by Peg Kerr
“You’re asking me? I’m not even Catholic.”
“You’re his partner. I think... if he can’t tell us, he’d want you to be the one to decide.”
“I... Bill, could you do it?”
Bill hesitated. “Not the official sacrament, no. I don’t have the book or the oils, and I’m no longer a...” His mouth trembled, and he said quickly, “But we can all lay hands on him, and I’ll say a prayer for him, commending him to God.”
Elias nodded numbly. “I think Sean would like that.”
They all gathered around the bed to place their hands on Sean. Elias gently clasped Sean’s hand in his.
“Go forth, Sean, from this world in the name of God the almighty Father, who created you, in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, who suffered for you, in the name of the Holy Spirit, who was poured out upon you, go forth, Sean. May you live in peace this day, may your home be with God in Zion....” Bill spoke evenly, deliberately, his voice soothing, as if lulling a child to sleep. It was only when Elias raised a hand to wipe his own eyes that he saw the tears on Bill’s cheeks as well. When Bill had finished speaking, they all raised their heads and opened their eyes. Sean was quiet now, his breaths much more shallow and far apart. His feet were blue and stiffly arched down. Elias picked up the Kleenex box on the bedside tray and offered it to the others. Bill took one and Jim did, too, blowing his nose with a honk, but Janet didn’t notice, for her eyes were still fixed on Sean. She tugged at her husband’s arm. “There isn’t much time,” she said tensely. Then she looked up at Bill. “Could you ... I’m sorry, but isn’t there a way to have a real priest come, so that he can be absolved?”
Bill looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing. Elias felt his own throat tighten in pain and outrage. Sean would have wanted no one but Bill! But then Bill managed a flicker of a smile. “No, of course. Let me call Father Tom for you at once.”
The hospital chaplain came quickly in answer to the summons, bringing his stole and the consecrated oil. Through his tears, Elias watched Sean take his last short breath just as the priest began the same prayer that Bill had used. Gradually Sean’s open mouth turned into a faint smile. Then he lay still and silent, an empty husk discarded on the bed. His parents, absorbed in their private prayers, did not notice. Elias reached over and touched Sean’s claddagh ring. Go in peace, with all my love. But oh, I will miss you so.
“I want to thank ...” Elias paused and took a deep breath to keep control of his voice. “I want to thank you all for coming.” He looked down at Sean’s rose-covered coffin, lying before the altar. “Sean always liked a good crowd at his concerts. I think he would have appreciated a turnout like this one today.”
There was a slow rumble of laughter from the pews, even as people wiped away their tears. Janet lowered her head and pressed a tissue over her mouth.
“I’ve looked for the right words to say to honor Sean, but...” Elias faltered again, “it’s very hard. Sean was the writer. I’m a photographer; I tried to think of a picture to tell you about, to show you how I feel about him. The problem is, there isn’t just one picture; there are so many, because Sean Donnelly was everything to me. He was my friend, my teacher, my lover, and in the end, he was my life’s companion.
“Sean and I met a little over three years ago. Not many of you know I was living on the streets when he found me. He took me in, helped me find a job, gave me a home. By sharing his own life with me, he taught me I didn’t have to believe what I’d been told, that being gay meant the end of the world. He wasn’t perfect—lots of people could tell you that—but he never pretended to be.
“There are people who are totally convinced that AIDS has come as a punishment from God. If I had never met Sean, I might have believed that.” His eyes met Sean’s parents‘. “And there are others who maybe aren’t convinced that AIDS is a punishment, but deep down, they still wonder why.
“Well, I don’t have to stand up here and tell you that Sean didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserves this. It’s not our business to pass judgment on Sean or anyone else with AIDS. I think instead that it’s our job to judge ourselves, on whether we supported him or failed him when he needed us. Maybe that’s why AIDS has come: it’s our opportunity to show how we love one another.
“Evaluating his life is now a matter between Sean and his God. I don’t know what his God will think of him—they’ve had their differences in the past. But I hope ...” He felt his throat closing. “I hope that Sean’s God will look as kindly on him as Sean always looked on me.”
