Slewfoot

by Brom

  Sarah Carter gave her a troubled look.

  “You might have heard then, about my mother … that she were a cunning woman?” Abitha pulled out the folded corn leaves. “This … this is an ointment … a remedy. Knitbone root. I’ve seen her use it to great relief on those afflicted with measles.”

  Sarah stared at the leaves, her brows tight. Abitha could see her wrestling with her principles.

  “It is but a root,” Abitha said. “No different than any other of God’s plants. If the Lord created a plant that helps alleviate the suffering of blisters and rashes, does it not make sense that He should want us to use it? That it is but one more of His many blessings?”

  Goodwife Carter seemed unable to make up her mind.

  “Surely it would not hurt to try,” Abitha said.

  A wail came from back in the house. It was the girl. Goodwife Carter hesitated for a moment longer, then bit her lip and opened the door wide. “Come in, Abi. Please.”

  Reverend Thomas Carter sat in a chair by the fireplace, looking defeated. He stood up when Abitha entered. “Abitha? What—”

  “She’s come to help,” Goodwife Carter said. “Now, worry not. Sit down. Let us do our work.”

  “But…” He eyed Abitha warily. Abitha could see the man knew what she was about.

  “Thomas,” Goodwife Carter said, and there was a plea in her voice. “Let us handle this. Please.”

  He started to object, but when he caught the look on Sarah’s face—that of a mother out of choices—he closed his mouth. The couple held each other’s eyes a moment longer, and Abitha sensed the unspoken exchange going on between them.

  Reverend Carter sat back down and stared into the fireplace, his hands clutched together. Finally, he nodded and let out a long, sad sigh that said more than any words could. “I am going to sit here. You just call me if I am needed.”

  Goodwife Carter turned and led Abitha into a bedroom in the back of the house.

  Martha lay clad in her nightdress upon sweat-stained sheets, her pasty flesh covered in clusters of angry red bumps, the fever showing bright on her face. Abitha thought her to be around twelve years of age. She had sandy-colored hair, cut short like her mother’s, and like so much about the Carter family, she was plain both in face and form, as though to please God with her humbleness.

  Martha let out another moan.

  A pail sat by the bed. Sarah dunked a cloth into the pail and gently sopped the girl’s forehead.

  Abitha laid the corn husk down on the bed and unwrapped the leaves, exposing the gray ointment. She dabbed the ointment onto her finger and began blotting it onto the welts. She started with Martha’s face, neck, hands, and arms, then unbuttoned Martha’s gown and applied it to any spot where the rash had spread.

  Applying the ointment was the simple part; it was the next step that worried Abitha. Samson had told her it was her spell and to cast it with the same chant in which she’d summoned it, to let the chant guide her. She knew she couldn’t just start speaking in tongues around the Carters. She also knew that this wasn’t just a bit of root magic and there was no telling what might happen when she invoked it. The room could fill with wind and smoke, or she might fall into fits. For all she knew Martha’s skin might turn green and start sprouting mushrooms. Then where would I be? Abitha thought, but she knew where she’d be. On her way to being hanged as a witch, sure as Monday follows Sunday. And all her labors and trials on the farm would be for nothing.

  Start with a prayer, she thought. Aye, just like in the woods. Cover the chant with a prayer. She felt that was the right path, and that way if something unexplainable did happen, then perhaps it would be viewed as a miracle of God. She knew this was hopeful thinking at best, that in the end she was placing her trust, her very life, in the hands of Samson, a … a what? A wild forest spirit … the Devil himself? Aye, a prayer indeed, please. One for Martha and two for me.

  Abitha touched Goodwife Carter’s arm. “My mother always combined the Lord’s Prayer with her root remedies. She said all healing comes from the Lord, that we are but extensions of his hand. I tend to agree with that. Shall we?”

  Sarah nodded, seemed pleased with the idea. She clasped her hands together, closed her eyes, and began to pray in a soft voice. Abitha did likewise, whispering her own prayer, slowly letting the words slip into the chant.

