The Hanging Tree

by Michael Phillip Cash

  Hastily lowering her skirts, she nodded back. “Reverend.”

  He frowned at the cat sunning lazily at her feet. Goody narrowed her rheumy eyes.

  “You are far off the path, Mistress. What brings thee to these parts?” the reverend asked.

  “We are hunting for berries. Claire,” she shouted, “give good day to the reverend.”

  Claire blushed prettily, shielding her hands over her blue eyes, and smiled brightly upon spying the clergyman. He climbed down from the large roan mare.

  He was tall, dressed all in black, and, while most expected him to be older, he was quite young, with a full head of chestnut hair. He was a learned man, attended Oxford, and was filled with bright ideas for this new country. The old ways and their superstitions had to be rooted out and burned away along with the witches that brought them. He could not help the smile that rose to his lips upon spying young Claire. Her budding breasts were taut against the outmoded bodice, her apple-colored cheeks vibrant against the white skin. She was lovely, with long blond hair tied behind the base of her skull to cascade down her narrow back. Sweetly she skipped toward them, her eyes on the reverend.

  “Good day, sir.” She peeked up under long lashes, her blue eyes glistening.

  Her scent rose to meet him; he remembered that only last Sunday, when she edged close to him for a question, it tickled his nose. She smelled of the wild roses that dotted the trails all over their small village. How could so beautiful and pure a child come from this crone of a woman? His eyes rested upon the ugly mole at the base of the hag’s pointed chin. The cat, certainly a spawn of Satan, meowed angrily, and Rev. Harmond cleared his throat. “Thee was missed at church Sunday, Mistress.”

  “I begged her to go,” Claire eagerly interrupted.

  “’Twas because of Goody Maywearing. She was laboring with her first child. I could not leave her thus.”

  “There is to be no labor on the Lord’s Sabbath,” the reverend intoned smugly.

  “Tell that to the child begging to be born that day, kind sir. It was my Christian duty to help.”

  This was met with a harrumph as he mounted his horse again. They eyed each other warily.

  “Make sure thee attend Sunday services this week, Goody Bennett. The Lord must make his acquaintance with thee, I think.”

  “I make my acquaintance with the Lord each and every day I live,” Goody Bennett spit back.

  “Grandmam!” Claire hissed. “We will be there, good sir. Good morrow.” She waved gaily at his retreating back.

  “I do not like that man.” Goody Bennett muttered, her narrowed eyes glistening fiercely.

  Claire gasped when she noticed her grandmother’s beady gaze glowing with the red heat of anger. It was no good when the old woman was angry. Claire shivered with fear coupled with resentment. It was because of her they had no friends. Oh, people called when they needed her cures. If an arm or leg was broken, there would be ham in the larder for a whole winter. But no one, save that dreadful Adam Babcock, stopped for tea. She resented his long looks. He was a dirty farmer. Claire wanted more. She didn’t know exactly more of what, but she knew she just wanted more. Looking at her grandmother’s evil stare, she crossed her fingers behind her back, warding off the old woman’s spells, and replied, “Reverend Harmond is good and kind, Grandmother. He takes care of the poor.”

  “I do not see him doing anything for us.” Her grandmother retorted grimly.

  “He frowns upon thy herb mixtures. He has told us many times.” Claire replied defending the good reverend.

  “Well, when the flux arrives this fall, let us see how much he despises my potions,” the crone dismissed the man, and Goody Bennett reached for some wild valerian to put in her many pockets.

  “What plant is that?” Claire asked before returning to her search for the juicy berries dotting the underbrush.

  “Never you mind,” her grandmother responded harshly. “You stay out of my business, Claire. I be fair warning you.”

  The sun slid behind a purple cloud, and the air chilled. Fat drops plopped onto the dusty soil. Claire threw her stained apron over her hair and squealed with terror when thunder grumbled in the sky. She eyed her grandmother resentfully, wondering if the lightning that followed was due to some curse brewing behind the pursed lips. She ran ahead, not waiting for the older woman, her head ducked between her shoulders, stinging drops slashing against her heated skin.