There was a pause, and then he painstakingly loosened his grip on the lectern and stepped down stiffly. Nick, sitting in a chair to the right, picked up his harp and began to play, softly, his wet face bending close to the strings. It was a lament by O’Carolan, written upon the death of his best friend. Sean had always loved it.
Elias walked to the altar and picked up the white rose lying there. Its scent was cool and soft and sweet. He went to place it on top of the red roses resting on Sean’s coffin.
Chapter Twenty-three
The latest sun is sinking fast, my race is nearly won
My strongest trials now are past, my triumph is begun
0 come Angel Band, come and around me stand
0 bear me away on your snowy-white wings to my immortal home.
I know I’m near the holy ranks of friends and kindred dear
I’ve brushed the dew on Jordan’s banks, the crossing must he near
0 come Angel Band, come and around me stand
0 bear me away on your snowy-white wings to my immortal home.
I’ve almost gained my heavenly home, my spirit loudly sings
The Holy ones, behold they come, I hear the sound of wings
0 come Angel Band, come and around me stand
0 bear me away on your snowy-white wings to my immortal home.
—J. HASCALL AND W. BRADBURY, “ANGEL BAND”
When William stumbled out of Eliza’s cell shortly before sunset, the gaoler took one look at his face, suffused with horror, and cried out, “In God’s name, Reverend, what has the witch done to you?”
William shook his head, unable even to attempt an answer, and fled the gaol. His steps turned instinctively toward the empty meetinghouse, where he had always chosen to go whenever he needed comfort.
But a long night spent pacing and praying in the dim, cold building with only a single lit candle to keep him company only deepened his anguish. For the first hour, his thoughts were a mixture of sheer fury and icy panic. When he had entered his accusation against Eliza, he had believed her to be a powerful witch, and he had braced himself for the danger of challenging the Devil. But never in his worst nightmares could he have dreamed that Hell would counterattack in such a way. Even in the midst of his wrath, a part of him marveled at the foul, vicious cunning of the strike against him. Somehow, the forces of evil had possessed him—him, a minister of God!—with the foul lusts of a Sodomite toward an honest man, the man who had been his dearest friend.... William paced, almost flying from one side of the wall to the other, raking his fingernails at the tears running down his face, longing desperately for a way to reach inside himself and tear out the poisonous evil from where it had rooted in his heart. For as if a veil had been dropped from his eyes, he saw the depth of his own lust, unimagined until now: he wanted Jonathan, oh yes, he did. He burned to put his hands on Jonathan’s body and press his mouth to Jonathan’s mouth. He ached to have Jonathan return his kisses with urgent, answering desire, as Jonathan’s strong hands seized his own body, and ... William groaned in heartfelt despair, wondering how any witch could have imagined such a damnable spell to cast over him. Then he frowned, perplexed, and his pacing slowed. He tried to regather his scattered wits and think back over his extensive studies, straining to remember whether he had ever heard of any case of a witch creating such a spell. Sitting on a bench, he began methodically sorting out his memories. All ministers were familiar with many kinds of mal
eficium, the supernatural harm performed by witches: children and animals could be made to sicken and die; people could be bewitched into strange behavior, or cursed with losses of memory or periods of confusion. William knew that witches visited the afflicted in spectral form to bite and pinch and smother. Witches could also perform other mischief, such as ruining the brewing of beer or the spinning of wool. But something like this ... William frowned again. Witches themselves were reported to be lecherous, craving fornication with the Devil. But he had never heard of a witch attacking anyone by implanting the lust of a Sodomite into an innocent heart. The cold of the empty meetinghouse seemed to sink into his bones, chilling him to the marrow. Desperately, he tried to remember when he had first felt his suspicions about her. He had objected when Jonathan proposed bringing her back to the town. He had tried to block their marriage, too. Now he wondered whether she had sensed from the beginning that he was her enemy, and had made him her very first victim.
