A Vision of Light

by Judith Merkle Riley

  “Clerk’s fare today,” announced Simon. “It’s Mother Martha’s place.” And together they went up Paternoster Row to seek out the bakeshop where overage pies could be had at a substantial discount. It was not until it came time to pay the bill that they realized that the pilgrim had vanished.

  BROTHER GREGORY WAS A little hollow eyed when next he arrived at the Kendalls’ house to write for Margaret. Two days before, shortly after he had so neatly demolished the vanities of others with his caustic pen, he had suddenly experienced a spasm of guilt about his own resulting vanity. It was when the fourth or fifth person had gleefully quoted to him the anonymous verses on the cathedral door that he began to feel that his hard-won Humility might be shrinking. There was also the question of the efficacy of all-night prayer, so highly endorsed by the German pilgrim. So that evening he had withdrawn silently from his friends and gone to keep an all-night vigil before the shrine of St. Mellitus. But very late in the night, shortly before Vigils, and just after the two other pilgrims before the shrine had discovered a method of sleeping upright while kneeling, Brother Gregory had seen, in the dark shadows above a single guttering candle, an unexpected and singularly unpleasant sight. It was his father’s face, all surrounded by his tumbled white beard, with the habitually wrathy expression it usually wore whenever it looked on Brother Gregory. It had been nearly an hour before Brother Gregory managed to return to a proper meditative state, and not after many bitter regrets that his father had once again found out where he lived.

  WHEN BROTHER GREGORY NEXT presented himself at Margaret’s front door, he seemed unusually reserved.

  “You’re not hungry, are you?” Margaret’s anxious voice interrupted him as he silently set out the paper and pens on the writing table. Brother Gregory’s pallor and the dark circles under his eyes had not escaped her sharp glance.

  “No, not at all,” answered Brother Gregory, seating himself. He liked to keep his austerities private.

  This answer worried Margaret more greatly than ever. The more she thought about it, the more she was sure that something had gone wrong. I hope it’s not about me, she thought to herself. But worry was gradually replaced by more salutary annoyance, as Brother Gregory sharply corrected her style three times in the very first sentence that she uttered, before he even wrote it down. When the words at last began to flow across the paper, the very air around Brother Gregory seemed heavy with his silent displeasure.

  THE GREAT FAIR AT Sturbridge was like a magic place. For three weeks in September merchants from all over England and from many foreign places, too, crowd together to display rare and precious treasures from the four corners of the earth. There is also much need of entertainment. Players, dancing bears, jugglers, and quack salesmen of all descriptions descend on the fair in countless numbers. So do pickpockets and lunatics, but I won’t discuss those. One could spend days walking about and marveling at the things there, but we had no time to give ourselves over to sightseeing. Mother Hilde set up at the edge of the fair, where she could watch our tethered donkeys, and spread out her wares on her cloak. Soon she was doing a brisk business. Brother Sebastian went off to do business with Peter, who was always popular at such places, while Maistre Robert and his friends set up at a convenient location, not too greatly inhabited by rival troupes, and began drumming and juggling.

  I had been left with six boxes of the smelly ointment, the same six boxes I had carried around all summer. They were not selling well—to be precise they were not selling at all, and they were getting smellier and smellier. Suspecting some defect in my salesmanship Brother Sebastian had left me with words of caution before he had vanished.

  “Now, remember, Margaret, it hasn’t done well as a burn ointment—so recommend it for wrinkles, sores, and pockmarks. Say that you were once covered with dreadful pockmarks, but that they all vanished once you had applied a sufficient amount of the ointment. Recommend two boxes for the heavily pockmarked. And for goodness’ sake, quit telling people what’s in it! Just say it’s a rare balm from Araby that was sold to you by a Genoese sailor in Bristol.”

  I hung my head and protested, “But, Brother Sebastian, I just can’t lie about it. And I never was in Bristol. And besides, it doesn’t smell nice.”

