The Wild Swans

by Peg Kerr

  “He said to tell you,” Leo added, “that he can’t believe you and Sean are buying into heterosexist oppressive class structures by aping a marriage ceremony. And then he said, if you have pictures taken and he doesn’t get to see them, he’ll break your necks. I think you can count on him being there in spirit.”

  Elias laughed and repeated this to Sean.

  “Ah, Philip,” Sean said, smiling faintly. “Always the revolutionary.”

  The morning before the scheduled ceremony, Sean’s fever spiked again. Concerned, the doctor ordered a series of blood tests and deduced from the serum creatinine levels that Sean could be showing signs of kidney damage. “You’re getting anemic, too,” he said. “Which might indicate bone marrow suppression; we’ll have to monitor you for signs of neutropenia. It’s the amphotericin, I’m afraid.”

  “So what do we do?” Elias wanted to know.

  “Well, if the anemia gets much worse, we can try transfusion. As for the kidneys, we can cut back on the drug, but of course that will allow the candidiasis to rebound.”

  “Aren’t there other drugs we can try?” Sean asked.

  The doctor sighed. “I’m afraid we don’t have very many choices in our arsenal.”

  “Okay.” Sean nodded tensely. “Just tank me up on something that’ll lower the fever for now.”

  The doctor looked doubtful, and Sean tried a grin. “Oh, c’mon. You can’t let me miss my own wedding day.”

  They gathered the next day in the hospital chapel, with Sean’s parents and about fifteen friends, for the simple ceremony they had planned with Bill. Sean managed to get dressed for the occasion and did his best to loop the catheter tubing out of sight under his coat, a mostly wasted effort, since he still needed the IV pole. Hunched in his wheelchair, he looked sallow-skinned and frail, but very happy. They clasped hands before Bill and repeated after him the promises they had written together for each other. Then Bill took the rings from the small tray where they had been placed on the altar.

  “Sean and Elias,” Bill said, “have chosen to give each other claddagh rings, a traditional Irish design. Each ring shows a pair of hands, clasped around a crowned heart. The hands represent friendship, the crown loyalty, and the heart, of course, means love.”

  Elias took the larger ring and gently drew Sean’s hand from the armrest of the wheelchair. Sean’s palm was cold and sweaty. “Sean, I give you this ring as both sign and seal of my friendship, my loyalty, and my love.”

  Sean squeezed Elias’s hand and then picked up Elias’s ring in turn. “Elias, I give you this ring,” he said, “as both sign and seal of my friendship, my loyalty, and my love.” The cool metal slid on easily and then quickly warmed to blood heat.

  Bill said some more things then, but Elias didn’t really hear them; he and Sean were too busy looking into each other’s eyes and grinning like fools. And then it was over, and the small crowd gathered around them, laughing and crying, as somebody pounded him on the back. Ruth and Minta leaned down to kiss Sean. Elias caught a glimpse of Janet and Jim, looking grave even as they tried to smile. “Let’s have some music!” Sean cried out, and the group trooped out of the chapel, Elias pushing Sean’s chair as Sean clung to the IV pole.

  They reconvened in the small visitors’ lounge, where a cake was set and the musicians unsnapped their instrument cases. “Play softly,” Sean warned. “People are sleeping.” But although they did keep the volume down, the patients wandering up and down the halls smiled at the music spilling from the lounge. Elias sat in a chair next to Sean and looked at the ring on his finger. “D’ye like it?” Sean asked, grinning as he picked at his cake.

  “Yes, I do.” He looked across the room and caught Rick’s eye. “I have a present for you, too,” Elias said. At the signal, Rick came across the room to lay something in Sean’s lap and then stepped back, grinning. Everyone looked up expectantly.

  Sean looked down at the large photo album in surprise. His fingers traced the gold stamped letters on the cover in wonder as he read the words aloud. “Sean Donnelly’s ... World Tour?” He looked up at Elias, a crease between his eyebrows.

  “Open it.”

  Sean stared at the first page and then turned it and looked at the next. His parents drifted over and craned their necks to see over his shoulder. “How ... how did you do it?” he stammered.

