hath surely sent her to me, for she is a treasure beyond compare, and thanks to her ministerings, Samuel is full-cheeked, perfect in form, and blesseth us with his childish pratings
.
I have begun attending the meetings of Anne Hutchinson. She hath re-ignited the light of Christ within me that shoneso bright when first I desired to follow the Puritans. Verily I feel a joy to light the darkness that fell upon me at the loss of my dear brother and my first babe. Too, she hath bid me come and learn some of her skills, so that I may help …
Mary turned onto Corn Hill Road. She saw other women, veiled by slanting snow, walking singly or in twos. Cowled against the winter wind, they clutched Bibles—capes swirled, skirts kicked by leather boots, the white coifs upon their heads like so many pinpoints of brilliance.
The Hutchinson parlour was warmed by a fire on the hearth. The room smelled of feverfew, lemon balm, tansy, hung to dry on hooks. Anne sat at a table; behind her, a window framed the frozen marsh. Her eyes travelled the group, the muscles at the corners of her mouth cording as she listened to questions. Her voice thickened, infused with conviction.
“The Holy Spirit dwells within each of us. We are as we are born, and within ourselves we may apprehend him. We do not need the intervention of ministers,” she told them.
The meeting lasted until the sky had darkened. Leaving Anne’s house, Mary strode fast, one hand gathering her hood, the other holding a lantern. Dusk wove between the houses, a charcoal density gathering into oblivion roofs, chimneys, upper storeys. Her mind filled with Anne’s face, like a canvas stretched tight, corner to corner, beyond which she could see light and warmth.
She cut down an alley. A dim glow of candlelight came from a window, spinning with flakes. She passed a wall, sheltering a midden; heard the sound of pigs—a scuffle, the sound of open-mouthed chewing. Then—silence. A low, evolving growl, joined by a second.
Not pigs
.
She quickened her steps, pulled her hood forward, torn by instincts both to run and to freeze. She stopped, turned. Held up her lantern. A broken place in the wall. A snout. She saw the glint of teeth, heard a snarl. A wolf leapt through.
Has not seen me
.
A second followed, smaller. She could see grey fur in the candlelight. The animals touched snouts. Then the larger one looked in her direction.
Samuel, William, Sinnie, Urith. God, God, please, O Lord
. Her own heart, present in a wild pounding. She pressed fist to chest. Where they would land first, the paws. Then teeth to throat.
I will not die here. I will not
.
“Get away!” she screamed. “Get away from me!”
She stepped forward, waving her arms. “BEGONE!”
For an instant they hesitated—and in the next moment, they streaked down the alley, vanished.
A door opened, a man stood silhouetted against the light.
“Who is there?”
Mary ran forward.
“What …” he began.
“Wolves,” she panted. “In your midden …”
He stepped back, pulling her beside him. Crashed the door shut. She collapsed on a chair in the cidery warmth. A woman and two children rose from the table. Mary could not bring herself to say where she had been, or why she had been walking alone at such an hour.
Anne’s ideas were openly discussed—at the barber shop, on the Charleston ferry, around tavern tables. Men, now, came to her meeting. So many people crowded her parlour—sixty, then seventy, then eighty—that she added a second.
“Who attends?” William asked Mary, in February. They sat at the trestle table, leaning close, speaking in low voices since Jurden was perched on the settle, elbows on knees in stoic contemplation of the fire, clay pipe in hand. In these coldest months, he no longer slept beneath English wool and deerskin in the back shed, but waited for them to go to their bedchamber so he could spread his pallet on the floor. Sinnie had whispered her Norn prayer to the baby and
.
I have begun attending the meetings of Anne Hutchinson. She hath re-ignited the light of Christ within me that shoneso bright when first I desired to follow the Puritans. Verily I feel a joy to light the darkness that fell upon me at the loss of my dear brother and my first babe. Too, she hath bid me come and learn some of her skills, so that I may help …
Mary turned onto Corn Hill Road. She saw other women, veiled by slanting snow, walking singly or in twos. Cowled against the winter wind, they clutched Bibles—capes swirled, skirts kicked by leather boots, the white coifs upon their heads like so many pinpoints of brilliance.
The Hutchinson parlour was warmed by a fire on the hearth. The room smelled of feverfew, lemon balm, tansy, hung to dry on hooks. Anne sat at a table; behind her, a window framed the frozen marsh. Her eyes travelled the group, the muscles at the corners of her mouth cording as she listened to questions. Her voice thickened, infused with conviction.
“The Holy Spirit dwells within each of us. We are as we are born, and within ourselves we may apprehend him. We do not need the intervention of ministers,” she told them.
The meeting lasted until the sky had darkened. Leaving Anne’s house, Mary strode fast, one hand gathering her hood, the other holding a lantern. Dusk wove between the houses, a charcoal density gathering into oblivion roofs, chimneys, upper storeys. Her mind filled with Anne’s face, like a canvas stretched tight, corner to corner, beyond which she could see light and warmth.
She cut down an alley. A dim glow of candlelight came from a window, spinning with flakes. She passed a wall, sheltering a midden; heard the sound of pigs—a scuffle, the sound of open-mouthed chewing. Then—silence. A low, evolving growl, joined by a second.
Not pigs
.
She quickened her steps, pulled her hood forward, torn by instincts both to run and to freeze. She stopped, turned. Held up her lantern. A broken place in the wall. A snout. She saw the glint of teeth, heard a snarl. A wolf leapt through.
Has not seen me
.
A second followed, smaller. She could see grey fur in the candlelight. The animals touched snouts. Then the larger one looked in her direction.
Samuel, William, Sinnie, Urith. God, God, please, O Lord
. Her own heart, present in a wild pounding. She pressed fist to chest. Where they would land first, the paws. Then teeth to throat.
I will not die here. I will not
.
“Get away!” she screamed. “Get away from me!”
She stepped forward, waving her arms. “BEGONE!”
For an instant they hesitated—and in the next moment, they streaked down the alley, vanished.
A door opened, a man stood silhouetted against the light.
“Who is there?”
Mary ran forward.
“What …” he began.
“Wolves,” she panted. “In your midden …”
He stepped back, pulling her beside him. Crashed the door shut. She collapsed on a chair in the cidery warmth. A woman and two children rose from the table. Mary could not bring herself to say where she had been, or why she had been walking alone at such an hour.
Anne’s ideas were openly discussed—at the barber shop, on the Charleston ferry, around tavern tables. Men, now, came to her meeting. So many people crowded her parlour—sixty, then seventy, then eighty—that she added a second.
“Who attends?” William asked Mary, in February. They sat at the trestle table, leaning close, speaking in low voices since Jurden was perched on the settle, elbows on knees in stoic contemplation of the fire, clay pipe in hand. In these coldest months, he no longer slept beneath English wool and deerskin in the back shed, but waited for them to go to their bedchamber so he could spread his pallet on the floor. Sinnie had whispered her Norn prayer to the baby and
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