And then another layer inside him cracked open, and the unexpected and terrible truth shone forth with a clarity that stopped his breath. It flooded the secret recesses of his soul, illuminating an ugliness he had harbored within, never dreaming it was there. No, this was a taint that had been inside him long before they had found her in the woods. It had always been there, buried deep within his sinews and flesh, waiting only for the first sight of Jonathan to awaken it. Jonathan was not to blame, he was sure. Jonathan had never acted in any improper way or shown the slightest sign of awareness of William’s feelings—not any more than William had guessed himself. But somehow William knew that, had Jonathan ever realized the truth coiled deep in William’s soul, he would have turned his face away in revulsion. And if so, William realized in growing horror, perhaps she could not be blamed, either. He would have been jealous of anyone who had come between him and Jonathan. Her arrival had simply forced the issue. His reluctance to allow Jonathan to marry, his eagerness to level the accusation of witchcraft, the motives of protectiveness he had prided himself upon: all simple covetous envy, nothing more. A part of him protested feebly at the thought. He had seen Mistress Latham conjure ghosts, he reminded himself. Surely she was truly a witch. But a cold suspicion remained inside him that, even if she were, he should not have been the man to make the accusation. He had relied his whole life long on an inner certainty that he was one of the blessed elect, that the Lord had written his name in the Book of Life since before creation began. A new certainty now gripped him: he would not stand with the elect at Judgment Day, for he was instead one of the eternally damned.
He raised his eyes up to the dark ceiling and wept. How strange, he thought, to know himself damned and yet still long with every fiber of his being for Heaven. How painful to think himself incapable of love, and then, when he had finally found it, to discover that love has brought only destruction. William felt light and hollow, like an empty eggshell. He wiped away the last of his tears and glanced toward the window. The first signs of lessening darkness were just beginning to show in the east. Slowly, he rose and went over to the candle and stared into the flame. The words spoken before the congregation when a soul was excommunicated came back to him:
Whatever is bound on earth shall be bound in Heaven, and whatever is loosed on earth shall be loosed in Heaven.... Depart now into the darkness, cut off from the church and cursed forever, into the eternal fire prepared for the Devil and his angels....
William blew the candle out.
Benjamin had stayed with Eliza until after the sun had set and so was forced to return through the woods on foot to find the rest of the brothers and bring them back with him. As the coming dawn slowly warmed the darkness with a misty grayness, they gathered in the yard in front of Jonathan’s house and beat upon the door with their fists. Goody Grafton came awake with a start at the tremendous noise. Hastily wrapping a shawl over her nightgown with trembling hands, she hurried down the stairs and fumbled to unbolt the latch.
The sight when she opened the door rendered her speechless. A crowd of men, dressed as fantastically as princes, turned their faces to her earnestly. “Is this the house of the magistrate?” James demanded.
She blinked. “Aye, it is,” she replied warily. “And who might you be, asking after him?”
James and Henry exchanged nervous looks, and James took a deep breath. “Go tell him the sons of the Earl of Exeter require immediate speech with him.”
“The sons of— Are you mad?” she exclaimed, clutching her shawl to her throat more tightly. “What idle tale is this? Nay, by my life, I cannot wake him now. Why, ‘tis not even dawn yet! You must come again later—”
“We have traveled all the night to find this house; dawn will be too late! We must speak with him this moment!”
“Go and rouse him at once.”
She stared at the pale, eager circle of faces. “This is a house in grievous trouble, and my master is sick at heart and has barely slumbered this night. He shall not be disturbed at my doing.”
Charles elbowed his way toward the door. “But we must have words with him! We have come to see him about the young woman kept in the gaol—”
Goody Grafton’s eyes narrowed. “What business have you with the magistrate’s wife?”
Charles’s jaw dropped as the others gasped. “His wife!” Charles exclaimed. “Is she his wife?”
“Aye.” A spasm crossed Goody Grafton’s face. “His wife they are to hang this morning for being a witch.”
“What!?”
“No!”
“In God’s name, woman—” Frederick began desperately, but as they all started forward, she took fright at the ferocious light in their eyes, slammed the door shut, and bolted it. Instantly, they began beating on the door again, shouting for admittance. Trembling, Goody Grafton retreated a step on the other side and then, covering her ears, fled to rouse the manservant Jonas. After a few minutes, during which time the brothers continued to batter the door, Jonas came, slid back the bolt, and opened the door to look out into the yard, frowning. Goody Grafton peered over his shoulder. “What’s all thi—?” Jonas began and then stopped, his eyes widening.