  Within a few moments Abitha’s pulse quickened and something stirred within her breast. A warmth grew steadily, building and building, turning into a sweet, warm pulse, matching the drumming of her heart. A sensual chill coursed from her head to her toes. She struggled not to gasp or moan. And just when she felt her heart might burst, the warmth flowed out from her core, carried along through her veins, pushed along inch by inch by her pulse. It traveled across her chest, down her right arm, and into her hand. Her hand began to throb, as though the warmth needed to escape, needed somewhere to go, and Abitha knew just where.

  She clasped Martha’s hand, thought of health and healing, and let the warmth flow out of her and into the girl. Martha’s eyes flashed open, locking onto Abitha’s, and for a brief moment they were connected. Abitha could feel the girl’s fever, the painful blisters, her fear, then felt the spell pulsing through the girl’s veins and arteries, slowly pushing the fever out. And finally, she felt the girl’s great relief. Abitha continued the low soft chant until every last bit of the warmth had passed into the girl, then let go of the girl’s hand.

  Martha’s eyes fell slowly shut.

  “Amen,” Abitha said, and a few moments later, Goodwife Carter did as well.

  Other than the occasional popping from the fireplace in the main living area, the house was quiet. The two women sat in silence, watching the girl. Abitha wasn’t sure what she should do next, didn’t even know what to expect.

  “Do you recall how long it takes for the ointment to help?” Goodwife Carter asked.

  Abitha shrugged. “I do not rightly recall. I know that my mother’s medicines sometimes worked and sometimes did not. But this ointment, she used it on me when I had the pox, and it did indeed help.”

  Sarah nodded, studying her daughter, searching for any sign of relief.

  “Abitha, thank you for coming here. It could not have been an easy thing for you … to bring root medicine into the reverend’s house. As I am well aware, both I and the reverend can be more than a little intimidating.”

  “Goodwife Carter, you must understand, I might not be alive had you not showed me the kindness that you did. That both you and the reverend did.”

  “Thomas brought me your candies. I was very touched by that.” Sarah paused, as though weighing what she was about to say. “Abi, I would tell you something, but it must stay between us.”

  “Of course.”

  “I were a lot of trouble as a child back in England. My mother called me her holy terror. Even as a young woman I seemed unable to do as I were bid.”

  Abitha shook her head. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Sarah smiled. “It is true. My mother would get so upset with me she would send me to stay with my grandmother for days at a time. And that is the part I wanted to share with you. You see, Granny, she too dabbled in the cunning arts. She were a good soul, a God-fearing woman, but she never let that stop her from helping those she could with her remedies. Like you, she saw it all as God’s healing hand. I tell you this not to encourage you, but in hopes that you will understand that it is not me that has issue with your ways, but the village. Too many here are insecure in their faith and feel the slightest temptation will lead them astray, will open the door for the Devil. And mayhap they are right, at least for themselves. Abitha, what I really want to say is … I am sorry for being so strict about your charms. It’s just … well, it is what is expected.” Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. “God has placed this village in my hands and I want to do what is right, but sometimes it is hard to know what is right. Hard to know when to stand and when to bend.”

  For the first time Abitha s
aw past Sarah’s stiff, stern exterior and saw the woman, the wife, the scared mother. And for the first time since losing Edward, Abitha didn’t feel so alone, felt perhaps she’d found a friend. Abitha fought back tears of her own. She reached out and clutched Sarah’s hand. “I am not so good with words, but I will say without reservation that you are the backbone of this village, that Sutton would be lost without your guidance.” And what Abitha realized then was that she truly meant it, that indeed, this woman made a difference. That like a good parent, she was stern but fair, lived by her words and led by example. Abitha couldn’t imagine trying to walk that tightrope.

  Martha let out a low moan.

  Sarah stood up, leaning over the girl. “Abitha, is it but hopeful thinking, or does she look a mite better?”

  She did look better; the redness was down and the sweat was drying on her skin.

  Sarah touched Martha’s cheek with back of her fingers. “Why, the fever … it is gone!”

  “Thank the Lord,” Abitha said, reminding herself to take every opportunity to inject God’s name into the ritual. “He has heard our prayers.”