  “Why, Margaret, dear, a disgusting smell simply means it’s that much more powerful. Do use your head.” And he vanished into the crowd. What an idiot I felt like! I wandered about, looking at the booths, the horses, the dogs, the people—anything but dispose of those wretched objects. I was admiring some truly beautiful Venetian glass, when I thought I saw a distorted reflection of someone standing behind me. How oddly reminiscent of someone familiar it was. I whirled around but saw only the departing figure of a wealthy merchant and his stout, jewel-laden wife. It was strange, but something about the man’s walk, and the even curls at the back of his neck, reminded me of Lewis Small.

  Oh, Margaret, now you’re seeing shadows, I told myself. This time you really have to get to work. I held up one of those nasty little boxes and tried to call out, but my tongue was incapable of singing out that it was rare balm from Araby. So I just carried it in my hand and wished it would fly away by itself. I walked about for a while, wishing that breakfast had been larger, and wishing that I were someone else—somebody who was not holding six boxes of smelly ointment. It was quite surprising, then, when a large, richly dressed woman stopped me and asked what was in my hand.

  “Wrinkle ointment,” I answered. “It works very well on burns, and some say it’s good for pockmarks as well, and it’s made of—”

  “I’ll have one,” said the woman, and she paid me a silver penny. This encouraged me to think that it might be just as easy to dispose of the others. Since that was the case, why not go see the wrestling matches? Not quickly, mind you—just oozing along with the crowd, pretending to sell the ointment. It was as I was admiring a dancing bear, still clutching a box from my wretched store, that I was accosted by two catchpolls.

  “Are you the one that’s selling ointment?” one asked.

  “It’s in her hand, see it there?” said the other, looking at the box with shock on his face. I looked at it myself. Did it really smell that strong? Now the scent must be wafting out from under the lid.

  “You’re the one, then. Come along. You’re wanted at the market court.” Completely puzzled, I followed them in silence. No one even noticed us as we slipped along through the crowd.

  “Why am I wanted?” I asked timidly.

  “As if you didn’t know,” answered one of the men, a look of disgust on his face. Still holding me by the arms, he led me to the edge of the fairgrounds, where the court was continually in session to deal with those little contingencies that come up when Englishmen, foreigners, and money are all mixed together.

  The market court business was slow that day. A man who had stretched woolen cloth to make it seem longer was in the stocks. A few people had gathered to see a seller of bad wine forced to drink a gallon of his own merchandise, before being put in the stocks and having the rest of it poured over him. It was almost as much fun for them as a bearbaiting; they were shouting enthusiastically. One catchpoll took me by the elbow to the sheriff, who was presiding over the court.

  “This is the woman,” he said.

  “Are you sure this is the right one? She looks too young to me.” The sheriff looked dubious.

  “This is the one—she’s exactly as described.”

  “Woman, you’ve been accused of witchcraft—do you deal in the black arts?” The sheriff scrutinized me as he waited for my answer. I looked him square in the face. He looked uncomfortable. He was seated on a bench under a tree, surrounded by several other men. Around him the milling of people had made the area very dusty. To save his throat from the dust he had a large mug of ale with him. I could tell he was worried. Fair courts aren’t really set up for serious charges like witchcraft. You need more experts for things like that.

  “I don’t do anything disgusting like that,” I said
earnestly. “I am a good Christian and despise the Devil and his works.”

  To the man who stood by him he shrugged and said, “You see? She denies it. She has an honest-looking face. Much too young, I think.”

  “But, my lord sheriff, the man who accused her was positive. There is the evidence, after all.”

  “Woman, you have been accused of witchcraft for selling balm that gives superhuman powers—balm that is made of the rendered fat of unbaptized infants.” He held up the little box. That miserable, solitary sale I had made to the wealthy woman. A very odd look must have crossed my face.

  “Just what would you say is in that?” He opened it and put it under my nose. I hung my head and blushed crimson.

  “Goose grease, tallow, and herbs,” I said shamefacedly.

  “And does it give superhuman powers? Flight, the All-Seeing Eye?”

  I was truly humiliated. That’s what comes of dealing in shifty business.

