The Witch

by Jean Thompson

  They could not. A few of them rubbed at their own necks, as if feeling the cold bite of the sword. The priest continued. “Their faith was so pure and strong, they knew they were about to ascend straight into heaven! Heaven! We can’t see it from here, it’s always one hill farther than the last one we can climb! That place where there is no hunger or want or lack of any sort! Nor cruelty nor fear nor heartsickness!”

  The priest paused to draw breath. In the far back corner of the church he caught a glimpse of the land agent, dressed once again in his gaudy, ridiculous clothes. As if this was a proper way to appear in church, or even to undertake a long journey. What was he doing here anyway, skulking around behind the pillars, distracting him? Why not come on time and sit in a pew if he came at all?

  “Now the blessed saints sit in great glory alongside the Father and the Son, in eternal peace and grace,” the priest continued, but the passion had drained out of him, and he only wished to reach the end.

  The congregation shuffled its feet as he raised the host to consecrate it, then each of them took their turn to advance and kneel and accept the body and blood of Christ. Each one, that is, except for the land agent, who had vanished. The priest allowed himself relief at this, although he wondered why the man did not take communion.

  Finally all was done and the last prayers said, and the people hurrying out the church doors and calling to each other, for those who were part of the expedition would be leaving right away. The priest followed more slowly, crossing the threshold into the welcoming sunshine. Why was his heart so heavy?

  And here was the land agent, standing in the bed of a wagon, trading jokes with the crowd. There were two wagons, each hitched to a shaggy horse, and each with a tough-looking drover holding the reins. Where had these men come from? The priest had not seen them before. They were shabby, sour-faced, as if the prospect of exerting themselves put them in a foul mood. But the land agent capered and danced, playing a tune on a little pipe he drew out of his bag.

  The youngest children were lifted into the wagons beside the sacks and barrels of provisions. The older girls, who would tend to them on the way, climbed up beside them. But the main body of the children would go on foot, and these milled around behind the wagons, excited at the prospect of their adventure. Even the poorest of them had been provided with whatever could be spared: new aprons or jackets, pouches filled with seed, tools for working the ground or for carpentry, awls, chisels, whetstones, thimbles, combs, cooking pots, anything that could be carried by hand or slung over a pole. Because only the youngest among them were unused to work. So many were underfed, near-starvelings. The priest’s heart hurt, looking at them, and he felt shamed. Some had parents and some had none, and some of the parents wept but most were dry-eyed and resigned. It was for the best, and it had already been decided.

  Now the land agent leapt from the wagon and, before the priest could anticipate or object, mounted the church steps until he stood on a level with the priest. “Good people!” he cried, loudly enough to still the crowd’s noise. “What bright fortune! What splendid prospects! Children! Have you prepared yourselves? Will you come with me to the new lands, to work and earn your bread? No, not bread, tell me what you like better.” He leaned down and cupped his ear to the crowd below.

  “Pancakes!” a child called out.

  “Pancakes with honey!” another added.

  “Apples and nuts!”

  At each new suggestion, the agent stepped back in mock astonishment, making his comical faces. “So it’s pancakes you want? Pancakes with honey and apples and nuts?”

  A cheer rose from the crowd of children. “Well then, we’d best get started. Because, as the good Father has said, we have many hills to climb!”

  Here the agent bowed to the priest, and the priest, irritated at being made into an actor in the agent’s show, had no choice but to call for prayer. The people below him lowered their heads, and he asked God to bless those going forth, to protect and cherish them and bring them success and happiness in their new lives, Amen.

  “Amen,” the crowd echoed, and the drovers whipped up their horses and the children called out their final goodbyes. First, though, before they got under way, the agent reached into one of the wagons and lifted out a little boy who was so frail and sickly, it was likely that his parents had only given him up so as to be spared the expense of his burial. The agent held him up on his shoulder until a woman came to claim him, and as he passed the child over, the agent also reached into his leather bag and gave her a coin as charity.

  That should have helped to ease the priest’s mind, but dread still weighed on him. Yet it seemed as if he was the only one in all the crowd who was not cheering the agent on, delighted at the town’s good fortune. People cleared out of the path as the wagons nudged forward. At the very head of the column, the agent piped a merry tune. Goodbye, goodbye!

  The crowd re-formed around the last of the children and followed them a ways beyond the city’s gates, then stood watching as the road lengthened behind them and the piping music faded and went silent.

  The priest turned and went back into the church and climbed up to the bell tower, whose windows faced in all directions. To the north, the road the children had taken, he could see a portion of the blue river curving away, with knots of pale trees lining its bank. At the very edge of sight, a smudge that indicated the foothills of the great mountains. If he strained his eyes he could make out a handful of moving dust that must have been the expedition. Already they were much farther along than he would have guessed. The priest watched until he no longer knew what he saw, the trail of dust or just his wish to see it.

