The Shape of Mercy (25 page)

“He wasn’t in the army.” Esperanza stood at the fridge, opening its gleaming pewter-colored door and pulling out eggs.

I sat on a stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen. “But you said it had to do with the war.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t here. I just know what my mother told me, and she came to work for Abigail when I was ten. So it had been ten years already since the war.” She placed a small skillet on the stove.

I leaned forward. “What happened?”

Esperanza tapped an egg on the side of a glass bowl and a stream of silvery white and yellow fell out of it soundlessly. “Well, Mr. Boyles had a gardener and the gardener had a son. Abigail and the gardener’s son were friends. And then more than friends.”

“And her father didn’t approve,” I said.

Esperanza broke another egg open and cocked her head. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, did he?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. My mother never mentioned Abigail’s father knowing about his daughter and the gardener’s son.”

“So Abigail and the gardener’s son fell in love,” I said, trying to recapture the momentum.

“Sí. Well, he certainly fell in love with her.”

“He asked her to marry him.”

“And she turned him down,” Esperanza finished. She whisked the eggs together.

“Because he was poor,” I said, “and she was rich, right?”

Esperanza stopped beating the eggs. Her hand froze on the whisk and she looked up at me. “Because he was
poor?”
she asked, astonished.

I opened my mouth and then shut it.

Esperanza pressed her lips into a thin smile and resumed thrashing my eggs to a foamy mix. I had gotten something terribly wrong.

“That wasn’t it?” I asked.

She laughed. “You people always think everything is about money.”

“What?”

She lifted the whisk and gestured at me. “People with money always think everything revolves around money. Everything. Love, hate, desire, dreams.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted her to be wrong. Especially when it came to me, I wanted her to be wrong.

“So it had nothing to do with money?” I whispered.

Esperanza tossed a bit of water into my eggs. “Ever make an omelet?” she asked, ignoring my question.

I shook my head.

She stared at me for a moment. “Come. I’ll show you.”

I hesitated but got off the stool and came toward her. “You’re not going to tell me now, are you?”

“Turn the heat down on that skillet,” she said.

I obeyed.

She opened a drawer, lifted out a black-handled spatula, and handed it to me.

“I tell you what. You finish that diary. When you finish, I will tell you why Abigail said no. And then you can tell me why the diary makes her sad. I think that is why she doesn’t read the diary anymore. It
reminds her of the gardener’s son. And I have always wondered why. You tell me what you know and I will tell you what I know. Deal?”

I took the spatula. “I guess so.”

“Bueno.
Now, the key to the omelet is the water. Only use a little. It makes the bubbles. The bubbles let the omelet breathe. No breath and we suffocate, no?” She brought a hand to her neck. “No breath, no life. No omelet.”

Esperanza looked at the skillet and held her hand several inches above its hot surface to test the temperature. “Now we are ready.”

I am ashamed to write what I must write. I can feel my cheeks burning with disgrace as I smooth the page and dip my quill. I am astonished I had the foresight to stow my quill and ink inside my hidden pocket with my diary as I prepared to escape with John Peter. Had I not, I would not be able to write this, though it shall pain me to do so. I would only be able to read what I had written before. And I have done that today, many times, reliving the moment John Peter kissed me. Torturing my heart and soul with that memory. There is pain either way.

I am ashamed because I know now that I am foolish. Last night, when the moon was high and the sound of horses’ hooves came into the clearing, I dashed out of the cottage on wings of love instead of realizing John Peter would not chance such a noisy entrance. He would have carefully steered his mount toward the edge of the clearing, whispering gently to it so it would not so much as nicker.

Foolish girl that I am, I ran straight into the embrace of hell.

There were several men on horses, not just one. So stunned was I, so taken by my folly, I scarce heard the
charges against me. I remember only snatches of the accusations. A book of witch’s spells, which I had written and they now possessed, was their first charge, and the list of my evil dealings grew from there. My shape had appeared to Prudence Dawes and tortured her many times as I demanded she sign the Devil’s book. I carried on with familiar spirits, with birds and animals, talking to them and causing them to do my evil bidding Then they accused me of killing my father, of killing my mother and my brother Thomas, of killing James, my betrothed, so I could marry a demon instead. All of these nightmarish things I did out of allegiance to the Devil and for his benefit.

I should have demanded to know who could lay such charges against me. I should have declared my innocence with grace and dignity. But I was not prepared to hear such despicable things said of me. My eyes sought John Peter. Was he hiding in this crowd of men? Had he come to bear me away to some safe haven? Would he ride in on his horse and lift me onto it, and then gallop away as my accusers fought to grab the reins? I called his name as I moved about looking for him. Someone grabbed my arm. I turned and swung. Another arm came down hard across my chest. I tried to wriggle free. I bit and scratched and called John Peter’s name. Then there was a bright stinging at the back of my head and I knew no more.

When I awoke, I was here. I felt the iron chain on my ankles first, then the brackish taste of blood in my mouth, then the chill of a stone floor.

Mary Easty is here. Martha Corey is here, in another room. There are others. They have all been charged with witchcraft.

And so have I.

