We break for lunch at midday to eat upon the lawn. The chill has settled in. I reckon it will remain with us for the whole of winter to come. The sun still shines, however. It almost seems as though we are at picnic, save for the grim silence betwixt us.
Rebecca alone remains cheery. She sits nearest Bishop, the lone poppet she has yet to hide away in hand. Occasionally, she murmurs something to it the rest of us are not privy to.
I see George take a knife from his belt, Father’s once. Another heirloom George felt the right to confiscate already. With it, he hews another slice of fresh venison onto his plate. “Pray, sir,” he says to Bishop. “Why did Mr. Priest leave when we have so much work to do?”
“’Cause he’s a lazy bastard.” Bishop laughs at his own sport. “He’s out rangin’…lookin’ for scouts to kill. Pray he finds some, lad, and thins their numbers.”
George casts Andrew a skeptical look. My brother has doubts.
I do not. I know Priest could be anywhere. As if seeking confirmation of my belief, I look to Priest’s recent kill, the stag roasting on the spit he built. How does one move so silently as to creep upon a stag and break its neck? My thoughts turn to Hecate. I hope he bends her neck like he did the stag’s.
I take a bite of the tender venison. The meat slides off the bone into my mouth. I lean forward for the grease to drip into the grass, rather than stain my dress.
The boys, save for Wesley, are not so well mannered. They wipe at their faces with the back of their arms and smear grease alongside the timber dust from the logs they hewed to a manageable size.
“He’ll be back,” Rebecca mutters to her doll. “Most like with Father too.”
Bishop strokes the doll’s hair. “Is yer wee doll hungry, lass?”
“Aye,” she answers.
“Augh,” He pushes the head of it toward her food. “Then ye must needs feed her that she grows up strong.”
The distraction works. Rebecca laughs. “Mr. Sir,” she says whilst chewing her meat. “Your voice is odd. Did you come from the old country?”
“A wee bit further, lass. I came from Ireland ere into slavery I went.”
“You were a slave?” George asks.
“Aye, for a time,” Bishop says. “Sold and shipped to Barbados with me wife. Served there a good long while, but 'twas not to last as nuthin’ in this life is.”
“Did you purchase your freedom?” George asks. “Or escape?”
“Neither. I let ‘em stretch my neck a wee bit,” Bishop says. He tilts his head back to show off his scar.
Both George and Andrew crane their own necks to better see his.
Even Rebecca does not shy away. She stands and traces her finger over the scar. Her eyes squint at the touch. “But how did you not die?” she asks.
Bishop barks to frighten her away. He laughs when she takes a step back, but does not scream. “I believe I did,” he says. “But the good Lord weren’t done with me. Woke me from that dark and quiet sleep, He did.”
Bishop folds his arms. ‘“Oi!’ the Almighty said to me. ‘Cause ye wouldn’t renounce yer faith in Me to them bastards that hung ye, I’ve a wee job for ye to do. I’m givin’ ye back the curse a life. And with it, I mean for ye to kill some right evil bitches.’”
The boys and Rebecca titter at his cursing. I refrain in the event Priest may be watching me, even from afar, and disapprove.
Bishop winks at us before continuing his tale. “‘Would that I could, yer Lordship,’ says I to Him. ‘But I’m a bit too old in the tooth to go huntin’ anything now. And me dead body growin’ stone cold here, too.’
‘Ye’ll do as I command,’ the Almighty answered in His thunderin’ tone. ‘I’m sendin’ ye to bring some sense to them colonial bastards in the north. And if it’s help ye be needin’, I’ll lead ye to find a lad that ne’er shuts his mouth to keep ye company.’”
I assume he means Priest, though I still do not rightly understand his meaning. Priest never speaks.
I watch Rebecca take the last strip of venison from Bishop’s plate with a wry grin. “Where is your wife now?” she asks in an innocent way only children can. “If you were sold together, why is she not here?”
Bishop puts his arm about her shoulder in a half hug. Even he cannot hide the trace of sadness in his normally merry voice. “Augh, right now she’s either singin’ with the angels, or havin’ a pint with St. Peter.”
Still, Rebecca’s questions and Bishop’s mostly good humor gives me courage. “Pray, sir,” I ask. “What was she like?”