  “I did a blowup of your face, printed a bunch of copies, and mounted them on cardboard. Then Rick and I handed them out and explained the idea to people.”

  “Is that really the Arc de Triomphe in Paris?”

  “That’s you in front of the Arc de Triomphe.”

  “No, come on, who was it, really?”

  “It was my dad,” Patty said. “He was in Paris for an academic conference.” The mask was set a little high, so you could see his beard underneath, but he was waving enthusiastically, and the view down the Champs-Elysees was stunning.

  Page after page followed, each showing an ersatz Sean, smiling and waving in front of landmarks all over the world: a volcano in Hawaii, the Egyptian pyramids, Mount Fuji, the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. There were also Irish pubs. Lots of Irish pubs. Occasionally, Sean held a guitar or some other instrument (inexplicably, he appeared to be playing a tuba in front of Mount Rushmore). Everyone drew in closer to watch Sean’s face eagerly for his reaction as he turned the album leaves, his face lighting up again and again with delight.

  “The Taj Mahal!”

  “My cousin got that. He was taking an international semester—”

  “Where’s that?”

  “That’s in Bucharest—”

  “—she really helped, she’s a travel agent, and a lot of her clients sent pictures back—”

  “I never thought I’d visit the Great Wall of China in a skirt!”

  “—I told you those contacts in Ecuador would come in handy—”

  “What a marvelous idea, Elias,” Janet said. “How many people helped you?”

  “Our friends spread the word fast. In the end, it was over fifty. I’m still expecting more photographs back, and I’ll add them to the album.”

  Sean turned the last page, and Elias added, “But that will be the last one.”

  The last picture was in front of the penguin display at the Central Park Zoo. Rick had taken it, and Elias himself had posed with the Sean mask. He wore a parka and held a sign up that read “South Pole.”

  White packing excelsior lay spread around his feet as artificial snow. A penguin diving in the underwater tank had turned, stretching its neck back to eye Elias dubiously through the glass just as Rick snapped the picture.

  Sean looked up at Elias, speechless, tears in his eyes.

  “Surprise!” Elias said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  All witchcraft comes from carnal lust,

  Which is in women insatiable.

  —HENRICUS INSTITORIS,

  MALLEUS MALEFICAKUM

  The shocking news that Eliza had been arrested during the night raced throughout the town the next day. All morning people abandoned their work to cluster together in knots, whispering excitedly. Some heard the reports and were incredulous, but others declared they had known all along that there had been something most strange about the magistrate’s new bride. Goody Holyoke recounted in hushed tones that once, on her way to the Sabbath-day meeting, she had seen Mistress Latham in the lane, followed closely by a black cat. And at the very instant Mistress Latham had crossed the threshold of the meetinghouse, Goody Holyoke remembered, the cat had screeched horribly, for no cause at all that she could see, as if someone had stepped on its tail. “And puffing all its fur about it, it was, with eyes a-burning like green lamps, all uncanny! It made me fair jump like a flea, I tell you; I said a prayer, for methought the Devil must surely be roaming abroad.”

  Other people also found themselves suddenly recalling similarly ominous bits and pieces. Everything under the magistrate’s stewardship had thrived this year—Captain Ingersoll had heard him remark only l
ast week that this year’s corn and cider crops were the best he’d ever had. Some people now thought it strange that several of his neighbors should have had such poor luck in comparison. The magistrate’s neighbor to the north, Goodman Wilkins, for example, had suffered the loss of three cows in one fortnight. And certainly the sickening of Goodman Peabody’s son so soon after the magistrate’s wedding seemed suspicious. The fact that the lad had shown himself to be stout and hale again within a day or two did not cause nearly as much remark.