  Martha’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Oh, Martha, dear,” Sarah said, clasping the girl’s hand. “How do you feel?”

  “Thirsty.”

  Sarah picked up the cup of water from the dresser and handed it to her. The girl drank heartily. Her eyes began to clear.

  “Why is Abitha here?”

  “She’s here to help you get well, sugarplum.” Sarah stepped over to the door. “Thomas,” she called. “Thomas, come in here.”

  “I had a strange dream about you, Abi,” Martha said. “You were an angel … but you had horns.”

  Abitha sucked in a quick breath. She glanced at Goodwife Carter, but she’d not heard.

  The minister came quickly into the room.

  “The fever has broken, Thomas.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” Reverend Carter said.

  “Aye,” Abitha added quickly. “It seems the Good Lord has heard our prayers.”

  Martha touched the bumps on her arm. “Mother, the lumps … they do not hurt anymore.”

  It was obvious now that the redness was leaving the clusters of bumps, and Abitha began to fear the healing might be too miraculous. She searched the minister’s face for any sign of alarm, but found only great relief.

  The minister dropped to one knee. “Thank you, Lord,” he said. “Thank you for this blessing on our family.”

  Abitha felt she should leave sooner than later, as Martha kept looking at her in that strange way, making her feel uneasy, fearful the girl would start speaking of horns and hooves. She bid Sarah to follow her as she stepped out of the room.

  “Goodwife Carter, if I am to make it home by dark, I should be on my way now. I’ll be sure—”

  “Nonsense. You will stay the night. And I will send you off with a good breakfast in your belly.”

  “Thank you. Truly. But there is much that still needs doing this day.”

  “You must be careful then. Have you not heard that Lewis Ward and his son were found slain by beasts?”

  “I shall be fine. Here, I will show you.” She led Sarah out onto the porch, picked up the musket, and smiled.

  Sarah shook her head. “Then, here, at the very least, let me get Thomas to hitch up the cart. He’ll take you home.”

  “Perhaps it is better if he is not seen with me. I have heard tell that I have caused him much grief.”

  Sarah sighed. “But we know who the real problem is. Do we not?”

  “Have you heard any more from Hartford?”

  Sarah pulled the door behind her, then set worried eyes on Abitha.

  “Yet another letter,” Sarah said, speaking low. “More of the same. Magistrate Watson will not let this matter rest. As you may know, there is long-standing bad blood between the judge and the reverend and—” Sarah hesitated. “Well … I am afraid the whole situation has gotten out of hand. The judge has made it clear, perfectly clear, that if these matters with Wallace are not settled satisfactorily, he will come down and see to them himself.”

  “He can do that?”

  Sarah nodded. “It is unprecedented, but the judge is not one to let precedent hold him back. The man is not above bending the law as it suits him either.” Abitha caught genuine fear in the woman’s voice. “Why, I did live in Hartford for a spell; I can attest that he has buried more than one poor soul who dared stand in his path.”

  Abitha felt her own heart racing. “I am sorry, sorry for all this trouble.”

  “This trouble has been brewing for a long time now. The judge has been but looking for an excuse to come down and undermine Thomas.” Sarah let out a sigh. “I have said too much.… You have enough burdens. It is all just so overwhelming sometimes, and there is not near a soul I can confide in. Thomas says that we must trust in our rightness, that the Lord will see us through. So let us hold to that.”

  They were both silent a moment.

  “Goodwife Carter … I do not claim to know the workings of God, but I know what I saw in there was the Lord’s hand at work.” Abitha realized she meant this. “Did you not feel it?”

  Sarah bit her lip and nodded, then touched Abitha’s arm. “Abi … thank you. That was not an easy thing to do. If there is ever anything … anything. You let me know. You promise.”

  “I promise,” Abitha said, and headed off.

  Abitha let herself out of the Carters’ picket gate, rounded the hedge, and found herself face-to-face with Ansel Fitch.

  “Lord!” Abitha cried, nearly falling into the bush.

  “A bit late for you to be in Sutton, is it not?” the old man asked in his gravelly voice. “What business are you about at such hour? Must be something important.”