  —

  Within two weeks of the departure, the fine weather turned to a thin, blowy rain that fell in wind-driven sheets. People wondered if the children had reached their destination by now. The distances the land agent had described were vague. The new settlements were said to be at the edge of the northern sea, or perhaps farther east, beyond a great forest. No one knew for certain, and people debated uselessly over the different things they’d heard.

  A gray melancholy settled over the town along with the rain. In the first days after the children’s departure, there had been a lot of nervous, excited talk (and of course, some tears among the mothers), then bouts of bad temper, as if people had misgivings about the children leaving and were casting about for someone to blame. But the rain softened the sounds of the world and wore away at the heart the same way it can, over time, hollow out stone. Rain dripped and dripped from the eaves, footsteps puddled, and no one looked out an open door or window for fear of getting drenched. It was so much quieter without the children. Of course not every single child in the town had been taken, but enough had gone away so that if a child was glimpsed in the street, being hurried along by a parent, or playing some solitary game, people often stopped to stare.

  The priest sent his prayers up into the clouds, and they came down as rain. Consigning the children to prayer was a substitute for thinking about them, and in any case, nothing could be done for them now. There was enough in his daily round of study and ministry to keep him occupied, if not untroubled.

  Then one night, just as he was preparing for bed, he heard, or imagined he heard, a knock at the small side door that led to his own quarters. He listened again. In the midst of the voices of water he heard a human voice, thin and beseeching. He took a lantern and hurried to unbolt the door.

  A boy sat in the mud beside the door, drawn up as close as he could to the shelter of the roof. The priest recognized him as one of those who had left with the land agent, an orphan who had lived off others’ meager leavings and so had been eager to join the agent’s expedition. He was worn and wet and one leg was stretched out in front of him. The leg was dark with blood. The rain washed a thin line of it and sent it whirling away into the muddy street.

  Greatly alarmed, the priest helped the boy to stand and come i
nside. He dried him off, built up the fire, and set him to warm in front of it. The housekeeper had already retired, and she was half deaf at the best of times, so the priest himself went searching for food and drink. Then he coaxed the boy into letting him examine the injured leg, which was ulcerated and matted with all manner of dirt and bark and even small stones.

  “You must allow me to clean this,” the priest said. He heated water in a kettle and set to work with a cloth and a basin of the hot water. The child was exhausted and fearful but he only flinched once while the priest tended to him, washing the leg and stanching the blood and binding the wound with a bran poultice. He did not begin crying until the priest asked, “And where are all the rest?”

  “Lost,” the boy said, breaking down. He sobbed and shook. The priest went cold inside. When the boy had calmed himself, the priest asked what had happened.

  “We walked a long way. We passed beyond the last farms and fields and into places where no men lived. It was hot and the dust got into our mouths. At night we slept on the ground. The way grew steeper as we came to the mountains and the little ones were footsore. Still they urged us to go faster. On the sixth day I caught my leg between the tongue of the wagon and the harness. I was cut and bruised and I lagged behind until the others were nearly out of sight.”

  The boy touched his bandaged leg, as if to remind himself. He was no older than twelve, and small for his age, and the miseries of his life had stooped his shoulders and made his head seem too large for his body. The priest gave him a mouthful of wine to restore him, and he started in again.

  “It was night by the time I reached them. The road ran along in a narrow way between two high cliffs. It was dark on the ground but when I looked up, I saw the sky and stars in a gulf between the cliffs. The stars were like a pale river running through the sky.” The boy shook his head and looked away. “I believe it is the last thing I will ever call beautiful.

  “I was close enough to hear and smell the horses, and to see the last light of the fire, and I hurried on because I was so glad I had found them, and so hungry. And just as I approached, there was a horrible noise from all around, because men had come down from the hills and were shouting in a language I did not know, striding through the camp and making the children scream. The smallest ones they had no use for, and these they clubbed down or killed with their long knives. There were those boys who tried to fight back and they too were overcome. The girls . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  “They made of them brides,” the child said, shyly. After a moment he went on.

  “I hid myself behind a rock and no one saw me. Finally they were done. The men piled the wagons with everything of value and they tied those still alive together with a rope and made the long line of them follow behind the wagons. The men were pleased with their night’s work and they were laughing and calling to one another as they passed farther into the mountains.”

  “Where was the land agent? What happened to him?”

  “He spoke to the men in their strange language. He drove one of the wagons away.”

  The priest stayed silent. The boy touched his knee. “Father? I did a terrible thing. Once the men had gone and it was all quiet, I walked among the dead, looking for food. I took food from their pockets. I moved their bodies aside so I could find something to eat. I dug in the ashes of the fire for the leavings. I could have, perhaps I could have . . .

  “Father?”

  The priest roused himself and put both hands hard on the boy’s shoulders. “Listen to me. You will tell no one what happened. No one! Do you understand? When you came to the pass in the mountains, it was daylight, and you saw the children in a beautiful valley, filled with fruit trees and shining waters and singing birds and flower scent. And as you went to join them, the cliff face crumbled and the entrance was blocked. You found your way home as best you could. That is what you will say. Do you hear me?”