  Goody Bennett watched Claire run off and wondered again how her son could have created such a buffle-headed simpleton. Glancing back at Remedy, who bared pointy teeth, she rose, grumbling, “Aye, laugh thee silly fur off. I dinna ask for this, and thee know it!”

  Together they walked back to their cabin, the cat gracefully leaping over small puddles, the old woman with a rare sense of doom.

  “You knew what was in store for you, old woman.” This was shouted from one of the tangled duo in the tree.

  “As did you,” she replied her ugly face split by a toothy smile. “We all know what is ahead for us, in one way or the other.”

  “If that was true, I would have never driven this road so fast,” Arthur of the raccoon coat added.

  “Ha! Did you not know the consequence of driving fast?” the old crone asked.

  “Of course, but for everybody else. This was not supposed to happen to me,” came the pithy reply.

  “That’s what they all say,” Gibson girl offered morosely. “Pray continue. I want to hear the rest of your tale. It is quite diverting,” she finished primly.

  “Who cares?” This was from a dark body swinging on one of the lower branches. Gibson girl peered through the brush but couldn’t make out the faint face. “We all know what happened. How many times do I have to hear this?” the specter wailed.

  “Until they learn,” Arthur whispered fiercely. They all looked down at Arielle’s unsuspecting head.

  Goody Bennett

  Oyster Bay, Fall 1649

  The days came and went with ruthless speed. Summer moved toward fall, and the old woman continued to help those who needed potions and perhaps a spell or two. The Indian summer scorched the earth, making harvest heart-breakingly scant. They were nervous, the small community. Stores in the town ran low, shipments stopped coming from England. Far from the civilization of New Amsterdam or Boston, they were the last stop for dwindling supplies. They had to make do with what they had, and they didn’t have much. There was a revolution back home. The king was dead, a new protector, Oliver Cromwell, running the country. The people were unsettled; they didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. War ravaged home, making supplies even scarcer.

  The air was sultry, and the cows mooed in their pastures. Goody Bennett was exhausted. Sluggishly, she used her staff to walk home, Remedy trailing behind her. The door was open, and Claire sat outside churning butter. She watched her grandmother amble up the road, unhappiness written all over her face. “It is too hot to churn outside, Claire. Go in the house.”

  Claire shrugged indifferently. “Be thee hungry?”

  “Nay.” The older woman shook her head. “I have lost whatever appetite I have. Both Mother and babe have perished.”

  “Mayhap your magic is gone.” Claire shrugged indifferently.

  “What are you about, child? I have no magic.” The older woman held up her gnarled hands. “I have need of knowledge, not magic. How do you help a babe who refuses to descend?”

  She climbed the step to the dark interior, letting its coolness bathe her sweating face. It had been a long night, made longer still by the hopeless cries of her neighbor. Calvin Beckworth sat outside keeping his young son busy, while his wife labored the day and night away. She had trouble bringing forth the boy two years ago, and he had expected Goody Bennett to do her job and deliver of his wife a healthy child. Only, no matter how much she greased her hands with the sweet honey she had found on a shelf over the fireplace, or how many sharp knives she placed under the sheets to cut the pain, nothing helped Mary, and, as dawn melted
the darkness, she quit this world for paradise, leaving the farmer alone with a toddler and no help meet. Goody left the airless cottage, her eyes watching Calvin Beckworth’s narrowed gaze. She felt his hostile glare on her stooped back, his anger pulsing with primal heat and she knew he was now a dangerous enemy.

  What am I going to do now? Beckworth thought angrily. Though Goody knew his very thoughts, she could not assure him all would be well. If the eyes were mirror to the soul, Goody Bennett saw only dark hatred in their depths. Who would watch the boy while he tended his harvest? Perhaps the old woman did not help as much as she could have. She heard grief and ignorance in his words, but could not reveal that she could hear the words swirling in his head.. She could feel him wonder. Where is my precious jar of honey? I used it, fool, she wanted to shout at him. I used it to help your wife.