  Men shook their heads, frowning seriously, and women clutched their babes more closely to their breasts, shuddering at the thought that the Devil had gained a foothold in the community. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that such a dire menace must be dealt with swiftly. Better that the eye that caused sin should be plucked out and thrown away, everyone agreed, for all knew that God would punish the whole community if the taint of evil were allowed to spread. It was reassuring to many that at least the magistrate had proven himself honest and God-fearing, willing to arrest his own wife to prevent the danger. The fact that he had done so was also accepted as a sure sign of Eliza’s guilt. Everyone pitied Jonathan, but mixed with their sympathy for him, people also felt a certain relief, even a measure of smug satisfaction. The Devil might have ensnared the soul of one person in the town, and that was a grave and terrible matter. After all, however, she was a stranger. Deep down, many felt that making an example of her would be much easier than if she had truly been one of them. Patience did not hear any of the gossip until after most of her neighbors. She had been called to a neighboring farm before dawn to stay all day and into the following night by the bedside of a woman whose labor pangs proved to be false. Returning wearily to her home an hour after sunrise the next day, she found her neighbor Goody Griggs there, ostensibly to obtain some Solomon’s seal syrup. The garbled account of the previous day’s sensation eagerly poured out by Goody Griggs astounded and horrified the midwife.

  “God save me, I cannot believe it!” Patience cried passionately. “God forfend that such a wicked story be bruited about the town!”

  Goody Griggs stared at her, wide-eyed. “What, say you so, Goody Carter?”

  “She is no witch,” Patience snapped. “Why, she has lived in my own house, and supped at my very table, and I know her to be a most right, proper, and God-fearing girl. Idle tongues may run on in the Devil’s work, but—”

  “The Devil’s work!” Goody Griggs interrupted. “Aye, the minister and the magistrate themselves saw her conjure spirits. You dare not call them tattlemongers. And all the men who went together to lay her by the heels saw what lay inside that chest.” As Patience glared at her, Goody Griggs added, “You are my gossip, and perhaps it is well you say this only to me. If the charges sworn out against her be proven, I would not think it wise to remind every Jack and Jill that she tarried long as a guest under your roof, consorting with you and your children.” She placed a finger along the side of her nose with a significant look.

  Patience’s outrage seeped away, leaving a cold, sour residue of unease. “Bide but a moment, and I will fetch the syrup,” she said gruffly, turning away.

  As she measured out the medicine, her mind churned with fear and worry. Then she remembered something that made her breathe a sigh of relief. “They cannot do anything for many weeks,” she remarked as she stoppered the flask and handed it to Goody Griggs. “Surely by now the court in Boston has finished its cases for the autumn season. They needs must wait until the court reconvenes.”

  Goody Griggs shook her head. “ ‘Tis said they do intend to try her here.”

  Patience’s jaw dropped. “Try her ... here?”

  “Aye, in the local county court.”

  “But how can they do that?”

  Goody Griggs shook her head. “I do not know.”

  Patience had reason to be surprised. For years, all cases of witchcraft had been tried in the great quarter court in Boston. But the changes in colonial government in the past year had literally swept away all the structures of the entire legal system, and the question of what court had jurisdiction to try a witch was no longer clear.

  Whether a witch could even be tried at all until the Crown clarified the situation was a point that privately worried a few of the town selectmen. When the group met the next afternoon in the town tavern, argument waxed loud and hot. Some insisted that trial should take place immediately, and others warned that waiting until instructions should be forthcoming from England would be the wisest course to follow.

  William, however, overbore this latter reasoning. To prevent the Devil from imperiling any more souls, he argued, the case should be tried locally, as swiftly as possible. One of the three judges for the panel had to be a magistrate, but the other two need only be associates.

  “Reverend, the town confirmed you as an associate last year,” Goodman Pitt suggested tentatively.

  “Could you not do it?”

  William weighed the idea for a moment, tempted, but then regretfully shook his head. “I think it most right and proper that I serve instead as witness.”

  “Colonel Pynchon has volunteered to take a seat,” someone offered.

  William looked around; heads were nodding. “Very well, then. And for the second?”

  Sunk into himself on a bench by the tavern’s fireplace, Jonathan roused himself to speak for the first time. “Make it Captain Howell. He has proven himself to be astute in judgment as an associate on other cases.”

  William considered and then nodded. “A thoughtful, worthy man.” He hesitated, licking his lips, and darted a look at Jonathan. “That leaves only the matter of the appointment of the magistrate.”