  “If you rub it all over you, all you’ll get is a superhuman smell,” I said. “But I never said it was good for anything more than burns.”

  “Then you did sell it?”

  “Yes, to my sorrow.”

  He suppressed a twitch on one side of his mouth.

  “Witchcraft is serious business. You can’t get off by merely denying it. You have to prove it.”

  “Prove it?”

  “Why, yes. We’re not all that well equipped here, but I really can’t afford to make a mistake. Let a witch go? It would spoil my career. You have to understand that. Now, which suits you best”—he gestured to the river—“water? Or fire?” He looked intently at my face.

  Fire, I thought, Jesus save me. My eyes must have shown the sudden fear.

  “Aha, it looks like fire, doesn’t it?” He spoke to his assistants. “We’ll need a nice big one—right about over there. It ought to be hot enough by this afternoon, wouldn’t you think? Get the parish priest to come around when it’s ready. I’m sorry for the delay, my dear, we’re going to have to keep you awhile.”

  It all seemed very unreal to me. He’s apologizing for having to make me wait to be burned to a cinder?

  “You’re going to burn me up—without a trial?” I ventured timidly.

  “This is the trial. We put the red-hot coals over there, you step into them awhile—barefoot, of course—and then the priest bandages your feet. After a week he takes off the bandage, and if the burns on your feet are well, you’re off. If they’ve rotted, then we’ll burn the rest of you. Everyone agrees that it’s fair, and I can’t be blamed for making a mistake. It’s in God’s hands now, woman. You had better repent and pray.” He poured more ale into his mouth. It was very dusty, after all.

  Dust and thirst bothered me considerably that day, and hunger, too, as I waited in the hot sun with my hands tied behind me, watching him sit in the shade, eat and drink, and dispense justice. It had to be a dream, didn’t it, that by the evening my feet would be burned to the bone, and I would be carried, screaming, to lie in jail for a week before my execution? These things happen to other people, not to me—not to somebody nice, like I am. It seemed very unfair. What is the good of seeing Light, and thinking you have some special task from God, only to find out that it’s a degrading and painful death that is what was waiting all along? My friends had obviously taken the safer course and left in a hurry. I didn’t blame them. It’s probably what I would have done myself.

  But who had done this to me, and why? I thought of the rich lady, so fat and pompous. In my mind her rings and chains glittered and—wait! Hadn’t I seen her before? Walking—walking with her husband, the one who looked like Lewis Small. It had to be only one thing. That was Lewis Small! This was the way he thought, the way he acted. If he were wed again, he must have supposed me dead. Now he was a bigamist and must get rid of the evidence. How simple it all was. He was a creature of perfect, merciless logic. I would never escape him, never. I wished that I could cry. I would have felt better. But it was all over for me, Lewis Small had found me and killed me a second time. This time for good. I knew him well: he would come to the ordeal. He enjoyed other people’s agony. I suppose I didn’t give him enough agony the first time, I thought bitterly to myself.

  By this time the flames were dying down, leaving a bed of red-hot coals. A crowd had gathered, for this promised to be the best sport of the fair. I could hear them talking.

  “Don’t push! I got this place first!”

  “Make way, make way, let the children sit down in front.”

  “Young, isn’t she? These witches get younger every day—youth has no respect anymore, I say.”

  “I say they don’t too—so you quit blocking my view.”

  “Why isn’t she crying?”

  “Witches can’t shed tears, you booby.”

  On they went, gabbing and poking at each other and goggling their eyes at me. If it were another place, I’d have been embarrassed to tears. But now it was different.

  I felt bad in a very strange way. How crude of God, I thought, to send all this Light and then end it. I felt like the victim of a practical joke. Didn’t Hilde say that God’s main characteristic was a sense of irony? Still, the Light was a wonderful feeling. It made me feel so much bigger and better than I really was. If it’s going to be all over for me, let me say good-bye to the Light and feel it all around. But I was being badly distracted. The coals were ready, and the priest was sprinkling things around the way they do, and saying prayers. They took away my shoes and hose, and then my dress and belt, leaving me in my undershirt with my braids hanging down.

