A Measure of Light

by Beth Powning

“Contrary to the truth … abuse of diverse Scriptures …”

  Reverend Wilson pointed at her. His face was flushed, his voice was tear-filled.

  “… slighting of God’s faithful ministers and crying them down as nobodies. It was to set up yourself in the room of God that you might be extolled and admired and followed after, that you might be a great prophetess, and undertake to expound Scripture and to interpret other men’s saying and sermons after your mind …”

  The white bands of Anne’s smock drew taut as she straightened her shoulders.

  “Remember the Fifth Commandment,” shouted Reverend Peter. “You have been rather a husband than a wife, and a preacher than a hearer; and a magistrate than a subject—”

  Mr. Leverett called for quiet. When the men had resumed their seats and the room was once again still, Reverend Cotton spoke. “I now perceive that Anne Hutchinson’s confession hath been in vain, since it is clear that her pride of heart is still strong. Excommunication must follow—and it shall be of the most severe sort: anathema maranatha. She must be rejected from God and delivered to Satan.”

  Silence fell save for scratchings, clickings—time as measured by wind and branch. It stretched into a minute. Two minutes.

  Anne had remained standing. She held her eyes on Mr. Cotton, sitting now with his fellow ministers, but again he would not return her gaze.

  Hypocrite.

  —

  Reverend Wilson rose. He began to shout, his voice hoarse.

  Mary felt her vision narrow, as it had during childbirth, when she had passed into oblivion. All known things grew small, blown as leaves before great wind, scattered. She saw only the stuffed wolfskin kneeling-bag on the floor, felt her knees, bending, the joints, the roar in her ears drowning out even Mr. Wilson’s ranting voice, the words of Anne’s excommunication, her own hands, touching, excuse, please, excuse, skirts, brown, purple, black, the empty space of the aisle.

  Anne, coming towards her, her eyes wide and fatigued and clear.

  Mary reached for Anne’s hand. Language of bone, skin, tendon.

  My friend.

  Space, around them, and the firm, swift rhythm of their steps, their skirts intermingled as they strode down the aisle towards a suddenly opened door from whence poured the day’s light.

  Just as they stepped through the door, loud whispers came from the last pew.

  “Who is she who stands with Mistress Hutchinson?”

  “The mother of the monster.”

  They did not falter, but passed into cold air smelling of horse manure and melting snow. They stood side by side, hands still gripped.

  Their eyes met. Bewildered, Mary saw through Anne’s exhaustion an expression of beseeching anguish.

  “Monster?” Mary whispered. “Monster?”

  “Goody Hawkins,” Anne said, speaking hand to mouth. She looked away. “She must have …”

  Mr. Cotton strode from the door, surrounded by men who would escort Anne home and see that she caused no more trouble until she had passed from their colony.

  Mary watched them crossing the square. Brown hats, bobbing.

  One white coif.

  ELEVEN

  Wolves and Geese - 1638

  GOVERNOR JOHN WINTHROP STOOD AT his window, watching the midwife coming up the street. He felt the lie, ripe in his mouth. Already, he had begged God’s forgiveness for it.

  Jane Hawkins entered, panting.

  “’Tis a terrible wind,” she said, glancing at his eyes, her own skewing.

  The light of early spring filled the room, a remorseless brilliance, revealing cobwebs. Winthrop walked sombrely to his desk and passed his hand over a cedar box, clearing it of dust.

  “Please sit, Goody Hawkins.”

  The smell of onions and cats rose from her clothing. She looked down—right, left—tugging at her sleeves, and Winthrop saw that her chapped red hands were an embarrassment to her. Good. Better she be ill at ease. He remained standing.

  “An elder came to me and told me of Mistress Dyer’s baby,” he said. “Consequently, I have spoken with Reverend Cotton and Mistress Hutchinson.”

  Now the woman could not help but raise her eyes to his. She clenched her hands in her lap, skin drawn yellow over the knuckles.

  It would be the best solution, he had thought, pondering, after Anne Hutchinson had left his study a day earlier. The end of this palavering nonsense. He would take the chance that the rumour was true in all its horror.