  “You would do well not jumping out of bushes upon women touting muskets, less you are wishing to be shot.”

  He bristled, leaned in on her, all but sniffing as he looked her up and down with those bulging eyes of his. He smelled of sour sweat.

  She started to go around him, but he blocked her way.

  “I asked you what you were up to?”

  “I do not answer to you.”

  He sneered savagely. “How is it you travel the wilds and are not attacked by devil or wolf? Some spell?” To Abitha’s dismay, the old man did actually sniff her then. “I am well aware of your wicked ways, girl. Your vile charms and trinkets. I have a nose for such.”

  Again Abitha tried to move around; again he blocked her.

  “What need has the reverend of a cunning woman, I wonder?”

  “You should ask the reverend.”

  He made a sour face. “I do not like this reverend. He worries if one is a minute late for his sermon, yet allows devils to harry us about our very walls. He should be more diligent.”

  Ansel moved closer, backing her up; she felt the bush against her back.

  “But Ansel is watching. Always watching. The Devil will never get into Sutton while I am on guard. You hear me, girl?”

  “Get off me,” she cried, and shoved him back. She got around him then, spun and pointed the musket at him. “Leave me be!”

  He grinned a toothy smile. “You best be on your guard, Abitha Williams. Ansel sees all and I have my eyes on you.”

  She dashed away, sprinting for the gate.

  “Ansel is watching!” he called after her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wallace rolled the barrel of honey mead up the ramp onto the back landing of the Black Toad Inn in Hartford and rang the bell. A moment later he was greeted by the gruff voice of Barry Jones, the brawny tavern owner.

  “Well, it looks to be Mr. Williams himself.” The stout man came out onto the landing, wiping his thick hands clean on his apron. The man had a head of curly blond hair and shaggy muttonchops, lively deep-set eyes that matched his tireless spirit—Wallace couldn’t recall ever seeing the man sitting still. But his most distinguishing feature was his teeth: he was missing every other tooth, gi
ving him a fiendish grin. “And look here, you brought me a present.” Barry bent over and rocked the barrel, listening to the mead splashing within. “Just the one barrel today?”

  “Aye, we are running a bit low on honey.”

  “Well, you are not alone there, man. Seems to be a shortage of honey and beeswax all over these parts. And good beeswax candles, not the smelly tallow kind, are up six wampum for a dozen down at Seymour’s shop. Might not seem like much, but when you’re running twenty rooms it can add up fast.”

  Barry removed his purse from his jacket and began counting out wampum beads, placing the small polished shells into Wallace’s hand. Wallace found it annoying to be paid in what amounted to him as little more than Indian trinkets. But currently the milled shells were the only dependable currency in the territory.

  Barry placed fifty beads into Wallace’s hand, folded his purse, and slipped it back into his vest.

  “Fifty-eight is the going price,” Wallace said. “You know that. Have to pass along the price of the honey.”

  “Aye, fifty-eight for a full barrel.” Barry thumped the barrel. “This one sounds a bit low.”

  Wallace flushed. “It is not.” But he knew it was, knew he’d added a bit more water than he should have as well, trying to stretch his meager honey supply as far as it could go. Now wishing he hadn’t, suddenly sure that Barry would take notice, and knowing if he did, he’d be docking him even further come the next batch.

  “Shall we open her up and take a look?”

  “No … no need for that,” Wallace said, trying to sound jaunty to cover his embarrassment. “Mayhap the foam settled. Sometimes they do that.”

  “Seems yours do that a lot, Wallace.” Barry grinned at him; it was not a jovial grin. “Now, you can take fifty or take your barrel elsewheres.”

  Wallace grimaced, dropped the shells in his pocket, turned, and left. He walked purposefully through Hartford down to the market, to where his real business lay.

  He passed the stalls of straw baskets, pots, tools, clothes, and other wares, not stopping once, hardly sparing a sidelong glance despite the seductive smells of candies, fried dough, and grilled brisket. He was looking for someone. He’d worked out a plan to fix things with Abitha, but he needed a bit of help, the kind he couldn’t ask for back in Sutton.