“We must speak with your master at once.”
Jonas stared. “Now then, what fleering impudence! The magistrate, look you, cannot be pulled out of bed for every japing Tom, Dick, and—”
“ ‘Tis near dawn,” Stephen cried urgently, looking over his shoulder. “Please.”
“Open the door to us!”
“Nay, I’ll not—”
“Damn your eyes, man!” Henry exclaimed in exasperation.
“I don’t hold with that kind of talk. You go back to where you came from and wait—”
“Stand aside or we’ll cut your throat!”
With an oath, Jonas slammed the door shut. But the brothers fell on it from the other side, and the door jerked under the servants’ fingers as they struggled to shove the bolt closed again. Goody Grafton yelped in fright.
Behind them, Jonathan clattered down the stairs in his nightshirt, drawn by the noise. “Jonas,” he said blankly, holding a candle high, “what in the name of Almighty Heaven is causing that fearsome racket?”
“ ‘Tis a most villainous group of strangers, master,” Jonas said over his shoulder as he continued struggling with the bolt. “They curse us, demanding that you speak with them.”
Jonathan lifted his head to listen, a crease between his brows. Thumps and cries of “Open up! Open up!” came, muffled through the door.
“Stand aside, Jonas,” Jonathan said, striding forward.
Jonas hesitated, but Jonathan reached out and slid back the bolt under his reluctant fingers, even as the cries on the other side of the door changed into incoherent, panicked shouts. As Jonas stepped back, Goody Grafton quavered, “Oh, have a care, master.” Jonathan gave her a frowning look and threw back the door.
And ducked, stunned, at the wild flapping of powerful wings in his face. A flock of swans rose from the yard in panicky haste, circled the hous
e once, and flew off toward the east. Jonathan slowly rose from his crouch and took a step over his threshold, open-mouthed in astonishment, squinting after them as they disappeared into the pale yellow light of the rising sun.
When they came for her, Eliza was ready. She had already donned the coarse garment of sackcloth they had given her. Terrified that her coats would be taken from her even now, she kept the ten completed and one unfinished coat clutched tightly in her arms, and the last pitiful remnants of spun nettle flax wadded up in her hand. The gaoler edged back warily as she stepped out of the cell, but as she turned away from him, he suddenly darted forward and snatched the fishbone hook she held in her fingers. She almost shrieked aloud in rage and frustration. She and the gaoler glared at each other, and then the guards raised their flintlock pistols menacingly. Eliza backed away, hugging the coats even more tightly. No one moved, but no one attempted to take the coats from her either. One of the guards licked his lips. “Yonder is the cart,” he said, gesturing out the door. After a long pause, she turned in the indicated direction and stepped barefoot out into the snow. The morning had dawned pale and clear, and a white hoarfrost still clung to the trees, outlining each twig with a delicate edging of crystalline lace. Eliza shivered, and her breath puffed out and lingered visibly in the air. Before her, an old horse stood in front of the gaol, harnessed to a cart piled high with straw. The horse looked over its shoulder at her and blew out a snorting breath, its sides shuddering.
“Get in,” said one of the guards behind her.
She stood for a long moment, swaying, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks, and horror made her sight dim. But they prodded her firmly in the small of the back with a pistol, and with a shudder, she forced herself to scramble into the back of the cart. Quickly, she piled the ten completed coats around herself, laid the eleventh in her lap, and began knotting and looping the flax on the uncompleted sleeve by hand, her lips moving in silent prayer. With a violent lurch, the cart began to roll. People began to stream out of houses as the cart passed, craning their necks to stare at Eliza, their faces variously curious, somber, and hostile. One of the onlookers was Patience, and she dropped her eyes, ashamed, as the cart passed her, but Eliza did not look up. At first all were silent, but as the cart drew nearer to the place of execution and the crowd followed it, murmurs started and gradually grew louder.