  Silence fell for a moment. Jonathan broke it finally, saying slowly, “Magistrate Quincy is frail. I believe he has lain ill abed much of the summer.”

  “He should step aside for another,” one of the younger men grumbled.

  Jonathan sighed. “Yet another matter that needs must wait for word from England.” A line appeared between his eyebrows. “And Magistrate Cheever is not perhaps the best choice, either.”

  “Why say you so?” Lieutenant Sewell asked, frowning.

  “He is a noted scholar of the law,” Jonathan had to admit. “But...” His words trailed off reluctantly. In fact, Cheever had an exceedingly harsh view of the world and more than once had exhibited a hot, brittle temper in court. Heartsick, Jonathan pressed his lips together. He had believed in the sufficiency of justice all his life. But he wanted more than that for Eliza now; he wanted her to have the opportunity for repentance and redemption. Defendants who stood before Magistrate Cheever could expect to receive justice at his hands, true—but only the strictest kind possible, untempered by any hint of mercy. As Jonathan considered, William watched his face carefully and came to a conclusion. The spouses of accused witches, the minister knew, faced the greatest danger of being charged themselves. That must not happen to Jonathan, William privately resolved, and it would not, if Jonathan could be shown to be utterly fearless in pursuing and rooting out evil, even in his own household. “Magistrate Latham,” William said firmly, “I think you should be seated as the third judge.”

  The selectmen blinked in surprise. “Perhaps,” Lieutenant Sewell said in a troubled manner, with a quick glance at Jonathan’s face, “it would not be wise—”

  William held up a hand. “Nay, not only wise, but appropriate, too. Has he not proven his courage and objectivity? Let no man doubt that Magistrate Latham puts his faith in the Lord before all, and that wisdom and prayer guide his actions. With his resolution serving as an example for us, will not the Devil flee immediately from our midst?”

  Jonathan felt a faint hope stir. The scriptures, he reminded himself, said that an unbelieving wife may be sanctified by the husband. Perhaps he was the best hope she had. Not as a way to allow her to escape from justice, no— but he knew her better than any man in the town. It could be he had the fairest chance of persuading her to turn from evil so her soul co
uld be reclaimed. The test to his own faith might be severe, but... He took a deep breath. “I am willing to do it.”

  Several other men still looked doubtful, but none voiced any further objections. William smiled, relieved. “Then shall we send riders for Howell and Pynchon?”

  “Do as you will.” Jonathan rubbed the stubble on his face wearily. “I pray they may come swiftly. I had liefer not let this business linger long.”

  He lapsed into a brooding silence again then, leaving it to William to give the order to send riders to find Captain Howell. When the discussion had wound down to uneasy mutters, William dismissed the other selectmen. Taking a tankard of cider and a plate of woodcock stew from the innkeeper and bringing them over to the fire, he nudged Jonathan’s shoulder with the tankard. “Drink. Eat a little. Did you break your fast this morning?”

  “No.” Jonathan eyed the plate with reluctance, and then sighed and pulled it toward himself. He took a sip from the tankard and a few bites of the stew, forcibly swallowing them down with a grimace, and then looked up as a thought occurred to him. “What has she had to eat today?”

  William shrugged. “She must pay the gaoler’s fee, of course. Ten pounds. And then she will be fed if she can pay for her maintenance.”

  Jonathan’s eyebrows drew together. “I had forgotten.” He looked down at his spoon. “Tell the gaoler I will pay him twenty pounds for the fee and her maintenance. Let him see to it that she has all her meals.”

  He spooned another mouthful of stew.

  William felt a wave of irritation at this show of concern. He tried to keep his tone of voice mild, however, when he spoke. “You might have better use for your money than a witch’s food and drink.”

  Jonathan’s eyes flashed at him. “Do you think the Devil will keep her from starving? I intend to pay the fee, I tell you.”

  William lowered his eyes. “As you will.”

  A pause fell, punctuated by the peaceful crackling of the fire. “How does she?” Jonathan asked at last, his voice a thread. “Did the gaoler say?”