  The boy looked frightened, unconvinced. “You will not say what you saw! When you think of them you are to think of them in heaven, because that is where they are. Say it for me.”

  “They are in heaven.”

  The priest released the breath he had been holding and took his hands away. “Lay yourself down and sleep. No harm will come to you. The church will provide for you from now on.”

  The boy allowed himself one brief, upturned glance, then lowered his eyes once more. He seemed to understand what would be required of him in his new life. “Let us pray for them,” the priest said. He folded his hands and searched for words as he might have sent a bucket into a deep well to haul up water. “Let us . . .” he began again, but nothing else came to him.

  THREE

  The first Ryan brother was three years older than the next, and the second brother three years older than the last. Three by three. Everybody had gone to school with one of them, or just ahead or behind this or that one. Everybody knew them or knew of them: Richard, athletic, smart, and capable. Gabe, who was artistic and charming. And Tim, the youngest, who had yet to demonstrate any notable talents and was most often described as “quiet.” Their father, in many ways a difficult man, used his youngest son to keep the edge of his anger sharp. “I guess you think the world owes you a living, well, think again. You want to be a big fat loser? Fine, but you better pay your own way. I’m talking sooner rather than later, buddy.”

  Tim let the angry complaints roll off him. He was used to hearing them, and anyway, his father was probably right. He was a year out of high school and he still lived at home, in the basement. He worked construction and took courses, fitfully, at the junior college. His older brothers had laid down such clear trails of their own that he had no inclination to follow either of them and risk being some paler version. If failure was the only unused avenue left to him, he guessed he would be a failure. He spent his time in the basement smoking pot and lifting, and sometimes he went out with his loser friends. His father wasn’t really serious about making him leave, because he was useful at repairing things around the house, and besides, he was already paying rent.

  The boys’ mother had moved out a few years ago, on account of the father being difficult, and lived in a faraway city. She sent them postcards of the beautiful views there, the ocean, harbors, bridges, and beaches. My dearest boy—this was how she addressed each of them—I never stop thinking of you day or night, please don’t forget me. Love, Mom.

  Richard, the oldest brother, was made impatient by these cards. Their mother had chosen to leave, fine. She should stick with it, not keep circling back around, apologizing. Don’t forget me, what did that mean? You weren’t going to forget a mother, but you didn’t necessarily have warm thoughts about one who ran off. It was true that his father wasn’t the easiest guy in the world, but she’d known what she was signing up for, hadn’t she? Why couldn’t she have kept her part of the bargain, remained the same as she’d always been: weary, anxious, soothing, ineffectual?

  Richard did not put his feelings into such exact words. It was not his habit. When his mother came to mind it was as something unpleasant, distressing, and then he pushed it aside. He had other things to worry about. He was working on a graduate degree in business, and it was killing him. It wasn’t that the course material itself was so difficult, only that for the first time in his life, the people around him were every bit as smart and competitive as he was. Test scores were one thing, but there was another, more subtle evaluation going on at all times. Who could cut it, who was marked for success, and who would fall behind. You were expected to carry yourself a certain way, project a layer of ease and confidence over the necessary killer instincts. Some of this came effortlessly to him. He’d played basketball and tennis. He had a jock’s practiced nonchalance with his own body, and a stubborn focus on winning. He was a careful and deliberate speaker, funny at unexpected moments, winning people over. People liked him, approved of him, spoke of his leadership qualities.

&nbs
p; But what if, in a moment of weakness or carelessness, the bright face he showed to the world slipped? He would be found out, revealed as he was to himself in his times of self-doubting: gnawed and anxious and timid. A secret fraud.

  It did not occur to Richard that everyone else might also have their own secret and fraudulent self.

  He had a serious girlfriend and things had gone on for long enough that a marriage seemed likely. They hadn’t really talked about it, but they’d talked around the edges. Richard would finish his degree and find a placement in a good firm, and then he would be ready to establish himself as a married man. In the meantime, his girlfriend worked at the kind of job that could be set aside if the two of them moved to another city, or had children. She took note of how other people arranged their bridesmaids and invitations. Everything seemed to be on track, except for those times when one of them had some unaccountable spell of petulance or bad temper, or when the whole notion of being on track seemed a kind of joke that nobody ever got.

  They were driving home from a dinner with another couple, an old school friend of Richard’s and his newish wife. They had attended the wedding the season before. “They seem really happy,” the girlfriend offered.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What, you don’t think they are?”

  One of her habits that Richard disliked was this kind of eagerness to interpret, or overinterpret, the barest things he said. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well you didn’t sound very convinced.”

  “I suppose I meant”—he cast about for something that might get him off the hook—“they seemed like they were trying too hard.”

  “Really?” She shifted in her seat, getting comfortable for a session of exhausting analysis. “I guess they were kind of gung-ho. Finishing each other’s sentences, all those cracks about him starting fires when he barbecues.”