  She remembered his suspicious eyes following her as she left defeated and dismayed at losing a fine young woman.

  “What happened?” Claire asked.

  “The babe refused to come out,” was the curt reply.

  “Mayhap thee should have attended services yesterday instead and both mother and child would have survived.” Claire tartly informed her.

  “What mischief is this, Claire? What arcane ideas have scrambled thy thoughts?” She pointed a crooked finger at her.

  “The good reverend tells us to place our faith in God and not heathen magic.” Claire shooed the cat with a broom; it hissed angrily at her.

  Goodwife Bennett touched her dirty nail to Claire’s pristine forehead. “These are wicked thoughts, child. I am thy blood. Be I a witch then so you be too.”

  “Nay!” Clair shouted, backing away. “I hate thee and thy potions. I am pure, an angel; the good reverend has told me.”

  “Does he say that when he caresses thy breasts, sweet, pure Claire?” her grandmother asked in a wicked whisper.

  Claire gasped, her hand on her chest, her breath coming in short pants. How did she know? She thought wildly. They met in private, the good reverend and Claire, in the meadow by the large oak. They had lain together under the leafy branches. The sun warmed their bodies, and he spoke of her beauty and their future together. He was a good man, leading his flock, keeping them in the light of the Lord, guarding against evil. His loving hands caressed her, urging her to tell him the true nature of her family. How could she resist such a man? The grim cabin filled with witch’s tools and the evil devil’s familiar were of her past. She was impatient to disregard it for a future as the respected wife of the leader in their small community. He promised her she would have the best as he took her maidenhead. She was a siren; He told her. She seduced him with her beauty; He adored the purity of her body. They were destined to be together. He only needed to root out evil, prove himself the guardian of the community, save her from the darkness of her grandmother. It was her duty to tell him. Whispered words—the good reverend captured them with his tongue, lapping her secrets, promising brighter tomorrows.

  “Where’s thy good reverend now?” Goody Bennett cried, taking in Claire’s wild face. The child protectively covered her blossoming belly. “Oh, aye promised thee the world, did he?” she accused, her black-cherry eyes boring into her granddaughter.

  “Stop looking at me!” Clair wailed. “You…you witch!”

  “Shhhhh…” Goody grabbed her by the lace collar; the girl was devoid of color. “Does thee want to be burned?”

  “Me?” She shrank back, laughter bubbling up. “They won’t burn me.” Claire shook her head, her face red with shame. “I am not a witch. Thee are corrupt, foul…thee and your familiar, the devil’s tool. George will test thee; he has no need to test me.”

  Goody Bennett pushed her away. “What have thee done, you pestilent child? What have thee started? You think you are safe?”

  Grabbing her staff, the old woman ran from the cottage, Remedy hot on her heels behind her.

  Peter

  2013

  “I don’t like it. She just left. I don’t understand her.” Pete took two cups of tea and brought them to the table toward his girlfriend. It sounded strange, a grown man having a “girlfriend.” He looked at Belinda, who was calmly making room on the cluttered table. She cut him a piece of pound cake, took a quarter for herself then made another plate.

  “Charity,” she called his younger daughter. “Do you want ice cream with the cake?”

  He smiled at this hominess. Why couldn’t Arielle see how sweet and unpretentious Belinda was? She worked at the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratories. Ha, he landed himself a rocket scientist. Well, really a biologist. It was pretty funny, the fireman and the genetic mutation expert. They had met at the hospital. She was there bringing her father in, acid reflux that looked like a heart attack. He was there for Charity and the five stitches she needed after she collided with a base-ball. Arielle had been beside herself. He almost thought he’d have two patients on his hands that day. She was so close to her sister, and yet she’d been pretty close-mouthed about the Chad boy. He didn’t like it, not one bit.

  Charity walked toward him, her braids messed, wearing a sloppy tee and sweats she slept in. “Is it vanilla?” She was petite, like his wife, with a small upturned nose he loved to tweak.