  “She hath told me the child was like unto a monster.”

  Jane shook her head. “Nay,” she breathed.

  “Do not lie to me,” he said. “God is listening.” He lowered his voice. “Moreover, Goody Hawkins, ’tis widely known of your use of oil of mandrakes and the like.” He pulled out his chair; its legs made a squealing scrape against the floorboards. He sat, slowly. “You have been called witch.”

  On the hearth, flames crackled, devouring dry wood.

  “I am no witch.”

  He fingered his beard, felt the familiar, supportive ruffles of his lace collar. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “I did see …”

  “Remember. Anne hath confessed, so if you lie, I shall know. Moreover, we shall this afternoon exhume the corpse.”

  He saw her eyes shift, widen, and become shrewd.

  “Well, then.” She took a long breath. “I will tell ye. When she be in labour, such a noisome savour rose from her body that t’other women were taken with violent vomitin’. They rushed from the room. The bed …”

  “What of the bed?”

  “Shaking. When the baby came. The bed shook up and down so the bedposts were a-thundering on the floorboards. The women said when they reached their homes, their children were in convulsions.”

  Governor Winthrop’s hand closed over his beard and stroked down, closing into a fist at its tip.

  “And what did the baby look like?”

  He saw the woman’s face slacken. Her lower lip was fattened, as from old bruises. It slid sideways, glistened. She pressed red hand to cheek.

  “It had a face but …”

  Her shoulders sagged.

  She drew a breath, muttered.

  “Your pardon?” he said, ironic. “I did not hear.”

  “I said, ’twould be best left in the ground.”

  “There you are mistaken, Jane Hawkins. God sent a sign. You and Mistress Hutchinson are saved only because you did as Reverend Cotton told you. He did truly believe ’twas sent only for the parents, but now he admits he was in error. To correct your part in the error, you will meet me at the tavern at one of the clock.”

  He gestured that the interview should proceed.

  Jane Hawkins brushed her skirt with the flat of her hand, her lips turned downward.

  Forgive me, he asked the Lord, again, as the midwife continued her terrible account. Anne Hutchinson had told him only that the baby was premature; that she had immediately wrapped it. “My care was for the mother,” she had snapped.

  My care is for this commonwealth.

  Coming back along Corn Hill Road with her water buckets, Sinnie saw a group of men, Jane Hawkins and Anne Hutchinson in their midst. The men carried shovels, pickaxes.

  Sinnie ran. The water spilled.

  Mary stood on the hearthstone, feeding logs to the fire. Samuel was crawling beneath the table, following the cat.

  “I saw a gaggle of men with Governor Winthrop and Mistress Hutchinson and Goody Hawkins. Shovels, they had. Heading up Corn Hill Road.”

  Mary watched the fire separate as she dropped the log—then knit, again, as flames wrapped round it in a sleek consuming caress.

  She felt her womb gathering her into its emptiness, its power of corruption.

  —

  Evening light lingered, touching the Delft china teapot brought from England, and the cups and saucers, and the high-backed chairs that had once stood in Groton Manor. They ate supper early, for John Winthrop had returned in the late afternoon with twigs in his
beard, his boots filthy, his eyes bearing an uncharacteristic wildness, and had demanded that they eat as soon as possible, and told his children to go to their bedchambers immediately after the meal, and bid his wife, Margaret, keep quiet—for he needed utter silence in the house.

  After the children had gone upstairs and Margaret to the kitchen, the governor went to his desk. Sat, absorbed, making minute cuts with his penknife, sharpening the nib of a grey-goose quill.

  The door opened, despite his edict. Margaret—dear and faithful wife—slipped into the room. She did not come immediately forward but left a beat, as in music, in which to study him.

  Untainted, my beloved, in any way. No. I will not tell her.

  He could not sound the unspeakable in this place where one thing was peaceably related to another. His father’s inkstand, the carpet laid upon the table, books, papers. Order created in this wilderness he laboured to mould as God’s kingdom, a place so savage that upon arrival many had died of starvation and his own son had drowned.