“A stubborn old wench, she was.” The corners of his eyes crinkle in the retelling. “Right till the end a her days, or so others told me.”
Rebecca’s lips smack at the food. “You were not with her when she passed?”
Bishop slumps a bit. “I ne’er saw her again after they led me to the scaffold and draped the black hood over me head. I learned she came to yer colonies after me funeral. I journeyed here meself upon me rise from beyond the grave. It weren’t long ere I heard tell of an Irish woman who refused to confess as a witch and hanged for it. That’s when I knew me poor wife had been murdered.”
“They hung her?” George asks.
“Aye,” Bishop says gravely. “The Mather bastards saw to it, both father and son. For witchery, they called it, but they had no proof in it. Mark me words, lads. She died for bein’ a Catholic, and a woman who wouldn’t bend to kiss their heels.
"Ah, she knew the truth when they came for her, most like,” he says as one lost in a memory. “What with her havin’ witnessed a sham trial when I hanged for the same. Others who saw her die told me she refused to speak in English. Wouldn’t give the bastards what they wanted.” He smiles.
A silence creeps amongst us at his sad tale. Rebecca is the only one to break it. “Have you been hunting witches ever since, sir?”
Bishop kindly strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “There’s no such thing as witches, lass. Only powder-snortin’ bitches and their heathen lovers.”
The boys and Rebecca laugh.
I cannot. It be a good thing Bishop keeps their moods light. The faces of those who laughed at my Father’s death yet linger in my mind, however. I try to clear my head of such thoughts. If what Bishop says is true, there will be more than enough fear to go around tonight. Best not linger on it now. I toss the rest of my meat aside for the cats to find.
Bishop seems to take it as a signal. “Right.” He grunts as he slowly stands. His ankles and knees pop with old age. “We’ve rested like a bunch a ninnies far too long. There’s work needs doin’ yet.”
I rise with the others to collect the dirty plates they leave behind. Wesley alone stays behind to help. “Where do you take them to wash?” he asks.
“There be a basin we moved from the house to the barn. We must fill it first.”
“Aye,” he says. “Is there a stream close?”
Something in the way he asks makes me hesitant. I gaze across the field. “There is, but it lies beyond the corn. I think it wise we not go there now.”
He looks at his feet. “You doubt my protection.”
Oh, no, I think to say. Only I do not wish to be alone with you right now.
I cannot bring myself to tell him.
But what can I speak to him on? This newly made man who has offered my family his protection? I do not have long to ponder. A lie remains a lie, no matter the goodly intent. The ghost of Father’s voice rings in my head.
“We do not need the stream,” I say. “Father dug a well, just beyond the barn wall.”
The thought seems to cheer Wesley a bit, but I gather he yet has a lingering doubt. “Here.” He takes the plates from me. “You should not be carrying those with your wrist sprained.”
“It hurts not so bad.” I take them back, and cradle them in the crook of my good forearm and elbow. “Besides, that is why God gave us two.”
Wesley shakes his head. “I have oft heard you bull-headed.”
“From whom?” I ask, taking the lead in our walk to the barn.
“Mother told me it is a sin to gossip,” he says easily. “God may not strike me down if I shared such secrets, but Mother certainly would.”
I laugh without meaning to. The thought of Wesley’s mother bending his six-foot frame over her knee and spanking him with a wooden spoon is too much.
“In truth,” he says, “I did not wish to seem forward. My father oft preaches to me the virtues spoken of in the Good Book. Of honoring one another and of a wife’s submission to her husband—”
I scoff.
“Pray, do not mishear me,” he adds quickly. “I like that you are stubborn, Sarah. Most other girls only gossip with one another after church. They ask silly questions and titter at everything I say.”
He stops me with a touch of his hand. Then he stands before me that I might better see his plain and realize he speaks from the heart. “You were always different. You, the only one to ever ignore me.” He chuckles. “What I mean to say is…I care for you, Sarah.”
Surely Charlotte or Ruth would know what to say. Either of them would most like kiss him right here and now. If only Emma—
I gasp.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Wesley asks. “That man, Priest. I have seen how you look at him. Hear me, Sarah. He is wild. Savage, mayhap. He will not linger here. A man—”
They will come for her too…Hecate and her witches. Did Wesley not say they burned and killed all the Martins and Baileys? What if they mean to do the same to Emma and her family?