  Why must these things always be done in one’s undershirt? Mine, thank goodness, was a nice one, a remnant of my former marriage. It was a loose shift of white linen, prettily sewn and reembroidered in white around the neck. It had long sleeves and fell, nicely hemmed, midway below the knee. I had washed it not so long ago, so it was clean—not a thing you can say about everyone’s undershirt, if they have one. Penances and begging pardon—you always need a decent undershirt and good calluses on your feet. I suppose they do it for the spectacle, and the humiliation. And if it’s winter and you get sick, they say it’s God’s judgment. In the old days I’d have wondered if God wore an undershirt, but now I know that God is bigger than that.

  I didn’t search the faces of the crowd when they led me before the coals; I was suddenly too frightened. They cut the rope on my wrists, and a sergeant held me at each elbow while they dropped a scrap of tinder on the coals to see if they were hot enough. They glowed cherry-red under a thin coating of white ash. With a puff the tinder was a blazing, floating shower of sparks that vanished almost instantly. Several men with pikes stood by to push me back into the fiery mass if I tried to flee.

  It is an odd thing about fear; it grabs you like a big fist and shakes you terribly, and you feel like an entirely different person than you ordinarily are. My knees didn’t work like proper knees anymore. They quivered and folded as if they were made of jelly. I slumped, and they held me up by the arms. My chest felt as if it were being pressed by weights. My face, hands, and feet felt like ice.

  “Please,” I whispered, “let me be here just a minute more until I can stand. Then I’ll step out by myself.” The big fist of fear seemed to loosen its hold a little. I stood by myself, but I was trembling all over. I couldn’t hear anything, even their answer—just a rushing noise in my ears.

  Let it all be the same, I thought to myself, the Light and the fire. I pulled my mind away from fear and shame and put it in the Nothing, which quivered silently all around. With my eyes closed I felt a sort of humming glow through my mind, which was no longer me, but part of something else. I, that is, the little me of every day, was gone. Then I felt something strange trickling up my spine. Something glowing and noisy like a crackle, which was also a voice. The Voice was deep, inside and outside of my head at the same time. The Voice said, “There is no fear. There is no fire. Do not look down. Think that you step on cool stones under the waters of a river.
Fix your eyes only on the Light.”

  I opened my eyes, but I could see nothing. In place of the blackness behind closed eyes, I saw instead only pulsing shades of light that seemed to tear through me. I was quite blind. My eyes staring blankly, I stepped out onto the fiery coals and strode across them as I would a ford. Because I could not see, I walked in a semicircle on the glowing bed, staggering off nearly where I had begun. I could hear my heart. It made a dull sound that seemed to shake the universe. Someone pulled me by the arm, and I reeled and fell. Still I could not see. I could feel the crowd pressing closer.

  “Look, she doesn’t see!”

  “She’s blind.”

  “Look at her feet, let’s see them.”

  My feet! As I sat there on the ground, my sight slowly came back. A figure in black was leaning over me, holding the bandages in one hand. Why couldn’t I feel my feet? Were they burned off? Does one not feel that?

  “Why, look at this, there is not a mark on her feet. This is clearly a miracle!” said the astonished priest, holding one of my feet up for general view. What on earth had happened? I still faintly felt a strange crackle in my spine.

  “A miracle! A miracle!” the crowd murmured, and drew back. I could see people crossing themselves.

  “She was falsely accused!” cried a voice.

  “Yes, she even looks innocent. I always said it,” said another.

  “Where is the accuser?” a big man shouted. I looked around me. Close by the opposite end of the bed of coals, a richly dressed man in green hose and dark scarlet gown was trying furtively to slip away in the crowd. I stared, trying to see who it was. Even though it was summer, there was fur trimming his gown, fur on his surcoat—it had to be Lewis Small. The head turned, and I saw the even-featured face that had long given me nightmares. The curls—as perfect as ever, but now tinted with a faint bit of gray. And he’d grown a little beard. Someone had probably told him that it was fashionable.