  “John,” she said. “Why do you ask for silence?”

  “Things are awry in our commonwealth and I do endeavour to fix them. I will not sleep until I have done so, therefore I asked for silence the sooner to join you.”

  His smile bore only mollification. She bent her head—her habit, her wont. She slipped away quietly, as she had come.

  He sat at his desk until two o’clock in the morning, writing in his journal. His quill scratched, scratched. His shoulders rose, energetic. His face was stern, eager.

  … so monstrous and misshapen, as the like has scarce been heard of: it had no …

  —

  The following day, whispers spread about the town.

  A fish, a bird, a beast, all woven together.

  Sinnie heard women speaking of it at the well.

  “No toes, but claws.”

  “Prickles, all over the back.”

  “Horrible. What could she have done to have been so punished?”

  Seeing Sinnie, they fell silent.

  Mary strode, agitated, to Anne’s house. She found the rooms emptied of furniture, the family in the process of packing the food that they would take for the walk to Narragansett Bay. She and Anne sat in the parlour, where only two oak chairs remained and no fire burned on the hearth.

  “Sinnie heard the women gossiping. She said they know more about my baby than I do.”

  Anne sat straight, hands in their customary position, overlapped on her belly atop another growing child. She spoke in her usual fashion, without hesitation.

  “Ah, Mary. I thought to spare you the picture you would thereafter carry in your mind.”

  Mary’s heart raced, her voice sharpened.

  “’Twas my baby, Anne. You treat me like a child.”

  Anne faltered. She raised a hand, tipped the palm towards Mary. “Nay.” Now her voice, too, wavered. “I would have done the same for … for the Queen of England.”

  “Tell me.”

  They heard the house make its settlings. Anne was silent.

  “Tell me,” Mary repeated, more loudly.

  Anne looked away.

  “’Tis no use, Anne,” Mary insisted. She heard her voice take on new tone, harsh. “Part fowl, part fish, part beast. This is what Sinnie told me the women were saying. Spread by the men who dug … it … up. I have heard these words and they cannot be unheard.”

  She crossed her arms, her eyes remorseless upon Anne’s face.

  “They do exaggerate,” Anne said, at last. “’Twould have been greatly decomposed. But …” She sighed. “I will tell you.”

  She spoke rapidly, staring at the floor. “As I told you, there was no head.”

  Mary pressed hands to cheeks.

  “The face was strangely distributed low on the torso. Atop the face were ridges and other fleshy bits, curved, so that one might interpret them as fish-like …”

  Mary slid one hand down, clasped her mouth.

  “The eyes were exaggerated …” She paused, glanced at Mary. “Set on either side and bulbous …”

  “Enough,” Mary murmured, raising her hand.

  “But there were no horns, as he is saying, Mary. No pricks and scales. No claws, no talons.”

  Mary’s heart had thickened, as if too large for her chest, sending the taste of blood to her mouth and a roaring in her ears.

  “Winthrop uses it for his own ends, Mary. He doth gloat in the discredit this casts upon us both. Upon my doctrine. As we knew he would.”

  Why she tried to keep it secret … for all of our sakes …

  They sat in silence. Mary’s fingertips were cold.

  “How was it discovered?” she said, finally.

  “Goody Hawkins might have told only one person, Mary. Only one, who confided in the next … and so it goes, like fire to curtains.”

  She wishes for my forgiveness.

  “I had no choice.” Anne’s voice had returned to its normal strength and clarity, as if she addressed the women at her meeting. “As I understand it, Mary, I had no choice.”

  She leaned forward and took Mary’s hands. Mary met her gaze; saw that Anne was perplexed, grieving. Tender.

  “I believe you to be a fragrant and pure flower in the sight of God,” Anne whispered.

  Ah, spoken with fervour, with fear.

  For the first time, she did not believe her friend.

  Three days later, William returned ahead of the others, walking through the night to bring his news of purchased land.

  It came from her in a torrent.

  Everywhere in the town, like the spring snow that had begun to fall, words hissed and expired and were replaced and repeated. All that William had brought to tell her shattered in the rage she could not contain.