  “Yup.” Belinda got up to take out the Haagen-Dazs from the freezer. “I love this one. It’s got chocolate-covered almonds in it. It’s really good. I’m going to toast the pound cake and put the ice cream on top. You’re going to looooove it!”

  Charity slid into the seat next to her father and looked over his hand to see what was in his cup.

  “Tea.” He showed her. “You want a cup?”

  She shook her head, pointed to his, and he slid it over to her with a sigh. “Just want a sip.” She blew on the steaming liquid.

  “Did you hear from your sister?” he asked as she returned the cup.

  Charity nodded. “A few times. Did you?”

  They were all on the phone constantly with each other. They always knew what the other was doing and where they were. They included their father; he must have spoken to his kids a dozen times a day. He was used to knowing everywhere they went, any hour, but something had shifted, and he just didn’t understand why.

  Charity glanced at Belinda, who was at the counter waiting for the toaster oven to bing. “She’ll be fine,” his daughter whispered softly. “I bet she comes home in a few hours and tells you you were right.”

  Pete looked at the ceiling, his eyes smarting. It was cozy in the kitchen. He gazed at the worn tabletop, the four chairs, and felt an overwhelming feeling of loss. Someone was missing, someone important. Arielle, Charity, and Peter hardly missed a beat when Amy left. Though he worked in three-day shifts and was away, Amy worked from six in the morning and rarely got home before nine at night. His mom and an au pair named Julie did the bulk of the work. They had stopped doing everything together; her job pulled her more and more into the city. Amy and he had drifted until, one day, his wife just stopped coming home. He took a leave and gathered his girls, trying to regroup and let them know it wasn’t about them. It was her boss, the lure of living in an expensive penthouse, going to society events. Amy didn’t want to be there anymore. She called him and said there was nothing for her in Long Island; her life shifted to Manhattan. The girls could come, of course; if they really wanted to, she told him to let them know. But she understood if they didn’t want to leave their comfort zone. It was an “unvite” if he ever heard one, and he couched it in a way more positive note when he explained what was going on. Arielle shrugged and told him she was too involved to even think of leaving school; Charity turned her very knowing eyes to him and silently shook her head. He knew there would be damage, but he didn’t understand it would be like this. Arielle always shared everything with him, and he didn’t understand why she suddenly became distant. For some reason his brain didn’t register that his relationship cooled with his daughter as it heated up with the new woman in his life.

  Arielle

  “Do
n’t touch it, Arielle!” Chad shouted.

  “Oh, it’s such a sweet kitty,” Arielle said as she held out a soft hand.

  “It could have rabies. Aside from that, it’s all black.”

  “Really, Chad? Black? What are you, superstitious?” The cat picked its way sinuously through the tangled roots of the old tree to sit next to Arielle. Stretching its velvet body, it rubbed a lean back on the girl’s knee. “Sweet cat.” Arielle felt the gentle purr underneath the soft fur. They leaned back against a large boulder that had been propped against the tree.

  “Look who’s here.” Right above them Arthur announced softly from the dense foliage, so faintly it sounded like a puff of air.

  Arielle heard only the delicate whine of insects too close to her ear.

  Goody Bennett sighed sadly. “Remedy…”

  Chad sat down next to Arielle, reaching out to pet the cat. The animal arched, spitting furiously at him, scampering through the low bushes behind them. “Creepy.”

  “You scared her,” Arielle accused, wondering what made the cat react to her boyfriend.

  Goody Bennett

  Winter 1650

  A crowd was outside the cottage. Snow dotted the grounds; the frigid air pierced their lungs. They were loud and angry.

  “My babe died.”

  “The cow’s milk stopped.”

  “The corn is spoiled.”

  Claire parted the curtain and watched the villagers hurling rocks encased in ice at the door.

  Calvin Beckworth was in the front, his hand wrapped around a rock that he shook angrily while he shouted. Goody didn’t want to hear his thoughts now. She didn’t need to, she could feel his hatred with his purple face and spit speckled lips.

  “Get away from the window,” Goody yelled. “They will leave soon. It’s too cold for them to stay.”