“Oh, Emma,” I say.
Wesley’s forehead wrinkles. “Have you heard nothing of what I said, Sarah?”
I look up at the sun. It is well past noon. Bishop said the witches only come at night. If I ride for Emma’s home, I may yet make it there and back before dusk. I look down at my wrist. If I run afoul of them…
“Sarah?” Wesley asks.
I drop the plates, not caring that they shatter at my feet. “Will you ride with me?”
His grin is quick to appear. “You wish to go riding now? But your wrist is lamed. And where would we go?” He looks around the fields. “Work needs done yet ere night falls.”
I hold no doubts Priest would have pulled me onto his stallion before I had asked the question. I wish he took me instead.
“To save Emma and her family,” I say. “I have run from here to her home in almost two hours before. If we take the horses—”
“But Emma is not at home,” Wesley says. “They are at church with everyone else.”
“Was she there this morn when Priest convinced you to come hither?”
Wesley’s face hardens. “He could not persuade me to follow him anywhere. I have already said I came to protect you.”
“Protect me now, then.” I beg of him. “It is a further ride to church and back. We must go now if we are to return ere night falls.”
“Sarah…”
“Please!” I say. “You may doubt Priest and Bishop, but I do not. Believe my words. If they say all at church will die this night, it will be so. We must go there and convince the others to come. Aye, and your parents also.”
Wesley scratches the back of his neck. “Bishop said the witches come for you. Hecate comes for you. If they find us on the highroad, alone...”
I run for the barn.
“Sarah!”
Fear cautions me against leaving. Stay here, little girl, and be safe.
Those at church would not listen to Priest’s words of wisdom. Very well. Let them discover what happens when the Devil’s daughter comes to call. Let them see with their own eyes what gruesome fate found Paul Kelly in the woods.
Priest is a stranger though, and our community has ever been wary of outsiders. Those at church have known me since I were a babe. They will listen to me. They must listen to me.
I reach the stables and fling one of doors open. Hickory and Moses watch me hurry to their stables. I reach my hands to their noses that they might smell them and recognize my scent so they do not startle. I attempt to lift a harness from its placing on the wall with my good hand. The weight of it nearly topples me. Sweat pours off my brow as I try again and fail.
“You are indeed a woman gone mad,” Wesley says from the doorway.
“You came to protect me and my family,” I say, attempting a third time. “Why should it be any different that I wish to protect my friend and yours?”
He comes to aid me. The weight of it buckles him a bit, for he is not nearly so strong as Father was, but he is able enough to free it loose.
“Come, Hick,” I whistle, and lead Hickory out for Wesley to hitch. Moses is more difficult. He is accustomed to being fed ere he will budge. I give him an apple whole to tease him from the stable.
Wesley is less successful. He cowers as Moses rears, unused to a stranger’s touch. I grab the harness roughly to show Moses I have no fear of him. He neighs, but settles. With Wesley’s help, we quickly set about hitching them to the wagon.
“Hurry, hurry,” I say. “We must leave ere Bishop discovers us.”
“Why?”
“He will stop us. Restrain me somehow.”
“If you know he will, then why do you go?”
Because I am a stubborn wench. “Please, hurry!”
I leave his side, climb into the wagon, and take up the reins. The leather straps feel sweaty in my hands, or is it my hands that make the reins sweat? I cannot tell.
Wesley joins me. “This is lunacy,” he says.
I slap the reins. Hickory and Moses pull away. I jolt back in my seat and catch myself with my good hand. We burst out of the barn, headed for the highroad. I see Bishop notice us at the last. He waves his arms about, calling out for us to halt. Yelling that Hecate comes for the Campbell family.
I do not stop.
With us leaving, I wonder what Bishop will do next. Will he leave to give us chase, or guard my family? I pray he stays. My family will need his comforting lead until I return.
Reaching the end of our drive, I guide Moses and Hickory to turn for the highroad.
There is also Priest to consider. Is he truly ranging like Bishop declared, or did he hide somewhere to keep watch over us? I hope he watched and saw I, too, am a free spirit.
Oddly, I have the audacity to wonder if my newest act will finally loosen Priest’s tongue, and if I will live to hear his rebuke.