  “They dug up our child.”

  He took hold of her fists, removed them from her temples.

  “Who?”

  “Winthrop and his men. He hath been spreading a horrible description. He … hath … he hath called for a public day of humiliation. Tomorrow.”

  William could not speak. His lips quivered, he stroked her wet cheeks with the back of his hand. He pulled her to his chest, rocked her.

  “They shun me,” she said into his doublet. “They shun me. They shun …”

  She heard a choking sob, felt a shudder. William turned away from her, face in hands. He lashed out, punched the wall.

  He sat, then, nursing his fist. She put her arms around his shaking shoulders.

  —

  Sinnie lay on the floor, looking through the crack.

  They wept.

  Oh, help them. Help them.

  She did not know to whom she sent her plea.

  William’s weapons were returned.

  On an April morning, Mary stood at the railing of a pinnace. They were sailing towards the Hutchinsons’ farm at Mount Wollaston, a few hours down the coast, where those leaving for Providence were to gather.

  From the sea, Boston was reduced to a mere concretion upon the land. Mary turned her back upon the place, took Samuel by the hand and went to the ship’s bow. Light snow fell, but the sky was like old cloth and sun broke through, rendering the flakes as particles of light. The sails filled and the small boat settled into a steady rise and fall, heading southwards.

  She was reminded of the day they left England and of how she had taken a long, last look at Plymouth’s stone houses. How she had felt she obeyed God’s calling, going to Boston, the New Jerusalem.

  That night, the snow continued to fall as they laid down pallet beds in the Hutchinsons’ Wollaston house. Mary dreamt that the house was buried, only the chimney visible like a gravestone in a white waste. In the morning, the snow had ceased. They wrapped their legs and feet in leggings of wool or leather and set out in a long line: five banished families—parents, children, servants, dogs, packhorses—like a bright moving quilt against the white landscape. A smudge of trees edged the meadow.

  “No fear,” Wil Hutchinson called out, sensing th
e group’s unease as the trees grew closer. “These salvages are friendly. ’Tis a praying town.”

  They entered the forest. Snow slid from hemlock boughs with sudden wet thumps. Samuel rode on William’s shoulders. Babies were slung to parents’ backs, their fretful crying lulled into sleep by the sound of stretching leather and the crunch of footsteps. Roots and frozen puddles lay, treacherous, beneath the snow. They passed swamps whose bushes were tipped with the red buds of spring and came to streams too large to cross, where they struggled along banks, seeking fords.

  Wil called a halt at a boulder the size of a small house. Trees sprouted from its crevices. Men gathered stones to make fire pits, women and children scavenged dead branches and twigs. They made nests of baggage and bedding against the boulder’s rocky wall. They set iron pots over the flames, shook cornmeal into brook water.

  Mary squatted beside a pot of bubbling porridge, stirring. She felt excluded from the people moving beyond the fire’s glare who shared words with one another, for she could not hear what they said and could barely speak herself, even to Sinnie or Samuel or William. She had insisted, finally, upon knowing exactly what Winthrop was telling everyone. A neighbour woman had told every detail of what was being spread about. She could not—and would never—speak the words that had reached her ears. So terrible, Winthrop’s lurid description, going so much further than what Anne had told her that she did not dare imagine the creature that he proudly proclaimed to have seen, a sign from the Lord sent to show displeasure to the Puritans of Massachusetts for allowing heretics in their midst. For the first moments after the words had poured into her ears like Shakespeare’s cursed hebenon, she had considered how she might do away with a body that had created such a thing.

  She glanced over to where Anne sat by another fire, instructing a child who poked the burning branches with a stick and knelt to blow the coals.

  No. It was only meant for me, God’s message. Only for me.

  When prayers and the meal were ended, the company settled for sleep against the boulder. In the darkness, the patch of humped and twitching wool was broken by the firelit shine of child’s hair or man’s eye or woman’s glistening teeth. A child’s whimper, shushed, came again and broke into a wavering wail. It was a sound of such pure misery that Anne unwound herself from her blanket and stood before them like a preacher.