go. Mr. Cavendish was reading the notice the Hessian had posted. I was tempted to read it, too, but I left and went on my way.

The last of the sun shone through the trees on the village street. I had the musket on my shoulder. I held
it lightly, for my hand was not yet healed.

My way led through a stream bed that was dry except for a mossy pool. Drinking at the pool was a snake. At the sound of my footsteps it stopped drinking. By the brown and yellow bands I recognized it as a copperhead.

The serpent lay only two short strides away. It did not try to move but raised its head, flicked its black tongue at me, and stared with yellow eyes. I stopped and put the musket to my shoulder and took careful aim.

I was about to press the trigger when the serpent began to drink again. I watched it sip the mossy water. Then, putting the musket under my arm, I made a wide circle around the pool and went on.

Dusk came as I reached the western ridge. I looked back. Above the trees, down in the valley, I watched the lamps in Ridgeford village go on. It was a pretty sight, to see them light up one by one. I had forgotten how pretty friendly lights could be.