The others watch me as I write. I cannot tell what they are thinking. Mary Easty said when I am done writing I should hide the diary in the straw where I sleep. She said it isn’t safe for me to keep it in my secret pocket.

There is only a little sunlight each day in this cell. It falls across the stone floor in the late afternoon hours. So I am told. I do not know. It is only my first day.

I am tired. I do not want to write, but I must. I was brought before the magistrates today to be examined. They laid their charges against me. I prayed to God to give me a clear voice and sound mind to answer them, because as I looked at those mere men, I could see they did not wish evil against me. They simply believe what has been said of me is true.

They do not design evil, but they do not recognize it, either.

They brought forth my storybook and bade me explain how I came by such spells. I asked how they came by property that did not belong to them. But they would not answer me this.

“How came you by these spells?” the magistrates asked.

“Read the pages and you will see they are naught but stories,” said I.

“Stories of the Devil!” said one.

“Nay, stories of simple things: fairies and woodlands and princesses.”

“And talking birds!” said another.

“’Tis only a story,” said I. “Aesop told a story of a talking lion and a talking mouse and no charge of devilment was laid upon him. Christ the Lord told stories!”

“Do not take the name of the Lord in vain, woman!”

“I do not take it in vain. The parables of Christ are stories.”

“There are no parables of Christ in this book. Who taught you to write such stories?”

“No one taught me. They came from within me.”

“From the Devil!”

“No!”

“Why do you torture Prudence Dawes?”

“I torture no one!”

“The shape of Mercy Hayworth appeared to her above her bed and bade her sign the Devil’s book.”

“I know nothing of the Devil’s book, and I have never been in Goodman Dawes’ house.”

“And what of your familiar spirits?”

“I know of no spirits.”

“You speak unto birds.”

And on it went.

I answered every charge and still they came at me with more. And more and more.

When I thought at last they were through with me, I heard noise at the back of the meeting room and then the voice of goodness. I shuddered to hear it.

“She is no witch!”

John Peter.

He was bid to be silent. He shouted all the more. I dared not turn to look at him.

“She is no witch. She is no witch! If Mercy Hayworth be a witch, then so am I. So be all of you!”

My heart quaked within me. I saw the eyes of the magistrates narrow as they glared at John Peter where he spoke far behind me. I could see their thoughts aligning He who defends a witch …

I could not keep the tears from coming. And still I dared not turn to look at him, not with love in my eyes. He shouted again that I was not a witch. I saw Prudence turn her head from John Peter to me, and then I heard him being escorted out of the room, shouting my innocence all the way.

Prudence dropped to the floor and began to writhe in front of me.

“She bites me! She pinches me! She chokes me!” Prudence screamed.

“Why do you torture this girl?” the magistrates asked.

But I could not speak. Two words tumbled about my head and within my anguished heart, and I would not say them.

John Peter. John Peter.

I cannot write anymore. The light has the left the room.

Shame is again keeping me warm in this dank cell. Today I was made ta strip naked before old women and midwives who poked and prodded the secret parts of my body, looking for a Devil’s teat, for some abnormal protrusion where I suckle familiar spirits to nourish them and become one with them. My stomach churns just writing the words. I could barely stand while these women moved about their task, these women whom I have known all my life.

One of them, Widow Treaves, guided me from my mother’s womb eighteen summers before, washed the body she now hovered over. She brought forth Thomas as well. And the tiny sister that did not live. The widow’s eyes met mine for only a second, and in those gray pools she said to me, “What else can I do? I am bade to look.”

They made much of a little brown circle under my arm, a tiny thing the color of tree bark. I have always had it. Mama told me long ago it was a kiss from God given to me as I left Heaven to be her little girl.

One of the old women asked me what it was. I told her. The women looked at one another, clearly measuring the truth of my words. I should have said it was naught but a spot I had long forgot I had. They believed it was a kiss, but not from God.

If this were not agony enough, the women in my cell whisper that John Peter has come under the eye of the magistrates. Prudence will certainly not accuse him; she is enamored of him. But she does not have to accuse him. There were plenty of observers in the meetinghouse who heard him defend my honor. He who defends a witch …

I am awash in troubling thoughts.

I cannot write anymore. I must save my ink.

My worst fears are taking form. John Peter is to be examined. If the magistrates believe me a witch, there is no hope for him.

If I confess I am a witch, they will let me live. But I am not. How can I say I am a witch when I am not?
And if I confess, John Peter will be in greater danger. If
I
do not confess and yet am found a witch, he will face the same fate as long as he defends me.

And he will defend me. This I know with all my heart.

There is only one way to save him.

If I can find a a way to get a letter to the magistrates …

I cannot use more ink for my own thoughts. There is something else I must write.

God be with me.

The deed is done. The letter has been written. I pray the magistrates care only about its contents and nothing for its author. I pray that what has so easily been believed before will be believed yet again. It should not prove difficult.

I was brought before the magistrates today. I should have been trembling, but I saw they had my letter and their eyes were fierce with dismay. They believed the letter. Its words, untidily formed and misspelled so they would not be recognized as mine, had done what I asked of them. They fed the madness.